The Very Mathias...

...is writing other things now. Thanks for all the support. And always believe in your dreams, and stuff!

Next Stop Israel!

Man 1: G'morning.

Man 2: Good morning, sir.

Man 1: Don't mean to be a bother, but is this where the Antisemitism gathering is?

Man 2: What? No sir, I'm sorry but no, it's not.

Man 1: Really? I coulda sworn I saw y'all had a sign out there in front of the building?

Man 2: Do you mean our "Next Stop Israel!" sign, sir?

Man 1: Yeah, that's right. Your "Next Stop Israel!" sign.

Man 2: Forgive me sir, but I fail to see how that gives you the impression that this is an Antisemitism gathering place.

Man 1: Well, I mean, it's as the sign says: "Next, Stop Israel!"

Man 2: "Next, Stop Israel!"?

Man 1: "Next, Stop Israel!" That's right.

Man 2: Oh no sir, that's not a "Next, Stop Israel!" sign.

Man 1: It's not?

Man 2: No sir, it's more of a "Next Stop: Israel!" sign.

Man 1: Oh, "Next Stop: Israel!"?

Man 2: That's right sir: This is a synagogue. Our youth group is planning a visit to the Holy Land this September.

Man 1: Is that right?

Man 2: Yes sir.

Man 1: Oh, well...boy! My face is mighty red, partner!

Man 2: Please sir, there's no need to feel badly.

Man 1: Aw man, I bet you're probably Jewish, too.

Man 2: Yes sir, I am.

Man 1: Gosh, I really didn't mean any offense. It's just that there's no punctuation on the sign at all, except for the exclamation mark. I thought it was saying, "OK, next on this list, let's see...ah, here it is: Stop Israel!"

Man 2: Ah, yes. That's true. I can see how its intention could be ambiguous.

Man 1: Boy I'll say.

Man 2: ...

Man 1: ...

Man 2: ...

Man 1: So what's the matter, you Jews don't want to cough up the cash for a colon?

Man 2: ...

Man 1: ...

Man 2: Hahaha!

Man 1: Haha, I'm just kidding.

Man 2: Hahaha, yes - very funny, sir. Very funny. I liked it.

Man 1: OK, well then, you take care buddy, ya hear?

Man 2: Likewise, sir. Likewise.

Man 1: Oh, just one more thing.

Man 2: Of course, sir.

Man 1: You wouldn't know where that Antisemitism rally is, would you?

Man 2: Indeed I do, sir. It's the building right next door with the "Jews are Devils" sign in front of it. Can't miss it.

Man 1: Great. Bye then.

Man 2: Take care, sir.

Celebrity Pickup Lines*

*Stray Cooper is not a celebrity. Yet.

Will Smith

You know, I was in "Pursuit of Happiness." Now I'm in pursuit of something better: you.

Suge Knight

Hey girl, I'm the man who suspended Vanilla Ice over a fourteen-story railing. I want your number. Now.

Ray Romano

They say everybody loves me, and whether you know it already or not, that includes you.

Suge Knight

I love that perfume. It takes me back some. She's dead now, but what's your name?

Lance Armstrong

I'd give my left...eye...to get a date with you.

Suge Knight

Baby, I feel like I already know you. I bet you're the type of woman who already has a man and probably some shorties at home. I bet they're very important to you, even if sometimes you wonder if there was someone else for you out there. And I bet right now they've got about a dozen hard ass niggas surrounding them in your home in the hills and if you ever want to see them again you'll be coming back to my crib with me and watch you some "Air Bud: Golden Retriever" with me.

Did I mention there will be ice cream sandwiches?

Billy Joel

I've sung it thousands of times, but now I finally mean it: I love you just the way you are. I also love snuff films. Please describe to me your underwear.

Smooth Talkin' with Stray Cooper

STRAY

Yo girl, I been watching you in your wheelchair all night, and I just had to talk to you.


WOMAN

Is that right?


STRAY

Yeah, girl, I have a disability, too - a disability for beautiful women.


WOMAN

I think you mean you have a "weakness" for beautiful women.


STRAY
Right. That's what I just said.

Incontinent? Yes. Confident? You betcha.

I'm not the type who makes excuses, who looks for scapegoats. I don't whine about the hand I was dealt, even when the nature of my hand involves regularly messing myself with my own waste. Am I incontinent? Yes. Am I still confident? You betcha.

It's true, there are not many twenty-six year-olds who are clinically incontinent. And yes, it's also true that my incontinence may from time to time make my life more complicated than were I a twenty-six year-old who did posses some control over his bowels. But it's like my mother always told me: People just want...people just...OK, would you please excuse me for a moment?

Sorry about that. Where was I? People just want to do the best they can, that's it. And that's how I look at things. Life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. And if life gives you a bladder the size of a peanut M&M, then you...you...whew, OK just two seconds, if I may. Be right - oh God...

I may be irregular, but I'm still a regular guy. I like going to baseball games. Sure, I may not usually be able to get through whole innings at a time, or the top/bottom of an inning for that matter, but it's still a fun day at the ballpark for me. Or I can have a ball just hanging out at home and playing a game with my friends. Just no Monopoly. Or Risk. Tic-tac-toe is good.

Basically, the thing about me is...oh Jesus I knew I shouldn't have had coffee...just...just wait, please.

Like I was saying, oh...oh no...no, don't look at that. I'm going to have to get back to...oh...OK 'til later then!

Beer Truck Diaries - First Entry

Dear Sometimes-It's-Better-To-Just-Not-Think-Fan, or SIBTJNTF(er), as I've been known to call you when chatting my other blog buddies, or when I'm thinking of you in the middle of the night:

It's been a while - too long a while, if you ask me. Sorry about that. Man, I just bailed on you. Totally crude, man - my bad. But it's not completely my fault. See, I had to find a job, and after a while I found one: Beer Truck Assistant! That's right, my babies - I got a dolly and a cooler and Beck's Light button-up shirt and...well you can probably mentally sketch the awesomeness of how I look. (Sick, huh?)

It's a hard job, moving beer all day, but it certainly has its benefits. I'm getting more exercise than I have in years, I get tan every day (especially my right forearm), and I'm finding all sorts of yarns to spin for you guys!

So without further ado, the first of an undetermined number of installments of...

Beer Truck Diaries (Diaries...Diaries...Diaries...Diaries...Diaries...)

Have You Met My New Black Friend - Dave!

TVM: Damn, I thought those cases would never end!

Dave: Man, you said it.

TVM: Whew! So, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I didn't really know any black kids when I was growing up.

Dave: Naw man, that's not crazy. I'd even say that's fairly typical, actually.

TVM: Yeah. There were a couple in my high school. We got along great, but we didn't, you know, hang out after school or on the weekends or anything.

Dave: Naw, that's cool. Sometimes it just happens like that, you know?

TVM: And then in college it just worked out that all my friends were white, you know.

Dave: Yo, not a big deal my man. Not a big deal.

TVM: Yeah. So would you be my first black friend?

First Impression

Jerry: You said your name was "Matt", right?

TVM: Yep. (It's incredibly rare that I go by "Matt." I decided to make the change after introducing myself to a driver on my first day and hearing him respond, "'Mathias'? What are you, like Middle-Eastern or somethin?")

Jerry: Gotcha.

TVM: ...

Jerry: ...

TVM: So did you grow up around Chicago, or...

Jerry: Yeah, yeah. Gurnee.

TVM: Oh cool man. So are you a Cubs fan, or a Sox fan?

Jerry: Eh, actually I don't really follow sports that much.

TVM: Hey, that's cool.

Jerry: ...

TVM: ...

Jerry: ...

