Saturday's Child

I went through a period about 12 years ago in which I always had a roll of Certs handy. I think it lasted three months, at which time concerned friends and family staged an intervention to help thwart my growing Retsyn addiction. I only mention this because today you get not one, not even two, but three, three, three posts in one.

What A Bunch Of Pricks

Last Saturday morning started with my first acupuncture appointment. Get it? Pricks? I’m friggin’ hilarious. So if you remember a couple years ago I concocted that whole cancer story for financial gain? And instead all I got were prayers, a Crystal Bernard pillowcase and a pooping pig keychain. Next time I need to be more specific and request cash when I try to scam you guys. I mean, I even went through chemo and radiation to give the story credibility and destroyed my thyroid and salivary glands in the process. Now the docs have given me prescriptions for the side effects but I can’t afford to fill them so send me cash.

I’m joking, of course. I have plenty of cash since I’ve been embezzling all the blog proceeds from that lame Google advertising thing – that’s why Moist Rub thinks we’ve only made $5.45.

The thyroid thing is no big deal – I pop a cheap pill each morning and no worries. Just like a hungover sorority broad.

The salivary gland thing is a little more complicated because that pill not only stimulates the salivary glands but also stimulates the sweat glands. Meaning that a dose large enough to generate enough spit to lick a stamp makes me look as if I just stepped out a Bikram yoga class.

All I know is I paid $40 to some American guy who went to an Oriental medicine school to stick three pins in my face, one in each foot, two in each leg, and three in each arm. Then he told me to relax for 30 minutes with the other dopes sitting around with pins sticking out of their body parts. He comes back, takes them out and tells me to come back next week. Unless I end up with more spit than the floor of a major league dugout in the next week, I’m not sure I’m sold on this acupuncture deal. I’ll keep you updated.

Blades of Glory

As soon as I returned from the clinic it was time to go to the Ice Capades. It’s really not my first choice for entertainment on a Saturday afternoon. In fact, I’m not sure it would make the top 100. It would probably fall somewhere in between shopping for a toaster oven and putting my t-shirts in alphabetical order. But Mom really digs figure skating and she was kind enough to carry me around for nine months and put up with me for 18 years after that, so I got her tickets to the Smucker’s Stars On Ice tour. I let her know she didn’t have to take me and the Mrs, but for some crazy reason she likes hanging out with us and insisted we attend. Or maybe we pissed her off somewhere along the line and she was punishing us. Regardless, we got her to the arena and prepared for the worst.

It delivered. There were throngs of tweens with their bedazzled cellphones in the crowd. There were senile old women with Dorothy Hamill haircuts looking for Dick Button. There were Asians traveling in packs of no less than five. As far as the show, there were cheesy introductions to most of the skits (routines?). Sparkly costumes that would be humiliating to the normal person. And the routines were sorely lacking in the triple toe loop – double salchow combos for which I was hoping. Even the biggest “star” that I recognized – Sasha Cohen – fell on one her jumps (apparently you’re not supposed to laugh) and exhibited the charisma of a barber’s pole. People say the same about me, but I’m not the one with the lucrative Smucker’s contract.

Okay, so there was a dude that did a back flip a few times. That was impressive. And there was French-Canadian couple (or are we still calling them Freedom-Canadians?) who tossed each other around the ice without crashing. Also impressive.

But the gayest blade moment came after intermission (yes, intermission since the excitement level was getting out of hand and we needed 20 minutes to calm down), when all the male skaters welcomed us back in black leather pants and fitted turquoise shirts for a routine. Before long one of them lifted a fellow skating dude over his head, brought him down on top of his head, and spun him around like a helicopter bringing wounded queens to an icy MASH unit.

At some point I was hoping they might re-enact the Nancy Kerrigan attack in celebration of the 15th anniversary, but no such luck. Why, why, why?

The show ran almost three hours, so dinner turned into a quick trip to Portillo’s before dropping Mom off on the way to our next scheduled event.

