Help me to help you to help me

Yes, I know.
You're welcome.

Hi. So we've known each other for some time now. Or maybe we just met. Or not even, not yet anyway. Doesn't matter. I guess you know I kind of like you and I think you feel the same way. Or maybe not. At all. Regardless, the point is...wow, I feel so vulnerable, opening up like this to you, but...well, I think I'm ready to start sending you pictures of my penis. Because that's pretty much the best idea I've ever had and also it's how things work these days...except when it doesn't.
Amazingly, the unsolicited penis photo-sending efforts of high-profile individuals like Brett Favre and Anthony Weiner have yielded sub-optimal results. In an effort to avoid similar circumstances, I have devised a comprehensive survey that will gauge the best way to suit my needs as well as yours, the unwilling future recipient of pictures of my penis. Please fill it out at your convenience and I'll be seeing you...or more accurately, you'll be seeing me...real soon!

Please select the response with which you MOST agree:

1. I like to receive and view pictures of penises:
a) very much!
b) very, very much!

2. When I see a picture of a penis, I tend to:
a) fall in love, forever and ever.
b) totally understand that the penis may belong to someone who is already in a committed relationship, although it's kinda complicated, and that's okay, because I understand completely and I would never, ever, ever, ever say anything because I'm not some crazy bitch with a big mouth trying to ruin somebody's life.
b) show it to my friends who are more attractive than I am whose names and email addresses are __________________________________________________________________.
c) lose it.

3. The way I like to receive pictures of penises is:
a) via Text message
b) via Email
c) in a hand-carved wooden frame, delivered to my home address, preferably during dinner
d) All of the above

3A (answer only if you selected text message or email) The loud music that accompanies the downloading of a file that contains the pictures of a penis that will play very loudly and not turn off until the WHOLE file downloads to my device that I would most enjoy is:
a) European techno
b) Spanish bullfighting
c) Cartoon sound effects (boi-oi-oing!)

4. I would like to receive:
a) one picture of a penis every day
b) 15 pictures of a penis every day
c) one picture with 15 penises every day for 15 years

5. Viewing pictures of a penis would be even better if the penis were:
a) wearing a sombrero
b) festively adorned with a string of Mardi Gras beads
c) classy, with a top hat and a monocle, a silk scarf and a cane
d) incorporated into the logo of my favorite sports team

6. Underpants?
a) Of course not
b) Incorrect 

7. Picture of penises can be improved with:
a) sepia tones, so they look old-timey and nostalgiac.
b) black and green accents, like in 'The Matrix'.
c) informative captions that illustrate the origins of certain nicknames.

8. A special quality I look for in a penis is the ability to:
a) whistle
b) time travel
c) take pictures of other penises

9. When I wake up every morning, my first thought is:
a) another day, another penis!
b) rise and penis!
c) here come the penises!

10. My favorite Super Bowl memory is:

a) Brett Favre wins Super Bowl XXXI



b) Bruce Springsteen, close-up, Super Bowl XLIII

c) Anthony Weiner XL

Anniversary week continues!

Here's another one from 2006, my detailed analysis of why I think Dennis the Menace is gay. It's a theory I think still stands up today...

Dennis the Menace is gay! (August 31, 2006)

Well, he's still just a kid so not yet. I mean, he is already. You are what you are, from birth, what with your true nature being a part of your genetic blueprint and all, so he is gay already. He's just not, um, practicing. That's not what I mean. Active? No, that's wrong too. He's dormant! Well, more like...oh, just look for yourself!

Oh Dennis. I know a young man is going to want to "experiment" and when you're a child, there's no more trusted friend than the family dog. But for good ol' Ruff's sake...and yours...please don't play "Hide The Harmonica" with him. Believe me, when the time comes, you will be AMAZED by what can (and can't) go where.

"Wouldn't some fresh blueberry scones an' a cappuccino machine be nice? The terrazzo floors are tres tacky and for heaven's sake, would it kill you to open up the space a little bit and let it breathe? Honestly, how many shelves full of books do you need?"

This beachside confab with his mother about his father’s shortcomings is obviously foreshadowing a future where mom will make day trips, alone, into the city to visit him and Joey (a total bottom if there ever was one) at their loft in the theatre district. And look where dad's attention is drawn. Perhaps the apple didn't fall far from the tree, hmmmmm?

