SOMETIMES IT'S BETTER TO JUST NOT THINK

The Very Mathias...

2007-09-10T00:33:00.000+02:00

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

Next Stop Israel!

2007-08-10T05:44:00.000+02:00

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*

2007-08-03T07:49:00.000+02:00

*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

2007-07-30T02:12:00.000+02:00

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.

2007-07-19T02:50:00.000+02:00

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

2007-07-13T00:59:00.000+02:00

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

2007-05-31T17:12:00.000+02:00

(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

2007-05-24T15:02:00.001+02:00

Carter Talk

2007-05-22T14:11:00.000+02:00

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?

2007-05-18T12:54:00.000+02:00

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

2007-05-15T14:43:00.000+02:00

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:

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.
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.
I threw the frisbee.
The thief, having reached my stash, grabbed my wallet with his right hand and appeared to be reaching for my iPod with his left.
Frisbee already in flight, I shouted as authoritatively as I knew how "Hey!"
The thief looked up just long enough to present his forehead for the now trucking frisbee.
A noticeable "Thwup."
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

2007-05-10T16:58:00.000+02:00

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

2007-05-07T17:18:00.000+02:00

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

2007-05-02T18:39:00.000+02:00

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

2007-04-30T21:33:00.000+02:00

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?"

2007-04-26T13:16:00.000+02:00

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

2007-04-20T12:43:00.000+02:00

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!

2007-04-18T17:52:00.000+02:00

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

2007-04-16T19:20:00.000+02:00

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?

2007-04-10T22:06:00.000+02:00

(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

2007-03-30T11:03:00.000+02:00

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

2007-03-27T16:25:00.000+02:00

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

2007-03-22T20:20:00.000+01:00

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

2007-03-14T19:10:00.000+01:00

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

2007-03-07T15:39:00.000+01:00

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

2007-03-02T13:44:00.000+01:00

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.

Scorsese to Co-Workers, Family, and Friends: "If You Thought I Was an Unbearable Prick Before, You've Seen Nothing Yet."

2007-02-26T14:49:00.000+01:00

Just a day after his dual Oscar victory, Martin Scorsese announced at a press conference in Los Angeles that everyone he knows can look forward to him "finally showing just how serious an asshole [he] can be."

"I know what you were all hoping for," Scorsese began, "'Well maybe with the Oscars, Marty won't be so wound up. And maybe he'll be a little more pleasant to be around.'" Scorsese laughed. "Less wound up? Probably. But more pleasant to be around? Ha!" Scorsese then placed his two Oscars on the podium so they were visible to the audience.

"See these bad boys? You are now looking at the multi-Academy Award winning director, Martin Scorsese."

"Mr. Martin Scorsese," he corrected.

"So let's get one thing straight," Scorsese continued, "I've hit the peak, baby. I'm Hollywood gold. And from here on out, I'm doing whatever the hell I damn well please. If you thought I was an unbearable prick before, you've seen nothing yet." At this point, Scorsese lowered his head to his Oscar for Best Film and began to nod silently. Scorsese then raised his head and said, "Oscar Two says you can all lick my sack."

Scorsese asked if the reporters there had any questions. After momentarily scanning the field, Scorsese raised his finger and said, "Oh yeah, that's right: I'm Martin Fucking Scorsese, Film God. You plebs should go find someone within your plane of existence to talk to." With this, Scorsese grabbed both Oscars and subsequently kicked over the podium. Scorsese turned to leave, but then faced the audience once again to make a sexually obscene gesture with both Oscar statues simultaneously.

Upon leaving the premises, Scorsese was spotted walking in the middle of a very busy Palms Boulevard, thereby bringing traffic to a halt. Onlookers report having heard Scorsese saying, "You stop and you look at my Oscars! Look at me! And look at my Oscars! Look, you unworthy swine, look!"

Sources close to Scorsese have not reacted strongly to the press conference or Scorsese's antics. When questioned by reporters, his wife Helen commented, "What, the podium kicking and the swearing? Marty's always been doing that. Same with the wandering out in traffic thing. Did he call passers by 'swine'? Yeah, that sounds about right. He's done the same thing after every year that he's lost. I guess this is just the first time you guys have stuck around him long enough to notice."

Scorsese himself has not been available for comment since the press conference, but his agent has announced Scorsese's next project - a sequel to the 1995 box-office flop Bio-Dome. According to Scorsese's agent, the working title for the film is Bio-Dome 2: Academy Award-Winning Director Martin Scorsese Directs What He Wants and Directs Fucking Gold.

This is What Happens When You Send Your Child to the Paul Shaffer School of Music

2007-02-20T19:52:00.000+01:00

At Dinner

Your children and your spouse are sitting at the table. The dinner you've made, steak strips with potato wedges and asparagus, has taken you an hour and twenty minutes to prepare. You emerge from the kitchen with the tray of steak, whereupon your oldest son shoots up from the table and to the console piano in the front room. Before the tray reaches the table, your son is playing simple chords on the piano and singing, "Steak strips, steak strips! Get yourself one of those hot hot hot steak....striiiiips!" You try to smile and then head back to the kitchen for the rest of the food. Your son is still on his way back to the table when he sees you reemerge from the kitchen. At this, he turns quickly back to the piano and sings the "Taters and asparagus, riding the bus...all the way to those taters and aspara-GUUUUS!" This time you do not try to smile. Instead you return to the kitchen once more, where you spot your knife rack.

Now you smile.

Driving Your Child to School

The radio, you tell your daughter, is broken. This is not true, but it will prevent your daughter from making up new lyrics over songs you are fond of in their original version. Unphased, she invents jingles for stop signs, pedestrians, and the act of making a left turn. Her song about honking gets especially irksome when she insists on actually honking the horn in order "to capture the real essence of what the song 'Honky Tonk Honk Town' is all about." She gets testy when you question if songs like "Honky Tonk Honk Town," or "Hang me a (One, Two, Three, Four) Louie Louie Louie!" have essences in the first place. Agitated, she angrily begins, "Mom's great for a lot of things - but doesn't know squat about music YEAHHH!"

You finally reach school and your daughter hops out. Watching her run up to the school steps, you wonder how little it would cost to contract one of the other students into pushing her down at recess today.

At Night

"Havin the sex, havin the sex...mom and dad think I can't hear them having sehhhhhx, YEAH!"

(With Casio Keyboard accompaniment.)

Attending Your Child's Music Recital at School

You are encouraged that your daughter is turning over a new musical leaf by joining the music section of the high school's performance of Fiddler on the Roof. When the curtain goes up, you are apparently not the only one surprised when your daughter is heard playing an up-tempo rocker and singing, "Jew on a roof, kind of aloof. Baby you got a Jew, on that roooooooof. Yeah!" Although she's not wearing a microphone, you can hear your daughter trying to convince the actors and the other musicians to "just go with it", and that Jerry Bock's original composition is "something Paul Shaffer could've written in his sleep if Paul Shaffer was sleeping in an idiot chamber...[screw] Jerry Bock."

You have already left the theater by the time your daughter begs Tevye to "go with that Top Ten list [they] talked about earlier".

Sending a Care Package of Worms to Paul Shaffer

It's funny: Six months ago you never would have guessed you'd ever send someone a care package of worms.

This Whole "Attempted Kidnapping/Murder" Thing Is All Just One Great Big Misunderstanding

2007-02-06T17:32:00.000+01:00

Thank you, Mr. Lykkebak, I'll be happy to explain this whole silly misunderstanding to the court, to Judge Irkohan, and most importantly to Colleen, who by now must have just the worst impression of me.

Now the prosecution has been trying to convince everybody that my actions as well as some of the items in my car incriminate me for conspiring to kidnap and murder my dear, good friend, Colleen Shipman.

The first thing these fast-talking prosecutors questioned was my "apparently obsessive" manner in driving from Houston to Orlando. They found it weird that I would "make such a long drive at such a quick pace", and suspicious that I was so "hell bent on catching Colleen at the airport that [I] was wearing an adult diaper so [I] wouldn't have to make any stops." First thing's first, I wasn't wearing an adult diaper - I was wearing a space diaper. I'm an astronaut. Would anybody here be surprised to see a plumber wearing a tool belt? I will admit that I was obsessed to make it to Orlando to catch Colleen, but not so I could do her any harm. Quite the contrary, I rushed because I didn't know how long she planned on being in the Sunshine State, and I didn't want to miss an opportunity to cook her up some Flamingo Burgers.

The rushing paid off, because sure enough I found Colleen at the airport. (For a crazy maniac, I sure timed that up well, huh?) Colleen must not have recognized me in my trench coat, fedora, and dark sunglasses - which, I obviously wear a) to avoid being rushed by swarms of NASA fans and b) to keep my skin protected from the ruthless Orlando sun - because she didn't say hello when she saw me emerge from behind a pickup truck in the airport parking garage.

