Pop Culture Significance, Sesame Street's 40 Years vs. 50 Years of Playboy

Remember when Google ran that special Playboy 50th anniversary logo a couple of years back?

Jerry Falwell got so upset he almost popped a boner.

Sesame Street has been around 40 years! You didn't know? What are you as dead as Jerry Falwell? I haven't seen this much media coverage of a pop culture anniversary since Playboy turned 50.

Now, I can appreciate the Children's Television Workshop's significant efforts to

1. teach the abc's;
2. bring Palestinian and Israeli children together with only foam rubber and fake fur;
3. and make the inner city a little less frightening to white people everywhere...

but enough already. If you all don't stop I'm gonna have to get off my lazy ass, wake up my lazy brother and do a bit.

Which leads me to a shameless plug of my Playboy 50th anniversary bit. This bit was so good it actually caused UncleMelon.com to crash for two days.

We got farked and received 70,000 hits in three hours. By noon, the log files on the cheap server that hosted UncleMelon.com were full and the site went down. The always unresponsive but incredibly inexpensive web host took their sweet time and the rest is history.

My site had been farked maybe a dozen times before, resulting in huge increases in traffic -- but nothing like that day that has become known at wikipedia as Pink Tuesday. The difference? The boobies tag.

A Fark boobies tag = outrageous, server crushing traffic.

The bit was a decade by decade review of select centerfolds that stands up pretty well. It's sort of Basic Humor 101 making jokes about cultural changes in hair styles, clothing styles, boob styles, and pubic hair styles.

Everything is still good fun until you get to May 1992, Anna Nicole Smith, ouch. Uncomfortable, yeah a bit, so just skip over it if you're a pussy.

The usual warnings apply, the bit is not suitable for children, pregnant women or discerning readers.

Wait just a second, some of you expected a dissertation on the significance of 40 years of Sesame Street versus Playboy's 50 years. Wouldn't you rather go and admire some mighty fine boobage? It's seriously sweet stuff, just try not to think about what those boobs are doing today. You know, pointing straight to the epicenter of the planet, accidently dusting off the radiator in the bathroom, and scaring the cat.

You still rather read an analysis? Here's one graciously provided by my guest blogger and brother, Dave Melonosky.

---

Sesame Street vs. Playboy

Firstly, they both:

1. led to excessive masturbation
2. made many of us question our sexual mores
3. showed alternative lifestyles in a positive light
4. featured fantasy characters that do not exist in the real world
5. went from furrier to less furrier over the years

Now for Playboy's advantages:

1. allowed masturbation in greater privacy
2. was glossier and had funnier jokes
3. more tits, less boobs
4. more pussy, fewer cats and dogs
5. let us count all the way to 13, if you count playmate of the year

Now, Sesame Street:

1. had Kermit,the first openly gay television host
2. had a mixed-species, same gender couple in Snuffy and Big Bird
3. less white, way more colors
4. provided masturbatory simuli but we were often caught by our moms playing on the living room rug

and the winner is.... Playboy! For being less gritty, less gay and more naked.

Editor's Suggestion for CTW: In the future, more Maria, less clothes, way less Elmo.

Enough Already! Google and Sesame Street and Kim Kardashian, the Unholy Trinity

I get it. Sesame Street has been around a long time. Enough with the fricking Google logos.

Last night I am in Defcon 1. Halftime is almost over and I need to get back to the game, pronto. I punch out of xhamster and head over to the always reliable Google. I start typing kardashian bj with my right hand while my left hand is busy goo-goo-googling and who is looking down at me? Fricking Elmo! I really don't need a 5 year old puppet watching me while I go about my business.

The other night it was the cookie monster, Saturday it was the purple, metrosexual vampire guy. Google, throw me a bone and after 11 PM, logo me up some vintage Maria from circa 1979!!!

I stole these photos of Maria from FranklinMintBlog -- google, please feel free to steal them from me.