Jorma-Be-There

How I got to the next show is a long story and about funny as a heart attack. Back in Dallas I was introduced to a local musician named T-Buckk. I ended up taking lessons from him and we got to be pretty good friends. When we were getting married (me and the Mrs, not me and T-Buckk (Texas kind of frowns upon same sex marriage)), we asked if he would play at our wedding. He not only agreed, but refused to take any money as long as he was free to enjoy the reception. Done. He played Little Wing as the future Mrs. walked ill-advisedly down the aisle, which was actually a staircase near some fountains in a downtown Dallas plaza, he played a couple other originals we requested during the ceremony, and then got swept onto the dance floor by my family during the polka set at the reception. And then, two months later, he died unexpectedly of a massive heart attack. Told you so.

There was a swell memorial service for him at Winfrey Point overlooking White Rock Lake – one of those memorial services that people always talk about wanting when they die, but never seem to come to fruition. A casual gathering of friends to celebrate his life, his music, his friendship, hanging out, playing music, maybe even doing some drinking. And after a few words by some of his closer friends, a woman who sat in with him occasionally during his Thursday night gigs at Mick’s gave us an incredible a cappella version of Amazing Grace. That was the last time I saw Ruthie Foster perform.

It’s a moment that stayed with me, and soon after I noticed she began releasing records, gaining a following, and touring the country. Her most recent tour brought her through Chicago Saturday evening, opening for Jorma Kaukonen and Robben Ford. Who? That’s what I said. Turns out that Jorma was one of the founding members of Jefferson Airplane and long-time founding member of Hot Tuna. I suppose I should have known that since I briefly dated a girl who was obsessed with Jefferson Airplane, although I think she was more a Paul Kantner girl. That’s why we had to break up. But I digress.

Turns out ol’ Jorma is a pretty good fingerpicking blues guitarist. Pretty eerie, but based on what I heard I’d bet that my old buddy T-Buckk had some Hot Tuna records in his collection.

Robben Ford is also apparently a respected guitarist with a blues, rock and jazz background, but no jazz hands as far as I could tell. He since formed his own blues band, but was oddly dressed as if he were auditioning for a wandering minstrel role in The Princess Bride. Despite an impressive bio including stints backing up people like Charlie Musselwhite, Jimmy Witherspoon, George Harrison, Joni Mitchell, George Michael, and Miles Davis, I found his band technically solid but rather uninteresting. Not unlike a high-priced escort. Oh, and I was joking about backing up George Michael. Just seeing if you’re still paying attention at this point.

After each of the three played their individual sets, the remainder of the show consisted of various collaborations that went together like a slab of ribs and cole slaw and a cold beer. As long as you like those three things. If not make up your own analogy. Just don’t miss them if they come to your town.

Leper Pop Red Carpet Report

Personally, I don’t know why anybody should care about who I am, or anybody else is, wearing tonight for the Oscars.

The media has been hounding me all month. They simply refuse to wait until I emerge from my ’68 Chevy Nova and appear on the red carpet to discover how I constructed the delivery of my feigned self. People need to know what is going to happen before it happens so they can plan the appropriate, socially acceptable reaction. Look around to see if other people like it before smiling with acceptance or scoffing in disgust. No sense being an individual. The stars are on display to be judged, praised and ridiculed to the extent of which contemporary, ephemeral standards of eminence allow, from their garments, hair style and choice of escorts to the manner in which they attempt careen above the rest. The efforts behind whatever achievement they hope to be served are secondary to the pose they’ve molded from the compost of insecurity laced vanity that crams their minds.

And those of us who care about all this are just as decayed inside, or worse. These stars are entertainers, after all. Paid by us to entertain us. Hardly more worthy of the magnificence the term “star” affords than anybody else we pay to help us survive. Yet, we allow them to wear this banner of brilliance even though their service to us is no different than the other servants we let. The fast food worker thanks US when serving us our fries and hopes to provide services again to us in the future (whether the "Come again" plea is sincere or not). Shouldn't these actors be thanking us in a similar fashion, instead of pompously honoring themselves behind masks of grandiose insignificance? Yes, but we lick their bottoms, nonetheless. Should we not also lick the plumber’s, garbage man’s and feet scraper’s bottoms? The good ones shine in their own way, but nobody cares what they are wearing when they accept their employee of the month gift cards.

This ruptured value perspective disgusts me. I have figuratively brought myself to a state of internal vermin with this discussion. Consequently, I choose not to be a red carpet star tonight. Instead, I will watch the Blackhawks play ice hockey. But, I also understand that high fashion is an important component in our society, so I won’t let you down. Here is who I will be wearing.