By the time I caught up with Colleen (And boy, was she moving quick - maybe she was on her way to kidnap and murder somebody, if that's such a tell-tale sign), she was already in her car and starting up her engine. I started to worry that she'd miss out on the picnic I had planned for us, so I screamed, "Colleen, you lovely girl, you're going to be missing out on caviar!" Colleen mistakenly heard, "Colleen, you slutty whore, you're going to be fished out a reservoir ." When she said, "I'll open the window a crack, but you're scaring me," I thought she was saying, "Please let me sample that pepper spray, which I'm betting would go great on a Flamingo Burger." And that's when I accidentally shot pepper spray in her eyes.

That's the last I saw of Colleen, because after I missed getting pepper spray in her mouth, she sped off and left me behind. I was hoping that if she saw me in her rearview mirror, running after her and holding up the hunting knife we would use to prepare our Flamingo patties, then perhaps she'd consider reversing and sharing a meal with me. In all the confusion, she must've interpreted my gesture as saying, "I would stab you with this knife if I could run as fast as your car's going."

Since Colleen didn't stick around, I didn't have much use for the BB gun I brought that I planned to use for hunting Flamingo - not for threatening Colleen with. I also never had a chance to use my steel mallet to tenderize the Flamingo cuts (and not to bludgeon a rubber tube bound Colleen with). And while the prosecution would have you believe that I brought large, plastic garbage bags in order to stash away Colleen's hacked up body, I wonder why they didn't stop to think I'd want a bag for refuse leftover from our picnic and a bag for Flamingo Burger leftovers that Colleen could enjoy later. Honestly, some people's imaginations are downright sickening.

The prosecution is also making a pretty big deal about the journal the police found in the back seat of my car under a pile of used space diapers, in which I'd written an entry titled "How I'm Going to Kidnap and Murder Colleen Shipman." I could see how that might look suspicious, except it's not a journal entry at all - it's a Madlib. "Kidnap" and "murder" are just random verbs I picked; and when the Madlib called for "Name of a Close Friend," well Colleen just fit the bill. Since when is there a law against playing Madlibs? Or using words like "knife", "forest preserve", and "disposal of garbage bags filled with carcass chunks" in said Madlib?

Kidnapping? Murder? It was all just a big misunderstanding. The only crime I'd planned to commit was Flamingo homicide, which up until today, I didn't even know was a felony.

Subtle Changes to Game Dynamics in "Oregon Trail" Had Cannibalism Been an Option

2007-01-31T18:25:00.000+01:00

Welcome to the Oregon Trail! Your journey begins in INDEPENENCE, MISSOURI. Before you begin your quest, you must select a profession.

You have chosen CARPENTER. The CARPENTER class starts with $800. Spend your money wisely at MATT'S GENERAL STORE to stock up on supplies for your journey.

Are you finished shopping?

You are done shopping. Would you like to EAT MATT?

You do not EAT MATT. Please name the rest of the members in your party.

----------------

Your party has reached LARAMIE. Here you can buy more supplies, barter, or talk with other travelers.

You find PISTOL BILL. PISTOL BILL begins to tell you stories about Hockessin, Delaware. His stories bore you. You remember that you are running low on food - do you murder and eat PISTOL BILL?

You have selected NO. You listen to twenty-seven minutes of stories about barrel-making.

----------------

Your FOOD SUPPLY is dangerously low. You will soon have to go hunting or eat one of the members of your party to survive.

You have selected to HUNT.

You have shot 240 pounds of meat. As you lug the deer carcass back to your wagon, your joints ache and your muscles grow weak. You consider it would have been a lot easier for you if you just ATE KELLY.

----------------

KELLY has DYSENTERY. If you stop to rest, there is a chance her health will recover. Or, you can eat her now before the DYSENTERY makes her unappetizing.

You have decided to REST for three days.

----------------

BANDITS have come in the night and have taken 28 BULLETS, 30 POUNDS OF MEAT, $66, and KELLY. You feel so angry you could eat GERALD right then and there. Do you EAT GERALD?

You have decided to THINK IT OVER.

----------------

Your party is eight miles from FORT HALL. You have changed your RATIONS from "Good" to "Meager."

Your party has reached FORT HALL. Here you can buy more supplies, barter, or talk with other travelers.

You once again meet PISTOL BILL. He says you look "worse than a Kentucky weasel in an Alabammy mineshaft." He offers to buy one of your oxen for $17. Does he have any idea how insulting an offer like that is?

You and your party DEVOUR PISTOL BILL.

Are you finished in FORT HALL?

You and your party make for FORT BOISE. You have changed your RATIONS from "Meager" to "Plentiful".

----------------

You have found an abandoned wagon! You find 14 BULLETS, 1 WHEEL, and 48 POUNDS OF MEAT. Will you celebrate by EATING one of your party members?

You and your party EAT GERALD.

----------------

Your party has come across a RIVER. What will you do?

A) Attempt to cross by FORDING.
B) Pay an Indian Guide to FERRY you across.
C) WAIT for low-tide.
D) EAT the Indian Guide in the hopes of inheriting his secrets. (And potentially also his strength.)

You have EATEN the Indian Guide. Now you know how to FERRY your wagon across, and you feel stronger.

----------------

You feel like you've been on this trip forever. You are bored. Will you eat TED?

Are you still hungry?

You eat SUSAN.

----------------

Your food supply is running dangerously low. You have decided to HUNT.

You have shot 857 pounds of PEOPLE MEAT. You can only carry back 200.

----------------

You and your party have reached the Columbia River!

You may:

A) Float the wagon downstream. (Fastest option, but dangerous.)
B) Take a toll road around the river. (Safest option, but will add 92 miles to your trip.)
C) Think on it over some barbecue PHILLIP.

You have selected to EAT PHILLIP AND THINK ON IT.

You are so gorged on PHILLIP that you fall fast asleep. BANDITS have robbed all your blankets. You are dead from EXPOSURE...but at least you die with a FULL STOMACH.

Private Correspondences to Drill Sergeant Shanks

2007-01-23T16:35:00.000+01:00

Tuesday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

Let me start by ensuring you how happy I am to have been assigned to your squadron for Basic Training. Other Privates I have spoken with assure me that you have a certain flair for sculpting the finest soldiers. (Your reputation precedes you, good Sir!) I do hope that mine is a clay suitable enough to be formed by your artist's hands. Granted, I may not turn out like David, but hopefully when it's all said and done I'll at least come close to The Burghers of Calais!

Overall, I feel very positive about today's meet-and-greet, but I did want to excuse myself yet again for mistaking a handshake as a suitable greeting between Private and Drill Sergeant. It was obviously an upsetting gesture for you, so much so that I couldn't fit in a response to any of your rapid-fire interrogations. (Please take note, I'm certainly not implying any rudeness on your part for this heated, one-sided exchange. For getting you so riled up, I scarcely deserved my own say in the matter.)

But vis-à-vis those aforementioned queries, let me assure you of the following:

There is certainly nothing wrong with my eyesight. Yes, I noticed that none of the other privates offered to shake your hand as you made your way through the column of new recruits. (I assumed they were all being rude.)

Your right hand was the only portion of your anatomy I had interest in grasping. (Admittedly, I'm still a bit perplexed as to how ready you were to interpret my politeness as a homosexual advance. Were you actually curious as to whether I had a desire to service you in front of the whole platoon? I'm not the type who gets these particular urges, Sir, and even if I were, I'm cognizant enough to recognize inappropriate timing.)

I hope this helps clear up any confusion or ill-will from this afternoon. And thank you for taking the time to read this. (I'm not even a confrontational person, believe it or not!)

Yours,
Private Witherspoon

Wednesday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

Hi again Drill Sergeant. It's Private Witherspoon. Listen, I feel terrible about earlier. Honest, I wasn't ignoring you. I just hadn't realized when you were trying to get my attention that your new nickname for me was "Maggot Face." Had you called out "Spooney" or "Spoonerism", I assure you I would have responded much quicker.

Somewhat related question: Am I going to get punished every time you come up with a nickname for me that I don't instantly recognize? This could get very confusing for me, and moreover, it could be very straining for us.

Also: Can your grandmother really do more than twenty-two pushups? If you were just saying that to make me feel bad, mission accomplished.

Sincerely,
Private "Spooney"

Thursday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

Sorry that I missed today's hand-to-hand combat session - last night's super-late K.P. punishment simply pooped me out! When's a good time to make up the lesson?

(Speaking of K.P., don't you think it's about time the platoon gets a dishwasher? Or at least a decent S.O.S. pad? That toothbrush makes the job last forever. The Army's all about efficiency, yes?)

Oh, and rest assured I've learned my lesson: Next time I'll get permission from you first before I go telling the other guys that you call me "Private Spooney."

Cheers,
Private "Dog Shit"

Friday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but some of the guys in the platoon are demonstrating textbook entry-level employee grousing. Some of the guys (I won't name names - unless it turns out that you later will want these names. In which case I'll gladly name names) are starting to complain about the routine and the food, and one soldier (OK, Private Bentley) referred to you as "Drill Sergeant Skanks."

I don't know about you, but I feel this is not building towards a cohesive work environment. It's especially difficult when a certain Sergeant-slandering private refers to one of his peers as "Private Without-poon."