A-Rod the Centaur Part 2

I just found this photo of A-Rod the Centaur at AccessHollywood.com. They are claiming that this photo was taken in August of this year as Alex Rodriguez was taking his two children for a ride in Central Park. It appears that years of steroid abuse and frequent injections of Human Growth Hormone (HGH) have resulted in man boobs and the torso of a horse.

Alex Rodriguez the Centaur

By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

An ex-girlfriend of New York Yankee third baseman Alex Rodriguez revealed that the former drug abuser commissioned Sandro Bonticelli to paint a family portrait that hangs over the bed in the master bedroom of his 407-room apartment in Manhattan. Mr. Rodriguez is portrayed as a forlorn centaur while Kate Hudson is painted as a happy chick with a +3 halberd.

Kamasutra Snowmen and Calvin without Hobbes

This morning I found myself behind a black pickup truck with a LEER cap that was decorated with a Yankee entwined NY and Calvin pissing on the words "Red" and "Socks." Yo, douchebag, it's "Red" and "Sox."

It reminded me of a rip-off homage to Calvin and Hobbes that I did several years ago called Kamasutra Snowman. Most hate mail, ever -- not counting the foreskin nazis. If wacko e-mailers are to be believed it was just this sort of thing that caused Bill Watterson (the creator of Calvin and Hobbes) to go into retirement and never emerge from beneath his enormous piles of money.

If you are unfamiliar with Calvin and Hobbes, it was a very popular comic strip back in the day. It was nothing like that decal of Calvin pissing on whatever the driver of the truck doesn't like. Bill Watterson did not draw that Calvin and does not get paid for its use. Calvin and Hobbes was incredibly intellectual and often very subtle. I was not that big a fan given that my sense of humor leans slightly to the anti-intellectual and less than subtle.

My favorite Calvin and Hobbes strips featured snowmen. Here are two examples that illustrate what I'm talking about when I'm talking intellectual:


Here are two panels from my homage. I really like how the orange carrots came out.

Years after it was first posted, during the Paris Hilton Era, I added a Paris Hilton gag which is still pretty funny. Back then, adding the words "Paris" and "Hilton" to a bit guaranteed 2,000 additional hits a day.

The equivalent on this blog is "C.C. Sabathia's pants" which ensures a whopping 12 visitors.

Here's a link to Kamasutra Snowman.

Cleaning Out My Pictures Folder - October 2009

Every so often I have to clean out my My Pictures folder because I would get fired if someone saw any of these files on my computer at work. These are cool images I found on the internet while looking for other images.

The Dangers of Anthropomorphizing in Children's Literature

While looking for Jason the Mason I found this cute drawing of a piglet that wants to grow up and work in a supermarket. The weird thing is that the little girl pig has been left all alone in front of a glass case full of chopped up pig meat. I like to think that her mom has left her there to teach her a lesson. Something like, "Jenny, if you don't pick up your room, you're going to end up just like your lazy, no-good. Uncle Benny -- Boar's Head Bologna!!!"



Extensive research that only took a few minutes revealed a troubling trend in Richard Scarry's anthropomorphizing of pigs. They were all cannibals. The guy has a dark, dark sense of humor.



I always wondered why I ended up a vegetarian. Now, I think I know.



Early American Swimwear

Here is a charming photo of the National Ballet Company frollicking in a Washington area mud pit in 1926. Aren't those bathing suits the bee's knees? So modest. Do you remember that mother from Fiddler on the Roof? Five years removed from escaping Anatevka and she got a sweet gig babysitting dancers. The good old days!



Applesauce!!! Turns out that those ancient bathing suits were the cat's meow not the bee's knees. Wet wool is not only incredibly itchy and horrendously heavy, it's also frightfully form-fitting.


Girls in the Work Force

Back in 1944, when our girl Jenny left the safety of her kitchen, the U.S. Public Health Service feared for her well being. How is a girl to know that she should leave her high heels in the closet, shower regularly, eat food and sleep? Poor defenseless females!!! We'll make posters, that's what we'll do. Simple posters, with simple ideas, for our simple sisters.