Champion (Authentic Athletic Apparel) – dark blue Toledo Rockets long sleeve tee.

Levi’s – 501 Button fly jeans (women hate dealing with the buttons which is the ONLY reason I never get laid).

Hanes – ankle high white socks.

New Balance – 479 All Terrain shoes

Fruit of the Loom – jockey type grundies – black (it is a formal affair, after all)

The Lord of The Flung Dung

I admit it. I am a Lord of the Rings nerd. Dork. Dweeb. Whatever you want to call me. I’ve read the books multiple times, I attended the opening midnight showings of each of the three movies released earlier this millennium, and I refer to my penis as Treebeard. As much of a LOTR squid that makes me, I don’t consider myself one of those insane Tolkien gargantuageeks. I mean, it’s not like I garbed up Gandalf-like when I saw the movies or immortalized my devotion with a “Frodo Lives” tattoo on the small of my back (not a permanent one, anyway) or shun the movies because they betrayed the integrity of the books. I understand why Peter Jackson chose not to include Tom Bombadil or why he enhanced Arwen’s role in the story or why he ignored the scouring of the Shire. Screenwriters must make some concessions when adapting books to film. What works in the mind does not always behoove the visual experience. The modifications made for the movies were understandable.

WOULD IT HAVE KILLED HIM TO INCLUDE MORE OF THE DISCUSSIONS BETWEEN FRODO AND FARAMIR IN ITHILIEN!?!?!?! I mean, Jeez! OK, OK, I don’t mean to complain. I understand Faramir and Frodo’s verbal chess match does not necessarily translate very well to the big screen, even though it did illustrate Frodo’s emerging maturity and Faramir’s wisdom and ability to be much more of a hero and a leader than Boromir could ever be, no matter what that loony Denethor thought of him. Denethor. What a jerk that guy was. And there is no way he could have run, on fire, from the Minas Tirith tombs all the way through the Citadel and over the outer edge of the giant spur of rock. Sure, it was dramatic and served as a nice transition back to the battle in the movie, but the tombs were about a mile back toward the mountain. Who does he think he is, Joan of Arc? You can’t trick me.

But I did like some of the additions they incorporated, like Sam’s monologue of hope at the end of the The Two Towers. Oh, and near the end of the Return of the King, when all the people of Minas Tirith were gathered on the giant spur of rock for the coronation of Aragorn, and then Aragorn and his party approached the four hobbits and the four hobbits began to bow, but Aragorn stopped them and said, “My friends, you bow to no one” (for all their heroics in the battle against evil), and then everybody bowed to them instead. Every time I see that I feel like I’m swallowing a hockey puck, and, I’m not afraid to say it, tears of joy tumble down my cheeks.

Maybe I am one of those gargantuageeks, afterall (a closet one, anyway). But there was one thing they omitted from the movies that needed to be included. I don’t blame Jackson for it, since Tolkien, himself, chose not to include it in the story. I refer to, of course, the scenes featuring the Mumakil of Harad, aka the big, giant elephants. It’s been my experience, mostly in zoos and circuses (and sometimes at the grocery store) that whenever there are elephants, there is elephant shit, and usually a couple of guys with big shovels. Where was this significant aspect of elephant culture in the story of the one ring to rule them all? It seems too critical a dynamic to ignore.

Through some research I learned that Tolkien had initially used the presence of the Mumakil (Oliphaunt) dung as a crafty tool of warfare in the battle of the Pelennor Fields. In this version, Sauron had instructed cave trolls with big shovels to follow the Oliphaunts, scoop their droppings and deliver them to the catapults, where they would be launched over the stone walls of Minas Tirith. Some dung bombs would even be set afire. There is nothing more discouraging to an enemy than being hit by giant chunks of flaming shit. It’s the first thing they teach you at West Point. This element worked fabulously in the battle scene and added a fresh dimension of strategy to the struggle between evil and good. But, during a bender at one of the local pubs, Tolkien’s pious zealot of a friend, CS Lewis, talked him out of it, convincing him that if god wanted them to write about feces, he would have placed our anuses underneath our chins. Tolkien was so drunk at the time, he believed Lewis and deleted the crap the next day (after the prostitutes left).