I look forward to this issue being resolved promptly.

Best,
Private Witherspoon

Saturday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

I was sensing some real negative vibes from you today. Are you mad at me for something? I didn't even get a chance to say "Hi" before you were screaming in my face. And then you go and tell me "[I]'ll never amount to anything in [my] whole stinking life"? If something's the matter (with me, with us, with your personal life, etc.), let's talk about it. That'll get us a lot further than you just taking out your aggression on me.

Know this: I'm not mad; I'm concerned. Is there somewhere on base we can get a latte and hash things out?

Feel better,
Private Witherspoon

Monday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

Some of the other privates told me about The Green Berets. It sounds like quite an impressive group. They said I should ask you for information on getting in.

Warmly,
Private Witherspoon

P.S. Changed your mind about that latte yet?

Tuesday

Dear Sergeant Shanks,

Is it true that we're being trained in order to be sent to Iraq? I don't think I'll go: I get airsick pretty easily. (And pretty badly.)

Send me a postcard!

Fondly,
Private Witherspoon

A Letter to Tom Brady, Quarterback of the New England Patriots

2007-01-20T16:28:00.000+01:00

Dear Tom Brady,

I am a twelve year-old boy from Lafayette, Indiana. I am writing this letter to you from my hospital room, where I stay all day because I have lung cancer. I was left at an orphanage soon after being born, so I've never met my mother. (Neither have I met my father.) Doctors tell me that my lung cancer comes from all the cigarettes that the mother I've never known smoked while I grew - unwanted, apparently - in her womb. I don't blame my mom for not wanting me, though. Or for poisoning my lungs before they got a chance to be used in the real world. Everybody makes mistakes, right? Also I have AIDS.

Things are real rough for me, Mr. Brady, but one of the things that keeps me going is rooting for my favorite football team, the Indianapolis Colts. I watch them every Sunday from the beginning of September to usually the first or second weekend in January. My favorite player is Peyton Manning, who must be the greatest quarterback of all time because his statistics are so good. I have never met Peyton Manning, but lots of people say that he is really smart and hilarious and lots of supermodels are jealous that he's married.

I think that you're a real good quarterback too, Mr. Brady. In fact, even though you don't have as many touchdowns or passing yards as Peyton Manning, I think you're one of the best quarterbacks of all time. Winning three Superbowls in four years makes you a legend, Mr. Brady. And that means that you only place your legacy has to go is down. What's one more Superbowl? Is four that much better than three? Winning another one can't make you a bigger legend than you already are; but losing a playoff game will only make people say, "Hmm, well Tom Brady isn't all that great, is he?"

I don't think anybody wants this, Mr. Brady. You don't want it; Patriots fans don't want it; I don't want it; surely that handsome, statistical marvel Peyton Manning doesn't want it to happen. That's why I think you should retire, Mr. Brady. Tomorrow. Before the game against the Colts. Take it from me, a little boy from Indiana who has cancer and AIDS: Life is short. If you keep your legacy intact by retiring tomorrow, then you can overcome life's brevity - you will be immortal.

I'm not interested in being immortal, myself. (Who would want to live forever with cancer? Or AIDS? And in my case, both?) But maybe that Peyton Manning could be immortal with you if he wins a Superbowl this year. Wouldn't that be great! Later in life, the two of you could reminisce about your Superbowl victories in Peyton's backyard in New Orleans with the football-shaped pool and twin hammocks. Peyton's lovely wife would even bring the two of you sweet tea and her patented "Victory Ribs", the dish she makes for Peyton whenever he wins a football game. (And also after losses to cheer him up.)

I get so excited when I think that you and Peyton Manning might be Superbowl buddies after this year. I know you two would be such great friends. And I'd sure like to see my favorite team and my favorite player win a Superbowl before I die, which the doctors here tell me will probably happen in about a month and a half.

Please retire.

Sincerely,
Little Boy

P.S. If you do retire, I have good word that Peyton Manning would gladly share half of his lucrative promotional earnings with you. That'll buy a lot of lobster. (Please, please retire.)

A Message from Brock

2007-01-16T17:07:00.000+01:00

As many of you know, over the last few months I have been thinking hard about my plans for 2008. Running for Sigma Chi president is a hella-big decision - a decision no one should make solely on the basis of coming up with the idea last Saturday while getting totally baked and watching Air Force One - and so before I committed myself and my dad's finances to this race, I wanted to see if my suitemates, R.G. and T.J., thought it was a rad idea. "Dude, swiggity sweet!" advised T.J.

I certainly didn't expect to find myself in this position a year ago. But as I've spoken to other sweet dudes in the house besides R.G. and T.J. - Eric, Fritz, A.J., K-Ice, Z, J.T., E-Mac, K.J., J.J. - I've been struck by how hungry we all are for getting girls drunk and having sex with them.

So I've spent some time thinking about how I could best advance the cause of change and progress that we so desperately need, in order to get girls drunk and have sex with them.

The decisions that have been made in Sigma Chi this past year have put our fraternity in a sketchy sitch. Many of you have shared with me your stories about pot getting more expensive, the flip-cup partners you've lost to deactivation, and how really, super-pissed you still are that pot has been getting more expensive. Our continued obligation to philanthropy has been marked by many of you as "faggy" and "hella-gay". And we're still mired in a tragic and costly prank war with Lambda Chi (aka, "Rambda Guy") that should have never been waged when there's so many girls we could be getting drunk and having sex with.

But challenging as these problems are, it's not their magnitude that concerns me the most. It's the smallness of our balls. Sigma Chi has faced big problems before. But today, our Senior leaders seem incapable of using/growing balls, in a practical, unfaggy way. Our agenda has become so sackless, so gummed up by guys acting gay, that we can't tackle the big problems that demand solutions: What is the surest way to get girls drunks enough to allow us to have sex with them?

And that's who we have to have sex with first.

This won't happen by itself. Having sex with drunk girls can only come from you; from pledges across our house who believe there's a better way and are willing to work for it.

Years ago, as a summer camp counselor in Connecticut, I learned that convincing a girl to have sex with you is a long, arduous process. It takes talent, commitment, perseverance, and about six to eight Mike's Hard Lemonades. But, my brothers, it can be done.

So even in the midst of the enormous challenges we face today, I have great faith and hope about the future - because I believe in those of you who aren't totally gay.

And that's why I wanted to tell you first that I'll be rolling papers today with my newly created Balls Exploratory Committee. For the next several weeks, I am going to talk with brothers from around the house, listening and learning more about the girls we want to bone, the girls who will possibly be willing to let us bone them, and the role that alcohol might play in getting the girls who usually wouldn't sleep with us to let us have sex with them. And at the end of semester, at the end of these decisions and in the foosball room, I'll share my plans with my friends, Sigma Chi brothers, and fellow non-homos.

In the meantime, I want to thank all of you for being sweet, for your pot, and special thanks to Mikey J.'s mother for being a total ho and giving it up to me on Mom's Weekend. (Suh-lut!)

Sincerely,
Buff Brock

Internal Monologue of the 16 Year-Old Very Mathias on the Day of Breaking up with his 17 Year-Old Girlfriend

2007-01-04T22:47:00.000+01:00

OK, OK. This has to happen, and it has to happen today. No way around it -- I am about to destroy another human being's life. Christine is about to experience the greatest pain she will ever know: the pain of me leaving her. She is about to get dropped into a boiling cauldron of rejection. The sadness of a thousand garbage trucks is on the verge of crushing her to bits. The endless despair of a horseshoe is about to leave its kick-imprint on the face of her soul. She will never, ever recover from this. Her life will be over as soon as I drive away.

Well, if it has to be done, it will be done today. As soon as I finish these next six rounds of Tekken, I will perform this ignoble duty.

------------------

If only breaking Christine's heart could be as easy as executing as 17-hit combo with Eddy Gordo. Should I shower before I do this? She might recover quicker if I'm a little gamey. No, no she'd see through my rouse and love me even more for putting myself down to make her feel better. Plus I don't want to look greasy if her older sister's there -- if Kelly has her sister's genes, she's probably madly in love with me too. Oo, I need to ask Mom if I can use the Tercel.

------------------

Damn I'm nervous. My palms are so sweaty that my hands are slipping off the wheel. I need some music. Something appropriate. Something to prepare me for having to literally crush her soul. Something to get me ready to ruin a poor girl's young life with the worst news she could possibly -- oh sweet! I thought I lost my copy of Unleash the Dragon! Which number was "Thong Song" again?

------------------

...that thong, thong thong thong -- oh, here already. I guess time flies when you're racked with bottomless guilt. Hm, no cars in her driveway. Good, her parents are still at work - maybe we can make out for a little bit. Shit, I forgot gum. OK, better just break up with her then. Yeah, that's best. It would be insane anyways to get her all titillated before letting her go. Just go in, do it, and get out. Like a Band-Aid.

Oh man. She's wearing that purple tubetop. Her boobs always look awesome in that purple -- hey! Focus!