TVM: Man, I gotta say, I was pretty disappointed when I came into work today. I saw Transformers last night with a buddy of mine, and when I all the trucks lined up in the warehouse, I was really hoping one of them was going to turn into Optimus Prime. But alas.

Jerry: There's a Transformers movie out now?

TVM: Oh, yeah. It's pretty good, actually.

Jerry: Is it a cartoon?

TVM: No, it's live-action. Well, I mean all the robots are CGI. They didn't build Transformers.

Jerry: Oh. I always thought it was a cartoon.

TVM: Yeah. It was for a while.

Jerry: Uh-huh.

TVM: Now it's a movie.

Jerry: ...

TVM: ...

Jerry: ...

TVM: You want to see my Gollum impression?

Learnin' Stuff - With My New Black Friend, Dave!

TVM: Hey, buddy?

Dave: Yeah?

TVM: What's the right time to use the expression, "What it is"? Am I supposed to say it to greet someone, or is it rather the appropriate response when someone asks me how I'm doing? How do you people say it? Dave? Hey, Dave?

Who Is it You're Waking Up With?

TVM: Now that's an advertisement that does more harm than good.

Jerry: Which one?

TVM: See the Lite FM morning show billboard? The one with Whoopi Goldberg? It says, "Wake up with Whoopi." Any radio station that makes me think of waking up in the vicinity of Whoopi Goldberg isn't a radio station that I want anything to have to do with.

Jerry: ...

TVM: ...

Jerry: But you know what they say: Once you go black, you never go back.

TVM: ...

Jerry: ...

TVM: I think that saying is about black men.

Man, Jerry's an Idiot!

TVM: ...and so Jerry says, "Once you go black, you never go back." And I said, "Uhhh, that's about black GUYS, Jerry!"

Dave: Hahaha...oh man Jerry is always sayin' stupid shit like that, man.

TVM: Seriously. Dave, have you ever made it so a white woman didn't want to go back?

Bumpy Ride

Scott: Why are you sitting with your hands in your lap like that?

TVM: No reason.

Scott: Do you...oh sick! You've got a--

TVM: Yeah, OK, this truck is extremely bumpy, so...how about you think about driving less recklessly and stop thinking about me. In that way. Sick, sick creep.

Things I Think I Overhear From Old Austrian Men Playing Chess in the Park

(Note: Oh no! My computer is broken. Posts will be infrequent, but hopefully pick up again when I return to the United States for the summer - June 17th. Also, be on the lookout for a certain new blog featuring a certain feature actor from the films "Tremors" and "Hollow Man" and a certain breakfast meat.)

--You played an excellent match. You are as brilliant as the President Bush.
--I deserve no such praise. No one is as smart as smart as he.
--Or as handsome.
--I will paint a picture of him.
--Let me give you money for it.

-----------

--Why aren't you wearing lederhosen today?
--I do not always wear lederhosen.
--But you are Austrian.
--As are you.
--I plan to wear lederhosen later.
--Stereotypes are not funny.
--No, they are not.
--Schnitzel?
--Absolutely.

-----------

--I've taken your rook.
--No, you've taken my heart.
--If you truly love me, stretch your arms and then rub your soiled back brace.
--...
--My soul dances with solemn respectfulness.

-----------

--You are in checkmate. I experience a feeling analogous to orgasm brought on by a beautiful woman.
--I imagine sex with your wife, then, is analagous to winning the Special Olympics.
--Funny. Isn't the Special Olympics where you met your wife?
--I invite you to watch "The Sound of Music" with me in my mansion.
--I thought you'd never ask.

-----------

--What do you like best about being old?
--The diapers.
--The diapers?
--I finally have something to transport sauerkraut across county lines.
--I knew I smelled something.
--Quiet. Big Brother.

-----------

--Careful bringing your queen out.
--I envision you regularly warning your son with those very words.
--I do not understand.
--Your progeny lusts for cross-dressers.

-----------

--Who is that young one, writing in his diary?
--I do not know.
--How is he so beautiful?
--He may very well be a son of George Bush.
--Were I more worthy, I would ask to wash his feet.

In Pictures: Slavery Reinstituted by Son of Man in Order to Stack Champions League Soccer Team

Carter Talk

Jimmy Carter, age 13

Mother, from the recent welts that father recently inflicted upon my rear-end - welts so profound that the simple act of sitting has become a painful test of will - I have ascertained that you have grown angry at me, and I think I know the reason why. Last night, after a wonderful dinner, I noticed a change in your mood soon after I said that the peach cobbler you made for dessert was the "worst peach cobbler in American history."

Mother, I must admit that I've been confused as to why you would feel offended by a remark like this. But I think I had a moment of clarity in between belt strikes from father. Because my remarks were either careless or misinterpreted, you saw them as an affront against you and your culinary prowess.

This is simply not the case.

You see Mother, while you may have been under the impression that you and your cobbler were the subject of my harsh criticism, the truth is that at the time of my remarks, I was not talking personally about any cobbler. Or creator of said cobbler. No, in actuality, I was making a general remark about your cobbler compared to Billy Dixon's mother's cobbler that we all experienced a few weeks ago at the Dixon's Fourth of July party.

While I think Mrs. Dixon had a very juicy yet still flaky peach cobbler, I certainly meant no ill-will to your peach cobbler, your sweet potato pie, your cripple creek ferry berry surprise, or any of the other confectionery strides you have made in your tenure as Mother.

Now as far as the comments I made regarding your stance on stem-cell research, well Mother, I still believe you are downright batty in that regard.

Hey there. My name's Rick. Mind if I sit here and try to get you drunk in the seventeen minutes before last call?

So what's your name? Oh cool. I have a cousin named "Lauren." That's crazy! Well, we've got to drink to that. Hey Sam! A B-52 for my new friend, Karen.

So Karen, where do you come from? Ah, so an Ithaca girl, huh? I've got family in Poughkepsie. Sam! Bring me a Long Island Ice Tea with that B-52.

That dance floor is looking pretty fun, huh? Shall we mosey on over there? OK, great! Real quick, though, let's do these vodka shots to loosen up a little bit. One...two...three...go! Whewww weee! That burns! OK, let's do one more vodka shot and then I'll be ready to dance. One twoshoot! Oh ho, careful there. You spilled a little. Here, drink mine. Alright now we'll...well, actually, I don't really like dancing anyways.

I know! We'll play a drinking game. OK, I'm thinking of a number between one and ten: guess what it is. Ooo, sorry. It was nine. That means you have to drink four beers. I'll just get you a pitcher. Sammy! Pitcher of Old Style, on the double. So, where did you go to school? Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. Oh look! Here's your pitcher. Please, allow me. There you are, Karen. Well, drink up!

Haha! Got you. Simon didn't say. Now you have to drink whiskey. Here, I've got some in this flask.

You said that you studied English Lit? What was your concentration? Uh huh. Yeah. Totally. Man, poetry is so awesome. Don't forget to drink your beer.

Say, are you feeling all right? You look like you might want some water. Here, have mine. That's better, isn't it? What? It was vodka? Oh yeah it was vodka. Now I remember. Man, my bad. Hey Sammy, please some tonic water. And, uh, Sammy: utpay omesay injay inay the onictay. Omprendecay?

Last call already? Man that flew by. I can't believe how much you drank! You are totally...um, actually you look fine. How is that...where are you going? Hey, wait! Do you want a breath freshener? I have a film canister of irregularly shaped Tic Tacs. Can I at least get your number? I'll buy drinks for you tomorrow too!

I'm Batman

No, really. I'm Batman.

I found out I'm Batman this past Friday in Salzburg. I had three hours to spend in Salzburg before meeting my friend Matt and taking a bus to St. Gilgen, a mountain town about 50 minutes east of Salzburg. Genuine "Sound of Music" country. Lederhosen and everything. You shoulda seen it.