Imagine how more riveting The Return of The King movie would have been had this element not been flushed away. The action in the events in the battle scenes would have been enhanced beyond comprehension. When Merry and Eowyn were riding the horse amongst the tree-trunk-like legs of the Oliphaunts, not only would they have had to dodge the Oliphaunt legs, and the trunks and the tusks and the arrows and the orcs, they would have had the added peril of being squashed by a suffocating load of steaming pachyderm pie. If that doesn’t get your palms sweating, I don’t know what would. Consider the tide turning scene where the big chief Nazgul had Gandalf cornered on an upper tier of Minas Tirith. The Nazgul had already destroyed Gandalf’s staff and was about to end Gandalf, too. But the Nazgul was called away by the tumult caused by the arrival of the Riders of Rohan and their crazy attack horn (like the Nazgul couldn’t take an extra couple of seconds to pound the cowering Gandalf before he flew off to tame the equestrians, with their goofy felt covered caps and shiny boots and intimidating dressage whips). Wouldn’t it have been more interesting if, at that pivotal moment, the Nazgul was hit accidentally by a friendly fired mound of flung poop? I think so. Not to mention the ominous foreshadowing it would have made regarding momentum of the battle. Later when Merry would stab that same Nazgul as he was about to sack Eowyn, a little comic relief could have been added if, instead, Merry pelted him with Oliphaunt dung balls. Right when the annoyed Nazgul would implore, “Would everybody stop heaving shit at me, PLEASE!”, Eowyn could have taken that opportunity to stab his face. The result would have been the same, but we all could have had a chuckle as we wept for the dying Theoden king. As is the case with incorporating bathroom humor into any epic, the possibilities for entertainment are endless. Tolkien should have stuck with his first instinct.

My Wife Is A Whore

Well, at least according to one of the schizophrenic patients in lockdown at the psych unit where she’s currently rotating. I know the stripper heels, assless chaps and sports bra she normally wears to the hospital may give that impression, but her dress is only a reflection of her insecurities and not of any whorish behavior of which I’m aware. I suggested sneaking patients out to a ballgame might help them bond – it worked in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. But Wrigley Field is closed for the season and the patients’ anti-social behavior might even be considered boorish by Cubs fan standards.

Which brings me to the point of this post (as if any of these posts ever have a point)… a rare lesson in semantics. Despite a string of English teachers in high school who took the enjoyment out of writing and literature, I try to pick up a book once in a while and try to get things right when I write despite an unhealthy volume of both sentence fragments and run-on sentences. As the great Steve Martin has said, “Some people have ways with words, and other people just not have ways.” Or something like that. But I digress.

Now anyone reading this blog regularly, or even just the last post, probably recognizes that most people annoy me and I don’t go out of my way to talk to people. But those same people inexplicably seek me out despite my scowl and air of indifference. I can sit on the beach with headphones on and a hat pulled down over my eyes, and a 20 year old blonde girl in a bikini will ask me to watch her backpack while she goes for a swim. And then tell me all about her bike, how she got the bike, and the triathlon for which she is training. I go to the bar at lunch and the bartender tells me all about her kids, her ex-husband, her current boyfriend and their military service when I simply asked for some ketchup. I mention a concert to a friend on the train, and suddenly half the train car is treating me like their social director, asking details about the band, the music, the venue, directions, and what they should wear. It’s all an endless source of amusement for those who know me. But again, I digress.

Bottom line is that I frequently classify myself as unsocial or asocial. However, many folks try to tell me that I’m anti-social. Wrong. According to the American Psychiatric Association the key feature for antisocial personality disorder is “a pervasive pattern of disregard for, and violation of, the rights of others that begins in childhood or early adolescence and continues into adulthood." Also, three or more of the following are required (at least according to Wickipedia, which we all know is written by slutty teenage girls and Romanian prostitutes (or is that myspace?)):

1. Failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behaviors as indicated by repeatedly performing acts that are grounds for arrest;
2. Deceitfulness, as indicated by repeatedly lying, use of aliases, or conning others for personal profit or pleasure;
3. Impulsivity or failure to plan ahead;
4. Irritability and aggressiveness, as indicated by repeated physical fights or assaults;
5. Reckless disregard for safety of self or others;
6. Consistent irresponsibility, as indicated by repeated failure to sustain consistent work behavior or honor financial obligations;
7. Lack of remorse, as indicated by being indifferent to or rationalizing having hurt, mistreated, or stolen from another.