Even More Wall Street Journal Humor - Health Care is So Funny

Another Post Courtesy of the Wall Street Journal - I kid Rupert Murdoch a lot when we see each other at the Friar's Club but his rag does supply an endless assortment of crap for my blog.

The Wall Street Journal has a daily cartoon called Pepper and Salt that I really, really don't like. Apparently, rich Wall Street scumbags have their own unique form of humor that is not funny. Here's today's cartoon.

Say ahhhh! Looks like another neo-conservative bashing of Obama's health care initiative. Maybe not. When you first read these cartoons you think, oh no, these are just like the cartoons in the New Yorker, I'm just too stupid to understand them. But after weeks of analysis, I've come to the conclusion that we're smart enough, they just suck, and they almost never have anything to do with business, or the right wing agenda of the Wall Street Journal.

Just look at that poorly drawn hypodermic needle. It is a needle, right? She wouldn't be using her cellphone to get rid of his humming unless she was calling Homeland Security to report the poor bastard as a terrorist threat. And check out those vertical lines below the squiggle that denotes her waist -- that nurse is wearing a skirt!!!! Do really rich guys that read the Wall Street Journal get to go to hospitals where the nurses actually wear skirts!?!

This is the part of the post where I attempt to write funnier captions. Remember this is a "business" comic for Wall Street Journal readers that is officially housed in the collections of the Harvard Business School Library assuring that future generations of MBA assholes will have no sense of humor. Here's my attempt at funnier versions. If you are the president of a major university and want to house a collection of my work, e-mail me.

And today's winner so far:

As always, I will continue to add captions to this post all day until I think of something funny. You are invited to help but you won't because leaving a comment is too much damn effort, bitch.

William Safire, A Memorial - One Month in Hell

Given that William Safire has become a regular contributor to this blog since his death, I thought it was fitting to celebrate the one month anniversary of his parting. Bill comments almost daily and is always welcome here despite our different political views.

That's William Safire and George W. Bush in hell. Don't get excited. The photo was taken during George's monthly conjugal visit with Roy Cohn. I photoshopped the hats in to give it a more festive look.

Congratulations and Best Wishes Bill!!!

The Foozie - Tailgate Approved and Ready for Some Serious Action

Have you paid any attention to the new ad campaign for Bud Light? Funny stuff. Mock-infomercials for hilariously designed tailgating apparatus for the serious beer drinker. Stuff like the Grooler^©, half grill, half cooler. Or the Drooler^©, half man, half Alabama fan.

The latest version of the ad features the Foozie^©, half foam finger, half koozie. For the verbally challenged girlymen out there, a koozie is one of those insulated things that help keep your cans of Bud Light cold. The best part of this ad and what makes it post worthy is the tagline that appears over on the right near the bottom of the screen.


One in the hand and one in the can!

What the fuhit*? The joke is so obvious it should come with a blank and a rimshot.

One in the hand and one in the can and _______ ***RIMSHOT***

Howabout?

One in the hand and one in the can and that's just a typical Tuesday night for your sister!

or

One in the hand and one in the can and one tickling her tonsils!

or

One in the hand and one in the can and one buried in her koozie!

How did the modern Mad Men working on the Bud Light account get this past the stuffed suits in St. Louis? Wait just a minute, Anheuser Busch headquarters is now in Brussels and that's in Belgium and Belgium is in Europe. This is one of those insidious, amoral, European-type commercials that will turn us all into sympathetic, soccer-loving, socialists.

Rickey suggested, One in the hand and one in the can and both my dogs in her bathtub! For those who don't know, Rickey has been scarred for life by his initiation into some homophobic/homoerotic fraternity at some not to be named upstate New York college.

Here's the winner so far. You are all encouraged to send me your best shots. You won't -- you clove cigarette smoking commies.

PROPS

This bit was suggested by my brother, Dave Melonosky. I do not watch commercials. I sit on the couch, koozie in one hand, remote in the other and flip stations constantly until I pass out.

