INSERT HACKY 'WON'T YOU BE MY NEIGHBOR' JOKE HERE



Let's everyone tip our Juicy Juices and pour out a little in honor of our fallen mentor, Mr. Rogers. As I'm sure most of you have heard by now, Fred Rogers passed away early Thursday morning at the age of 74. I'm going to forego any comedic cheapshots and just say that Mr. Rogers' passing has me feeling a genuine sense of melancholy. That dude was a saint, especially when you take into account that kids are, by and large, assholes.

Whenever I hear people (politicians, mostly) pontificate on the sweetness and wide-eyed innocence of a child, I want to run a cheese grater across my face. Do these people even remember what it was like to be a child? The beatings? The ridicule? The M80s they used to shove up my...I mean, their asses? The way I see it, a douchebag 38 year old was once a douchebag 8 year old--he's just learned how to disguise it a bit better over the years. What was great about Mr. Rogers is that he wasn't just spewing horseshit sentiment about how wonderful kids are in order to appeal to adults, and he certainly wasn�t pretending to be �on their level� by working awkward slang (�Radical, dude!�) into his patois. He was just a soft-spoken dork trying to appeal to a child�s better nature. He seemed to understand that kids are volatile works-in-progress, and that if you dealt with them quietly and sincerely, maybe (just maybe) they�d grow up to be just a little less douchey.

So farewell to Fred Rogers, a guy who actually tried. See you at tha crossroads, playa.


(P.S. Speaking of Mr. Rogers, later today I will be taking the magic trolley (Greyhound, actually) to the Land of Make-Believe (Well�Albany, NY) for a two day comedy sojourn. I will file a report tomorrow, detailing my first night in this incredibly exciting cultural hub--I hear they even have a mall!)

LET US NOW PRAISE INFAMOUS MEN


I don't know how things will go for me in the world of entertainment, but I hope to one day have a career as noteworthy as Robert Black's. One look at his vast filmography and you can tell: this man is quite the auteur. Enjoy!

WARNING: Some people might find the titles of Mr. Black's films inappropriate for an office-type environment.


(FYI, I found this site via my good friend, Eric Drysdale. He's got lots of great shit you can check out.)

HEY, LOOK--IT'S MY BIG IRISH HEAD ON YOUR TV SCREEN!

Ok kids, tonight is the night. If you turn on Comedy Central tonight at 10:30pm, you can see me on "Chappelle's Show". I'm in a "Real World" parody about a white guy living in a house with six black people. I play "Chad, the White Guy" and, among other incredibly flattering images, you will get to see me sob uncontrollably while simultaneously masturbating.

I'll just let that one sit for a moment.

Anyway, a friend of mine who works on the show gave me a videotape of the completed piece a few days ago and it's pretty damn funny, despite the fact that I die a little bit every time I watch myself on tape (a glorious personality trait to possess if you're trying to make a career for yourself in the entertainment industry!). It's actually divided into two parts, so make sure you watch the entire episode (it's only a half hour long). Do check it out, if you can--now you can put a flabby face to all the semi-literate blog rambling!



Oh, and just so today's post isn't only a plug, here's something resembling a joke:

My last girlfriend broke up with my because I was too sexually adventurous. I decided to surprise her one night by wearing edible underwear to bed. Problem was, the store was running low and the only flavor they had left was Ranch.

That's right, folks: Ranch-flavored underwear. On my balls.

Hey, I only said it resembled a joke.

(Thank you all for continuing to give a shit, by the way.)

FYI


The following domain names are still available for purchase:


http://www.beanbagofdeath.com
http://www.poodlemassage.com
http://www.jesuitfartingspree.net
http://www.turdnuzzlers.gov
http://www.mygrandmotherrules.com
http://www.gaywerewolf.org
http://www.tragichandjob.edu
http://www.kickassgerbilphilosophers.com
http://www.sometimesIcan'tbebotheredtowriteanythingworthwhilebecauseIfeeldeadinsidesoIjustpostanyold
moronicbullshit.com/ImeanseriouslywhydoIevenbother.htm
http://www.magicpubes.com

Last night, CBS aired the Grammy Awards, America's premiere celebration of the music your dad thinks you're listening to. Everyone is familiar with the major categories, such as "Album of the Year", "Pop Vocal Performance" and the award all of my friends look forward to every year, "Traditional Tropical Latin Album". What you may not know is that there are a number of less publicized Grammies that are given out in a special ceremony before the big televised shindig. It is my opinion that these are the unsung heroes of the music industry, so Tower of Hubris would like to announce, for your edification...



