Wednesday, October 30, 2002


* If any of the ex-girlfriends who later "came out" stayed out.

* What the fuck a 'comptroller' does (I knew it has something to do with Finance, but beyond that I'm clueless. I suppose I could just look it up, but why take the time when there's so much whining to do?).

* Why Adam West isn't still a star.

* Why smart, beautiful women so often date complete d-bags.

* How often, after seeing me with a smart and beautiful woman (it's happened), some guy decided that I was a complete d-bag.

* The medical explanation for deja vu--and not just the bullshit answers everyone tosses around as fact at dinner parties.

* How many of the people I can't stand know I can't stand them.

* The name of the girl who's always on the subway platform's favorite obscure song (the one she thinks no one else in the world has ever heard, perhaps Denzil's "Sunday Service Hengistbury Head"), so I could nonchalantly hum it in her presence and make her think we're soulmates.

* Why one of my armpits is markedly less hairy than the other.

* Ted Turner's pin number.

Tuesday, October 29, 2002


I love the fact the fact that you, the fine people who visit this page repeatedly, have taken to sending me wonderful and bizarre links. I consider it my responsibility as a citizen to pass this shit on the group as a whole and I'd like to thank everyone who's sent me cool stuff (Except that one douchebag who sent me a link to a rape site--real funny, shitfuck).

Yesterday, I was sent two wonderful lnks that I've been obsessing over ever since.

This was sent to me by the lovely Susan. I believe it pretty much stands alone.

This next one was sent to me by the wondrous (and buff) Jodi and there's a story behind it.

It's a recording of Enrique Iglegias, whose name seems to pop up on this site at least once a month, performing a concert in Romania. As I'm sure most of us know, people like Enrique never actually sing into a live mic--they tell the audience how much they love them in between songs, but once the music starts the mic goes dead. You can't get away with plain ol' lip-synching these days, as the lack of bulging neck muscles is a dead giveaway (just think of any early '80s music video). So when you see pop stars performing nowadays, they're actually singing, but only into a dummy microphone to the sound of their own prerecorded voices. The legend here is that one of Enrique's sound men recorded what was actually coming out of that skeevy mole-ridden fop's mouth. The recording eventually made it's way onto the Howard Stern Show--they used to play it all the time, along with an equally hilarious recording of Linda McCartney's background "vocals" from a Paul McCartney concert. Everntually, Enrique actually appeared on Stern and performed live, in an effort to prove that the tape was a hoax. You can believe what you want, but I personally have doubt that it's actually Enrique's voice. Performing in a radio station studio is an entirely different bird than performing for thousands of screaming Romanians who can't hear what you're actually singing anyway.

Either way, it's pretty fucking funny.

Monday, October 28, 2002


Look, I'm a reasonably educated fellow. Among my favorite writers are Raymond Carver, Flannery O'Connor, and Salman Rushdie. I know my Back from my Bartok, my Klee from my Klimt. I have studied Kierkegaard, Feuerbach and Satre and can explain why they're different apples off of the same philosophical tree. I am familiar with Baudrillard's Simulacra et Simulation and I know the actual definition of the word "Postmodernism".

Why am I telling you this? To impress upon you just how fascinating a human being I am? Well, yeah. But there's another reason. I'm stating my credentials a pretentious pseudo-intellectual douchebag as a preface to my typing the following sentence:

Over the weekend, I saw Jackass: The Movie and it was the most fun I've had at the movies in years, perhaps ever.

Someday I will meet a brilliant, beautiful woman who thinks watching a guy fire bottle rockets out of his anus is unspeakably hilarious.



Sunday, October 27, 2002


Friday night I did a stand up comedy show at Mohegan Sun. For those of you not in the Tri-State Area, Mohegan Sun is a monstrously large casino on a Mohegan Reservation in Connecticut. Who's a playa? Oh, that's right: me.