Here we see Dennis' longtime companion Joey and lifetime nemesis Margaret. This encounter further foretells a future life wherein Dennis owns a small coffee shop, supporting dancer/waiter Joey and is constantly hassled by strident lesbian Margaret for not being more active in the gay community.

Yeah. Ok. I think it's pretty obvious the only things bloomin' at this dinner table are a young boy's sexuality and an increasingly strained father-son relationship. The hot cup of coffee in his dad’s hand and the ease with which he could be backhanded right out of that chair and across the room are the only things keeping Dennis from complimenting his mother’s FABULOUS floral centerpiece. A fragrant bouquet of bitterness, disappointment and resentment will continue to blossom between the two of them, unlike the preternaturally stemmed flower on display in the bud vase.


There you have it; several factors that foretell the eventual gay path young Dennis will take, making him far more of a "menace" in some people's eyes than anything he ever did in the funny papers.

It's Anniversary Week! Like Shark Week, only with cake! (note: there's no cake)

'

On June 18th, 2011, this very blog that you hold in your hands right now will reach it's 5th Anniversary. That's right, for some unknown reason I posted this on June 18th, 2006 and away we went! To celebrate, In honor of this momentous milestone, I will be spotlighting some ol' favorites (don't worry, I'm taking the week off; new stuff is going up too) , and since it's the 5th anniversary, let's do seven of the most popular posts ever! Doesn't that sound even more self-indulgent and pompous than this whole thing usually is like fun? You bet it does! After all, what's the point of getting older if you can't act like it's a bigger deal than it is to anybody but you?
Let's start the celebration by going all the way back to the early days, back when I honestly had absolutely no idea what I was doing, not unlike, well, right now. Anyway, this is the first non-expository post (well, first two; I don't know why I broke it into two parts. I told you I didn't know what the hell I was doing) I ever published. Enjoy!

Today at the flea market (part 1) June 18, 2006


I am a packrat. I collect stuff (and of course, that means it has to be complete sets of stuff) and can’t throw anything away. I’m pretty pathological about it and should actually seek some professional help for it. Seriously. Anyway, this means I have a lot of accumulated stuff. With the big move less than a week away, I simply had to get rid of some of it. Complicating things is the fact that it’s all too good to simply toss in the trash (Honestly! It is!). That would just be wasteful and that is just not going to happen. Ah, but selling it is an option I can live with. So I came up with the bright idea of packing up six boxes of my least essential old toys, baseball cards and books and hauling them off to the Oldsmar Flea Market (“The Mightiest In The South” if the sign is to be believed). For $15, I would get a stall, two tables and access to a crowd of Father’s Day bargain hunters. So I was there at 7:30AM to set up for the 9:00AM opening when I suddenly realized that I had not put a lot of thought into preparation for this. I don’t know if there’s a “Flea Markets For Dummies” (there probably is) but if so, I’m sure it advises the prospective flea merchant to have signage, bags and money to make change. I had none of these things. The change situation was going to be especially problematic since I had decided that all items would be .25 each or $5 a box. I had exactly two dollar bills, three quarters, a dime and two pennies, my change from breakfast, on me and was wondering what to do about it when a guy from one of the nearby stalls wandered over to check out what I had. I told him, “Everything is either .25 each or $5 a box”. He glanced over everything and gave me $20 for four boxes of action figures and Matchbox cars I had brought with me. While he was settling up with me, a friend of his from another stall came by and bought another $15 worth of assorted stuff. Here I had worried about being able to recoup my $15 startup costs and I had moved 75% of my inventory and was in the black an hour and a half before the doors opened! I was reveling in my status as the biggest boy wonder entrepreneurial genius in the history of the Oldsmar Flea Market, The Mightiest Of The Mightiest In The South, when my inner capitalist woke up and introduced some new doubts. Had I undervalued my merchandise? Could I have gotten more? Much more? Had I just given way a fortune? Had I been ripped off by savvy flea market chickenhawks waiting around in the early morning hours for rubes like me to wander in off the street? Obviously, I was the biggest boob, know-nothing knucklehead in the history of the Oldsmar Flea Market.


But then I realized that I had gotten rid of six boxes of junk I wouldn’t have to haul to the apartment and had put $35 in my pocket in the process and I got over it pretty quickly.
 