A FEW LESSER KNOWN GRAMMY AWARDS


POP INSTRUMENTAL KAZOO PERFORMANCE
Winner: Andreas di Marconi, Cliffs of Dragonsong

TRADITIONAL IRISH SEXUAL INNUENDO PERFORMANCE
Winner: Sweet Guinness from the Blarney, Tommy O'Donnell and His Knobby Shillelagh

RECORD COMPANY EXECUTIVE PONYTAIL OF THE YEAR, MALE
Winner: Keith Shipley, Senior A/R Representative (Arista Recording Group)

BLINGIEST BLING
Winner: Halll Monitah, The Masticator: Da Makin of da Life and Times of a Hardcore Yahtzee Playa, Vol. III

TIT PERFORMANCE, NATURAL
Winner: Kylie Minogue, Can't Get You Out of My Head

TIT PERFORMANCE, SALINE
Winner: Christina Aguilera, Dirrrty

AWKWARD CHRISTIAN ROCK PERFORMANCE
Winner: Triumphant Rise, He is the Reason Why We Are Rocking

ANSWERING MACHINE PERFORMANCE BY A DUO OR GROUP
Winner: Phillip and Sandra Kearney, We're Not Home Right Now

SONG WRITTEN FOR HOME SEX VIDEO, MPEG, OR OTHER VISUAL MEDIA
Winner: Bob Paulson, Glory Hole Honey: Irina's Theme

LIONEL RITCHIE TRIBUTE ALBUM OF THE YEAR
Winner: V/A, I Had an Awesome Dream: Off-Off-Broadway Salutes Lionel Ritchie

DRAG PERFORMANCE, "FEMALE"
Winner: BJ Lippps, Is That Chaka Kahn in Your Pocket, or Are You Happy to See Me?

DOUCHEBAG USED RECORD STORE CLERK OF THE YEAR
Winner: Tristan Farnham, No Exit Records (Cambridge, MA)

OVERWROUGHT R&B PERFORMANCE, MALE
DeVawn Marshall, Turn the Lights Down (So I Can Have Sex With You (In Your Vagina )(With My Dick))

AMERICA'S LEAST POPULAR PROFESSIONAL WRESTLERS


The Administrator

Pizza Face

The Burning Sensation

Placid Pete

King Ejaculator

El Pussio Grande

The Freshmakers

C-Section Sue

Dr. Grab-Ass

The Point of Ellipses

Triple A

Stone Cold Noam Chomsky

The Sexually Abused Altar Boy Brothers

The Fucking Asshole

Oragamitron

Captain Pussyfart

Jeff

MORE ABOUT SUPERHEROES


While watching the trailer for the upcoming Incredible Hulk movie, it occurred to me that Dr. Bruce Banner could never in live in New York City, as he'd never not be the Hulk--there's just too much shit in this city to make you fly into a rage. I envision this colossal green creature, running around the city, destroying shit. Eventually, he begins to relax and reverts to his normal, human form. But then two minutes later, as he's crossing the street on the way back to his secret lab, a cab driver skids to a halt in front of him, rolls down the window and starts screaming at him in Farsi (off to the side, two ironic t-shirt wearing Williamsburg douchebags point and laugh). The pressure too much to take, Bruce Banner turns back into the Hulk and immediately heaves tha cab into a nearby Starbucks. Eventually, he comes to and continues his walk home, but gets caught on the sidewalk behind two annoying teenage girls with baby strollers. He tries to get by them, but they manage to block the entire sidewalk. So, after ten minutes of following slowly behind them, listening to them babble about how great the new Tyrese album is, he loses his shit and once again becomes the Hulk: smash smash, destroy destroy destroy. He chills out, again, and steps onto the subway, where a homeless guy proceeds to hock a loogie on his foot. I think you can see where this is going...

If they did make a TV show about The Hulk living in New York, it would probably have to be called "The Incredible Bruce Banner", the story of a huge green freak who, on very rare occasions and for very short periods of time, turns into a mild-mannered scientist. His catchphrase would be "You wouldn't mind me...when I'm not angry".

THE RESULTS ARE IN

Of all the songs about Africa, Toto's "Africa" is the one least listened to by Africans.

You may now go about your day.

DOUCHEDEVIL


Yesterday I went to see Daredevil, and I have only one thing to say:

Ben Affleck must be stopped.