------------------

Innocent, sweet Christine. There she goes, going on and on about ballet practice. She has no idea what's about to hit her. Does she deserve this? Am I to blame for letting things get too serious with her? Sure, there was a time when I really did think I loved her. Think? No, I felt it -- I know I did. The truth is, I don't really know when the feeling passed. It was part of me for so long, I know that. For the better part of a year, being in love with Christine defined most of who I was as a person. I hope we can still be friends. I want to be there for...oh good, she finally stopped talking. Quick, before she starts up again, say, "Good news! You're about to have a lot more time to practice ballet."

------------------

Man. This is going ever worse than I imagined. What time is -- oh Jesus. It's already 4:32. That means I've been here for eleven minutes. Am I ever going to get out of here? And is she still crying? She's been crying for at least four minutes! I never thought she'd be taking it this bad. I need to do something.

------------------

This was a great idea. I successfully broke up with Christine, it looks like she's almost finished crying, and now the two of us get to enjoy a round of miniature golf. Should I have offered to pay for her? I think that probably would've sent the wrong message. I should also make sure I beat her, then. If I lose, it might look like I let her win, and like me paying for her, she might interpret that as a sign of affection, which she'll use for hope, which is something that she should forget about so she can just move on. For her own good, then, I will beat the miniature golfing shit out of her.

New Year's Resolutions

2007-01-01T19:06:00.000+01:00

1. Quit smoking.

Granted, not the most original New Year's resolution, but pertinent nonetheless. It's just a drain on my wallet, and I think it's beginning to alienate me from my non-smoking friends. Good cue that it's time to quit.

2. Take up jogging

No cigarettes is a good start, but jogging on top of that is exactly what my body needs. And, admittedly, I'm not just doing it for my own health's sake - I wouldn't mind looking a little sexier around the ladies. Seeing as how I haven't had a date in months (let's not get into how long it's been since I've gotten any), I obviously could use some kind of edge. A fitter, happier me can't hurt in finding Ms. Right. (Or at least "Ms. Right Now"!)

3. No more denying that the Holocaust happened

Old habits die hard, so Number Three on the list here is gonna take some work. I've been denying the Holocaust for a while now, even longer than I've been smoking. Unfortunately for me, there is no patch or gum I can use to help me to quit denying the Holocaust. But I've thought about it, and I know that I want to quit. I know that if I just take it one day at a time, I'll slowly learn to accept the fact that history's version of the Holocaust is, in fact, accurate.

4. No more wire-tapping

All my surveillance gear is going on eBay: I am done with spying on neighbors/friends/family/acquaintances. Hopefully I'll get some money back, because I sure can't get any of my time back - what a bunch of boring biddies! No love affairs, no secret drug problems, no debates about the supposed validity of the Holocaust - I couldn't even stay awake half the time. This year, I'm moving out of my base of central intelligence operations (Dad's basement) and back into the real world.

5. No more feigning profound retardation for my own benefit

I think I've rode this horse for about as far as she'll ride.

6. Take a Tex-Mex course

This one's a redo from a 2006 resolution, because last year I only got through a class and a half before I got kicked out. My bitch instructor got pissy whenever I wanted to have a smoke or when I asked other people taking the course if they had any good reasons for believing the Holocaust occured. I tried to re-enter the same class a week later under the alias "Benjy," but my instructor saw through the slowed speech, contorted face, and ill-fitting clothes and threatened to call the police if I didn't leave immediately. I left, but not without secretly planting a mic in her car on my way out. (As of today, I've yet to overhear anything incriminating enough to get back at her with blackmail. Lucky for her I stopped listening as of this Sunday at 11:59 PM.)

Oh well. Tomatillo Salsa, anyone?

I'm Going to Have to Start Charging You for our Sexual Relations

2006-12-31T15:34:00.000+01:00

Hey baby. So, as you already know, I'm runnin' pretty low on cash these days, and now things have taken another bad turn. Mr. Jerkinks - oh I mean "Jenkins" - fired me from Cactus Outlet. Stupid old shit. Maybe he could have explained to me before he fired me that I was supposed to water the cactuses. Don't cactuses usually live in the desert? I don't see why it's my fault that he never told me that he got pussy, water-needing cactuses.

Anyways, the point is that I'm strapped for cash babe. Now you know how much I care about you - how much I care about us. And I want there to always be an "us." So I've thought it over, and I think in order for me to be able to afford going out with you, I'm going to have to start charging you for our sexual relations.

Think about it, baby: I'd be able to pay my bills, afford rent, and have the means to treat you like the princess you are. And you get to keep having sex with me.

The thing is, if I don't have some kind of revenue, I fear our relationship could suffer. Gas ain't cheap these days, and my mom's '91 Caravan just guzzles that shit. Without a job, I can't afford gas. Without gas, in order to get to your apartment I'd have to catch the Blue Seven busline, which would not only take an extra fifteen minutes to get to your neighborhood, but wouldn't get me any closer than FIVE blocks from your apartment. All said, this adds another 25-30 minutes going to your apartment, and then ANOTHER 25-30 minutes going back! At this stage in our lives, baby, do we really want a long distance relationship?

What about the future? Are we ever going to be able to afford that red-brick house with the white-pickett fence if you're the only one earning money? Think about it.

I'm pretty sure I've demonstrated in the past that I'm regularly willing to supply "product" (i.e., having sex with you). And as my beautiful, lovely, girlfriend, you are entitled to top-notch customer service. I have three guarantees to ensure maximum customer satisfaction:

Sex Guarantee #1: Great rates. Other men who charge women for sex will charge $100, maybe even $150 for a night of sex. $150?!? Not for my baby. You get to have sex with me for merely $50 a night. But wait! I'm also offering a special daytime rate of $15 for any sex between 8AM and 8PM. Still not good enough? How about this: for every five times you have sex with me, you earn thirty minutes of sex with me - free of charge.

Sex Guarantee #2: "The customer is always right." You want me to perform oral sex on you (or if you want to perform it on me), consider it done. Making love to you in your rear? You got it. Want to invite one of your girlfriends over so both of you can have your way with me? She gets in for HALF price. Whatever it is you want*, you get.

*No queer stuff with other dudes - company policy.

Sex Guarantee #3: As the old saying goes, the customer always comes first. (I promise, I'll try real hard to make that more of a habit in the future.)

Operators are standing by. (I told my roommate, Rodney, about the idea, so he can help you reach me when you want to have sex with me.) Call within the next ten minutes, and save half-off on post-sex snuggling charges.

I've Noticed an Attitude Shift in my Ten Year-old Daugther Since Telling Her Santa isn't Real

2006-12-16T18:28:00.000+01:00

Around other kids in the neighborhood:

Okay, I'll play House with you guys. I'll be an attorney from New York in her early 30s, but I don't want any kids. Aside from lying to me for my whole life, the cruelest thing my parents ever did to me was bringing me into this world in the first place. So no kids for me. Sam, you can play my husband, but don't think into this designation too much. It's solely for the sake of the game. Maybe there was a time when I could have loved you Sam, a time when I truly would have loved you with my whole heart. But that was a different me, when my heart still had some warmth. There is no love in this life.

Who wants to be Sam and my neighbors?

Around her younger siblings:

John, you've really got to stop whining about going to Grandma's. Going to Grandma's isn't the most exciting way to spend an afternoon - OK, not only do we all know that, but you know what else? We all agree with you. But when Mom says, "It's really important that we go," she's really saying, "Grandma's going to die soon and I want us to see her while we still can." Grandma's not getting any younger, John, and neither is mother. Grandma getting so close to death - and Mom, stop me on this if I'm off at all - Grandma getting so close to death is not only going to be a great loss for Mom, but a harsh reminder of her own mortality. We're all going to die, John. And in this wretched world, we all die alone. There is no hope. There is no rescue. Anything you ever thought was good in this life is an illusion. The only thing you can rely on being certain is that one day you will be consumed by the inescapable void of non-existence.

Oh, did I make you cry? Maybe you'll feel better when "Santa Claus" delivers your Legos to you next week. Simpleton.

Around me:

Father, I know you're in the middle of enjoying this episode of CSI: New York, a show that really sums up how lofty your aesthetic sensibilities are, but it has been 38 minutes since you promised me that you would help me with my history report. Is that another thing you've chosen to lie to me about? Can I trust anything you tell me ever again? Well, maybe I'm being a little too hard on you. After all, this is Gary Sinese we're talking about here. Why wouldn't a shitty show with a washed up actor be more important to you than you're own daughter? I know why: you're a terrible father.

Around her basketball coach:

So let me get this straight: all we need to be champions is practice, hustle, and determination? Gee, that sounds simple. Is that the same winning formula you followed to become the fifth grade girls basketball coach that you are today? Don't lie to these girls, Coach. We're average at best. The last thing they need is someone lying to them and allowing them to believe in dreams. The longer they believe in dreams, the more crushed they'll be when they learn that no one ever gets what they want in life.