It’s a good thing I lack the key feature, because I nailed numbers 1, 2, 3, 5 and 6.

1. I routinely roll through stop signs, risking arrest by an overzealous traffic cop.
2, I think it’s obvious Sid F’er is not my real name.
3. I ran out of floss this week, clearly an indication that I fail to plan ahead. And I probably flossed impulsively after a meal in addition to my normal bedtime flossing.
5. I repeatedly stick Q-tips in my ears despite being warned not to and I encourage others to do the same. I also ride my bike to work and encourage others to ride in traffic.
6. I have a parking ticket from 1992 on my record for which I still owe $50.
2. I lied about #6 just to sound cool. I paid the ticket last month.

I don’t fight anymore (#4) because I got tired of getting my ass kicked. At a minimum I usually dislocate the ring finger on my right hand. And I do feel remorse (#7) even when people have it coming.

But none of that matters because I still lack the key feature of antisocial personality disorder so stop calling me antisocial or I’ll kick your ass and eat your dog.

Now the Mrs., on her psych rotation, when not being called a whore or being told by another patient that she is going to get her fired for not pulling her hair back in a ponytail, is learning how to properly classify all the nutcases in her life and has confirmed that it’s not antisocial personality disorder from which I suffer, but merely avoidant personality disorder (and that affinity for run-on sentences). There’s a whole other set of criteria for APD, but I won’t bore you with more of my drivel. It can only lead to reinforcing my pervasive pattern of social inhibition, feelings of inadequacy, extreme sensitivity to negative evaluation and avoidance of social interaction. Thank you for your understanding. Please don’t hate me.

Rhett Miller at Fitzgerald's - 2/6/09

Rhett Miller was coming to town. That didn’t mean much to most people around here, but I put it on my calendar and started recruiting friends to go to the show with me. I think I would have had more success asking them to come to dentist with me. At least they might get a free toothbrush out of the deal. Eventually Sr. Cojones stepped up and said he was interested. I had to promise him a free toothbrush, but at least I had a date.

Despite my asocial tendencies, I left work with two co-workers that evening and they insisted on taking the train with me, even though it would likely add several minutes to their commute. The train was full and standing room only and we started talking about our weekend plans. I left out the stuff about waxing my chest and making little outfits for the squirrels in my neighborhood in case I’m ever lucky enough to catch one. Instead I told them I was going to see Rhett Miller. No, not Bret Michaels. Who? You know, Rhett Miller, the singer for the Old 97’s. Then all hell broke loose.

A girl standing nearby asked, “Did you say you were going to see the Old 97’s?”

Another guy chimed in, “Where are they playing?”

From behind another commuter inquired, “What kind of music is that?”

By now, my co-workers, well aware of my general disdain of the general population, were trying not to laugh their asses off at my newfound glory.

The questions continued and I fielded them with the efficiency of the White House Press Secretary, blowing through them like Kobayashi blows through hot dogs at the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest.

“No, I’m going to see Rhett Miller, the singer from the Old 97’s.”

“Fitzgerald’s in Berwyn – just west of the city on Roosevelt Road.”

“About 20 minutes west, Google it, dude.”

“Alt-country, not classic country – get the wax out, buddy.”

“$20.”

“9:30 p.m.”

“I don’t know if I smoke after sex, I never looked.”

“Marinate in orange juice for a minimum of four hours, then cook slow and low.”

Eventually the inquiries slowed, I signed a few autographs, and settled into a vacated seat to recover from the unexpected deluge of social interaction.

After arriving home, I changed into my finest alt-country show wear (jeans and a t-shirt - same thing I wear to every show) and made the 30 minute drive out to Fitzgerald’s. The streets seemed unusually crowded and I noted that I had to park a block further away than normal. Do you see this one coming yet?

Yep, I arrived to find a sign on the door that simply said, “Rhett Miller – Sold Out.”

I bet those buttinskis on the train got the last tickets.

Subliminal Monkey Balls

“GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!”