There was so much to hate about this movie, I don't even know where to begin. Ben Affleck is so shitty, he should be brought up on fucking charges. First Degree Sucking, perhaps? Is there any any "A-list" leading man who evokes pure, unadulterated stupidity like Ben does? It's not like I think he really is stupid--in interviews he comes across as downright likeable. But christ, between the montone delivery, vacant 14-foot stare and chronic mouthbreathing, he may be the worst actor in Hollywood not named Keanu. Off course, B.A. is not solely to blame for this catastrophic dingleberry of a film--Daredevil also boasts a phoned-in nonperformance by Joe Pantaliano, fight scenes seemingly choreographed by "Solid Gold's" Denny Terrio, and lots of pseudo-deep "religious imagery" ("Whoa, the bad guy got shot through the palms of his hands--just like Jesus! And they're even in a church! Heeeeavy, man."). As far as I can tell, the screenplay for Daredevil was conceived on the laptop of some ponytailed/goateed studio exec, utilizing a new piece of software called ShittyScriptwriter v2.0. Everyone involved with this movie should seriously consider suicide*.

I'm about to spoil the movie, so if you're planning on seeing it, don't read the next little paragraph.

WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK? WHY AREN'T YOU READING THIS? ARE YOU SAYING YOU'RE STILL PLANNING ON SEEING THIS PIECE OF SHIT? AFTER ALL I'VE BEEN SAYING ABOUT HOW HORRIBLE IT IS? WHAT'S YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM, ASSHOLE? GET WITH THE PROGRAM, FUCK-FOR-BRAINS!! FUCK YOU!!!!

Glad we got that out of the way--see you at the multiplex!


* Except Colin Farrell and Jon Favreau, who escape relatively unscathed. But if Michael Clarke Duncan and Jennifer Garner are reading this: please turn in your Celebrity I.D. badges at the front desk.

Here's the second (and final) part of the thing I began posting yesterday. You'll want to scroll down and read yesterday's entry before moving on. For purposes of flow, I'm beginning today's post with the final paragraph of yesterday's. Hope you like.



TAXI CAB CONFESSOR, Part II


I just stared at him, open-mouthed. He must have uttered that phrase three or four more times, "make a hundred dollars, get your dick sucked". It was so blas�, it was as if he was reading aloud from the phone book. For my part, I responded with someone along the lines of "That's funny...that you say that to people...you know, other people...." Eventually, frustrated with my seeming inability to take a hint, my landlord asked "So...does that seem like a situation that would be appealing to you?"

I remember thinking that, as much as I wasn�t planning on letting this dude blow me, it was the fact that he wanted to have dinner that really skeeved me out. What the fuck was he envisioning�soft music, red wine and romantic conversation? Ewww. If he�d offered me, say, five hundred dollars to blow me right there on the spot�well, there might have been a few seconds of silent contemplation. How badly did I need $500? Very. Would anyone ever find out? Hard to say. Then, the dealbreaker: If I closed my eyes, would I be able to pretend that my landlord was that hot chick from the used record store who always wore the cute barettes and baby-tees? Sadly, not a chance in the world�the tickle of his moustache would have been a dead giveaway. So no, I wouldn�t have let my landlord blow me, regardless of the circumstances. And with the �bonus� offer of dinner, I didn�t need much time to reflect.

�No.�

�Well, that�s okay,� he dismissively assured me. I could tell that this was a deal he�d put on the table before. �You do what you want to do. Just saying: make a hundred dollars, get your dick sucked. It�s up to you, really. But that�s fine.�

I remember being utterly dumbfounded at how brazen he was about the whole thing. I mean, this was his place of business! I was his tenant, fer chrissake! But it's not like I could rip into him--without that damned letter of recommendation, I wouldn't be able to sign my new lease. So instead of stabbing the guy in the throat, which is what I wanted to do, I politely declined and let him think that it was my shyness getting in the way of a romantic, blow job-laden evening, not the fact that he was a disgusting, middle-aged�well, guy. In that moment, I felt a kinship with Dolly Parton, Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin and every woman who�s ever had to �make nice� with a sexual conquistador.

So Tariq the cab driver, while obviously dealing with his own issues with regards to ethics and sexuality, was not wrong for being pissed off at Mr. Drive-around-the-park. After all, I�m sure you�d feel just as angry if someone decided to turn your workspace into a temporary jack-off zone. I tried not to judge Tariq too harshly as he wondered aloud, even though his ideas about homosexuality were a tad off. �I drive them in my cab all the time. They are good looking, they have money, they have nice clothing. I do not understand�THEY COULD GET WOMEN!!�

There was another reason why I let Tariq spout off about �the gays�. How often in your life do you feel any genuine camaraderie with someone whose culture is alien to you? Bcause, for me, it doesn;t get any more alien than the Middle East. Sure, New York is a �gorgeous mosaic�, but for the most part, the various sections of that mosaic keep to themselves. You may occasionally make drunken chitchat with the falafel guy while he fishes for your change, but do you ever really talk to him? Tariq and I had forged a fucking bond, man. He told me about his wife (she had not yet learned to speak English), his kids (his oldest had just made the basketball team), and his dreams (he hoped to one day buy a house in Long Island). I told him about my burgeoning comedy career (shut up) and my love of pizza. By the time we got to 106th street and Columbus Avenue, me and my dawg Tariq were tight, yo.