Unless, of course, it's always been your dream to be a fifth grade girls coach. In which case, I feel so bad for you that I hope you die in your sleep tonight.

50 feet away from the mall Santa:

WHAT'S YOUR DEAL? CAN'T GET OFF LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING? GOTTA GET YOUR JOLLIES LIKE THIS? BURN IN HELL! BURN IN HELL!

First Date: Special Edition

2006-12-07T14:07:00.000+01:00

Hi Stacy! George here. Hope that this e-mail finds you well this Sunday morning. I wanted to write and let you know how much fun I had last night. And also, I wanted to check in and make sure that you had an okay time too. Have you decided yet whether you'd like to go on a second date with me? I sensed at times last night you might not have been crazy about how the date was going. If you were to decide to chance a second rendezvous with yours truly, I promise a dazzling, even more spectacular evening than last night.

I will pick you up in a limousine again, only this time it will be a color-changing limousine (think Wizard of Oz horse). We will ride this "limousine of a different color" to Le Petit Chateau, where we dined last night. I have arranged to change the candle lighting inside (which I thought was just a little outdated) to laser lighting. Lasers are hip, and kids love them. I think this will be much better than the lighting on the first date.

I've already reserved us the same booth we sat in last night. By next weekend, though, it will have hovercraft technology installed in it and will be capable of mid-air suspension ten feet off the ground. (Should be safe by Saturday night. Think you'll be free then?)

Our waiter (who will serve us by jetpack) will now have an Italian accent. When I was planning the first date, I decided on Le Petit Chateau because I remember you saying that you like French food. If I had also known that you had lived in Italy for a year, then I would have arranged for Sergio to be on the job last night. But details like this can always be fixed on a second run.

For my part, I will learn enough Italian to order your meal for you. (Also, I will opt for mashed potatoes this time instead of garlic bread. And I will remember chewing gum.) Over dinner, the conversation will be less focused on my ex-wife, and more directed at your interests and background. I will also be funnier.

In addition to enhancing aspects of last night's date, I have plans for new material as well:

1) In this date edition, I will call over the house string-quartet to play Chopin for you. After they finish, I will say, "Not bad. Care if I give it a whirl?" Sergio will jetpack the violin up to me so I can play you "Ewok Celebration Suite."

2) When we can eat no more, we will leave the restaurant arm in arm. Steps away from my color-changing limo, a gun-wielding mugger will emerge from the shadows and demand your purse. Positioning myself between you and harm's way, I will wave my hand and say, "You don't need to have her purse." He will say (to you), "I don't need to have your purse." I will say, "She can leave and have a pleasant evening," and he will say (to you again), "You can leave. And have a pleasant evening." While you are still shocked, I will offer you champagne from my color-changing limousine.

3) Same mugger situation, only this time the mugger will shoot at me before I say a word. I will very quickly shift my entire body to the left in one jerky, near impossible motion to avoid the bullet. After shooting him in the chest (with a gun I kept hidden all night), I will offer you champagne from my color-changing limousine.

As you can tell, this date improves in so many ways upon the original. I really hope that you – not the CGI you – will be joining me for it.

<3
George

Austrian Comic Relief

2006-11-26T11:17:00.000+01:00

Hi. This is me, The Very Mathias. Sorry about being lazy with postings this week. Unfortunately this trend has to continue for the time being, as I am soon to depart on a week-long school field trip to Vienna.

In the meantime, I invite you to enjoy a comedy skit written by a real life Austrian. It's real, it's uncut, and it might change the way you look at Austrian humorists.

Characters:

TV-Reporter (Male or Female)
Noel Mitzi Unterfranzenberger/Leo/Commodus/Jack
4 Zombies(male or female)/4 Pirates/Green-Matrix/Orange-Guy/Blue-Guy
Fish-Girl/ Liz
German(male or female)
Fish-Guy/Lord Vader/Will
Arnie

TV-Reporter: Hello and welcome to our weekly cinema preview, today live from the “Walk of Shame”-Boulevard here in Pollywood. I am standing here right in front of the Canon-Theatre, where tonight are going to be the 28th Annual Anthony Awards. We’ll have a very special guest today, who has the best chances of winning the Award tonight. But at first we take a short look at three new films, which will come soon to your cinemas. The first one is a sequel to one of the best movies ever. Some thought, how could you make a sequel to this movie, it’s not possible, but our Pollywood stars, made the impossible possible! Prepare to see as the first people on earth the first scenes of the new Blockbuster: Titanic II!

(Leo (gay) to the middle of the stage, waiting and shouting)

Leo: I am the king of the world!!!

(in the background 4 people walk like Zombies from one side of the stage to the other)

Zombie Nr.1: Captain, Iceberg ahead!

Zombie Nr.2, 3, 4: Mine! Mine! Mine! (go to the other side; off)

Leo: (dancing) I am the king of the world!!!

(a guy and a girl come to him, moving their mouths like a fish)

Girl: He sorry, dude!

Leo: I am the king of the world!!! (saying it to them)

(both look wondered)

Guy: Well, have you seen my son, he is orange with white stripes?

Leo: I am the king of the world!!!

Girl: (parroting) Well, yeah King of the world! So have you seen his son ….. Kenny?

Guy: Nemo!

Leo: (angry) I am the king of the world!!!

Girl: Tell you what, Water is sure not good for humans!

(lights to the Reporter)

TV-Reporter: Well! Woow! (takes deep breath) Okay, let’s move to the next one. It’s another movie in the style of Alien vs. Predator, but if you ask me, what in fact you have to do,… I would not even watch it if I had to! Wait, I had to! Oh, fuck! Well,….hm.. Look for yourself. Here is Lord Vader vs. Commodus – (subtitle) with special appearance by the Green Matrix. Of course it’s rated PG!

(lord vader with lightsaber from one side, commodus with sword from other side; both have glasses; lord vader should be small maybe on his knees; commodus)

Lord Vader: You have got my best education-General captive and I want HER back now, or you will feel the power of the force.

Commodus: Hey small one! You will do as I, Commodus the Merciful…..

Lord Vader: Merciful? (laughs)

Commodus: Am I not Merciful?

Lord Vader: No!

Commodus: (goes close to him; shouts) AM I NOT MERCIFUL?

(both start to fight, when suddenly a green guy with a cigarette in the mouth comes on stage, maybe with black glasses, while the others are fighting, he steps in front)

Green: Why, Mr. Anderson? Why, Mr. Fischer? (takes a breath from the cigarette and goes off)

Commodus: I am merciful!

Lord Vader: No your not! (while fighting)

(a person comes on stage and speaks in german)

German: Es tut mir leid, ich bin nicht von hier. Könnten sie mir sagen, wie ich zu einem Studienplatz kommen kann, den ich einem Einheimischen wegnehmen kann?

(an orange and a blue guy come on stage an shout)

Orange, Blue: Foreigners OUT!!!

(German leaves sad, others off with a big smile)

(Commodus pushes Lord Vader away from him to the ground, takes sword)

Commodus: Now you will die! One last wish, blackie?

Lord Vader: Well, yes! What about a grandson?

Commodus: What??

Lord Vader: I AM YOUR FATHER!

Commodus: It seems to me, that I knew it all the time!

Lord Vader: Sure, that’s because you grew up in my house!

(they hug, lights back to Reporter)

TV-Reporter: uuhhh! Well that’s finished, but not for everyone! (nasty laugh) So now we come to the last movie for today. It’s the spin-off from a this year summer blockbuster and the most important fact for us here in lovely bilingual Carinthia is, that it was filmed here. So please enjoy Pirates of the Lake Wörther – At the Ice Ages End.

(Jack, on stage, with bottle, Will enters)

Will: Jack!

Jack: Captain! Captain! Savvy?

Will: Well, (steps on table) Oh Captain, my captain!

Jack: What’s your problem, eunuch?

Will: It’s snowing again!

Jack: aaahhh, why didn’t you say so! (runs crazy around) Hide the rum! – And where the hell are we?

Will: (looking to the landscape) There I see a sign! We are in Celovec. No, no wait, there is a second line. I think it’s Klagenfurt. Yeah, Klagenfurt.

Jack: Wow! I didn’t know, they had bilingual town names the 18th century!

(Liz comes on stage)

Liz: They are coming!

Jack: Who?

Liz: Those bloody pirates!

Jack: But honey, don’t worry, old Jack is with you.(puts arm around her)

(she hits him in the face; Jack running around as he is searching for something)

Will (getting down on the floor again): Why mustn’t she say Captain?

(Jack wants to go off, but at the same time 4 pirates come on stage and he walk backwards to Will and Liz)

Pirate 1: Well, well look what we’ve got here!

Pirate 2: What? (Pirate 1 hits Pirate 2 on the head)

Pirate 3 to Pirate 4: But I still don’t see, how do we know it’s an Ice Age?

Pirate 4: Because of all the ICE!!!!!!!

(Pirate 1 goes to Jack)

Pirate 1: This time you won’t escape, Jack.

Jack: Parley?

(Pirate 1 wants to grasp for his sword, but he has no sword)

Pirate 1: Sword, a kingdom for a sword!