I have to say, as cheesy as the whole experience was, I loved every minute of it. For a few hours I was treated like a professional entertainer, someone to be addressed as Mr. Finnegan, someone who deserved to be escorted to the stage at showtime. I performed in a gorgeous showroom that probably sat 500 (I was just the opening act). The stage was probably 40 feet wide and I performed in front of a full big band set-up, which was for some "Rat Pack Revue" that plays there every other night of the week. Downstairs in the green room, there were sandwiches, pastries and crudit�s . Crudit�s! It's amazing what a plate of celery sticks and dip can do for your ego. For one night, I felt like a respected member of the entertainment community, as opposed to the normal snake oil peddler vibe

In fact, the only thing that wasn't classy and professional about the gig was the group of muletted shitbags that comprised the audience. Look, I know times are different and people don't necessarily put on a suit to go to the casino, but is it too much to ask for you to take take off the sweatpants? Hey lady, love the lace-up denim pirate shirt.

After the show, I was hanging out in the casino, just checking out the scene. I have this vague sense that I have it in me to become a hardcore gambling addict, so I generally avoid any card game where the stakes rise above fifty cents per hand. But I'd had a pretty good evening, so I decided to be a big dork and toss ten bucks into a slot machine. Well somehow, without me really knowing it, the machine hit twice in a row and I won a quick $165--hardly big money, but that's just about two days worth of temping for me, so I'm pretty damn ecstatic. As the coins were plunking down into the bin, two very hot UConn students wandered over and just start talking to me. It's as if they were using Spider-sense. And I thought to myself, "Holy shit, it really is that simple--money equals chicks." Now I know this equation is a bit insulting and it certainly doesn't apply to any woman you'd actually want to spend some serious time with, but it's a plain fact that cash (and I'm sure $165 seems like a lot of money to a couple of college girls) is a goshdarn aphrodesiac and that if you have some your chances of getting a woman's attention are significantly higher. Please, don't deny it. It's true.

So I chat with these two girls and I chat for a while--I casually mention that I was in the comedy show (READ: I'm a very important person and you should consider having sex with me), they casually mention how incredibly poor they are (READ: We don't care about your stupid fucking comedy show--give us money).

So here's the scene: I'm feeling very good about myself after a great show, I have a few hundred (including the money I got for the show) bucks of disposable income my pocket, a beautiful hotel room, and the attention of two sexy coeds who don;t seem to have anywhere special to be. Sounds like the classic set up for a threeway sex escapade, does it not? Well, I don't want to brag, but...did I mention I won $165 from a slot machine?


Finnegan, you're pathetic. Go rent some fucking nards.

Friday, October 25, 2002


My chaotic week is almost over. In the comments from yesterday's crappy non-entry, 'Special buddy' asked what exactly I've been doing for 16 hours a day all week. Well, feel free to take a guess:

1) I was rehearsing The Heat is ON!, my one man show based on the life of Glen Frey.

2) I was working on my new self-help book, "MAN'S BEST FRIEND: Expanding Your Worldview through Pooch-Fucking".

3) Did lots of street promotion for AVN Awards afterparty I'm hosting with Diddy, Busta and Kurt Waldheim at Jaundice, NYC's hottest new dance club.

4) Sobbing. Pure sobbing.

5) I've been studying to become a high priest of the Church of Satan--and for anyone who ares defy my authority, I have only one thing to say: Aedineum mysolocleus veniesculum rui! Rui! RUI!!!

6) After losing my job at a well-paying but soulless corporation, I met a precocious terminally ill orphan boy who moved into my house and taught me the true meaning of life--which, incidentally, turns out to be 'poopie jokes'.

7) I've been shooting a very funny piece for Dave Chappelle's new Comedy Central show, which should be airing sometime around February.

8) Two words: tantric masturbation.

Thursday, October 24, 2002


"Jackanapes": n. An impudent person. "Why that jackanapes interrupted our game of Soggy Biscuit--how rude!"

Use it as often as you can, kids.

Wednesday, October 23, 2002


16.5 hour day yesterday. More of the same for today, tomorrow and probably Friday. Hopefully I will get home with a bit more energy tomorrow and write something substantial. But I'm too tired to write complete jokes right now, so you'll have to settle for some punchlines to jokes I haven't written yet. Such as:

"I've I'd known that, I wouldn't have invited your sister!"