Tariq pulled the cab over to the curb and I began to dig cheerfully through my wallet. �Gosh, I really am a good person,� I thought to myself. �Most white people look down on cab drivers�bark at them, ridicule them, completely ignore them. But not me, for I am truly a man of the people. I recognize that Tariq is not a cultural stereotype�he�s a human being with feelings, values, and goals. Sure, his views on homosexuality are a tad�um, shall we say �old world�? But that�s simply because Tariq has had a different set of cultural experiences, and I shan�t judge him. It takes a very special person to bond with a Pakistani cab driver, and it appears that I am that kind of person. Simply put, I rule.�

As I slipped my cash (including healthy tip) through the little slot in the bulletproof glass, Tariq and I wished each other well and said goodnight. Climbing out of the cab, I experienced the warm satisfaction of knowing that I was more culturally sensitive than other people. The proud feeling stuck with me all the way to my front door, at which point I heard a car window open behind me.

�HEY,� shouted Tariq, within full earshot of at least six of my neighbors, �WATCH OUT FOR FAGS!!!� He had a huge grin on his face and gave me a big �thumbs-up� sign. The Domincan woman sitting in the lawnchair out in front of my building looked at me with an expression of faint disgust. I jammed my key into the lock and scurried into my apartment, feeling vaguely like an accomplice to a future hate crime. I never saw Tariq again.

And that�s why I won�t be befriending any more cab drivers.

TAXI CAB CONFESSOR


Last night, my cab driver recognized me from a former ride. It was weird--these dudes drive upwards of 50 people a day, and yet this guy remembered driving me home over a week ago. Obviously, I got chaRAZma! Anyway, we had a nice chat on the way back to Astoria, but I could feel myself holding back, not wanting to get attached to the fellow. Perhaps I was reminded of that time a few years ago, when I bonded with that other cab driver. Man, I can almost see it...

(cue harp music and wavy "flashback" camera effect)

Okay, so now that we're firmly rooted in the past, it was about 2am and I was taking a cab ride from the Lower East Side all the way to my then home on 107th and Columbus. For those of you non-New Yorkers, that's a rather long trip. Anyway, a couple of minutes after being picked up, I noticed that the driver was repeatedly banging his hand against the steering wheel and barking curses in Arabic. It was so loud and obvious, that I got the distinct impression that he wanted to talk about whatever was bothering him. Plus, he was driving a tad erratically, so there was an element of self-preservation involved when I asked "Um...is everything alright?"

"The fucking guy!", he angrily exclaimed.

"Which guy?"

"THE GAY!!"

Ah, yes--the gay. After a few minutes of deciphering his broken English, I got the gist of the story. Apparently, Tariq (that was his name) had picked up a middle aged gentleman who instruced him to drive around Central Park, with no real destination in mind. Eventually, after Tariq noticed he was fiddling with something in the back seat, the guy asked him to pull over. It was at this point, I guess, that the guy offered this innocent Pakistani cab driver $100 for the honor of watching him spank his wanky.

Tariq told me that he'd refused the gentlamn's offer ("I say GET FUCK OUT!"), but something about his vehemence made me wonder--he had that whole "the cabbie doth protest too much" thing going. He said he'd driven around for a half hour trying to blow off steam before fianlly picking up another customer (me), and yet he was still plum freaking out, shouting, banging on shit, etc. Plus, he was constantly referring to his family ("I have wife and three children! THREE CHILDREN!!!") wife and children, as if that necessarily precluded a pocket-pool-for-pocket-change transaction. To me, Tariq definitely came across like Joe Buck after the movie theatre scene*--he'd done something shameful for cash and now he was questioning his very identity.

Further confirming my suspicion, Tariq soon launched into a rather passionate anti-gay rant. Thankfully, there was no "they should be buried to their necks and run over with a steam roller" type rhetoric, so I guess he would qualify as a "liberal" in the Arab world. Mostly, it was along the lines of "WHY DO THEY WANT SEX FROM MAN? THEY ALWAYS HAVING SEX! THEY ARE SICK! SICK!" In an effort to calm the guy down, I actually started trying to reason with him about it--I tried to explain that this guy was obviously an asshole, that he had personal issues, and that he didn't necessarily represent an entire group of people. Yet, there is a certain dregree of 'sexual daredevil-ism' among gay men in NYC, where guys feel perfectly comfortable thrusting (no pun intended) their sexuality upon you without invitation. In my nearly twelve years in New York, there have been a number of incidents where dudes have approached me with offers of sex, and always with a creepy "you know you want it" kind of arrogance. I'm sure women have experiences like this with straight men all the time, so I guess the reality of situation is simply that NYC is one of the few places where gay men are as douchebaggy as straight men.