***BEGIN INSIDE JOKE***Here's a photo of my brother with a prize winning smallmouth bass he caught while flyfishing in Canada.***END INSIDE JOKE***

*Fuhit: half f, half s.

Even More Wall Street Journal Humor - My Weekly Foray into Highbrow Hijinks

Another Post Courtesy of the Wall Street Journal - I kid Rupert Murdoch a lot when we see each other at the Friar's Club but his rag does supply an endless assortment of crap for my blog.

The Wall Street Journal has a daily cartoon called Pepper and Salt that I really, really don't like. Apparently, rich Wall Street scumbags have their own unique form of humor that is not funny. Here's today's cartoon.

This cartoon makes me feel stupid -- and poor. Those are middle-aged, white men so we know it's heaven. Does this mean that Mother Theresa is going to look like herself, old and haggard or like Gina Lollobrigida? Despite the theological implications, it's still not funny.

Remember this is a "business" comic for Wall Street Journal readers that is officially housed in the collections of the Harvard Business School Library assuring that future generations of MBA assholes will have no sense of humor. Here's my attempt at funnier versions. If you are the president of a major university and want to house a collection of my work, e-mail me.

And today's winner so far:

As always, I will continue to add captions to this post all day until I think of something funny. You are invited to help but you won't because leaving a comment is too much damn effort, bitch.

UPDATE

At the water cooler, Rickey suggested that "something about golden parachutes might be funny if you thought it out and framed it properly." I turned that incomplete nugget of inspiration into this (and next time could you leave a comment so it looks like somebody reads this fricking blog):

Dan Brown, Maureen Dowd and Me - That's a Tasty Sandwich!

Spoiler Alert!!! If you have not read Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol and plan to, you should probably not read this post.

This post is a review of a review by my old friend Maureen Dowd of Dan Brown's book, The Lost Symbol. Her review appeared in last Sunday's New York Times Book Review. Ms. Dowd and I share a less than positive view of the book. Although, I liked it better than she did. I still haven't finished the last 30 pages of it because it has become so tedious that my eyes begin to lower like the shades in an office in Boylston Hall whenever I get near the thing.

I believe that a book review, whether good or bad, should never ruin the experience of actually reading the book. This is a code that I live by, as do my Automobile Club of America brothers.

Do you see that spoiler alert up there at the top of my page above the Vonneguttian symbol for shvinkter? Maureen gives away a MAJOR PLOT TWIST in the very first paragraph of her review! Now, I admit that I'm not the brightest thread in a Harris tweed suit. I didn't know that Darth Vader was Luke's dad until Luke did, and I didn't realize that Professor Snape was Harry Potter's real father until Book 12, but calling the plot "an Oedipal MacGuffin?"

What the hell, Mo?

Later on in the review she reveals another incredibly important fact. All through the book the CIA is intimately involved because of the highest level of "National Security." If we knew what the CIA Director knew about the evil villian, we would all dive off a cliff like a pack of hopeless lemmings. Again, I'm dim. How could the secrets hidden in a Mason jar bring our country, no, the entire known universe, crumbling down to its proverbial knees? I'm thinking that maybe Osama Bin Ladin is a Freemason and Francis Bacon hid a really, really dirty bomb in that dusty, old knick-knack. Hurry Robert! Think! THINK BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!!!

But you don't have to live with that tension, Old MO gives it away! And it's a bit of a stinker actually, I felt totally let down and youtube just isn't that scary unless you're running for public office.

I'll be honest. I always thought that a mason was a highly trained but klutzy pig that built things out of bricks. But then, the only thing lining my educational facilities were the endless lines of lower middle class slackers hoping for TAP grant money.

Dan Brown books are fine. They are o.k. They are alright. Do his metaphors and similes stink worse than Dick Cheney's dick after eight years of fucking us all in the ass? How the hell should I know? My favorite symbol in a book was drawn by Kurt Vonnegut with a black Magic Marker.

Can I write a Dan Brown book better than Dan Brown?