Today at the flea market (part 2)



These two transactions pretty much cleaned me out, with the exception of about 15 books. They’re all good books, but with the tables now looking so sparse and there being about 50 or 80 other stalls selling books, they weren’t moving. Even at .25 each. Maybe I was spoiled by my early success or the non-stop bleating of a woman’s voice over the PA speaker right behind my stall (“Come visit The Lingerie Hut in building J…don’t forget to stop by Fragrance City in building F…Father’s Day Special on all VHS tapes at Ammo Junction in the B building…”) was wearing on my nerves, but the gates had only been open for a half hour, I wasn’t selling anything and I was bored. Once I calculated that I had less than $4 worth of merchandise and that it may take several hours to sell it, it was clear that I had reached the point of almost completely diminished returns. So I decided I would invest everything into 20 minutes of hardcore, in-your-face sales pitch and then I would leave and donate whatever was left to the VA hospital. I started engaging people in conversation, making comments about what they were wearing or had already bought as a means of drawing them in. This was fairly successful and even kind of entertaining. I met some very nice people, some of whom bought books, some didn’t but all very nice. When this guy with greasy yellow-gray ponytail in a tie-dye tee shirt, carrying a WMNF pledge drive bag, with a massive stick obviously up his butt (unseen, but you should trust me when I tell you it was there) came by, I only had about six books left, all about baseball. He sneered and made some really snotty comment about me not having any real books. I decided to invest the last bit of energy I had into selling my last $1.50 worth of books about baseball to THIS guy.

ME: Come on, they’re only .25 each. You could give them as gifts to friends of yours who are baseball fans!
HIM (fake, sneering smile): I don’t think so.
ME: Well, anything I don’t sell is going to the burning.
HIM: What do you mean? What burning?
ME: These guys I know. They’re barbecuing some burgers, having some beers and burning some books later. I told them if I had anything left over, I’d bring them by.
HIM: These are books about sports. Why would you even want to burn these?
ME: It’s not my thing. It’s these guys. They just like burning them. They don’t really care what they’re about.
HIM: So you’re just going to burn books? That’s symbolic of fascism.
ME: I know! But what am I supposed to do?
HIM: What are you supposed to do? Give them away! Something! But you don’t burn books!
ME: Give them away?!? Ha ha! Do you see anybody else here giving anything away? I don’t think you get the concepts of commerce and free enterprise.
HIM: I think you’re disgusting.
ME: Whatever. So are you going to save these books or are you going to let an idiot like me just burn ‘em up?
HIM: Idiots like you shouldn’t be allowed to own books!
ME: Wow, now who’s a fascist?

He didn’t buy them and I was spent (it was hot out there). So I dropped off the last of the books at the VA hospital and went home.

What about Weiner?

Obligatory hot dog picture, as required by
International humor blog code of standards

You may read posts like the poem I wrote about The Pretty Lady On Television that was published here on Tuesday and have a few questions. Such as:


"Hey blog boy, you claim to be a registered independent which would seem to indicate if not a political neutrality, at least an undeclared allegiance to one end of the political spectrum in favor of the other. And yet, rarely if ever do I see you making fun of left-wing liberal figures the way you go after conservatives. Are you saying that conservatives are the only ones who screw-up and leave themselves open for ridicule and derision? Or are you actually just a left-wing liberal extremist yourself, only lacking the intestinal fortitude to identify yourself as such? Either way, you're an intellectually dishonest and gutless coward" or something to that general effect. To which I reply, WHOA! Settle down, man! I hear you, I hear you loud and clear; what you're really saying is "what about Weiner?". No? Well, that's how I heard it. Sorry.
So what about U.S. Congressman Anthony Weiner (D-New York)? He's been the biggest penis-related news story in the country for a week, has a funny name and I haven't even mentioned him until now. Why the hell not? Well, I'll tell you why not:

• It seemed too easy and I mean way too easy; a guy sending pictures of his penis to women and his name is Weiner? Come on. It's like a guy getting busted for DUI named Rummy McVodka. Any joke somebody makes is automatically redundant.
• On the off chance there were any good jokes to make, they got made within 15 minutes of the story breaking in the first place.
• I don't think it's that big of a deal. I mean it is, to him and his wife. And for what it's worth, as though it matters, yes, I would absolutely consider it cheating. But ultimately, it's an issue of marital infidelity and his record as a public servant, which is apparently pretty solid, shouldn't be unduly tarnished by it.
• Okay, the fact that he lied about doing anything, repeatedly professed his innocence and then caved in and admitted to the whole thing is pretty sorry and it does speak to integrity as well as judgment. So here's my take:

Being an idiot doesn't mean you can't do a good job;
Doing a good job doesn't mean you aren't an idiot.