But before I'd be teaching children of sexually overactive parents how to harmonize, there was the matter of passing the next three hours. Which I did in a park not to far away from the train station. With me I had the following items, ONE OF WHICH played the key role in revealing my role as new Batman:

• iPod
• Journal
• Frisbee
• Ulysses
• Poker chips
• Batmobile (not really)

Finding a comfortable-enough looking tree, I started reading Ulysses. Having filled my intellectual quota for the day (14 mins.), I started listening to my iPod. Feeling ancy from sitting down for almost an hour, I got up to play the "Throw-the-frisbee-to-myself" game – an individual game that's not quite as cool as kicking a soccer ball against a brick wall, but still less pathetic than throwing a football to no one and chasing after it. It's actually really neat! You have to throw it at just the right angle to get it to come back to....hey, where are you going?

As impressive as my angling is, running is occasionally necessary when playing this game, so I freed my pockets of any items that would encumber agility: wallet, keys, and iPod. These items were left by my tree. I scampered about forty feet away to get some open space.

After about ten minutes of whipping the disc around, I was getting pretty freaking good. I'd wing it twenty, thirty, forty feet in the air, file my nails for a little bit, and then snatch it out of the air as it torpedoed towards the earth. I caught it with the help of my eyes – on occasion. The killer was that no one was around to marvel at my greatness. It was a big park, but it was on the other side of a big, nasty-looking office building, which I assume encourages the locals to seek out more scenic space.

There I was all alone, but not for long. From the left-hand entrance of the park appeared an early twenty-something with hair cut close to his head and pants suggesting a potential need for instant pants removal. Finally having an audience, I casually peeked over a few times to see if he was admiring my throws. He was not. Instead, it appeared that he was admiring the personal possessions I left by the tree – as he made his way across the park, he made a pretty obvious double take at my goods. And then he walked on by.

"Silly Mathias," I thought. "This is Austria: They don't have crime here." I threw away my paranoia as I whipped the frisbee just inches away from the sun, and forgave myself by the time the disc was back in my hand. For good measure, I looked over to my stuff and to my nearly bald friend and saw that he was talking to someone on his phone. "Ah yes," I thought, "I talk on the phone sometimes, too. This man and I are one! Shame, heaps of shame upon me."

I pulled back the frisbee to see if I could get this toss higher than the last one, and just as I was about to let it go, the man with athletic pants made an athletic about-face and was sprinting towards my stuff. "There's no way he's..." But sure enough, he was. The next several things happened in a very short amount of time:

1. At about ten feet away from my stuff, he began crouching down the same way a shortstop does when he's getting ready to barehand a grounder before he rifles it to first.
2. With the frisbee already in my hand, I changed the grip from the traditional backhand style to the more advanced forehand technique, which, as frisbee aficionados are already aware of, is a throw that enables the frisbee to reach much higher velocities than the traditional backhand style.
3. I threw the frisbee.
4. The thief, having reached my stash, grabbed my wallet with his right hand and appeared to be reaching for my iPod with his left.
5. Frisbee already in flight, I shouted as authoritatively as I knew how "Hey!"
6. The thief looked up just long enough to present his forehead for the now trucking frisbee.
   
7. A noticeable "Thwup."
8. My wallet flies out of his right hand as the thief is knocked back into the mature oak behind him. He quickly falls to his hands and knees.

All of this took five seconds. Maybe four.

And it was in that time that I became Batman.

With adrenaline coursing through my vines, I was standing over my target – the would-be victimizer who fell victim to my Batdisc. (Batbee? No, Batdisc. That's it.) Panting a little, I managed to bark what inarguably Batman would say, were Batman German, and capable of incredibly ironic politeness in the heat of battle:

"Möchtest du mehr?"

(Would you like more?)

He did not like the idea of more. He scrambled to his feet and scampered away – nothing to show for his malfeasance save what I'm hoping developed into a fairly hard to explain bruise upon his brow.

Justice prevails,
Batman

The Silence of the Palm Pilot

The corridor was about thirty yards long, with cells on both sides. Clarice Starling was aware of figures in the cells, but she tried not to look at them. The lights were on in the last cell. She moved toward the left side of the corridor to see into it as she approached, knowing her heels announced her.

Clarice Starling stopped a little distance from the bars, and as quietly as she could, cleared her throat.

"Ms. Hilton?" Her voice sounded confident enough, she thought.

Without diverting her eyes from her Lucky magazine, Paris Hilton barked a response. "Do you know my dad? Why are you here? Who are you?"

"My name is Clarice Starling. I represent the Behavioral Science section of the F.B.I. I was hoping to talk to you for a bit." Starling crouched to try to make eye contact with Hilton, but to no avail.

"What day is it? I'm bored."

"Ms. Hilton, the F.B.I. is conducting an investigation and we have a hard problem with psychological profiling. I want to ask you for your hel--"

At this moment, Hilton looked Starling in the eyes for the first time. Starling was frozen. With the one dim hallway light reflecting in Hilton's eyes, Starling couldn't decide if Hilton was analyzing every fiber if her being, or if she was thinking absolutely nothing at all. She continued, "Ms. Hilton, the fact of the matter is that there is a killer out ther--"

Ms. Hilton stood erect. Here eyes scanned the ceiling of her cell as she inhaled sharply through her nose. "That smell. You use Evyan skin cream..." Another whiff. "...and sometimes you were L'Air du Temps perfume, but not today."

Starling almost smiled. She was right. "How did you--"

"Yuck, does that mean you're poor? Gross."

Starling shifted her weight to her right foot. "Ms. Hilton, please, if you woul--"

"God, I can smell how poor you are. I'm gonna ralph. When's lunchtime? Are you here to bring me lunch? Who are you?"

Starling ground her teeth behind her pursed lips. "I represent the F.B.I. We're looking for a murderer, Ms. Hilton. The media is calling him "Buffalo Bill," because after he kills his victims, he removes a large area of their backs - he takes their hides, Ms. Hilton. For every second that goes by that we do not get any closer to catching him, it becomes more and more likely that another dead woman is going to turn up floating face down in a river by the interstate, just like the three girls we've found in the last three weeks. My superiors believe that your psychological profiling skills, Ms. Hilton, could provide us with information that will bring us closer to finding this man. Needless to say, should you provide us with information that leads to his arrest, a great deal of compensation will come your way. The F.B.I. is already willin--"

"Quid pro quo, Clarise," said Hilton.

"Excuse me?"

Hilton took two swift steps so that she was only inches from the bulletproof glass that separated her from Clarise Starling. "Quid pro quo. You give me some information about yourself, Clarise. Information that I request. You do this, and I will do what I can to help you find this, 'Buffalo Bill.'"

"Ms. Hilton, please, we have very little time and we need--"

"Precisely, Clarise. Time is a precious commodity that you and especially whoever Bill's next victim is simply do not have. The sooner you give me what I want, Clarise, the sooner I will give you what you want."

Starling glanced at her watch. It seemed to be moving faster than usual. She looked back up to Hilton, who stared into Starling without blinking. Without moving. Starling decided to play along. "Very well, Ms. Hilton. Fire away."

Hilton smiled with the corners of her mouth. "Very good, Clarise. Tell me, how many boys have you kissed?"

"Excuse me?"

"Tick-tock, tick-tock, Clarise. Answer the question."

Starling thought quickly. "I'm not sure. Fifteen, maybe sixteen."

"I see. Do you want to know how many boys I've kissed?"

"Ms. Hilton, what I'd really like to know is what you think abou--"

"OK I'll tell you: a million. And I'm not just saying 'a million.' Literally, I have kissed a million boys. One million, fifty-two thousand, three-hundred and sixty-two, to be precise."