Now that is a good question. In my book, Maureen Dowd will be happy to hear, Robert Langdon would be called Bob and he would get to bang the brainy babe that is forced to listen to page after page of wonky exposition. He'd lay her like George Washington laid cornerstones!!!

But what about a plot? Granted the dollar bill has been done to death but let's start with a penny.

Did you know that a penny used to be made out of copper but now its like 95% zirconium? I'll be able to use that. And what's with this E PLURIBUS UNUM? English? I don't think so. Latin probably, and latin means the Catholics are involved right up to their rosaries. And if you descramble E Pluribis Unum you get:

UP URSULINE BUM

And as any Catholic schoolgirl knows, the Ursuline Sisters were first recognized in 1544 by Pope Paul III. (I think their outfits gave them away.) But wait, another Pope!!! And up a nun's bum? We can use a hot english actress to play the brainy babe. One with good teeth because there's going to be a lot of talking in the movie they make out of my book.



Any editors out there? I'm available and Ron Howard is very interested in my treatment.

For those of you still searching for Maureen Dowd's cameltoe, please go here.

Even More Wall Street Journal Humor

Another Post Courtesy of the Wall Street Journal - I kid Rupert Murdoch a lot when we see each other at the Friar's Club but his rag does supply an endless assortment of crap for my blog.

I know. I've become completely obsessed with the incredible crappiness of these cartoons. I promise to cut it back to once a week, next week. Here's the standard lead in:

The Wall Street Journal has a daily cartoon called Pepper and Salt that I really, really don't like. Apparently, rich Wall Street scumbags have their own unique form of humor that is not funny. Here's today's cartoon.

I swear that you couldn't pay a guy to draw and write a worse cartoon. What kind of Wall Street guy wears a jacket with zippers on the sleeves? And if you can't really draw a citronella candle? Don't put it on the table. It doesn't add anything to the unfunny punchline involving expensive vacations.

Remember this is a "business" comic for Wall Street Journal readers that is officially housed in the collections of the Harvard Business School Library assuring that future generations of MBA assholes will have no sense of humor. Here's my attempt at funnier versions. If you are the president of a major university and want to house a collection of my work, e-mail me.

Apparently the policy here is "Only Bitches Get Coasters."

Not only won't you get lucky, I believe your October call options just expired.

Finish your drink. We have to get to our Botox appointments. We both look like shit.

Spit or swallow? I can have my Dominican cleaning lady do either one.

And today's winner, so far.

As always, I will continue to add captions to this post all day until I think of something funny. You are invited to help but you won't because leaving a comment is too much damn effort, bitch.

Yesterday's attempt - More Wall Street Journal Humor

Last week's attempt - Wall Street Journal Humor is a Bitch

More Wall Street Journal Humor

Another Post Courtesy of the Wall Street Journal - I kid Rupert Murdoch a lot when we see each other at the Friar's Club but his rag does supply an endless assortment of crap for my blog.

The Wall Street Journal has a daily cartoon called Pepper and Salt that I really, really don't like. Apparently, rich Wall Street scumbags have their own unique form of humor that is not funny. Here's today's cartoon.


There's nothing like a good folding maps joke and that's nothing like a good folding maps joke. *RIMSHOT, PLEASE* I think the last time a folding map joke was fresh was when Henry Blake was still on MASH. And the actual "artwork" is pretty damn lame. It looks like a 3rd grader drew it with a crayon. Come on, those dummies books are book-sized not NY Times-sized.

Remember this is a "business" comic for Wall Street Journal readers that is officially housed in the collections of the Harvard Business School Library assuring that future generations of MBA assholes will have no sense of humor. Here's my attempt at funnier versions. If you are the president of a major university and want to house a collection of my work, e-mail me.

I will continue to add captions to this post all day until I think of something really funny. You are invited to help but you won't because leaving a comment is too much damn effort.