Boom.
Now, this whole thing about guys taking pictures of their penises and sending them as gifts (!) to women will get a blog post all by itself. Soon.

The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere (revised)

The pretty lady on tv: Our hero



Listen my children and you shall know

How the midnight ride of Paul Revere really did go,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;

The year the Bee Gees did "Stayin' Alive"

Ol' Paul was in Boston, drinking some beers

With Sam and Diane and Woody at Cheers

The rest of the crowd seemed rather skittish

There was talk of an invasion of red-coated British!

The face of terror, 1775

Paul put down his flaggard of ale

And pulled his jacket off the ol' rusty nail

"Where ye goin', Pauly? We're gonna party 'til morn!"

But Paul couldn't stay; he had British to warn.

 

"Fetch me my pistols! Fetch me my bells!

I've got a totally awesome story to tell!"

"But why would you want to go warn the invaders?"

Asked the confused bassist for his rock band, The Raiders

True patriots never question the lead singer

But Paul Revere knew better, of course he did

So he slipped on his jacket and three-cornered lid

"They won't know we have guns if someone don't say so

Then they won't know what to try and fail to take, bro"

 

So off on his horse machine he got and did went

To tell those British to get themselves bent

Ringin' and shootin' and yelling the news

In search of those Red Coats with their shiny black shoes

Spare us your nazi salute, you bangers-and-mash eating scum. USA! USA!

He was ringing his bells, just like in his plan

The Brits got excited; "Hey, it's the ice cream man!"

Paul corrected them, "No, I'm here to tell you beware;

You'll never take the guns we have over there"

The head general stood himself up proper and straight

"So you've come to tell us of a dangerous fate?

Pray, why would you do that? Have ye gone daft?"

Paul muttered back, "One if by land, two if by raft."

"Right. He's gone bonkers. We've nothing to fear,"

The general said, his finger circling his ear.

"If the colonists have among them even one gun,

They'll shoot their own balls off if they're as smart as this one"

Paul Revere: Also our hero too.

You know the rest. On the 'net you have read

How the British Regulars fired and fled

With no thanks whatsoever to the left-wing-ed media
Which is why it's up to us to edit the Wikipedia

(with deep and sincere apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

Not-so-great expectations

"Say Reverend, how many chairs should I set up for Sunday morning?"
"(sigh) Not that many."

Metaphors: Marketing people are doing them wrong

Check out this ad from a debt consolidation service that I saw the other day...

Here's how that came to be...
"Hey, I was browsing the royalty-free clipart library and came up with a brilliant idea! Let's illustrate, in terms that people can easily understand and identify with, what living with massive, soul-crushing debt is like and how our services can ease that burden and give them a sense of freedom and release!"
"That is a great idea! Most people are oriented to think visually so this would be a very effective means of sharing with the public exactly what we can do for them. I love it! Run that baby!"
And run it they did, without giving much of a second thought to the message they're actually sending, which is...

"If you try to get out of debt by yourself, you'll just sit there, like some dumb old goldfish, stuck in a bowl full of life-sustaining water, swimming around without a single care in the world while somebody feeds and cleans up after you. Or... 

With our help, you can leap out on to the living room floor where you will suffocate and die. You're welcome."

High praise indeed!

In spite of my fascination with pop culture, all my life I have been almost totally immune to many fads and trends that held people's fascination over the years. For instance, when I was a kid, I couldn't have cared less about the cartoons that were popular on Saturday morning. No, I much preferred good ol' Looney Toons from the '30s and '40s. Genius! There was more wit and imagination in three minutes of any Bugs Bunny short than in a whole episode of Scooby Doo ever (or the entire series, since every episode was exactly the same). I guess I never really knew how much of an influence Bugs Bunny was on me until the other day...