Specifically, I remember once having to deal with a former landlord**, a genial man in his late 50s who I wasn't even aware was gay. I had stopped by one late Friday afternoon to get a letter or recommendation--I was moving to a new apartment and I needed to get a letter from my landlord in order to sign the lease. As he was typing up the letter, he invited me to sit down next to him--"I promise I won't bite...unless you ask me nicely!, he said "jokingly". He then started to ask me who was going to be moving into my old room, complaining that my lease-holding roommate never got anyone nice for him to date. I just kind of sat there and laughed nervously, desperately pretending that i had no idea what he was trying to imply. Finally, he came out with it.

"So, Christian...you're not gay, are you?"

"Um, no. Sorry. I mean....you know...sorry. But, no."

Seeing that I was incredibly uncomfortable, my landlord immediately waved his hands dismissively and tried to put me at ease. "Oh no, it's nothing like that. Don't worry about it. I don't like to pressure a boy. When I see a young man I like, I just say to him 'Hello. My name is Louis and I think you're attractive. Would you be interested in having dinner with me? You'll have a great time, you'll make a hundred dollars, get your dick sucked', and that's it. That's all I say. No pressure, or anything!"

I just stared at him, open-mouthed. He must have uttered that phrase three or four more times, "make a hundred dollars, get your dick sucked". It was so blas�, it was as if he was reading aloud from the phone book. For my part, I responded with someone along the lines of "That's funny...that you say that to people...you know, other people...." Eventually, frustrated with my seeming inability to take a hint, my landlord asked "So...does that seem like a situation that would be appealing to you?"

______________

Okay look, I know I do this all the time, but I don't have time to finish this thing right now. My sincere apologies. It probably won't be much of an issue, being that hardly anyone visits this blog on Sundays, but I promise I will finish this mini-saga later tonight, after I get back from performing for mulletheads and acid-wash afficianados in Ocean Township, NJ. Enjoy your evening, kids.

* That's a Midnight Cowboy reference, you philistines!

** His name is Louis DeVito, for the record.

WHAT THE FUCK?

It's almost 2pm on February 14th and I have not received one valentine. Not one! This is some bullshit, yo. I, myself, have sent valentines to the following people:

Hans Blix
The girl who Played Tapenga on "Boy Meets World"
Former Monkee Peter Tork
Gerald Levert
Mary Steenburgen
The guy who works the Slush Puppy machine down the street
Princess Leia
Former New Jersey Net Yinka Dare
J. Geils
Harriet Tubman
Rikki Rocket
Sally Ride
Celine Dion
Bob Balaban
Jabberjaw
Icy Hot Stuntaz
Annie
The late Vincent Gardenia
Booby McTitsface
Your mother

Screw you all.

FOREVER YOUNG

I have two rather large zits today. I'm 29. This shit is supposed to end at some point, is it not? At the same time, I'm steadily going grey. Am I destined to be the only one at Shady Oaks Retirement Village to be referred to as 'Pizza Face'? If I am to retain teenage traits into my golden years, I would prefer the everlasting boners and lack of nose hair, thank you very much.

I'd write more, but I have to go audition for a PowerAde commercial, after which I will undoubtedly want to shoot myself in the face. Some day soon, I'll write about the dignity-crushing, soul-sucking experience that is auditioning for commercials. But, what with this annoying acne bullshit sprouting up, I don't have the self-esteem to spare at the moment.

YEAH, I KNOW: BLAH BLAH FUCKING BLAH

Okay, fuck this whole Valentines Week bullshit--I'm already bored of it and no one seems that enthralled, anyway. Besides, I feel kind of silly that all this major shit is going on in the world, and all I can seem to write about is fucking the chick from Species*

For instance, the new Bin Laden single dropped yesterday (Tuesday is 'new release' day, after all). From what CNN tells me, it's basically a love letter from Osama to the people of Iraq. Although he's not mentioned on the tape by name, I have to imagine Saddam's not exactly psyched that Osama's letting the world know he's got his back. There was probably a rather angry phone call from Baghdad, along the lines of "Um...dude? What the fuck?! YOU'RE NOT HELPING. Ixnay on the uplicpay eclarationsday of endshipfray, capiche?"