"That's funny, Senator Gramm--I had no idea you'd joined the Catholic priesthood!"

"Hey, what's a little semen between co-pilots?"

"Um, that's not my dog."

"Well if that's Willie Tyler...WHERE THE FUCK IS LESTER?!"

"Because that's just what gerbils do, Mom."

"Has anyone told Ivan Lendl?"

"So I crammed a stick in the end of it and told her it was a fudgesicle!"

"I've heard of deep tissue therapy, but this is ridicuous!"

"Lefty loosey, righty tighty."

"I hate you. I've always hated you, but this... This is unforgivable. Now please go find a place that's far away from me and the people I love and die. Seriously, you're a terrible person and I will never forgive you for what you've done. You stink of failure and death. Go fuck a razorblade-filled tube.....................IN BED!"

Monday, October 21, 2002


I have to be up at 5am tomorrow morning. Five! A.M.! When it's still fucking dark! That sucks dong! Dong, I tell you!! DONG!!! Agh!! AAAGGGHHH!!!!!

OK, I feel a bit better now.


Suffice to say, tomorrow could be a long one. That is why I will once again be falling back onto the blog restorative power of Linkage.

Take THAT!



I'm sorry, but you had it coming to you.

Sunday, October 20, 2002

And now, a few words from David Lee Roth:

Hey hey, lookie what we have here! Welcome to the fascination fiesta, mon frere. It feels like someone decided to have a Sumo match but forgot to invite Mr. Talcum Powder! Don't forget what Machiavelli said, 'You gotta lick it before you kick it'! It's like, you're talking 'bout Saturn and all anyone can talk about is the rings, baby! Whether it's Frank Sinatra or Franco American, the peoples got to have their entertainment. And I'm not just talking about the karmic manifestation of yellow-belied sapsuckers, my friend. I'm talking about the shish boom bang of this great circle of life--although when you think about it, most cowpokes act like it's an octagon, if ya know what I mean. I don't care if you're wearing saddle shoes or your Sunday best, there comes a time in every little sandcrab's life when he's got to do a little sideways walking to the other side of the beach, am I right? I mean, this is name brand debauchery here, Jungle Joe--when you're U.S. Steel, you're not looking over your shoulder at every Ben Franklin who comes up in your rear view full-length mirror! We're talking Alexander the Great meets Toucan Sam! Here come da judge! Listen up, kiddos. Best not to stare too long at the sun, because then you just got stars in your eyes. I'm like the minister of misinformation in World War IX--and that battle most definitely has a bulge, Sally Ride! The revolution won't be televised, but it will be on DVD, CD-ROM and little tiny Japanese cameras in the corner of your mind's eye. In the immortal words of Joe Louis, 'It's better to be eagerly catastrophic, than catastrophically eager'. Just remember, the little acorn didn't become the great oak by stapling an egg to his back and doing the hokey pokey. Lights, camera, ecstasy--that's what I'm all about!

Friday, October 18, 2002

Today is my last day at this particular "freelance position" (that's French for "temp job"). Anyone want a Comfort Mate (tm) fine-point pen? How about a couple of hanging folders? A flat-screen monitor? Seriously--I'm feeling majorly pissy today and feel like doing some serious corporate thievery. When the mail comes, that shit's going straight into the paper shredder.

There's a very nice woman in this office who goes to great pains to correct me when I say "I'm just a temp", which happens at least twice a week. "Don't say that about yourself," she'll say soothingly. "We're all on equal footing here!"

What she doesn't understand is that my frequent mentions of "just" being a temp have nothing to do with low self-esteem or feelings of inferiority. I claim to "just be a temp" the same way German soldiers claim to have been "just following orders" inWorld War II. It's basically my way of saying "You see this hollow, depressing corporate environment? This sad world of xerox toner and Dilbert cartoons? You chose this. This is your life. But me? I'm just a temp."