I was on the bus, making my way home after the last day of an extra long week at work (nine days). I got a seat right across from some guy hollering at a girl, not "holla"-ing, but hollering. "Baby! 'Ey baby! 'Ey! 'Ey! 'EY! Whatchoodoon? 'Ey girl! 'Ey baby! Talk to me! Whatchoodoon? C'mon girl! 'Ey! 'Ey! 'Ey!'EY!"
You get the idea.
Under the circumstances, I wasn't in the mood. Because under no circumstances would I ever be in the mood. Because under no circumstances would anybody ever be in the mood. I can only imagine how the target of his advances felt about the situation. This went on non-stop until she finally got off the bus (probably well before her planned stop). As she left, the would-be Romeo serenaded her with his phone number. I immediately programmed the number into my phone, and after setting it to mute, the ringer to silent and blocking my number by pre-dialing *67 first, I proceeded to dial him up.
"Hello? Hello? Hello?" He hung up.
About five minutes later, I rang him again. Same thing.
Again.
Again.
"Hello? Hello! HELLO!!"
It didn't take him long at all to get really angry. Shocker, that somebody like that would be the volatile type, right? I could see just how angry he was because, again, I was seated directly across from him, type-type-typing away on my phone the whole time. The obvious thing to do at this point was to increase the frequency of the calls. From five minutes to three minutes to two to about 30 seconds. That was when he figured out that somebody on the bus was screwing with him, but he had no idea who it was. I knew this because he chose to make an announcement.
"Yo! I know it's somebody on this bus calling my phone, and when I find out who, I'm going...(RING)"
"Y'all need to quit playing because...(RING)"
"Serious! Y'all using all my minutes! "
Oh no, he has limited minutes? Oh dear. I didn't consider that possibility. So I increased the frequency to constant.
"Yo, man...(RING)"
"Quit playin'...(RING)"
"Goddamn it...(RING)"
"Motherf...(RING)"
Now, you might be asking yourself why he didn't just turn the phone off. I know I wondered the exact same thing. Either he was delusional enough to think the girl who got off the bus over a half hour ago was going to call him any second or else he's just a straight-up idiot. Other than those two theories, I can't imagine why he would leave it on. Regardless, I was thrilled that he did.
He finally got off the bus, stomping, steaming and firing dirty looks at everyone. As soon as he was off, everybody in the bus cracked up. I called him one more time at that point as I watched him walk off so I could have a nice mental image to remember him by when I called him again later, because, oh yeah, I was going to keep calling until I got bored or I heard, "We're Sorry. The wireless subscriber you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time...". That reward would have been sweet enough, but I actually got something even better out of it. I shared a truncated version of this episode via Twitter and my pal Dylan sent me this message: "you are a crazy man, perhaps even a stinker similar to Bugs Bunny."
Wow, really? Bugs Bunny? I guess I never thought about it before but I have always enjoyed spreading low-level anarchy. It's so obvious, now that I think about it: Bugs Bunny was a mentor, a sensai! And now, all these years later, to be compared favorably to the master? I think this is how Luke Skywalker felt when he blew up the Death Star.

Fruit! There it is!

I love fruit. Love it! I eat it all the time. I buy oranges in 40 lb bags and snack on them constantly. Candy? Potato chips? Keep 'em. When it's snack time, give me some oranges or grapes or peaches or apples and I'm a happy boy.
I just wish I could make more than snacks out of them. I'm jealous of people who can make a meal out of a fruit smoothie because I just can't do that. I'm envious, because it seems super-healthy. But I grew up in the midwest where an entire cow's ass in a bathtub of mashed potatoes and gravy was what's for dinner. And we weren't even farmers. I can't visualize myself taking a blender, jamming a handful of grapes in there with, I don't know, some peanuts and a scoop of wheat powder (is that even a thing?), hitting "frappe", chugging it down and going, "oh, I am stuffed!". That is a drink, not dinner.
I mentioned this to a friend and she said the key is to add bananas because apparently bananas are very filling. "I don't know what it is but I can't take a whole one, no matter how hard I try. I just can't get more than three quarters of it down." She said some other stuff but I didn't hear it because I was giggling like a 12-year-old.

Say what now?