Starling stood there, not knowing what to say next. Her next words would have to be chosen carefully if she was going to get any information from Hilton. "Ms. Hil--"

"Wanna know how many I've sucked off? Because it's probably a lot higher than you'd--"

"OK, you know what? I'm just gonna ask the cannibal down the hall what he thinks. Thanks for nothing."

As Starling turned to leave, Hilton pressed herself against the glass to keep Starling in her sight for as long as she could. "Guess what: it's more than the number of boys I've kissed! Where are you going? When's lunchtime?"

Ideas to Make "Lost" Stay on the Air Much Longer Than It Already Doesn't Need To

When in Season Four the Others descend upon the crash survivors' camp site, they bring with them what no one else expected: Tacky Prom. Who will Jack vote for in the Tacky Prom Prom Queen contest: Juliet, or Kate? When Hurley adds up The Numbers, will they give him the exact sum of jelly beans in the jar for the Guess-A-Bean contest? And can Charlie reunite DriveShaft with enough time to convince Aerosmith, the Tacky Prom headliners, to let Charlie's band open for them?

In a Season Five shocker, Sayid comes out as a homosexual...and a robot. And you can bet your bottom dollar that Sayid is the sassiest gay robot you've ever seen!

Halfway through Season Six Claire discovers a hidden factory on the island, but she is denied access. Who can get in? Only five people: whoever's the first to find the five golden tickets hidden in Wonka Bars from all over the island!

We finally learn the truth behind the Dharma Initiative in Season Seven: They're Neo-Nazis. Too bad for them, the island's got a secret of its own: Neo-Indiana Jones.

Two words for Season Eight: More raptors.

Season Nine: More rappers. ("Yo Luda, how the fuck you steer us from Australia all the fuckin way off course to this broke-ass island?" "OK Cee-Lo, ya fat bastard, why don't you chill. The fuck. Out.")

In Season Ten, gay robot Sayid uses his own mechanics to turn himself into a high-frequency radio. Within days, they're able to hail a helicopter piloted by....NBA star Kobe Bryant! There is much rejoicing on the island, until Kobe Bryant reveals that he is only going to rescue Ludacris and Cee-Lo: "Every other Black person on this show either gets killed or turns out to be a traitor. You white bastards can rot here for all I care."

By Season Eleven, the original survivors, the Others, and the Raptors have all joined forces against a common enemy: Mutant Stay Puft Marshmallow Hurley, who in addition to mutating into a sixty-foot tall monster made of marshmallow also turns out to be gay robot Sayid's robot father. And he's gay.

Gallagher: Aisle Seven

YOU [AS MALE]
Hi there. This is, actually, really stupid. I looked everywhere in the Pharmaceuticals, any where I could think that was part of home medicine, and I just can't find the, um, condoms. Where would they be?

GALLAGHER
Ah, prophylacticos, eh amigo? "Where would they be?" Well, if this place weren't so screwed up and it weren't so hard to find things, then they would be covering you up [Points to your groin] as we speak!

YOU
Yes, well, I haven't really been looking that long. If you could just--

GALLAGHER
Now the problem is that these stores nowadays are H-U-G-E huge. Back when I was your age and not wanting children, if I wanted a rubber there was only one place I could get it: Earl, from Walgreens. Sad thing was, didn't look like Earl there needed protection from any vaginas whatsoever! You see, we used to call Earl "Big Ears Earl." And that was one of his better features!

YOU
I'm sorry, can--

GALLAGHER
Nope. No more Big Ears Earl. Now we've got a three-story multiplex eyesore where we can't even find a pack of Trojans! Well let's see then, you've already tried looking all around Pharmaceuticals...say, maybe they're over in the produce section, hanging out with the cucumbers and bananas - like in the educational videos!

YOU
What? Why--

GALLAGHER
Nah, that ain't right. Did you already check the bakery? We might have some condoms there. Oh wait, I forgot - you're probably on Atkins! Who isn't these days?

YOU
What are you--

GALLAGHER
Try frozen foods? Maybe for when you want to freeze your DNA and get yourself one of those clones. Hell don't you wish they made some Nixon clones? Too bad he never used a frozen condom!

YOU
OK, that leap is even less logical than Atkins. Or maybe not. Do you even work here?

GALLAGHER
Say, did you say you wanted to be able to check your e-mail while you're gettin' lucky? Maybe we should check out the electronics department! You know? Hey, here's the real question: Do you have an external hard drive, or are you still workin with a three and a half inch floppy?

YOU
Now you've gone from not making any sense to blatant sexual harrassment. I'm taking my business elsewh--

GALLAGHER
Hey man, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

YOU
Please let me get by.

GALLAGHER
Hey, listen man. I'm sorry. I was just trying to make you laugh, I'm sorry. Listen, I can tell you where the condoms are. Again, I'm sorry.

YOU
Oh, now you can. Finally.

GALLAGHER
Yes I can.

YOU
Well?

GALLAGHER
Well, I'm not sure if you want them.

YOU
I'm getting really close to not...just, where are they?

GALLAGHER
[Sigh] They're over in the clearance section. But you know what the type of guy who buys condoms from the clearance section is?

YOU
No. What?

GALLAGHER
A cheap fucker.

YOU
...

GALLAGHER
...

YOU
Ha. Hahaha...

GALLAGHER
Heh heh heh!

YOU
Haha, hehe, OK, that was pretty funny. But really, do you guys hav--

GALLAGHER
[Spikes watermelon at your feet, leaving red, fleshy chunks of sticky fruit all about your shoes.]

YOU
I want to talk to your manager.

As Long as There's Richard Gere Banning Going on, Count Me in, Too

BY LARRY ZBINKSY



As of today, I would like to join India in officially banning Richard Gere. Or as I like to call him, "Dick" Gere.

Richard Gere is totally a dick. I knew it wouldn't be too long before he pissed off a country bad enough to be outlawed there, seeing as how he's been pissing me off my whole life.

Whenever I meet someone, I usually won't go longer than fifteen minutes into the conversation before I ask just where my new acquaintance stands on Richard Gere. If the response is anything but a swift condemnation, then I know that's one less human being I ever need to associate myself with again.

When I was in my early twenties, I was discussing movies with my father and he told me that he liked "An Officer and a Gentleman." We haven't spoken since.

I don't hate my father. But I do hate Richard Gere. What a prick. Going around like he's some great guy or something just because he's a Buddhist. You know who's not Buddhist? Me. And you know who's a stinky piece of Buddhist crap? Richard Gere.

Have you ever seen "The Mothman Prophecies"? Or "Dr. T and the Women"? Of course you haven't. Nobody has seen those movies. "Oh, but what about 'Chicago'? Richard Gere was in that, and I really like that movie!" Say something like that around me, and you can count on getting banned just like I've banned Richard Gere.

As such, Richard Gere is forbidden from my sister's apartment, where I am keeping residency at the moment. I also ban him from Fitzpatrick's, my favorite bar here in Cleveland and where I like to spend my Friday and Saturday (and sometimes Tuesday and Wednesday) evenings. Should Richard Gere violate this ban, he will have beer poured on his stupid haircut and I will make loud comments about gerbil rumours I remember hearing about several years ago.

Go to hell, Richard Gere.

Bush Shocked by War Bill: "The war's still going on?"

WASHINGTON, April 26 - When asked by reporters today for his reaction to the bill passed in the House on Wednesday - a bill which requires the withdrawal American troops serving in Iraq to begin on October 1st of this year - President Bush expressed shock and disbelief that such a bill was being discussed in the first place.

"You're telling me that the war's still going on? You gotta be kidding," said Bush. "Like, the one in Iraq?"

As the press conference continued, it became more and more apparent that the president had no idea that the U.S. was still involved in the Iraq conflict. "They want to pull the troops out by October? So that means there's soldiers over there right now? What the hell are they doing there?"