The most annoying thing about this particular temp job (I've certainly had worse) has been the elevator situation. The office is on the 54th floor of the building, so it's not unheard of to stop ten fucking times on the way to and from lunch. I think the most depressing moment I've had over the past couple of months came last week, when I was taking the elevator up in the morning. By some freak aligning of the planets, I made all the way from Floor 1 to Floor 54 without a single stop. Not even one! As the elevator came to a stop, I felt a sense of genuine optimism and glee wash over me. "My elevator didn't stop even once!" I thought to myself, "How awesome is that! This is going to be a fantastic day! A fantastic month, even! I'm in love with my life! Yaaaaayyyyyyy!"

But then, as the doors slowly opened and I looked out into the stale beige walls AIG Worldwide Insurance, that joy reversed itself like a teenage stomach full of tequila and beer. I commenced with the self-flagellation.

"Um, did you just get psyched because your elevator didn't make a stop? The elevator to your temp job?? The elevator to your temp job at an insurance company??? How unspeakably pathetic. You, Finnegan, are a douche."

I felt legitimately nauseas for the rest of the day.

Thursday, October 17, 2002


I tend to get pissy at myself for posting too many links on this site, but lately people have been sending me some truly amazing shit. Take this masterpiece, for instance. What can one say, except Long Live the Hass! (this probably requires broadband).

And this other one? Simply mind-altering. This weekend, I plan to smoke some weed (a rather infequent act for me), put this bad boy on a loop and watch it all fucking night long. Why? Because I know how to live large, foolz. (This one definitely requires broadband, I should mention.)

By the way, if any of you New Yorkers ever feel like coming to the comedy show I host every Friday night, drop me an Email and I'll put you on the mailing list. Tomorrow night's show features a guest appearances by author Frank McCourt*, actress/choreographer Debbie Allen**, and members of the Spin Doctors***.


* horseshit
** utter horseshit
*** untrue, but within the realm of possibility--I mean, it's probably not like they have plans

Wednesday, October 16, 2002

TOWER OF HUBRIS, your source for up-to-the-minute music news!

I don't know if you guys have heard, but The Smiths are getting back together! Yes! It's true! In fact, Morrissey and Johnny Marr have already written a new song, and it's ripped from today's headlines!

But wait--it gets better! Morrissey and I happen to be very close personal friends (we play on the same intramural flag football team), and he's given me exclusive permission to reprint the lyrics here for your enjoyment!

So without any further ado, here's "Sniper Sniper", the brand new smash hit by The Smiths:

SNIPER, SNIPER (Morrissey/Marr)

Oh sniper, sniper, sniper
You're the one for me
You're the one I cling to
In the shopping mall car park, can't they possibly see?

You took leave from your soggy little town
and set down and hung around,
then lost what you'd found

You take your mark from your vulgar van
your lovely and vulgar, vulgar van
In this sad world of vicious petrol pumpers,
you're the one who takes my hand

Is it so wrong?
Do they feel the way that I do?
I'm just the boy with the empty shell and tear-stained rag
Do they feel the way that I do?

Oh sniper, sniper, sniper
You're the one for me
Your'e the one I cling to
In the shopping mall car park, can't they possibly see?

Dear boy, they are what we are not
Young hottentot, he crossed the lot,
you kissed my cheek and you took your shot

And what you wrote on that tarot card,
That humdrum twisted silly tarot card,
It left me shyly waiting by your bedside
Like a lovestruck bird left to die in the yard

Is it so wrong?
Do they love you the way that I do?
You left a sickening scar that I pray won't soon heal
Do they feel the way that I do?

Oh sniper, sniper, sniper
You're the one for me
You're the one I cling to
In the shopping mall car park, can't they possibly see?

I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved

(repeat to fade out)

Tuesday, October 15, 2002


I�ve become convinced that I simply have too much random trivia clogging up my brain. After all, might it be that brain space is finite? Who knows what I might be capable of, were my mind not been so utterly crammed tight with pop culture debris? What if knowing all the lyrics to the Silver Spoons theme song is what�s keeping me from finding a cure to Cancer? Is it possible that the area of my brain currently occupied by Damone�s �you gotta have �The Attitude�� soliloquy from Fast Times might otherwise be put to use discovering the recipe for cold fusion? It�s quite possible. It�s imperative that I clear out some cranium space to make room for more important stuff.