I don't know that I've ever felt so politically isolated about anything as I do Gulf War II. On the one hand I am, generally speaking, anti-war. And I would trust our government's claims that all this Iraq stuff is being done in the name of 'Homeland Security' (a term nearly as diabolically misappropriatable** as "Jihad', by the way) a lot more if Vice President Cheney hadn't sent an internal memo previewing Iraq's impending 'regime change' almost a year before September 11th***. Still, I'm definitely not one of those people who blithely dismisses Reality in favor of mamby pamby I'd-like-to-buy-the-world-a-Coke horsehit. Sooner or later, the shit is gonna go down in the Middle East--anyone who thinks otherwise is living in Mental Poopie Land. Why? Because there are thousands and thousands of people in that part of the world who are planning to kill us. Not figuratively--literally. This is a simple fact that a lot of my protester friends refuse to accept. But does that mean I'm ready to jump on the Jingomobile and ignore that the greatest human tragedy ever to occur on American soil has been commandeered by a few opportunistic fuckfaces (one of whom happens to be president) with a military axe to grind? Of course not. Like I said, the whole scenario makes my head hurt.

I sometimes feel like we should go to war, simply because France is telling us not to. I know I've ranted about this before on this site, but why the fuck does France even get to vote on this shit? Why do we keep pretending that its opinion matters? In the 21st Century, a country really should have something utterly necessary to offer the world (other than cinema and cheese) in order to be counsidered a first-tier nation. In basketball terms, America is basically Shaquille O'Neal: we're huge, kind of dumb, we totally cheat and get away with it, but there's really no denying that we're the most dominant force in the game. Russia is kind of like Patrick Ewing in the years leading up to his retirement: their skills have eroded, they're sort of living in denial, but we can all still remember a time when they were 'The Man'. 20th Century France, by contrast, is more like the Washington Generals, the team that used to face off against the Harlem Globetrotters: they're notable only for how often and easily they get punked.

But I tell you, it's really hard to talk shit about any country with W. as our global ambassador. I do believe in the American electoral process, for the most part, and I don't think it's too helpful to constantly bitch about the guy--like it or not, he's gonna be president for at least another year and a half. But christ he's embarassing. George W. Bush is basically like that ex-girlfriend (or boyfriend, as the case may be) who you got along with in private, but you always avoided bringing to parties because you were afraid of the stupid shit that was bound to come out of her/his mouth. You know the feeling--she's babbling to your friends about how she often suspects that she's clairvoyant, and you're silently screaming, "Shut up. Shut up. Please shut up. No... No... That's not how that word is pronounced. Please stop talking. Please, for the love of christ. Fucking kill me now." But then, someone like that prick France comes up to you and says "Dude...your girlfriend's kind of an idiot." And, all of the sudden, you're like "Hey, FUCK YOU! At least I have a girlfriend!"

And no discussion of global events would be complete without mentioning the "Dell dude" getting busted for pot. It's rare that the simple reading the paper can inspire me to pump my fist in the air and shout "YESSSS!!!", but there you have it. I would like to remind everyone that Tower of Hubris was way ahead of the curve on calling that guy a douchebag. He makes Jared seem downright likeable, by comparison. I'd write more about "Steven" and the strange circumstances surrounding his arrest (He was wearing a kilt, apparently), but it kind of seems like too easy a target. Besides, it's 5:42 in the goddamn morning. Still, fuck that guy.****

__________________

* For the record, I'd like to mention that I don't really find Natasha Henstridge all that attractive. She's a bit 'blank' looking, if you want to know the truth. But I just remember how much guys (and journalists) were publicly wanking to her when that movie came out.

** Yes, I'm aware that this is not a real word.

*** It was in a sort of governmental 'to-do' list that Cheney circulated to Bush's inner circle after the election, but before they actually took office.

**** With a splintery rolling pin.

VALENTINES WEEK, Part II

For today's visit to the Valentines Day hall of "fame", we travel back to 1981, when I attempted to woo beautiful young Karen Hickey with this homemade card:

VALENTINES DAY 1981


Deer Karen,

Will yoo be my valentine? Check one:

___ Yes I want to be yore valentine becuze I like yoo

___ No way I hate you

___ I shan't be your valentine, Mr. Finnegan. But fear not--this is not a matter of personal animosity. What I reject is the commercialization of "Love" in contemporary American society. Am I supposed to feel any more or less romantically inclined toward a person on February 14th simply because a multinational corporation like Hallmark or Godiva, Inc. tells me so? Nay, nay, three times nay! I am but a mere 2nd grader, but I will play what little part I am offered in this struggle with gusto. Together, we will finally wrest affairs of the human heart from the clammy hands of corporate greed. LIBERTE! EGALITE! FRATERNITE! Therefore, Mr. Finnegan, I must shun your well-meaning but socially misguided romantic overture. I offer you my sincere condolences and look forward to a mutually beneficial social partnership sometime in the future.