"Man, that really sucks," added Bush.

Before long, it was President Bush asking questions of the reporters. Bush was curious "how things were going over there," as well as if politicians from other countries were "still all mad at [him]."

"This is all really just so hard to believe. Are y'all just playing a prank on me? Say Stretch, you set my calendar back again? Is it April first or something?"

President Bush continued asking questions until everyone got so uncomfortable they left.

Beatles Songs With Less Conviction

You Should Consider Hiding Your Love Away

Maybe Love Is Mostly What You Need

She Loves You, I Think

Were Both of Us to Make Certain Concessions and Behave as Adults, There's a Chance We Might Be Able to Work it Out

Let It Be. Or Don't. Your Call.

You Never Give Me Your Money, Not That It Really Bothers Me or Anything

I Am the Walrus (Metaphorically)

Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds. Or Are Those Rubies?

I've Got a Feeling. It Could Just Be Gas, Though

Here, There, and Some Other Places Also

Yellowish Submarine

I Could Do to Get You Into My Life at Some Capacity

Don't Let Me Down, Unless That's Going to Be Too Much Work For You

Tomorrow Only Knows Some of the Time

When I'm Sixty-Four (Should the Icy Scythe of Death Not Cut Me Down Prior)

Not Too Bad Rita

I'm Kind of Tired

Why Don't We Do It in the Road? Because There May Be a Perfectly Sensible Reason Not to Do It That I'm Missing, and I'm Interested in Your Point of View

Julia. Or Maybe Stephanie. She's Nice, Too.

From Where I Stand, My Monkey and I Are Less Likely to Have Something to Hide Than Everybody Else

Twist and/or Shout

Um, Pardon Me. Jude?

They Should Make an Office Show Out of My Office!

Do you ever watch "The Office" on NBC? I just love that show! I watch it every Thursday - even when it's a replay. It's a very good show. I'm not the only one who thinks so, either: They made an office show in England after the one on NBC started taking off. I love "The Office" so much that I download it from iTunes and put it on my iPod, so that I can watch it at my office!

In fact, it was when I was at work watching part of an episode of "The Office" earlier this week when I had a great idea: "Hey! They should make an office show out of my office: The Boulder Abortion Clinic!"

Just like Dunder Mifflin, we've got lots of zany characters at the Boulder Abortion Clinic. There's our head doctor, Dr. Bernstein - he could be like the Michael Scott. Remember the "Office" episode from Season One, where Katy ("The Hot Girl") comes to the office to sell purses and Michael tries really hard to flirt with her? They should make an episode like that for our office, only it would be Dr. Bernstein hitting on a really hot girl who came in for an abortion. "Say, if you're not doing anything after this, do you want to get a snow cone?" I can really see him doing that!

Then there's Dr. Lenham, who is just like Dwight - always sucking up to his boss. Remember the episode where Dwight drives to pick up Michael after he burns his foot in a George Foreman Grill? Dr. Lenham is always doing stuff like that to kiss Dr. Bernstein's butt. "Yes, Dr. Bernstein, I've finished my morning appointments. I can cover for you this time." What a tool! All he needs is a bobble-head and then we have our Dwight.

Did I mention we have a really cute receptionist? Her name is Stacy, and if you ask me, she's even prettier than Pam. Also, she's quiet and a little reserved, but deep down she's probably really funny. She even has a boyfriend, too, just like Pam. Only on "The Office," there's a love triangle between the receptionist, her fiancée, and a coworker who would be perfect for her. So I guess that's something our office doesn't have.

Oh wait, turns out love is blooming at the Boulder Abortion Clinic!

I really connect with Stacy more than anybody else here, so I'm really the Jim of our office show. Stacy's been with Jerry for two years now (I think), but I can tell that she's not really happy with him. The wedding is next week, but I'll bet that she calls it off so that she can be with the sweetest, funniest guy at the Boulder Abortion Clinic: Me!

I'm a big prankster, just like Jim is. Last month, I glued all of Dr. Lenham's forceps together with crazy glue. (Boy, the abortions sure went slow that day!) He deserved it. He's such a creep. Anyways, I do funny stuff like that all the time. Like this one time, I went through Stacy's reservation book and whited out all of the names and replaced them with "Stacy". When she saw the book, I said, "So Stacy, you got any upcoming plans? Maybe something along the lines of, oh I don't know, seventy-two abortions?" You should've seen the look on her face! Man, I'm way funnier than that Jerry guy probably is.

I'm still not sure what to call our office show. I was thinking "The Clinic." Or maybe "The Abortion Office". But that one might sound too much like "The Office". People might get confused.

Oh and we've got a black guy, too! He could be Stanley!

Being Richard Karn

At a Cancun nightclub, a fifty year-old man seated at the bar fingers the fun-size umbrella in his pisco sour. He is alone, smiling, and thinking to himself…


Yessir, yessir! B.P.K. in the house! Got myself a damn tasty pisco sour, the wet t-shirt contest is only half an hour away, and DJ Natural Disaster is jivin real fresh. Too bad he stopped playing Maroon 5, though. “Hey DJ ‘N.D.,’ let’s hear more ‘songs about Jane!’ Come on!”

Come on! Hahaha, yessir, ol’ B.P.K. is lookin’ at a pretty fine night tonight. Wellll…what do we have here? I think my night just got better. Anybody who knows squat about B.P.K. knows he likes the brunettes. Admiral, this is Lieutenant Big Poppa: Deploying Charm Missiles…now.

“Hello, Miss. Might I buy you a drink? My name is—Miss? Hello?”

Man, that music sure is loud. She probably didn’t hear me.

Or she’s just rejecting you.

Shut up. Just…shut it. She obviously didn’t hear Big Poppa, because if she did hear me, I’d be talking to her right now, making her regret it took so much of her life to find me. Here we go: another brunette angel approaches. And what is that I hear? Is it…oh yes, it is! That Black Guy Peace song about humping. DJ Natural Disaster, you sure know how to set Le Mood. Lower your defenses, mi’lady: the U.S.S. Big Poppa requests permission to board.

“Hello, Gorgeous! The name’s Richard, but my friends call me ‘Dick.’ They never call me ‘a dick’ though, since I’m all-around a pretty considerate guy. I’d like to prove that by offering to buy you a dr—“

“Oh, no thanks.”

“Ah, OK I understand. You’re with somebody.”

“No. Goodnight.”

Strrrrike!

Go to hell and shut up. I’m not going to let you ruin this trip for me.

You’re ruining it just fine by yourself. Don’t you realize that women don’t want cheesy pickup lines? Just be yourself. Talk about what you do.

No. No, I don't need to stoop to trying to impress women with my day job.

First, it’s pretty hard for a guy in your position to do any stooping. Second, what’s so glam about heading “Le Feud” anyways?

Zip it. You don’t understand. Nobody understands me…nobody since Debbie.

I knew that’s what this was about! When are you going to give that up?

Give up on true love? Not any time soon, bub.

True love!? Were the two of you in love when she banged that drug-pumping hack Tim?

THAT’S IT! I’ve told you never to speak his name…

“Yo, Big Poppa?”

…around me again! Wha? Who’s…

“Big Poppa Karn, it is you! Yo it’s Tom and Marty from Wash U. Remember us from spring break last year?”

“Yes…yes of course. Hey fellas, great to see you again.”

“Great to see you Poppa Karn! How you been?”

“Me? Oh, I’m…I’m fine.”

“You sure? You don’t look so great.”

“No really, I’m OK. I think I’m about to retire, though.”

“You goin home already? You ain’t even stickin around for the wet T-shirt contest?”

“I don’t think so Ti—Tom. I’m gonna head back to my hotel room and…”

…make love to your right hand?