Last week's attempt - Wall Street Journal Humor is a Bitch

Protection for your Banana

This morning a mom at work asked me if I thought the kids would tease her son if she sent one of those with him to school everyday. I asked her if she was was planing on packing it in his lunch box or her own box.

It is a good question. Obviously, I would tease the kid, and you would tease the kid, and the janitor would tease the kid, but would another kindergarten kid tease him? And it could make him the most popular boy with the crusty, old lunch aides which would be a good thing.

The problem is that by the time her son gets to eat his lunch, his unprotected banana is always brown and mushy. But if he pampered his delicate fruit from bruising with a Banana Bunker^® (available in four attractive colors), all his lunching problems would be solved.

I think I'll tell her to buy one and the two of us can test it out with my banana. I have this funny feeling that no matter how long my banana is in her box, it won't get soft and mushy (yeah, yeah, ok, but 10 minutes at least).

Another Great Moment in Photoshopping History

Great Moment 3

Start with a photo of the 23rd best president, and our largest, William Howard Taft.

Add a photo of comedian Ralphie May, his wife and an actress named Brenda Price. I needed a large guy in a white shirt with a couple of hot women, and when this showed up on google, it was like Jesus was telling me to fire up the old photoshop and get to work. "Hey Jesus, while I have you on the line. Why does Ralphie May get a hot wife and I get squat? Oh yeah, I'm a loser and he's not. Thanks my Lord. Would it be too much to ask for a photo of me with a hot actress making a smoochy face? How many Hail Marys? I'll get back to you on that, Sir."

Swipe a Free Moustache Rides logo off a t-shirt worn by a guy with, you guessed it, a moustache.

Put them all together and give it the old timey black and white treatment and you get President William Howard Taft on the campaign trail.

Yeah, I know what you are thinking, that is a great moment in the history of photoshop but it gets even better. If you search on google image search for William Howard Taft, it shows up eighth!!!

I like to think that there are little school girls and boys all over this great nation pasting my image of William Howard Taft onto a piece of oak tag in a last minute effort to finish their class projects.

The crappy thing is that google doesn't link to my site. I mean come on! I put in the 30 minutes of effort it took to make the damn thing. Google links to a frickin' myspace page that stole my image. So, I lose out on all that Taft traffic. Given that I stole the three images I used to create it, it's hard to get too mad.

I used this image in Worst Presidents Ever... in Bed. A bit that also includes a pretty good (not great) photoshop of George W. Bush in a Village People tribute band.

Nutmeg the Bomb Sniffing Gerbil

Butt Bombers Beware!!!

Washington - This morning Janet Napolitano, Secretary of Homeland Security, unveiled the latest in counterterrorism technology, Nutmeg the Bomb Sniffing Gerbil.

Trained specifically to uncover butt bombs, Special Agent Nutmeg and her fellow gerbils will soon be deployed at airports throughout the United States.

For more about the new threat posed by butt bombs, see below.

Butt Bomber Blowed Up Gud

Another Post Courtesy of the New York Post - I kid Rupert Murdoch a lot when we see each other at the Friar's Club but his rag does supply an endless assortment of crap for my blog.

Qaeda 'ass'assin: 'Butt bomb' Tactic Spooks Anal-ysts

WASHINGTON -- There's a new al Qaeda terror technique that has American security experts pooping in their pants -- call it the "butt bomb." A suicide bomber recently put himself next to a member of the Saudi royal family, having outwitted bomb-detection machines in the palace, to set off an explosion using a charge that had been hidden in his rectum.

Rectum? It actually killed him.

Every word above was cut and pasted from The Onion the New York Post. There really is no need for me to doo anything.

We've had uni-Bombers and shoe-Bombers. There he is, Abdullah Asieri, the butt-Bomber.

Unfortunately, it was a shitty plan because the only person that died was Abdullah. Talk about anal gaping, ouch!

The explosion, possibly detonated by a cellphone, killed the bomber.

If Abdullah's Butt is one of your kid's contacts, he should probably lose cellphone priviledges.

Seriously, this is a pain in the ass for security experts.