Here's a story that's making the rounds here in Tampa Bay. The short version is, this guy's name is Melton Little and he wore the shirt that he's wearing in the picture to a Rays game against the New York Yankees. Somebody in attendance, staff member or a fan, nobody knows, objected and he was approached by ballpark staff and asked to remove the garment or himself from the premises. The guy's a lawyer and a season ticket holder (he says he spends over $20,000 a year on tickets) and he chose to leave, feeling his rights to free expression were restricted and now he's in the paper and yada et al.
I couldn't work for the Rays. Because naggy, little, pain-in-the-ass "controversies" like this pop up all the time and the local media, for whatever reason, goes out of their way to give them far more attention than they deserve. For instance, this story was on the front page of Thursday's *tbt. Seriously. That's not Mr. Little's fault but that would drive me insane.

I'm not highlighting this story because of the baseball aspect (although, I'd like to point out that I hate the New York Yankees more than any human being I know, for the purposes of full disclosure but mostly because I always enjoy pointing out how much I hate the New York Yankees) or because of the free speech issue. Nope, I'm highlighting this because I'm intrigued by this part of the story right here:

And, Little said, there are much worse words out there.

"I teach my kids to say that instead of other four-letter words," he said.

Now, far be it for me to judge or critique how someone raises their kids. Since I don't have any, I don't even have a frame of reference. But it seems to me that this isn't really raising the bar all that high, to swap an overused, not-quite-an-obscenity for actual obscenities for the purpose of improving the vocabulary of impressionable children. I'm not quite sure how that would work...but I picture it going down kind of like this:

"Son, I understand you used a bad word at school today."
"I'm sorry, dad. It's just that Jimmy Parsons was teasing me and I lost my temper."
"That's okay, son. We all lose our tempers sometimes. And I'm proud of you for standing up for yourself. But what I would like you to do is not use the language you used today."
"But...but what should I do then, dad?"
"Well, instead of saying...ah...what you said, you could say 'Hey, Jimmy Parsons, you suck!' How does that sound?"
"Oh. Okay. Like, I should say that Jimmy Parsons sucks!"
"Yes! Yes, son! That's exactly right."
"But what does Jimmy Parsons suck, daddy?"
"...huh?"
"Jimmy Parsons sucks. I get that. But what? Sucks what exactly?"
"Well, ah..."
"Does he suck pieces of candy? Or popsicles? Or ice cubes? Because that really doesn't seem like an appropriate response for when he puts my lunch in the toilet."
"No, that's not...that isn't exactly right...he sucks something...unpleasant."
"Like what, daddy?"
"Well, it doesn't have to be anything specific. People will know it's an insult and that you mean business. Why don't you think of something you think would be unpleasant to suck? Keep it to yourself, it can be your own private secret! How about that?"
"Wow, really? Anything I want?"
"Anything you want, sport!"
"Then I think I'll go with...penis."
"..."
"Yep, I'm gonna go with penises, dad. Big hairy, sweaty penises, some of them with diseases. Lots of 'em! How about that?"
"Sounds good, sport. Sounds great. I just don't want you using bad language."

Read, follow or get the hell out of the way

A little praise can go a long way. It doesn't take much to knock someone who thinks they're relatively well grounded in reality regarding their abilities and limitations off their stride a little bit. It really shouldn't be a surprise when celebrities lose their marbles, being surrounded as they are by people whose jobs are to tell them how good their farts smell.
Such (sorta) was the case for me just the other day. I got a phone call from a woman in New Mexico. I was at work so couldn't talk to her in depth but she mentioned that she'd seen my blog and was very impressed and that she was seeking me out in regards to a matter relating to cancer research. After agreeing to a later time to talk, she said good bye and hung up.
Niiiiice!
Seeking me out! Impressed by my writing! Needing my input on cancer research! "Well, sure", I thought to myself, after processing all that positive feedback. "Why the hell not?" This was at the end of a week where for some odd, unknown reason my sportswriting efforts at Raw Charge.com were getting accolades plus people were being extra lavish-y with praise for what they were finding here, some of it from people I've never even met before. "Yes, why not indeed? I'm awesome. I know for a fact that I am tremendously popular in Cleveland, Ohio. If that's not proof that I'm a great writer, what is? I'm approaching a tipping point!", I thought. "I'm on the verge of being a star...of some kind."
I started gameplanning for the follow-up phone call:
"So you're probably wondering about the tremendous success of Muffinquest. I don't blame you; it was kinda a big deal and it's a pretty remarkable achievement, if I say so myself." Then I had to try to think of ways to make that whole process sound a lot more complicated and difficult than it was, which was basically:

1. Have a friend who runs a coffee shop and an impossibly high tolerance for your idiotic stunts.
2. Don't be afraid to look like a jackass.
3. Have generous friends and acquaintances of high character.