…make love to my right hand.

“…make myself a light snack.”

You Expect Me to have Sex with THAT?

(Note: How was I to know that The Onion was doing a Panda gag at the same time I was doing this? Theirs is funnier, although I didn't see it until I already finished this. So I didn't copy. But theirs is still funnier.)



by Hank Panda



Ugh! Yuck! That's...that's disgusting! How can you even say something that...I mean...have you no decency, sir? How am I supposed to...I'm not sure where even to...

You expect me to have sex with THAT?

Let me make sure we're on the same page: You're telling me to go have sex with black and white bear over there with the black rings around her eyes?

You're kidding, right?

First of all, I don't appreciate you barging into my pen while I'm in the middle of dinner without so much as knocking. I may not own this pen, but for as long as I'm in it, I expect a certain level of civility.

And second, speaking of being civil, please don't bring up unsavory topics of conversation while I'm trying to eat. Topics such as, well, I don't know...me having sex with 220 pounds of fugly.

I'm not sure, really, who you think you're talking to. I, sir, have got it going on. Check out my huge panda arms and my powerful panda legs. Look with envy upon my round, full belly and admire my black/white, black/white color scheme. Go ahead: Just try telling me I'm not beautiful. Let's see if you can say otherwise straight to my beautiful, beautiful face. Come on, we don't have all day. Ha, just as I thought.

Now let's look at the "date" you have planned for me:


Would you excuse me for a second? I have bamboo to puke up all over myself.

I mean, fuck! Look at how chunky she is. And her coat of fur? It's like she doesn't ever bother to try looking good. Not that any world of effort could do much for that mug of hers. Is she a burn victim, possibly?

I don't like her. I don't like her just as I didn't like Xian Xiang or Li Pao or any other of the girls you keep trying to set me up with. If you're so goddammed worried about me having some offspring, then how about you make it your business to search a little bit harder than it's taken to find the heifers you've been bringing me? How about we say a girl who doesn't look like her face was scribbled on by a three year-old epileptic? Think you can handle that?

Now if you don't mind, I'm going to try to find a spot to lay down where I haven't already shat. Good day.

Hilarious April Fools Pranks

Sex "Change"

Schedule a sex change operation. On the day of the operation, request that you are numbed rather than put under. About forty minutes into the operation, tell your doctor, "You know what? On second thought, I think I'm gonna stay the way I was. Could you just put everything back together?" Before he's able to find how to respond say, "Since nothing's gonna be different, I'd better not be charged for this either."

We Don't Need No Stinking Taxes

Send in your federal income tax report with nothing filled in. Attach a note that reads:

Dear American Tax Person,

I no pay taxes. No green card. Also am terrorist.

From,
[Your name]

(If the authorities are gullible enough to come to your house, see how long you can keep them fooled. Once they've put you in handcuffs, you can laugh.)

Emergencies Everywhere

Ask your family members if they want to be in on an April Fool's Prank, but do not tell them what it is. Then call your local fire department to tell them that the local police department building is on fire. Next, call the local police department and tell them that several men are firing shots at the fire department building. Openly admire the confusion you've caused. Laugh heartily. Wait for a family member to say, "What if someone needs help? The police and the firefighters are busy." Immediately stop laughing. Look very serious. Say, "Exactly," directly to the family member who just spoke. Pull the tarp off the pile of gas soaked rags and logs in the corner of the room. Laugh again - this time more evilly.

Robin Hoodwinked

Complete a successful bank robbery. Slip the feds and travel to the small town where previously you charmed the impoverished populous and promised the town's well-liked Catholic priest that you would see to it personally that the people of this desolate, underprivileged community would one day enjoy a better life. Find the priest, and tell him you have made good on the promise. When he asks what you mean, tip your cap and leave him with your duffel bag at his feet. Tell him not to worry about where the gift came from - what's most important is that the townspeople get help. Leave before the priest finds that the bag is filled with jelly beans. Return to wherever you robbed the bank to return the money. Make sure to have a good laugh at the bank employees and the police officers who got suckered into thinking you were really robbing the bank.

Monkey's Uncle

Find a quiet place at the zoo to dress yourself in a gorilla costume. In costume, find a way into the lion's den. The zoo employees will look quite foolish when zoo patrons see that a gorilla has gotten into the lion's den.

Family Reunion

Host a family reunion barbecue at your home. Invite every relative you can think of, regardless of how distant. Make sure the reunion runs smoothly for a good three hours. Gather everyone into your backyard to hear your special address. When everyone is present, begin barking. Bark as loudly and convincingly as you can. Then say, "Now for everyone who's not dog people, I will translate: I have a cabbage patch of untold worth." Pull down your trousers and underpants to expose your dyed-green pubic hair. Begin asking who wants some cabbage. Sprint to the oldest family member present and yell, "Good boys eat their vegetables!" over and over. Perform an inappropriate dance at this time. Now run to your grill where you had been cooking hamburgers all day and shout, "There's no more people meat! You all go home now!" After everyone's left, send out a mass e-mail to let them know they've been "cabbaged".

Observational Humor Stylings of Kirak - Ten Year-Old Feral Boy

Domestics are always talking about their fine TiVo machines as if these devices make them superior. Last time I checked, superiority is determined when one male humps the corpse of his male rival after having crushed his rival's head with a large rock. Don't let my age fool you: I will crush your head with the skill of an Elder. And then I will mark your precious TiVo as mine with my leavings!


By round of applause, has any one else out there ever had a crappy job? OK good: I'm not the only one! Sir, what's the worst job you had? [Unpleasant job of any kind] you say? That almost sounds as bad as when I got hired to be a chef at Benihana. Yeah, that was a great idea: "Let's give the ten year-old a knife. Oh, he's Feral? In that case let's give him the biggest fucking cleaver we have." Right? "Welcome to Benihana, Miss. Might I interest you in some Hibachi Chaeaubriand, or would you prefer that I skip to the part where I revert to my animalistic ways and chase you around the restaurant with a knife bigger than my ten year-old head? How does that sound, Lady?" You know?


And how is it that hospital food is still awful? It's like, I've suffered serious injuries from a construction site accident that resulted from my forgetting that bulldozers are in fact machinery and not potential predators and that I need not and should not do battle with them when what I think is their faces turn in my direction - think you could cook my Salisbury steak all the way through? Because that would be great.


My girlfriend is starting to drop these "I want to get married" hints all the time now. Man, I can't freaking stand that. Hey babe, I've got a hint for ya: As soon as I reach the age of sexual maturity, I'll be fertilizing as many females as I can out of a uncontrollable urge to populate the species as much as I can. Should these females bear me strong, healthy offspring, I will protect them from predators as well as other males looking to gain dominance over me and my pack. And if you're lucky enough to produce offspring strong enough to survive the winters, then maybe you can be ONE of the females for whom I provide protection!" Am I right guys? Huh? Yeah, the [Unpleasant job of any kind] guy knows what I'm talkin' about!

Miss Manners Knows Everything

Dear Miss Manners,

I love cocaine. The only thing I think I love more than cocaine is hosting a coke party: the guests, the music, the occasional impromptu orgy...I just love coke parties.

Of course, there comes a time at almost every coke party when the cocaine starts to run low. Now whenever I go to someone else's party, I always suggest that the host should be entitled to the last line of the evening. By now, I'm a little hurt that for all the coke parties I've thrown, no one's ever stood up and said, "Hey, how about -------- gets the last hit?" Am I asking for anything beyond common courtesy?

The preparations for hosting a cocaine party are certainly nothing to scoff at: getting a head count, managing food preferences, setting up good music...not to mention procuring the cocaine. Without a doubt, everyone at a good coke party should be thankful for the capable host.