The above caustic incantation is how I perceive most advertising. Whether it’s an infectious baby on a web cam or a bearded fool clamoring bloated portrayals of junk or a magazine ad formatted to look like an article or a magazine article written in a covertly advertising manner or a pop-up ad, which I don’t even look at, but if I did I would make a note never to patronize that company for interrupting my on-line Old Maid tournament, or a television crawl about a doorknob millionaire matchmaker show featuring a dopey looking Cher-oid beast making faces at me and ruining the moment when I was about to weep because Will Hunting had just reached an epiphany as he hugged his therapist, Mork from Ork, or a guilt-trip, zippy radio bit about donating my car to help kids I don’t even know (how the hell am I supposed to get to the bar?) or the deluge of other dickering disruptions that are hurled at me each day, “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” is all I hear. It makes me want to dip my head into a boiling pot of goulash and keep it there for like an hour, but then the goulash will become over-reduced, so I don’t. You shouldn’t boil goulash. I do like that one dude on those Miller High Life commercials. “Y’all must be crazy!” Ahhhh, it never gets old. It doesn’t mean I’ll drink the product. It doesn’t mean I won’t, either. Advertising, although seemingly a necessary festering abscess in our beloved capitalistic economy, is the festering abscess of society, and I loathe anybody associated with it, especially those who sell out to it – no matter how fetching the term “Frosty Favorites” is.

So why the hell are there Google Ads on this page? That is a fair question. The easy answer would be that it is Sid’s fault because he has no scruples. Or manners, for that matter. But, that is not the correct answer. We here at Google Pop have taken a lot of good natured ribbing over the years for having sold out by placing Google Ads on our quaint little blog. And rightly so, although the sticky bombs tossed at my station wagon were a little excessive – they destroyed my custom Never Ending Story paint job. We only did it to become Internet millionaires, and why wouldn’t we? It is a noble cause. And we are well on our way. So far, we’ve amassed a prodigious $5.45 (and that’s after only 16 months). On cyberpaper, that is. We have yet to be paid, and we won’t be paid for quite some time.

The Google pimp does not fork over the dough to its bitches until the dirty whore of a web site has generated at least $4,938,338.82 worth of user clicks. The good news is that when we finally get the check, we’ll be a millionaire. The bad news is, by that time, we will be dead. A dead millionaire, but dead nonetheless. But a millionaire, nonetheless, too. It’s a yin yang kind of thing. Unless you like being dead, then it’s a yin yin thing. Or a yang yang. I can never remember which is the good one. Personally, I like yang. I’m a yang guy from way back. I am so imbued with yang, people think I won the Nobel Prize for physics in 1957 (I actually won it in 1983 for discovering the tri-sexual duality of tau neutrinos). I also walk funny.

Part of the soul selling deal with the Google is that we are not allowed to coerce our visitors into clicking the ads, which makes sense since their flashy designs should be enough to attract ravenous online shoppers. Or at least dumb people with some cash to throw away. Nor are we allowed to click the ads ourselves. Why would we? We don’t need any of that crap. Nobody does. So, don’t click on the ads. We don’t need the Google police sending us on the lam again, and you don’t need the crap they promote, either. Take your money, and do something useful with it, like buy a monster truck from GM.

So, if it’s going to take forever to get paid by Google, and the ads suck, why do we display them on our site? Another fair question. One might think it’s because of Sid’s lack of scruples. Good guess, once again. But, wrong, once again. The truth is they can be entertaining and a source of inspiration.

Google has some kind of outlandish database sorcery that sifts through the words in our blog and tries to match them to key words in their table of skulking vendors and then serve up their ad in the designated areas on our site. The assumption is what we’re writing about is of interest to whomever is reading it, and the readers also may be interested in purchasing something related to that topic. We all know that nobody who happens to be reading this blog is even remotely interested in what we are saying. Thus, Google’s underhanded, know-it-all scheme is foiled, which is just plain funny. We sure fooled them. The lack of clicks generated so far is proof of that (it certainly has nothing to do with the amount of traffic to this place).

These ads also help us guide the content of the blog, as we attempt to generate silly and useless ads by writing about silly and useless subjects. Do you think Sid WANTED to write about cow pissing? Do you think I WANTED to write about scratching my crotch? No. What kind of dunderheads would write about that? He was trying to elicit a bovine diaper ad, and I was going for a Sarah Palin ad – both of which we feel are hilarious. Let’s face it, it’s not easy for either one of us to come up with ideas to write about, and we’ll take all the help we can get.