(Will, Liz and Jack run past Pirate 1; Pirate 2 is still holding his head, Pirate 3 and 4 are discussing about the ice; Will and Liz off, Jack turns around)

Jack: Gents, this is the day, that you will always remember, as the day that you AGAIN almost caught Captain Jack…(a hand grasps his mouth and pulls him off)

TV-Reporter: Finally, and here is our special guest, the star of all three movies you just saw, Noel-Mitzi Unterfranzenberger! (Noel comes on stage, like on the red carpet, smiling, waving to fans, shake hands with reporter) Hello Noel, I am allowed to say Noel to you, am I not?*laughs* How are you?

Noel: Thanks!

TV-Reporter: (look confused) Ja. Are you excited that you are nominated three times as best leading actor?

Noel: Yeah, sure! You know, I am just a young actor, who had luck. It’s just great to be here with all the stars. I am absolutely thrilled…

TV-Reporter: Yes, (interrupted)

Noel: wooow….

TV-Reporter: Okay, (interrupted)

Noel: It’s crazy. You know, I never would have dreamed of standing here and…

TV-Reporter: Great, (interrupted)

Noel: and … you know…and……

TV-Reporter: Well, could we just go on?

Noel: (ignoring him)Being nominated three times. (starting to cry) It’s so wonderful.

TV-Reporter: May I? Well, (sigh) let’s talk about your parts in your three new films. How was it to play so different characters in such a short time?

Noel: It was hard (pause)

TV-Reporter: and?

Noel: No, I won’t answer any questions about my private life.

TV-Reporter: I did not ask you…(interrupted)

Noel: I won’t tell you that I have a new girlfriend.

TV-Reporter: I don’t mind!

Noel: (secretly)We met on the Titanic set.

TV-Reporter: (angry) Can’t you just give bloody answers to my bloody questions??

Noel: Sure! Calm down, buddy! (put arm around him)

TV-Reporter: (put arm down again) I’m not your buddy! (deep breath) One last question. Tell me, what role did you always want to play?

Noel: Well……. you know……. I don’t know…..

TV-Reporter: Okay, forget it!

Noel: No, no, I got it!

TV-Reporter: WOOW!

Noel: (dramatically)I always thought that I would be a better Terminator. Maybe one day….. (interrupted by Arnie, with a gun)

(Reporter falls to the floor)

TV-Reporter: Why me?? Bloody actors!!!

Arnie: Nobody plays the Terminator except for the Governator! Hasta La Vista Baby!!!

(lights off)

Der Urlacher ißt Den Tiki!

2006-11-17T15:25:00.000+01:00

If it's the middle of a Sunday night and you're watching network television in America, chances are you're watching infomercials for knives that cut steel or all the 60s folk ballads you've ever wanted on nineteen limited edition CDs. (Unless you're watching FOX, in which case you're watching really tempting phone sex ads.)

But if you're watching TV at 3AM on Austrian network television, you're watching NFL Sunday Night Football. You're also probably not Austrian.

Mix a six-hour time difference with a concern for that crucial insomniac-American-sports-fan demographic and you've got Sunday (Late, Late) Night Football as put on by ÖRF 1 – the first of Austria's two network channels.

For this past Sunday's installment of SNF: ÖRF style, my Chicago Bears were playing the New York Giants in a game to decide who the dominate force in the NFC is. Of course, I watched. This is how it went...

1:45
Alarm goes off. I've been sleeping for the past four hours so I can make it through the whole game, which I figure will probably go until about 5:30 or so. (I have work at 7:45 in the morning.)

I brew a pot of coffee and down the first two cups in a flash. About six cups left – plenty to keep me up.

2:00
I cozy up real intimate like to my friend's borrowed TV and keep the volume low so as not to wake my roommates. I flick on ÖRF 1 to discover that the game isn't going to start until 2:30AM. You know what that means: Austrian pregame show.

The announcers introduce themselves. They're speaking exclusively in German (and continue to do so throughout the broadcast). The play-by-play man is Bernhard Rusch, and the color commentator is Christian Mairitsch. Rusch and Mairitsch get into a Holmes/Watson routine, with Rusch asking basic questions and Mairitsch playing expert.

RUSCH: How many minutes do the football men play for?

MAIRITSCH: Sixty.

RUSCH: Who are the zebra men?

MAIRITSCH: Officials. They enforce the rules.

RUSCH: What is the ball made of?

MAIRITSCH: The skin of a pig, I believe.

2:05
Cut from a shot of the announcers to a map of the continental U.S. map that stays on screen for ten straight minutes. Rusch and Mairitsch discuss where Chicago is and where New York is. Both announcers agree that America is entirely too large.

Still a shot of the map. Mairitsch points out that the Bears want to win this game to prove that Chicago is not the "second city." The Giants, however, are determined to prove that New York is a superior place to live.

Two minutes of silence.

Rusch chips in that the Chicago players play for the pride of Bears, while the New York players fight for Giants.

Three minutes of silence.

2:15
Finally a new shot. This one's a faraway angle shot of the field. Unfortunately, this particular shot doesn't change for five minutes. In between long gaps of silence, Rusch and Mairitsch discuss the players' uniforms.

RUSCH: The Chicago players are wearing white, yes?

MAIRITSCH: Yes.

RUSCH: And so tonight they play for polar bears?

MAIRITSCH: I believe so.

RUSCH: The New Yorks are blue giants?

MAIRITSCH: It appears that way. They cannot be green giants, because there is a green giant American vegetable company.

RUSCH: We will see tonight if these blue giants ate their vegetables!

MAIRITSCH: Yes, for if they haven't, the polar bears may eat the blue giants! (Bellowing laughter.)

RUSCH: (Screetchy, child-like laughter.)

2:20
Cut to an American-made special interest piece on Tiki Barber. In it he reads from his children's book to New York school kids. Commentators agree Tiki is one of the most caring people in the huge country that is America.

2:25
An uneasiness swells inside my stomach. Too much coffee? No. I just watched the Sunday Night Football music intro featuring Pink. Pink???!!! Where the hell is the cowboy who repeatedly enquires as to whether I am ready for some football? Is this what's happened to football since my departure? I do some push-ups to make myself better about what I've just seen. And I finish another cup of coffee.

2:30
Finally: kick-off. Giants get possession and just march straight down the field, only for Jay Feely to blow a makeable field goal. Instead of cutting to commercial for the change of possession, ÖRF stays with the game. Why? Because Austrians don't do commercials. As a result, the camera stays on Feely for about two minutes longer than what I get back home. Rusch and Mairitsch are quick to analyze:

RUSCH: He appears to be full of shame.

MAIRITSCH: I agree. It is likely he feels terrible.

RUSCH: Disgraceful.

The game returns, and the rest of the first quarter is painful and slow. Rex Grossman throws a "Who was that to?" interception that brings a more intense discomfort to my stomach than the one brought on by Pink. Giants score a touchdown. Bears manage a field goal out of the first quarter, thank God.

The first quarter takes an hour. In the one Bears game I'm trying to watch in my life in the middle of the night, the first quarter lasts unspeakably long. Despite all the coffee, it's 3:30 and I'm starting to fade. I pour myself another cup during a should-be commercial break.

I miss commercials. The hour-long first quarter would've gone by twice as fast if I had some commercials trying to get me to buy stuff. If you're watching a sitcom, or an hour-long drama, then the no-commercials rule is great. But for sporting events, and especially for football, not having commercials is downright cruel. At the start of the second quarter, both announcers are pretty comfortable with the fact that they have run out of things to say. My eyelids are getting heavy. The coffee I brewed earlier is starting to get lukewarm. Just the right temperature for chugging.

3:47
The Giants tackle Bears running back Thomas Jones behind the line for a four-yard loss. Rusch calls it the first sack of the game, but Mairitsch corrects him, saying it only counts as a sack when the defense tackles the passer. Rusch apologizes and then says nothing for the next two minutes while plays are happening. Mairitsch also says nothing for these two minutes.

3:55
Giant offensive lineman Luke Petitgout gets hurt when a Bears D-lineman falls and rolls on his ankle. The injury is shown in slow motion, then shown in reverse slow motion, and then shown again in slow motion. It is then reversed in slow motion, after which it is shown in forward slow motion. All in all I saw the injury happen eleven times, six times forwards and five times backwards. After a while ÖRF has convinced me that shit must've hurt.

4:02
Near the end of the first half. Bears score a big touchdown that cuts the lead to three before the half. I pump my fist quietly (so as not to disturb my roommates), but also weakly because of the exhaustion. This makes no sense. I have had seven, SEVEN cups of coffee in two hours – I should be more jacked up than Howard Dean at a campaign rally.

4:03
I fall asleep. Just like that.

5:27
My bladder whispers to me, "Hey, um, you might want to make a trip to the restroom." I shift, slightly, and fall back asleep.

5:28
My bladder marches down to my groin, grabs the family jewels, and yells, "I WASN'T @$&%ING AROUND. GET UP. NOW." I sprint to the bathroom and manage to find the light just in time to avoid disaster.