Even so, as host your highest priority is the happiness of your guests. If you care more about one last line of coke than being generous to your guests, then why host these parties in the first place? Just keep your doors locked and the lights off, and then you can snort enough nose candy to paint your brains white.


Dear Miss Manners,

I can remember when I was about twelve years ago, my father gave my some sage advice: Avoid debates with friends and family over religion or politics - you'll be arguing until blue in the face and by the end, nothing in the world's changed except now you have a gripe with a loved one.

This pearl has kept me out of trouble for most of my life, until about three months ago. Since I proposed to my girlfriend, her mother has taken every opportunity she can to question and belittle Satanism whenever she is around me. I'll show up with my fiancée for a barbecue, and her mother will say, "Oh hi Devil Boy. Do you people eat hamburgers? Or should I find a tasty virgin for you to snack on?" She'll even make devil horns on her head with her fingers and shake her head with her tongue out when no one is looking. One time she whispered to me that she dreams of chopping my unholy alter to bits with an axe. How am I going to make this marriage work?

The first thing you should ask your (hopefully) future mother-in-law is how much does she really know about Satanism. As a Satanist, have you performed any charitable works or fundraising for people in need? Informing your fiancée's mother on how much Satanists give back to the community should give you just the leverage you need to speak with her confidently.

If she absolutely refuses to listen to anything you say, then you'll just have to live with the fact that she is unreachable. Religious intolerance is always ugly, and it gets uglier when it stands in the way of a(n) (un)holy union. But if you truly love your fiancée, then perhaps the best thing to do is to pray to the Lord of Darkness with all your heart and hope for the best.


Dear Miss Manners,

As a hitman, I have two rules: 1) No women, and 2) No children. But sometimes when I'm doing a job, it can't be helped that a family member or significant other will be there to see me "do my work" (i.e., murder their loved one.)

Throughout my long career as a hitman, I've never hurt a woman or a child. At the same time, I've had a number of children, wives, and girlfriends look on at a most inopportune time for them. Any advice on what to say when I'm caught "taking out the trash" (i.e., stuffing someone's recently deceased loved one into a trash bag)?

For touchy issues like these, it's always best to give the offended party some time. After seven days, it would be fitting for you to return to the scene of the unpleasant encounter. Probably a good idea to bring over flowers and a bottle of wine, but don't be too apologetic. After all, you were just doing your job.

If you're invited in, do your best to brighten anyone's mood with conversation. Remember: A little self-deprecating goes a long way. (e.g., "I know what you're thinking kids: Was this the best hitman that the Pucelli family could have sent? Haha. Believe me, I certainly am not. Just ask my wife - she'll be happy to tell you how lousy I am!)

Try not to overstay your welcome. If you are invited for dinner, kindly excuse yourself. Perhaps mention "another job" that has to be handled tonight. They will probably laugh at that.


Dear Miss Manners,

For many years I've employed the services of prostitutes, yet I have never had a clear idea how to handle tipping. What is the correct amount to tip, if at all?

Seventeen percent. No more. No less. Seventeen percent.


Dear Miss Manners,

Not too long ago, I used half-truths (and even some non-truths) to convince a country to enter into a war that this country had no adequate reason being involved in to begin with. Now, almost four years later, I can still feel the sneers and disapproving looks when I try to spend some time with the country. I know now that I was in the wrong. I want to apologize, but time has only aggravated the wounds I've created instead of healing them. What is there I can do?

This is nothing that a little baking cannot fix. Accrue 30,000 pounds of sugar, 40,000 pounds of flour, 8,000 eggs, 2,000 gallons of vanilla extract, and 5,000 pounds of chocolate chips. Once you have your supplies, you're almost ready to begin. To make a proper apology cake, you simply must use a gas oven. Electric simply will not do. Mix the sugar, the flour, the eggs, and the vanilla extract in an Olympic sized pool. Once adequatly mixed, let the mixture sit for half an hour. In the meantime, you will need to inspect your oven and make sure it is in pristine condition before you begin baking. Stick your head in your gas oven, and do not exit it until you have been in there for at least 25 minutes.

After that, everything should be much better. For everybody.

Happy Birthday Mom

Today is The Very Mathias's Mother's Birthday! I love her, and she loves Robert Redford. These are birthday cards she might like to receive from Robert Redford.

Berlin

The hostel website mentioned nothing about strippers.

I had read all about a great view of downtown Berlin. There was no literature to prepare me for a great view of ass in my face. In reality, it's unlikely my subject was a stripper by trade. Only in spirit. (That spirit being, "Hm. I'm in a room of total strangers. I will remove my clothes.")

I suppose to some this story makes me a voyeur. A gawker. A horndog. But really, let's save these terms for the guys who make the effort to go to where women strip. These clubs of stripping, or strip clubs as I'm known to call them, are incredibly unsexy. Some guys go there to get their kicks, because what's sexier than a stranger with a fake name pretending to be interested in you after you give her money? Some guys claim they go for a laugh, for a good night out. Hey, here's a fun game to play with you and your bros next time you're in a strip club: Try picking out the girls who'd rather being doing something else with their lives. (Hint: The girls who start crying halfway through giving you a lap dance almost definitely don't want to be there.) Get guessing!

(It's not just that what goes on in a strip club isn't sexy - it's anti-sexy. It destroys sexy. With a strip club, you've got women (sexy), revealing outfits (sexy), and Van Halen riffs (at least "arguably sexy") and still the whole thing comes out all wrong.)

ANYWAY, the point is that there are bigger pigs than me out there. I'll admit I was far from being a gentleman, but it's not like I asked for it. It was just there. And anyways, as you'll see, I was a victim.

Like I said, I was staying in a hostel. I was sharing a six-bed mixed room with two travel pals, one overaged* and oversized** Italian, and a pair of dames I wouldn't be acquainted with until later.

(*For hostel standards, that is. This guy probably wasn't over 35. Many hostels have rules against anyone over 29 taking board. Virtually all hostels, however, have this rule in principle. It's just odd to think that a respectable adult wants to crash in a room full of early twenty-somethings, most of whom - from what I've seen - behave like they're still in their first year of college.)

(**And he was fat, too!)

After a day packed with seeing the city and a night spent touring the bars, my companions and I called it a night and made it back to the hostel at a quarter to three. Papa Meatball was already sound asleep. By 3:30, I was the only one awake in the room. By 3:45, I was starting to drift. Starting, until interrupted by doors unlocking and Germans whispering. Two fraulines. None too interested in practicing my German listening skills, I closed my eyes and passed out.

Minutes later, I'm awoken by the sound of a locker shutting. The room is dark, but I notice that there is a German girl - the one who closed the locker - standing right beside my bottom bunk. "That's a short skirt!" I observed to myself. As I got my bearings, I realized her skirt wasn't exceptionally short - her legs were exceptionally long. This girl was a giant. She was so tall, that standing as close to my bottom bunk as she was blocked my view of her face. She was easily six foot.

But before she even gave me time to fully appreciate her Amazonian growth rate, she was getting out of her clothes faster than a backup NBA point guard coming off the bench. In about fifteen seconds, this German giant was in nothing but a bra and thong. And three seconds later, it was just the thong.

As great as this moment was, it's not the point of the story. In brief, I'll say that this was a good look for her. This was a very good look for her. At the time, I realize that my rave reviews of this girl are über-objectifying: I haven't even seen her face yet; all I'm evaluating her by is her legs, tits, and ass. This made me feel bad. Nowhere near bad enough to pull away from her legs, tits, and ass, but still, kind of bad.

Her friend must be in bed already. I can't see her anywhere. My new exhibitionist friend, though, still has some washing up to do. So she parades (still pajamaless) to the washroom. Minutes later she's bedside again. Oops! Someone forgot to fill up her water bottle. Back on that catwalk, you. Cover up? Why bother! What are the chances that a depraved American is studying you like the Periodic Table. (Especially if the Periodic Table had killer legs and loved thongs.)