"Standard airport security is not going to detect that," said terror expert Steve Emerson. "You need a much more intrusive type of X-ray machine that can actually see inside body cavities."

The Department of Homeland Security is busy training bomb sniffing gerbils and plans to deploy them at U.S. airports early next month.

Until then, watch your ass.

Wall Street Journal Humor is a Bitch

I kid Rupert Murdoch a lot about the New York Post when we see each other at the Friar's Club. Last night during poker he told me that I might like his other rag called the Wall Street Journal.


I didn't like it but I did find this cartoon called Pepper and Salt that I really, really didn't like. Apparently, rich Wall Street scumbags have their own unique form of humor that is not funny.

I believe the guy on the couch is trying to complete a sudoku puzzle. How droll. Perhaps 5 years ago this would qualify as timely and funny but probably not. Recently, my pal Rupe donated the entire collection of Pepper and Salt comics to the Harvard Business School Library assuring that future generations of MBA assholes will have no sense of humor.

So, I figured I'll write some captions that are actually funny. Remember this is a "business" comic for Wall Street Journal readers so I had to tone down the raunch a bit. Honestly, it was harder than I thought it would be, maybe because I have nothing in common with either of these people.

The Journal says the depression is all your fault, bitch.

How am I supposed to reach my scotch if you put it all the way over there, bitch.

How come you don't shave your box like this bitch in Playboy, bitch?

Put that Peggy Noonan wig back in the box and cook my dinner, bitch.

Gosh darn it, I expected my bonus to arrive in a much larger box! Why did you open it, bitch?

What's so bad about downsizing? I still fit on the couch, bitch.

Don't you think that a Wall Street Journal reader, after a long day of screwing us out of our life savings, would call his significant female other a bitch? And why is the bitch holding a box? Is it a box of completed sudoku puzzles her man has already finished? I will continue to add captions to this post all day until I think of something funny. You are invited to help but you won't because leaving a comment is too much damn effort, bitch.

UPDATE

That's not what I meant when I said to whip out your box, bitch!

Another miscarriage? Thank God tomorrow is recycling day, bitch.

Bitch! Who starred in that 90's sitcom Mad About You? Oh wait... it was us.

Go ahead and leave, bitch. I'll care after I finish reading The National Review.

What's a five letter word for female dog, bitch?

Glory Days - Peeing in the Snow

No bit I ever wrote supplied more fun than Snow Peeing (also known as the Home of the U.S. Olympic Pee Team). Sure, other bits got me radio interviews in East Lansing and a paying gig as a contributing writer at National Lampoon, but Snow Peeing was fun, fun, fun.

My first brush with greatness came in .net Magazine, the UK's leading magazine for web designers and developers. I never heard of .net Magazine but a friend in England thought it was a big deal. Snow Peeing was highlighted as the best of the web right next to Sir David Attenborough and his beloved mammals.

I know what you're thinking, "Why is Sir David so big and Uncle Melon so small?" What I was thinking when I saw this spread was, "When am I getting my knighthood and where are the hot, one-legged white women at?"

The next brush also came from England, from a producer of the V. Graham Norton Show. The weather forecast was calling for snow in London (which is apparently a rare occurrence) and they were going to call me up on the phone, with my site up on a monitor on the set, while they were interviewing a famous American actress, and attempt to embarass her. It seemed like a lot of effort for a laugh and they wouldn't tell me what famous actress and it must of rained because they never called back. Yeah, that was a really, really small brush.

Finally I ended up on the phone with a producer of a Fox Network prime time special. I won't give you his name because I can't remember it. They guy wanted to know if I was willing to pee Leonardo's DaVinci's Mona Lisa in front of his cameras.

"Bubala, I've got a 10-year old fat kid that can fit a whole roll of quarters in his belly button and Mexican midget rodeo, but you would get the primo spot, the last 30 minutes. You make the show, bubby. I can fly a crew out to you. There's snow out there, right? Or I can fly you to LA and we'll rent some snow making machines. Waddayasay? We're talking prime time!"