Really, that's all there was to it and I was prepared to answer the question relatively honestly and somewhat unembellished when she called back. I was not prepared for the proposal she actually presented, though.
"...as I mentioned earlier, I've read the things you've written on-line and I'm very impressed. I did some additional research on Google and I really think you're the person to help me,"
"Well, thank you for that. That is tremendously flattering." (I know it's important for overnight sensations to be humble and to show gratitude)
"You're very welcome. Now, I'm not sure I mentioned this earlier, but I'm preparing for a seanate sub-committee meeting."
"Wow! Okay." (Wow! Holy shit!)
"It's really a pre-meeting that I hope will lead to a hearing eventually. And your writings on the effects of the use of Agent Orange and how that leads to the development of cancer and cancer-related illnesses is where I'm looking for your expertise."
"Oh. Hmmm." (Huh?)
"Is there a problem?"
"Um, I'm pretty sure you have the wrong guy. I don't write about Agent Orange. I never have, anyway. Or any agents really. I make jokes about goofy human behavior and stuff I see when I'm out and about."
"This isn't Clark Brooks, investigative reporter in Maryland?"
"No, this is Clark Brooks, clown boy in Florida. You're looking for a real person; I'm a cartoon character in that I'm two-dimensional. On a good day."
"Oh, I'm sorry to have wasted your time. Good luck with...what you do."
"I do have a muffin named after me..."
(click)
And with that, I landed solidly back on the ground again.

Take me down to Gaga's farm

In a seemingly unlikely partnership between pop culture phenomena, singer/songwriter/performance artist Lady Gaga has teamed up with game/obsession/time-waster FarmVille in a cross-promotion for Lady Gaga's upcoming album "Born this Way". FarmVille is a game where you can farm with your friends; now FarmVille is a game where you can farm with a woman who shoots sparks out of her boobs.
As I've mentioned here before, I play FarmVille. And as I've mentioned here before, while I'm not really a fan of Lady Gaga, I "get" her now and we co-exist in peace. Also, she was funny on this week's Saturday Night Live so she earns even more credit from me for that. However, I have friends who are huge fans of hers. One of them, plays, or used to play, FarmVille but I hadn't interacted with her in the game for a while so I mentioned the promotion to her...

ME: "Are you still playing FarmVille? Lady Gaga is all over the place. You can win her new album."
HER: "I haven't played in a long time. I heard about that but when I went back to my farm, it was gone."
ME: "Your farm was gone? Damn, did the government seize your land?"
HER: "I don't know what happened. How am I going to win some Gaga?"
ME: "I don't think you can. I guess you have to start over. I didn't know you were a Native American."
HER: "Shut up. That sucks. I used to run FarmVille." 
ME: "And now you have nothing, displaced with no regard for your rich heritage."
HER: "Damn it."
ME: "I think you should go play ReservationVille. You level up to a casino by selling discount cigarettes to white people. If you do it without becoming an alcoholic, you win a Los Lonely Boys CD."
HER: "Um, I'm pretty sure they're Mexican..."
ME: "And I mean one of the Los Lonely Boys' CDs, from their personal collection in a case under the passsnger seat in their car. No cover, with the artist's name written on it in Sharpie."
HER: "That actually sounds like a pretty good game! I would play that!" 

Sunday morning post-rapture comix!

Ol' Unca Harold in "Oh No, Not again!"

A little bit of self-pimping

I know sports is not a passion for a lot of people who read this blog (actually, it could very well be the most important thing in life to every single reader of this blog; I really have no idea how to read or interpret my stats). But just in case you're interested, even though I haven't been with SB Nation-Tampa Bay for some time now, you can read my sportswriting exploits over at RawCharge.com, dedicated to coverage of the NHL's Tampa Bay Lightning.
The other day, Yahoo! Sports wildly popular Puckdaddy blog gave me a little shout-out (getting my name right!) and a link back to one of my articles, which was nice.
It's a pleasure to write for a great site staffed by great people and it's not too shabby to write about a team doing as well as the Lightning. 