Therefore, I am announcing this one-time-only Mental Garage Sale. It works like a normal garage sale, except that instead of paying me for used goods (in this case, random bits of trivia), I�ll pay YOU if you can promise that you�ll take this shit off my hands and help me make some room in this big, fat Irish melon-head of mine. The more desperately I�m willing to erase a piece of information from my mind, the more I�m willing to pony up! With prices like these, I MUST BE INSANE!

Just look at these fabulous deals!

* The names of Bo and Luke Duke�s cousins, who briefly replaced them on The Dukes of Hazard ($1.50)

* The names of all four members of Winger ($7.50)

* The titles of four Buckner & Garcia songs, other than �Pac Man Fever� ($8.25)

* Fred Dryer�s catchphrase on �Hunter� ($1.10)

* Plot of the 1987 Jon Cryer vehicle, Hiding Out ($6.05)

* The names of the two nerds in Fonzie�s autobody class, when he became a teacher in Happy Days' final season ($.65)

* Large sections of the Starlight Express libretto ($112.50)

* Complete lyrics to the �Hanker for a hunk of cheese� song ($34.35)

* Name of K.I.T.T.�s nemesis on Knight Rider ($1.90)

* Existence of actor Chris Makepeace ($14.00)

Go ahead! Make me an offer!

Monday, October 14, 2002


Something must be done to end this horrible, horrible epidemic.

(Please don't go to this link if you're in an uptight work environment or happen to be my step-mother.)

Saturday, October 12, 2002


This site is becoming something of a cultural phenomenon. If you don't believe me, just check out some of the press we've been getting:

"Adequate!!! Functional!!!! Pretty good!!!!!!!" � WBAI Radio

"Tower of Hubris will change your life! If you don't find this stuff funny, you�re a fucking dick!" � Time Magazine

"Tower of Hubris is so funny, I think I have Cancer!" � Vanity Fair

"Comedy like this only comes once in a lifetime! Christian Finnegan is the new master of poo poo jokes! And he also makes jokes about pee pee! Brilliant!" � Kindergarten Weekly

"Like a fiery kiln bringing a precious vase to fruition, Tower of Hubris is the training ground for a new breed of humorist--one beholden neither to the cheap comedic pandering of yesteryear nor the kneejerk sarcasm and lazy deconstructionism that so often passes for 'alternative' culture. Christian Finnegan is, quite simply, a national treasure." � Juggs

"Aaaaaggghhh! Oh my god! I've been stabbed! I'm-I'm bleeding! Sweet christ! So much blood... So...much...blood..." � Architectural Digest

Thursday, October 10, 2002

Wednesday, October 09, 2002

For fuck's sake, can't an hour go by in an office without someone saying something stupid and/or enraging?

Listen, no one is his own worst critic. Nope, not even you, you arrogant fuck. Because while you may feel an intense wave of self-doubt wash over you once or twice a month, that shit is fleeting--there are plenty of people out there who are doubting you on a full-time basis. I don't care how much you think you hate yourself, there's always someone out there who hates you more. And if you're the kind of person who says "I'm my own worst critic" with any sort of regularity, there's a good chance that person could be me.

(See, I told you I'd return to bitchy form before too long!)

Tuesday, October 08, 2002

The cap of my Mistic Grape Strawberry juice drink is urging me to "Go Bold. Get Dipped."


What the fuck could this possibly mean? Get dipped? I mean, that's fucking retarded sounding, right? Did I wake up old all of the sudden? Are kids honestly saying "Get dipped", or is this yet another example of some advertising copywriter just making shit up in an effort to appeal to the Age 12-17 demographic? I thought there might be some explanation on the web site (also touted on the bottle cap), but I can't seem to find any definition of getting "dipped" and how it relates to drinking fruit juice, so I'm forced to assume that they're trying to pass this off as lingo. I suspect it's meant to appeal to young snowboarding enthsusiasts and other purveyors of the 'Xtreme' lifestyle, but who fucking knows.. Please, if any of you have ever been dipped, plan to get dipped, or know anyone who's ever even used the term, SPEAK UP!