Have you ever wondered why you feel like monkey balls after reading one of our posts? It’s because we’ve subliminally infused the idea of monkey balls throughout most of the writings using fiendishly placed letters and special polyfollic fonts. Unfortunately, our tactics may be beyond the intuition of the Google sorcery, and we have yet to have realized an ad for simian testicular enhancement surgery. But, we have not given up hope and will forge ahead with our quest. We hope you have as much fun with the Google Ads as we do.

Advertising is not informative nor is it there with your best interests in mind. Don’t believe anything it tells you. Its only purpose is to nab our cash. It is a pest. It is a violation of our right to be left alone and make asinine purchases of our own volition. It is also unavoidable. So, we might as well have some fun with it. And, monkey balls.

Busting A Cap In Your Ass

I was watching CNN Headline News when a Nancy Grace promo came on and she said, “When you point the finger at someone else you have four fingers pointing right back at you.” Not really, Nance. I tried it and there were three pointing back at me but a thumb kind of pointing off into nowhere. So either you have a very deformed thumb or you just need to give it a rest already. My thumb is just fine. In fact, I may hitchhike to work tomorrow just to prove it. If I disappear maybe she can take up my case. Just don’t point out the creepy guy whose rusted out Chevy Impala you last saw me getting into. You’d just be implicating yourself.

Sid: I need a bigger bed.
Mrs: Do you need a California king?
Sid: No, I want an Alaska king.
Mrs: Is that bigger?
Sid: Yes, of course.
Mrs: Why do you need an Alaska king?
Sid: So I can have crab orgies.
Mrs: That doesn’t even make sense.

I don’t think I sold her, but I did convince her to go out for crab legs that evening. She even let me come along.

I saw a girl on the train the other day who looked very annoyed – as if she just found out the clothes she bought last week had just gone out of style.

I was invited to a party at the Sears Tower, but it was only on the 67th floor. Why bother? Go big or go home. Unless you’re buying a new cellphone. If you get a big cellphone then all your friends will be using the old “the 1990’s called, they want their phone back” joke. And then you’ll punch them in the face and say something stupid like “your girlfriend called, she wants her Rick Springfield cassettes back.”

If you are a Type II diabetic, a part-time job at McDonald’s might not be the best career choice for you.

I don’t know if you know this, but cyclists call their matching spandex short and jerseys “kits.” As if you need another reason to make fun of them. [Ed. Note – although I am a cyclist I never wear matching clothes and would never call it a kit.]

Being the big-shot business traveler that I am, I was recently staying at a Holiday Inn Express. I normally take the stairs to work off my road diet which typically consists of mounds of buffalo wings, vats of chocolate mousse and large pewter goblets of cherry limeade. But I digress. I had a room right next to the elevator and had to stop in the lobby so decided to take it from the 2nd floor. As the doors opened a dude from the 3rd floor stepped off thinking he was on the 1st floor. So who’s driving the bus? But anyway, he steps off looking like he’s in the twilight zone and can’t seem to comprehend that he’s on the wrong floor. Finally I grabbed him by the collar and threw him back in the elevator and told him to step it up a notch – he’s staying at a gosh darn Holiday Inn Express – hasn’t he seen the commercials?

Is there any band in America right now who makes you want to move to a third world country to minimize the chance of ever hearing their songs again more than Daughtry? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

And finally, due to the current economic situation (and to avoid feeling left out) Leper Pop is announcing the layoff of 4,000 readers. We believe this is a temporary yet necessary step to insure the long-term viability of Leper Pop. We also thought we were going to have to fire our intern, but she quit when she found out our dress code consists of a beekeeper’s hood and leg warmers. Thank you for your continued support and understanding during these challenging times.

What a Waste

I keep a waste paper basket by my desk. I’m not sure why I call it a basket. It’s more like a can. It is a can. It’s a waste paper can. While I do toss waste paper into it, I also deposit most non-food type waste into it, too, like expired pens, pieces of broken toys, errant staples, cracked vials, tar, fine china and, of course, non-edible parts of park benches. The majority of its transitory load is waste paper. So, it will remain named a waste paper can, because waste paper et al can sounds cumbersome.

I crinkle each slice of waste paper in a ball, sometimes boisterously, other times with the lackadaisical effort of a sleepy child, and heave it into the metallic refuse purgatory where it waits until enough waste paper (et al) accumulates to spark my domestic tending mode when I empty it into the recycle bin. It resides there until its eventual delivery to the curb to be taken somewhere out of thought by the big, mean recycling truck driver.