I trudge back to the TV and do a double take when I see the score: Bears 38, Giants 20. There's five minutes left in the game, and the Bears have the ball and are just killing the clock. I missed the best part of the game. I mumble obscenities and retreat to bed.

GERMAN LANGUAGE LESSON OF THE DAY:

"Koffenfrei" does not, as I thought, mean "coffin free". It means "decaf".

Selected Moments in the Life of Johnny K. Murlee. Volume One: Years 17-26

2006-11-12T12:29:00.000+01:00

Age 17 JOHNNY's invitation to take a girl to homecoming is rejected:

So "no" then? Alright. Of course I'm not upset. After all, the three girls before you said no, so why shouldn't you? I'm sorry, that was out of line. It's just that...it's just I can't help but feel you're all saying no to me because of my condition. Well I guess I'm sorry. I can't [tears well up] I can't help that. I never asked to be born prematurely, it just happened! [Turns and runs out of girls' restroom.]

Age 18 JOHNNY responds to a Harvard University undergraduate application essay prompt:

All of us everywhere see demonstrations of courage everyday: the fireman rushing into a burning building; the police officer risking her life to save a complete stranger; the premature birth survivor who defies all odds and makes the high school varsity lacrosse team. It is these types of people and not a dictionary that define courage. I should know. I happen to know someone who is a premature birth survivor. His name is Johnny K. Murlee, and he is me. And he/I has/have played two seasons of varsity lacrosse for the Broadview West High School three-time state champion lacrosse team.

Age 22 JOHNNY in the final stages of an interview with CHESTER HOWARD of Grizzly, Howard, & Parsons law firm:

HOWARD: Mr. Murlee, it is clear to me that you have had all of the experience required to work for Grizzly, Howard, & Parsons. In fact, everything you've said up to this point has impressed me very much. But tell me, Mr. Murlee, what is it about you that makes you special? That separates you from all the other people who want to work for G.H.P.?

MURLEE: You know sir, the first person who ever told me I was special was my very own mother. As I've already mentioned to you a few times now, I was born prematurely. My mother, sir, always used to tell me, "Johnny, you know why you were born so early? It was because God just couldn't wait around any longer to get you into the world." So Mr. Howard, what you gotta just understand [tears well up] is that's how I approach life: one month and fourteen days before everybody else who was born on November 13th.

HOWARD: [Looks down.] Mr. Murlee, I want you to know that very few people are able to get a job at Grizzly, Howard, & Parsons. You...are one of them. Congratulations, you're our new receptionist.

Age 23 JOHNNY meets a woman at a club:

Say, you're not a bad dancer. I might be half as good a dancer as you are if I could have had all nine months to develop in my mother's womb - instead I got stuck with no rhythm and those then-tiny organs! Haha, I'm just kidding. Scientists still haven't made any connections between fetus gestation length and dancing skill. Anyways, what's your name? Well Stacy, think maybe I could get your number and call you up sometime? Yeah I'm serious, haha, why wouldn't I be? You're funny. But really, can I get that number? Well, if you ask me [tears well up], your heart could have used some more time in the womb! [Turns and runs out of Lollipops Gentlemen's Club.]

Age 24 JOHNNY goes to the dentist:

DENTIST: So pretty crummy weather we've been havin', huh?

MURLEE: Huh hehuhr hoehh hahuhr hee. Hehrehay eh ha hoo hay hwhe hoo har ha hreehahure hirh hurhighhur.

DENTIST: [Retracts tooth mirror from MURLEE'S mouth.] Sorry, what?

MURLEE: Oh, I just said, "The weather doesn't bother me. Everyday is a good day when you are a premature birth survivor."

Age 25 JOHNNY discusses membership details over the phone with a representative of Better Fitness Gym:

$125 a month sounds fair. And I really like that you guys have racquetball courts. Tell me, does all of your strength training equipment pass P.M.B.S. standards? Uh, P.M.B.S. "Premature birth survivor." What? You don't have those standards? You've never heard of them? In that case maybe I'll just give Body Balance Gym a call. [Tears well up.] Good...goodbye. [Turns and runs out of kitchen.]

[Re-enters kitchen and hangs up phone.]

Age 26 JOHNNY converses with MICHAEL QUINCY, a copyright lawyer at G.H.P., in the G.H.P. break room:

QUINCY: Hey man, so I hear it's your birthday in a couple weeks.

MURLEE: Ugh. Yep.

QUINCY: Haha, I hear ya. I hate birthdays too: the unwanted attention, all the fuss, having a bunch of people who aren't really your friends pretending to like you when you pretty much can't stand them. Man it's a headache more than anything.

MURLEE: That's all true, but I especially don't like birthdays because they remind me of that time in my life when I was an infant who had just been born a month and fourteen days early. Going from one day to the next and not knowing if my underdeveloped organs were going to hold up. Every day was a fight for my life. Sure, I survived. But how much of myself did I lose along the way?

QUINCY: ...

MURLEE: Birthdays. Boy, they sure are the pits.

Retirement

2006-11-11T09:38:00.000+01:00

Doorbell.

– Hello.

– Oh of course! At the old Welbury's house by the corner.

– Great people indeed. I hope they love Florida. Well, welcome to the neighborhood.

– You're welcome. I trust you've enjoyed the neighborhood so far.

– You don't say. Vandalism? That really doesn't happen often here.

– Oh, so an "egging." Yeah, I did that once or twice when I was a teenager.

– No, yes I agree – it's not funny. I regret it entirely. Did you happen to catch who did it?

– Ah, the Timmins boy. Roger's his name. Well, he used to be friends with my boy, Eric. I know he's a good kid. He just does stupid things like this from time to time. Some boys have to go through that phase, don't they?

– Um, well actually, I doubt that the next phase is terrorism. Don't you think that's a little–

– Yes, Eric was friends with Roger. They don't really see much of each other any more. Why do you–

– No, I really don't consider my son a "known unknown." I actually have no idea what you even mean by that.

– Search my house? For what?

– What difference does it make if we have eggs?

– A "breakfast of mass destruction"?

– I'm not aiding and abetting anybody, friend. I just don't want you rummaging through my kitchen for eggs.

– I seriously doubt you have a warrant.

– OK then, let me see it.

– That's handwritten. In crayon. And it's signed, "A judge."

– Hey! Get your hands off of me!

– (Grunting.) Are you...are you trying to spit in my mouth?

– (Panting.) Just…just get up and get off of my property.

– What? No, you can't have any Crisco. Is that what this was all about?

Specific, Pertinent Advice From Your Close Friend, Mathias

2006-11-06T16:51:00.000+01:00

Not a day goes by without someone suggesting to me that making friends with a Leprechaun is one of the best things you can do in life.

"The pot of gold," they say. "The source of good luck. The constant companionship and deeply rooted camaraderie. Yes Mathias, on all accounts a Leprechaun is a fine friend to have indeed."

All correct and valid points. However, these positives hardly make up for the reality that there will be times when your Leprechaun friend takes his shirt off. This will happen – I assure you. The ramifications are drastic.

You probably wouldn't think that anything about a Leprechaun's image could be offensive. Picture a Leprechaun as they are typically portrayed in movies, in commercials, or on the news: the green topcoat and old-fashioned pipe, the buckled shoes and yellow stockings, the twinkling eyes and full red beard. A charming image, to be sure.

But underneath the snappy green blazer and ornate four-button vest hides a bulbous white canvas, decorated with unruly red hair and freckles the size of deer hoof prints. Imagine the sensation of staring directly at the sun, only the sun is two feet away from you and the sun's armpits smell of cabbage and corn beef.

Maybe you have a particularly strong stomach and can handle this ghastly sight – what about your loved ones? Let's say your Leprechaun friend accompanies you and your non-Leprechaun friends to a movie. How will you console your friends when your Leprechaun whispers across the aisle, "Is there anyone prettier these days than Scarlett Johansen? She's so pretty I could just take my shirt off." And he does. And your friends look to you with appalled, blaming eyes. What will you say?

Or imagine if you invited your Leprechaun friend to a family dinner. Surely, before the meal is served, the Leprechaun will regale everyone with his accent and Irish folk stories. But when the meal starts, the Leprechaun (as per Leprechaun custom) will remove his jacket and shirt to eat his meal half-nude. With the dinner candlelight illuminating his clammy, bright-white skin, everyone notices whenever a half-eaten potato scallop trails from his mouth and gets caught in his chest hair. Will your new friend reflect as poorly on you as the candlelight reflects on his zombie-white torso?

The discomfort that comes from either you or your loved ones will be enough to require a breaking up of sorts. This will be a most painful and pitiful separation. On the day you have decided to part ways, you will come home from work to find the Leprechaun (topless, of course) swaying back and forth in a rocking chair as a half-eaten bucket of fried chicken rests upon his protruding stomach. He will probably be watching an episode of CSI. The Leprechaun will know something is wrong when you somberly ask him to turn off the television and put down the three quarters-eaten bucket of chicken. (Leprechauns eat quickly.) There will be pleading and promises coming from him. "Ye can't do thes tah me! Pleaese! Me shirt'll never come off a-gain!" The pleas will pull at your heartstrings, but with the chest in plain sight, you will do what must be done. And before the night is through, your topless Leprechaun's beard will be soaked with tears and mucus.