___ Sorree, I only hook up with 3rd graders

IT'S VALENTINES WEEK!

As you know Valentines Day is nearly upon us. And to celebrate this most wonderful of holidays, I will spend this week posting Valentines Day missives I have written to girlfriends of yesteryear. By Friday, I think you will all see just what a smooth operator I am. So throw open a window, ladies--it's about to get hot in here!


VALENTINES DAY 1996


Dearest Joanne,

I am so lucky to have you in my life. We shall be together until the stars all fall from the sky. You are so, so beautiful. Your lips, your eyes, your nose--nearly perfect. When I gaze upon thee, it's almost as if I am reminded of something. Or someone. Who could it be? Some lover from a past life? Some distant memory of a soulmate long since forgotten? No, now that I think about it, you kind of remind me of that chick from Species. What's her name again--Natasha something? Yes, that is who you remind me of, sweet Joanne. Christ, that chick is fucking hot. Remember that scene where she gets out of the alien pod, and she's all, like, slimy and naked and shit? And you can totally see her beav? That ruled. Then there was that scene where she was making out with that guy and her tongue like shot out the back of the guy's head? How awesome was that? Henstridge! That's right--Natasha Henstridge! Man, what a fucking fox. Can you imagine what it would be like if that chick was your girlfriend? Seriously, just think about it--you show up to the office Christmas party and you're all like "Guys, I'd like to all to meet my girlfriend, Natasha Henstridge. Yes, the chick from Species." They'd be so fucking jealous! How much would that rock?! And then you get to take her home with you. Like, to have sex with. Man, the things I'd do. I'd give just about anything...

What I mean to say is, I'd give just about anything for you to be my valentine. I'm aware that you already are my valentine. I mean, like, in the future. Remember, that whole 'stars fall from the sky' thing? Sure, I was just talking about that Species babe, but they were two separate points. One, you are my eternal valentine. And two, you just happen to kind of look like Natasha Henstridge (who I would totally fuck the shit out of).

Happy Valentines Day, my beloved.

MY FAVORITE MOVIE

THE END..........?
(Points of ellipses and question mark added for spooky effect)

Hello, winners.

Now, from time to time I've mentioned Portable Comedy, the stand-up show I've hosted every Friday night for the past seven or so months. Many of the readers of this page have come out to enjoy said comedy show in the flesh, and some of you have even come out for beers afterward at the glorious Limerick House (where livers go to die).

Well, friends, I have some rather unfortunate news. After a long and ridiculously successful run, Portable Comedy will be ending its run at the Gershwin Hotel tonight, Friday, February 7th. Hopefully, the show will return soon at a bigger and better location, but it's still a bummer.

In short, Portable Comedy has become a victim of its own success. As those of you who have been to the show lately know, turnout has been so good that we've been forced to turn people away at the door. Well, the Gerswhin's management has ALSO noticed this and decided to implement certain, um, "rental policies", making it impossible to continue producing the show. In short, they raised their rental fee by 500%, leading me to my official position of "Go fuck yourselves."

So until I can find a new (and better) home for the show, tonight will be the final installment of Portable Comedy. Luckily for you, there's an ultra-fantastic lineup for you. Check it out:

DEMETRI MARTIN (As seen on "Late Night w/ David Letterman". Demetri is also subject of the Comedycentral.com "spotlight". Check him out here.)

DAVE KEENER (One half of the beloved comedy duo Them Keener Boys, performing a couple of selections from his new one-man musical!)

VAL KAPPA (An NYC alternative comedy favorite and former regular at Boston's pretigious Comedy Studio!)

JONATHAN CORBETT (As seen on Comedy Central's "Premium Blend", and chosen to perform at this past year's Montreal Comedy Festival!)

JAY OAKES (This former co-host of Portable Comedy trvals all around this country, often opening for the likes of Lewis Black!)

OPHIRA EISENBERG (She's appeared on Canadian television and is the former host of the much-missed "Indutry Room" comedy showcase!)

And yes, the details:

PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 7th
THE GERSWHIN HOTEL
7 East 27th Street (b. 5th and Madison)
10:00
STILL...$5.00! (The fucking cocksuckers at the Gershwin suggested I simply raise the admission price to $15, in order to cover their insane rental fee)

So come on out to tomorrow night's final (sort of) installment of Portable Comedy--there will be surprises galore! And if you can't make it to the show itself, come out for a beer at Limerick House (23rd street, between 5th and 6th ave). We'll probably be there by midnight.