Shortly, the dream is over. The Periodic Table is in bed, and although I didn't get a great look, I think with her long legs she was able to get on the top bunk without using the ladder.

After maybe a minute, I sit up in bed as quiet as I can. Looking to my travel companions, I start waving my arms frantically, trying to say in bastardized sign language, "Did anybody else SEE that???????" They take no notice. I even tried appealing to Signor Chest Hair, but the fat Italian bastard is completely out of it. Nobody else in the room saw what I saw. And this is what got me in trouble.

If I knew one of my friends was awake, I wouldn't have been left to myself to replay the scene over and over and over in my head. I probably also wouldn't have bothered trying to think of the German words I needed to compliment, flatter, and eventually woo this total stranger. And I certainly wouldn't have actual gotten up to use this routine on the girl if I knew I was being watched.

But everyone else in the room was asleep, and so I was doomed. For me, there was no other option in the situation. What I was doing was insane, I know - I knew it then too. But hell, what just happened was insane. I'm hardly ever in the same room as a girl who's in nothing but her underwear. And with this one, there wasn't any begging.

It had only been maybe five minutes since she got in bed. "Screw it," I thought, and I got up. I mussed up my hair, thanked God I brushed my teeth before I got in bed, and leaned in to put some German moves on this German knockout. She was on her side, with her back to me. Couldn't tell if she was asleep or not. Oh well, here goes nothing. "Entschuldigung," I said as obnoxiously cocky as possible. (Pardon me.) She didn't hear me the first time, so I said it again. When she rolled over, I was fairly certain she had been sleeping, and I was positive that she was upset. I could guess that she was sleeping from the chain of drool that followed her bottom lip from the other side of the pillow. And I could be positive she was angry with me from the way she mashed her kicked-over-tombstone-like teeth at me and the way she glared at me with her one eyebrow.

I tried to say something, but all I could hear was Bill Paxton crying, "Game over, man! Game over!" I stood there stupid and speechless, with my mouth as wide open as hers. This was not part of the plan. This was SO not part of the plan.

Sleeping Beauty was pissed. "Was!" she growled. (What!?) All knowledge of German vanished. All knowledge of women vanished. All knowledge of the '96-97 Chicago Bulls vanished, and hitherto that'd been a lock. I knew nothing. My mouth moved while my brain bailed:

"Hi. Well, hello! Say, do you know if there's a Kebab stand open in this area?"

"Was? Kebab?"

"Yeah, Kebab - I'm starving. Know of a place? I thought I heard you speaking German on your way in, and so I thought you might know the area."

"I'm not from here. If I was from here, why would I be in a hostel?"

"Ah, I did not consider that. That's an excellent point." It really was. "Ha, why didn't I think...Well in that case, I'll just leave you to your rest." I think at this point I saluted her. "I'll probably turn in too, then. There's always Kebab tomorrow, right?" She made no response to my fast-food philosophy. "OK, good night." Still nothing.

I slunk back into bed, defeated, embarrassed, and disappointed. But disappointed mostly in myself. In fifteen minutes, I went from loving her to despising her all on account of her looks. Surely, I'm better than that. I'm better than those jerkoffs who hang out in strip clubs. I respect women well enough to see the beauty in their character as well as their form. I know well enough that looks are fading, and who a person is on the inside can last a lifetime. That's what's really beautiful about someone. Who cares if this girl's got an exquisite body? That doesn't make her my soul mate. And who cares if she has a unibrow? Behind that unibrow might be the one person in the world who understands me more than anyone else. I had been an ass. And maybe I wasn't going to make any passes at this girl, and maybe I'd never do anything romantic for her - I still wanted to offer some kind of noble gesture.

"Say, I don't suppose you want a Kebab, do you?"

"Fich dich!"

Well fine, Frau Peter Gallagher. Why don't you and your ugly unibrow just go to ugly people hell? Lousy ugtard.

Reviews of Movies I Know By Title Only

Munich

If for some unthinkable reason you have it in your mind to see Beerfest, first of all, you know that your lobotomy operation was a rousing success. Secondly, you should know that the makers of Munich already made a movie about Oktoberfest hijinks, and that they did it best.

You might be the movie goer who from time to time inexplicably feels in the mood to see a movie with the bluest humor, and maybe somewhat lacking in the substance department. (If you are, then you and I have something in common.) Munich is full of beer chugging, fart jokes, sexcapades, and lederhosen. And if you've got a sensibility for cheap one-liners and a lot of physical humor, then you'll be begging for more beers, farts, tits, and traditional German garb.

If you don't mind being seen watching a movie that's unabashedly directed at frat boys, then pull yourself up a stool and help yourself to a foamy liter of Munich. You're bound to be drunk with laughter by the end.

28 Days Later

Hollywood seems to still be a long way off of getting over its agonizing habit of making sequels to movies that don't deserve an extension of any sort. The newest sequel stinker? Sandra Bullock's return as Gwen Cummings in the aggravatingly unnecessary 28 Days Later. Apparently Gwen didn't take long to forget all the life lessons she learned from her first twenty-eight days in rehab - she's back and drunker than ever.Twenty-eight days after the end of the original, Cummings - in what can only be described as an obvious ploy by the producers to draw from new demographics - undergoes some unexplained, alcohol withdrawl (maybe) breakdown, which leads her to murder a truck driver with a fork and steal his Budweiser semi.

Obvious product placement critiques aside, what's truly upsetting is the way the film trivializes drunkeness and driving under the influence in what's presented as Cummings' twenty-eight day long (Please) drunken roadtrip across America. Along the way, Bullock's character continues to drink and drink, yet the tone of the film gets lighter and lighter. (When a drunken Cummings' somehow foils a small-town bank robbery, all she asks for as a reward is, "Hic! Smum more beer. Hic!")

Twenty-eight days after seeing this gem and you'll still be wishing you had those 93 minutes back.

The Importance of Being Earnest

Every few years or so, a documentary emerges that shifts the cultural paradigm. This year, we are treated to The Importance of Being Earnest, a documentary that recalls and celebrates Jim Varney's portrayal of Earnest from 1986 to 1998. The documentary crew show how Jim Varney's creation (Whose name I thought was always spelled "Ernest". Oh well.) posseses a range of human emotion and subtle genius that most critics and film goers ignored from such pieces as Earnest Goes to Splash Mountain and Earnest Scared Stupid.

The filmmakers go on to argue that without Varney's Earnest, cultural staples such as The Simpsons, Harry Potter, and Radiohead, wouldn't have had the necessary creative inspiration to reach the status they and many other artworks and artists enjoyed since Earnest's debut. In fact, as the documentary points out, the decline of the movie and music industries and 9/11 all took place after Varney's passing in the year 2000. Truly, after this two hour documentary, you will understand the importance of being Earnest.

Boxing Helena

Filmed over ten years before Million Dollar Baby, Boxing Helena set the standard for female boxer movies. From the movie's openning bell, the film's intensity is as high as a Mike Tyson fight. Helena's opponents - both in and out of the ring - seem to make up a never-ending procession, yet the charismatic only child of a single mother keeps fighting. Helena finds that her street smart savvy helps her in the ring, but will her tough exterior prevent her from openning up her heart to a man who loves her? By a split decision, this movie reviewer decides it's best that you see for yourself.

Boxing Helena not only goes the distance - it proves to be a total knockout.

Mel Gibson's "Apocalypto"

Gratuitus violence. Um, probably a rousing speech. Then some more violence. And by the end, you wonder if the movie had any point to it besides getting as close as it can to snuff status without getting the film-makers in jail.