My recent stories published at Raw Charge:

• Freddy Modin retires
• Take another deep breath: The Lightning will bounce back
• Grin and Bear It: The Boston Bruins "Attack Ad" and How Lightning Fans Should React
• Downtown Tampa showing signs of playoff fever

My Last Blog Post (unless, you know, it isn't)

As you may have heard, many people of Christian faith (not all or even most of them) believe that tomorrow, Saturday, May 21, 2011, is the long-anticipated Judgment Day (click here if you don't know what that is) which leads to The Rapture (click here if you don't know what that is) which leads directly to The End of Days (you don't need to click nothin' to know what that is). As much as I'd like to make complete fun and ridicule of this "prophecy", I'm not going to because we...just...don't...know.

It should be noted that this chain of events, or something similar enough to accomplish the same results, has been predicted before. Here are some notable examples...

• 2,800BC: Nope
• 1st century AD: Nope
• 2nd century AD: Nope
• Mar 25, 970 AD: Nope
• 1284: Nope
• 1504: Nope
• Feb 1, 1524: Nope
• 1648: Nope
• 1666 (Look at the numbers! Spooky!): Nope
• 1794: Nope
• Dec 25, 1814: Nope...narrowly avoiding the worst Christmas ever.
• 1836: Nope
• Aug 7, 1847: Nope
• 1874: Nope
• 1881: Nope
• May 18, 1910: Nope
• Dec 17, 1919: Nope
• 1967: Nope
• Apr 29, 1980: Nope
• Mar 10, 1982: Nope
• Apr 29, 1987: Nope
• 1988: Nope
• Sep 28, 1992: Nope
• March – May 1997: Remember the Hale-Bopp comet? Nope 
• 12:01am, Mar 31, 1998: Nope
• 1999: Party over, oops, out of time? Nope
• 2000: Nope
• Feb 12, 2006: Nope
• Friday 13th April 2007: Nope
• Mar 21, 2008: Nope

(Note: You can verify every single one of these "Nope"s for yourself simply by looking out of any window or at any object that is not currently engulfed in never-ending flame.)

There are exactly two ways to look at the big, fat 0-fer record behind these prophecies:

1. Beyond the obvious reasonable skepticism, statistics clearly illustrate that the people making these predictions are religious crackpots who obviously have no idea what they're talking about and so there is absolutely no reason to be concerned whatsoever.
2. They're due.

The thing is We...Just...Don't...Know!

And that's the scariest part, the not knowing. Even the slightest uncertainty causes discomfort. Until Sunday morning rolls around, we'll probably all be a little extra jumpy when it comes to loud noises. And those of us who live near lakes of flaming brimstone will probably pay a little more attention to their flame-retardent depth gauges. I have no doubt that even some of the most aetheist aethists, after spending Friday night in a trendy coffee shop, snarkily mocking The True Believers, will get home, remove their 52 rubber bracelets, take out their nose ring and, after making sure absolutely nobody is watching, will offer up just a wee bit of a silent prayer before going to bed because, well, what's the harm and because WE...JUST...DON'T...KNOW!

Gee, we appreciate the heads-up. But how about if you just leave it in the garage that day?

Personally, I think our chances are pretty good. Otherwise, I wouldn't have dropped off dry cleaning this morning. But since WE...JUST...DON'T...KNOW, I'm going to take this occassion, what might be My Very Last Blog Post, to confess to some things in order to clear my conscience. But since I don't happen to think anything is going to happen, I'm going to do so with some ambiguity. I hope you understand. So here goes:

• Yes.
• Yes, but just once.
• Yes, more than once.
• Oh yes! You better believe it!
• Yes, basically every single weekend between 1983 and 1984.
• Wanted to, had a chance, chickened out at the last second.
• Yes, but only because I had been drinking.
• Yes, but immediately regretted it.
• Kinda.
• No. But not for lack of trying.
• Yes, yes, yes, a qualified no, as in more like not really, then yes, yes and yes. Twice.
• Yes. And at the same time. Not bragging, just sayin'

Whew! Okay, I feel a lot better now. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to try to get myself strategically within close range of someone who might be open to a little pre-apocolyptic somethin' somethin', because WE...JUST...DON'T...KNOW!!