That is all. Back to your furious masturbating and/or Ding Dong eating.


P.S. If / When Portable Comedy finds a new home, I will send out word. Thanks for humoring me.

WORST SONGS TO PLAY AT A WAKE, Part II


"Iron Man" by Black Sabbath

"Plop Plop, Fizz Fizz" (the Alka Seltzer jingle)

"Yankee Rose" by David Lee Roth

"Paradise by the Dashboard Light" by Meatloaf

"Sugar Walls" by Sheena Easton

"Jungle Love" by Morris Day and the Time

"Mony Mony" by Tommy James and the Shondells

"K-I-S-S-I-N-G" (Trad.)

"Le Freak" by Chic

"Last Caress" by The Misfits

"The Thong Song" by Sisqo

"Far From Over" by Frank Stallone

"Seventeen" by Winger

"Don't Stop 'Till You Get Enough" by Michael Jackson

ATTENNNN-SHUN!


This
is
a
blog
reading
endurance
test.
Let's
see
how
long
you
will
read
this
if
I
just
keep
typing
one
word
per
line.
Is
this
as
far
as
you
will
read?
How
about
here?
Still
reading,
eh?
I
must
admit,
I'm
surprised.
You
guys
must
be
really
bored
today.
Seriously,
like,
get
a
fucking
life,
you
know?
Maybe
I'll
just
say
something
incredibly
interesting
and/
or
funny
in
the
middle
of
this
thing
here,
just
to
see
if you're
really
reading.
Like,
did
you
catch
that
one
of
those
lines
had
two
words
in
it?
Didja?
If
so,
you're
are
an
observant
person.
You
should
be
proud
of
yourself.
Really.
If
you
didn't
notice,
it's
quite
possible
that
you
are
a
moron.
Way
to
go,
stupid--
enjoy
your
future
career
at
Sbarro's!
Anyway,
maybe
I
really
will
throw
in
an
actual
secret
of
some
sort
in
here.
Those
of
you
who
were
too
lazy
to
scroll
down
this
far
will
never
know,
for
instance,
that
I
once
gave
White
House
Press
Secretary
Ari
Fleischer
a
hand
job
whilst
in
the
ball
crawl
at
Chuck
E.
Cheese
restaurant.
Or
that
I
was
once
tea-
bagged
by
the
members
of
Glass
Tiger.
No,
that's
the
kind
of
cherished
information
that
is
only
revealed
to
those
of
you
who
display
fortitude
and
due
diligence.
Keep
this
information
close
to
the
vest--
you
will
called
upon,
once
the
revolution
comes.


(No,
I
haven't
been
smoking
weed
today.
Why
do
you
ask?)

LADIES, BEHOLD:

The coolest man of all time!

Or, could it be this guy?

HOME SWEET FUCKING HOME

Holy mother of fuck, I am so happy to be back in balmy (47 degrees, suckas!) NYC. One of the great things about leaving town for a while is getting to re-experience that sweet feeling of "I'm almost home". When most people get that feeling, they probably hear Simon and Garfunkel's "Homeward Bound" playing softly in their heads. Me, I always get a brainful of "Strutter" by Kiss, which is infinitely more righteous, dude. So yeah, it's quite nice to be back. When I stepped out of LaGuardia and into a cab, I kissed the driver full on the lips--I'm not sure what 'maricon' means, but I'm going to assume it was a compliment!!

(I'll try to write more a little later.)

EXCERPTS FROM CONVERSATIONS I HAD LAST NIGHT



"Well, living in Cleveland, you pretty much just have to learn to drive drunk."

"Today's music fucking sucks, man. What happened to music that was pure? You know, like the shit that came out like I was in college. The Gin Blossoms, Better Than Ezra--that shit was pure."

"What you do is, you walk up to a girl and say 'I wanna tell you a joke' and then you say 'What did the ghost say to the bee?' And when she says 'what', you say 'Boo, bee' and grab her tit! If she doesn't freak out on you, you know you're in.

"You ever have one of those burps where puke comes up? I should probably go home." *

"Man, I would never have the guts to get up onstage in front of people. I'd be so scared I'd make an ass of myself!" (said by a woman who, ten minutes later, was standing on top of a table doing the 'rump-shaker' to Snow's "Informer".)


* This is the only statement that actually came out of my mouth. But, for the record, my near pukefest had more to do with having been ill than with Sweet Lady Liquor. I had a very reasonable three beers, thank you very much.