He may return to your apartment with a mashed potato pie and the director's cut of Boondock Saints. "Raymember weht whey had? Raymember?" For a second, you might just consider letting him back into your life. But before you have time to respond, he will unconsciously be unbuttoning his shirt and sliding off the sleeves. And then you will raymember why you couldn't be friends with him anymore.

How do you spare yourself all this grief? Just deny friendship with a Leprechaun the next time one you meet one at work, church, or the mall.

We Probably Should Have Noticed Lynne Cheney's Writing Style Sooner

2006-10-30T18:33:00.000+01:00

Excerpt from When Washington Crossed the Delaware: A Wintertime Story for Young Patriots

The night was dark and the river was cold, but General Washington and his men carried on. They had lost twice to the British in New York. They marched for days and days with too many holes in their clothes and not enough food in their stomachs. Yet somehow, these soldiers followed Washington for yet another battle with the British.

What was it that kept these men going? Maybe it was an alleigance to General Washington. Maybe it was survival instinct. Or maybe it was something closer to heart: the thought of their wives back home left to fend for themselves. These men must have felt reinvigorated when they imagined their wives huddling with other soldiers' wives, embracing one another tightly and calling out the names of their warbound husbands. Perhaps many of their wives were consoling each other at the same time. The men could only imagine how late these grieving sessions lasted - for all they knew, their wives would be up all night helping each other cope with the absence of their husbands.

Excerpt from the "Thank You" section of America: A Patriotic Primer

I would also like to thank a woman whom I have had the pleasure of getting to know professionally and personally over the last five years: Laura Bush. Laura, when I look at you, I see everything that a First Lady should be. You're not content with just being the President's attractive wife – you involve yourself in the political scene, and this country is better off for it. So much of this country's future rests upon your strong, taut shoulders, but on the power of your long, firm legs you carry our nation forward. Under your naturally highlighted hair rests one of the sharpest political minds we have today, and just behind your clavicle beats a heart brimming with compassion and pure, pure love. Thank you for encouraging me with this book; thank you for always knowing how to make me smile; thank you, thank you, thank you for being you.

Special thanks also to my husband!

Excerpt from Our 50 States: A Family Adventure Across America

Historic and gorgeous Providence is a must see for any family visiting Rhode Island.

For the kids: Like ice cream? If so, you're in for a real treat at Jessie's Dessert Bar, where you'll find some of the best ice cream in the country! And when your parents are making rounds at the museums, make a visit to the Westminster Arcade – the country's oldest (and still the hippest) mall.

For the parents: Providence offers much in the way of museums, including the famous Providence Bridge Museum where you can find everything you've ever wanted to know about load-bearing cables and…OK, kids gone yet? Parents, listen to me carefully: unless you want your kids to catch the gay, keep them in the car when you get to Providence. It is the gayest place in the world. You're just going to have to trust me on this one. I have a girlfriend – that is, a grownup woman who is my friend – who took a family vacation there, and sure enough, one of her daughters ended up gay. Poor little thing didn't have a chance. How could she when the family tries to enjoy a relaxing walk in the park, only to come across two college-aged girls tasting each other's kiss (possibly for the first time) in broad daylight for everyone to see? What thoughts went through that poor young girl's mind when she observed the taller of the two lesbians wrap her arms around her partner and pull her in to enjoy the closeness of their breasts? Could my grownup woman friend's daughter have possibly understood what was going on that sweltering July day when both blonde girls began kissing with their tongues – slowly, heavy with breath, and eyes shut?

Tread carefully. Do go to Jessie's Dessert Bar, though. I wasn't kidding about that ice cream.

The First Ten Days in Europe

2006-10-29T17:04:00.000+01:00

DAY ONE – ARRIVAL IN VIENNA

Whew…I made it to Europe! Took 22 years (including a ten-hour flight from Chicago to Vienna), but I'm finally here. And boy, are things off to a good start: Vienna is gorgeous, Austrians are friendly, and my grumbling stomach has just been satisfied by probably the tastiest lasagna I've ever had. (Besides yours, Mom!) Thank goodness I found that quaint Italian eatery when I did.

How do I feel on my first night in Europe? Well, I guess you could say I feel a lot like that lasagna I was just talking about. Lasagna is a mix of pasta, cheese, spinach, meat, onions, tomato sauce, cottage cheese, and garlic. Right now, I'm a mix of excitement, awe, anxiousness, isolation, exhilaration, wonder, trepidation, and loneliness. You can't have a lasagna without pasta, cheese, spinach, meat, onions, tomato sauce, cottage cheese, and garlic, and you can't be an American arriving in Europe for the first time ever without feeling excitement, awe, anxiousness, isolation, exhilaration, wonder, trepidation, and loneliness.

Today marks the start of a nine-month journey. Throughout this journey, I'm certain I'll experience more excitement, awe, anxiousness, isolation, exhilaration, wonder, trepidation, and loneliness – each to varying degrees and at different times. But just as I greedily inhaled the lasagna earlier tonight, so do I resolve to consume every morsel of the metaphoric pasta, cheese, spinach, meat, onions, tomato sauce, cottage cheese, and garlic that comes my way in the next nine months.

DAY FIVE – SOMEWHERE BETWEEN SALZBURG AND MUNICH

Looking out the train window, this lifelong Chicago boy gets a special treat: mountains. Not just any mountain either. It's the Alps. Chicago skyscrapers are great, but it's something else to see this long row of mountain peaks crammed together like helpings of rocky lasagna.

Not bad scenery for the trip to my first ever Oktoberfest!

DAY FIVE – MUNICH

Lederhosen, lederhosen, lederhosen: everybody's wearing lederhosen. (Except of course for the Fraulines, who are looking pretty good in their dimdis.) All the Germans are jolly, despite that fact it's a cloudy day. Well, not exactly "cloudy". In Germany, when the sky is blue, it is entirely blue – literally, not a cloud in the sky. But when the sky turns grey like it is today, it's all grey – good luck trying to find even a hint of blue. It's as though God is spreading a giant sheet of aluminum foil over a tray of leftover lasagna, in hopes of sealing in its freshness so that it may be enjoyed on another night. (Or possibly for a future lunch if there is not enough for another whole meal.)

Needless to say, I look forward to going to the festival later tonight. I have never been in a beer tent or a lasagna tent before. Can't wait for either.

DAY TEN – MUNICH

Oktoberfest has been a blast, but I had an embarrassing moment at lunch today. When I was ready for the bill, I called out to the waiter and said, "Zählen, bitte." What I should have said was "Zahlen, bitte," because instead of asking him if I could pay, I asked him to count for me. And he did! "Eins, zwei, drei, vier," he said, "ja, ich kann zählen!"

How embarrassing. This has been happening a lot, all because my German at the moment is not very good. Every once in a while when I speak, it is as if a stream of golden lasagna flows from my mouth. But for as often as that happens, there'll be nine other times when I open my mouth and nothing comes out but globs of lasagna.

Also, today is my last day in Munich – work starts next week. After all, life can't be all games and lasagna – somebody's gotta put lasagna on the table.

Please do throw your hands up!

2006-10-27T13:25:00.000+02:00

As you would Jay-Z, please "allow me to re-introduce myself":

My name is Mathias
(Mathias!)
J. to the [LAST NAME DELETED FOR PRIVACY].
And you will find
Reading this blog is crucial!

Truth be told, I am not actually a professional rapper. But much like Jigger, I have the "hottest chick in the game wearing my chain":

That is Angie, my lover, and Frank, her ex-husband. I took this picture when the three of us were out window-shopping in Kenosha this past summer. The three of us hang out sometimes. Sometimes just the two of them hang out - I do not mind. Well, actually Angie pointed out to me that it's not my place to mind, because the two of us are on "heyatus" at the moment. Technically then, I don't have "the hottest chick in the game wearing my chain." Instead, "the hottest chick in the game [was] wearing my chain." Maybe one day, the "hottest chick in the game [will be] wearing my chain [once again]."

While Angie and Frank are splitting rent in an apartment in Milwaukee (I do not mind), I am halfway around the world in Austria. I live in a small city/big town called Klagenfurt, where I teach English and American culture to high school kids. The students and the teachers in these schools are friendly, even if they do talk funny.

Work is less than intense, so I've decided to use some of my free time to do some writing. This blog exists so that I can have somewhere to relay stories of being a teacher and of being abroad. This blog also exists to write about things that have absolutely nothing to do with Austria. Or teaching. Or good taste.

In general, this blog exists to entertain - not to whine about crummy weather or an irksome boss. Admittedly, it is possible that this blog also exists in order to impress Angie and ultimately win her back. But I'm not quite certain whether she and Frank have internet in their new apartment yet.