It’s no small feat, this heaving of crinkled, useless, dried pulp. My waste paper can sits behind me, to the right, partially obscured by a bookcase. An accurate shot takes guile and cunning and a masterful reverse, no-look hook shot. Kareem Abdul Jabbar would chortle with envy if he could see the ease in which I fling the waste. Most of the crinkled balls end up on the floor. I put them right back up with a fade away jumper while falling backward over the couch. On my way back to the desk, I retrieve the paper from the floor after the second shot and place it carefully into the can. Sometimes, the rim of the can gets in the way and the paper falls back to the floor. The waste paper is not an easily tamed beast.

Oh, what a waste, that waste paper. I have no other use for it.

44 Lines

No, it's not a post about my firsthand experience behind the scenes at a fashion show. With respect to The Nails and their 88 Lines About 44 Women, I present 44 Lines About 22 Girls. Sorry for half-assing it...

I went to a St. Patrick’s Day street party with a girl named Kellie Green. One of my crowning achievements in life.

I never dated a stripper but went out with a girl who bartended at a strip club, which is good because I was probably incapable of handling a fully certified stripper.

Speaking of strip clubs, a girl I dated got a boob job. While I was dating her and without telling me. That was a little awkward.

A little rocker chick I met at a party in the 80’s wearing a black concert t-shirt (Metallica, maybe?) ditched the party and took me to a bar that had karaoke, and then she spent the night singing Carpenters’ songs.

I made fun of a girl in college for bringing her backpack to a bar on a weekend night, until I found out she just used it to carry her motorcycle helmet and gave me a terrifying ride home.

I went out with a convicted felon for a while. She wasn’t convicted until after I met her, but I had nothing to do with it. Really.

A woman cop asked me out to a BoDeans concert. It was in a sketchy neighborhood and I asked her if she had her gun. I laughed when she said I could protect us.

I had a crush on a girl mostly because she had a Monte Carlo SS and drove with the seat so far back that she could barely reach the accelerator with her toe.

Whatever your town is best known for, I’ll deem you queen of the town’s festival whether or not you were queen or if there is even a festival. So far I’ve dated the Queens of the Decatur Soybean Festival, the Gilroy Garlic Festival and the West Texas Tumbleweed Festival.

There is an ex-girlfriend from college I’m trying to find, but only because she made the best damn beef barley soup I’ve ever had in my life. But I’m kind of glad I haven’t found her because now it would never live up to expectations.

A girl agreed to go out for ice cream with me after I demonstrated my ability to hold my breath until I turned blue and passed out. I had to try something new since pretending to be from Iceland wasn’t working.

I met one of the girls I dated while getting tickets to a show for my then girlfriend at the time. I wasn’t the best boyfriend back then. In fact, I was pretty much a dick.

I don’t know about Sean Avery, but I can claim Rob Blake’s sloppy seconds.

At a crowded party a girl said “Excuse me” as she passed through and I asked, “Why, did you fart?” She laughed. It was the first and only time in scores of attempts that the line actually worked. I’m not sure she spoke the English very good.

Once I was visiting a girl out of town and she though it would be fun to take me to a local production of The King and I. It really wasn’t.

When the girl you’re dating puts a pinch of chewing tobacco between her cheek and gum, it might be time to start looking for a new girlfriend. I needed the patch after we broke up.

I dated a girl who claims she was one of the final three considered for the lead role in the TV show My Two Dads. She didn’t get it or else I would have obviously said I dated the girl in the lead role in the TV show My Two Dads.

While talking to a rather pierced girl I asked how many piercings she had, and she told me thirteen. Above the waist.

Don’t count on the girl who says she can bring the ‘shrooms to the party to actually make it to the said party.

If you know a girl that can get you seats behind the Bulls bench during the Michael Jordan era, try not to puke on her shoes. At least not more than once.

When you ask a girl if she’d like to dance, you probably don’t want to hear her ask, “With who?”

I met a girl at a Halloween party who told me she was a bookkeeper (in real life, not her costume – that would be stupid). After a couple dates she confessed she was a lawyer but didn’t like talking about it, and nobody asks for details about bookkeeping. True dat, counselor.