In the meantime, here are a few Xtreme catchphrases I'd like to see worked into the teen conversational repetoire:


"Toasting the shimmies"

"Stork time"

"Quit tramming my stubbers"

"Porpoise, dude!"

"Four score and seven years ago"

"Ansel Adams-ular"

"Primo tubers"

"Plessy vs. Ferguson"

"Get ladled"

Monday, October 07, 2002

Enjoy this very funny article form this past month's New Yorker. It's written by Noah Baumbach, director of Kicking and Screaming and Mr. Jealousy, two films I like very much. They both star Chris Eigeman, who gets my vote as Film's most under-utilized actor.

Please forgive the utter sincerity of today's post. I promise to default to my bitchy status quo by nightfall.

Sunday, October 06, 2002

Um, can we all agree to stop staying 'boo-yaa'? Seriously, it's embarassing. I was at a bar last night and there were these two Jersey d-bags standing in the corner all night playing "Golden Tee". Every time this one dude would get one of his cyber putts to go down, he'd let out an obscenely loud "BOOOO-YAAAA", thereby letting the rest of the bar patrons know that he was indeed the Golden Tee master. A couple of times, he would combine the shouting with an exagerrated air-punch. I wanted to tell this dear fellow "Dude, it's golf. In fact, it's not even golf--it's video golf. So until you accomplish something that requires you putting down your Coors Light, let's put the kibosh on 'boo-yaa'."

Here are a few alternate things to yell, the next time you feel a "boo-yaa" welling up:





Friday, October 04, 2002

Worst songs to "get this party started":

"The Streak" by Ray Stevens

"Suicide is Painless" (theme from M.A.S.H.)

"Who's Johnny" by DeBarge

"Shine on You Crazy Diamonds, Parts I - IV" by Pink Floyd

"Ovdoviala Lissitchkata" by Le Mystere des Voix Bulgares

"Merciless Onslaught" by Metal Church

"Always" by Atlantic Starr

"On Top of Old Smokey" (Trad.)

"Russians" by Sting

"What Child is This?" by Kathie Lee Gifford

Thursday, October 03, 2002


First Ring:
* People who refuse breath mints when offered them
* Manufacturers of designer baby clothes
* "Big Brother" host Julie Chen

Second Ring:
* People who over/misuse "per se"
* Personal stylists
* Gideon Yago

Third Ring:
* People who bitch and moan about the Illuminati
* The Illuminati
* Ron Howard

Fourth Ring:
* People who don't factor in tax and tip when deciding how much money to pitch in
* The nice folks down at Human Resources
* Rene Angelil

Fifth Ring:
* People who can't eat a bowl of cereal without slurping their milk and/or clanking the spoon against their teeth
* Video store clerks
* Melissa Rivers

Sixth Ring:
* People who take the elevator up one floor
* �Nu Metal� purveyors
* Bruce Villanche

Seventh Ring:
* People who think saying �fuggedaboutit� is hilarious
* Ja Rule prot�g�es
* Freddie Prinze Jr.

Eighth Ring:
* People who make the �hang loose Hawaii� hand sign
* Europeans
* Diane Warren

Ninth Ring:
* People who nod to themselves while watching �The O�Reilly Factor�
* People who work for �The O�Reilly Factor�
* Bill O�Reilly

Wednesday, October 02, 2002


Wowie wowie wow.

Fucking wow.

I know I just posted a link about twelve hours ago, but this one is just too great not so share with you people.

This may be the greatest website of all time

Take the time to enjoy all it has to offer.

Tuesday, October 01, 2002

Dear Christ...

I...I don't don't even know what to say about this. Where the fuck would I even start?

Please feel free to write your own jokes for this one.