I told him that the photo was a combination of photoshop and Crystal Light lemonade. He was very disappointed although he admitted that one of his assistants warned him that it might be photoshop, "but you never know, right?"

If I got that phone call today, I think I would fly out to LA and give it my best shot. I mean come on, can pee be that much harder than photoshop? You try drawing the frickin' Mona Lisa with a mouse.

Office High Jinks 101 - A New Use for a Very Old Joke

Old jokes never die. They get reused, recycled and reduced to timeless office pranks.


I work in a cubicle. Every week a couple of people visit me for help with mindless stuff. Sometimes we have to look at my monitor as I explain for the 427th time how to do something mind-numbing, sometimes we don't, but always my computer monitor looks like this.

I got that stunning image at NASA's Jet Propulsion Lab website. Once or twice a month, an unsuspecting co-worker will say something like, "Gee whiz, that's a nice picture. What is it?"


That's when I get to say, "It's a photo of your anus." Then, depending on who the visitor is, Steve (the guy who sits in the cubicle next to me) and I either laugh uproariously for the umpteenth time or struggle to not laugh (for the umpteenth time).


Of course there are endless riffs you can play. When Joe, the 50 year old manager from Accounting, responds with "Uranus, looks like that? Well, I never."

You can follow up with,


"Your anus never looked so good!"

or

"Your anus was always my favorite when I was a kid."

or the ever popular

"Not my anus, your anus!"


When that cute P.R. person says, "I never knew Uranus was so beautiful."


You can counter with, "If you think my anus is beautiful, stick around. I use a photo of my dick as a screensaver." Don't really do that. Keep the shop talk centered on your anus.

Trust Steve and me. It never gets old. It's also fun to watch their reaction when the lights in their heads finally go on. Where I work, these lights usually take a long time and are exceedingly dim. Your results may vary.

Who knew Uranus could be so good for workplace morale?

I Don't Play Scrabble or How to Castrate a Dickhead

Couple of weeks ago I was in a beach house crashing on a couch in the early evening. I was slightly stoned and was reading The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian: The Original Adventures of the Greatest Sword and Sorcery Hero of All Time! by Robert E. Howard. Talk about moneyshots! No, I'm kidding, not porn, just pulpy fantasy fiction. Behind me at a table, two pseudo-intellectuals were playing Scrabble, loudly. Given that I was slightly stoned, I was able to more or less ignore their annoying habit of announcing their words and scores so the whole house would know how smart they were.

Then they asked if I wanted to play. I politely declined.

I had spent the entire weekend trying my best to never establish eye contact with any of the nine people I was sharing the beach house with, except maybe the hot wife of one of the suits playing Scrabble. The only thing I had in common with these people was a love of the beach and a significant lack of discretionary funds.

They insisted. They had an inkling that I was some kind of hack writer because I had opened my yap on an occasion when I was more than slightly stoned. There's nothing Wall Street types like better than proving that they are smarter than you no matter how dumb they actually are.

There are four kinds of Scrabble. There's the fun kind when you are playing with kids. There's the fun kind when you are really drunk and are only allowed to use curses and funny words for male and female genitalia. There's the un-fun kind when you are playing with a banker that has memorized every 3-letter word in the Scrabble dictionary. You know, stupid words like qat and qoph. The fourth kind of Scrabble is tournament level Scrabble. Tournament level Scrabble is not even about words. It's about math. It's won by guys that don't even speak english or who spent their middle school days memorizing pi to 69 decimal places. (Yeah, ok, I did that too but it was cool cause 69 was some kind of sex position and I never claimed I wasn't a math geek.)

If the pompous guy opens up his Scrabble box and there is a dog-eared Scrabble dictionary shoved in there amongst the tiles, punch out because no fun will be had. The brain cells I would have used to memorized three letter words for Pakistani tribal leaders were lost to the third joint of the day back in the 11th grade and you know what? I'm glad.

But these gin and tonic sipping dickheads really wanted to show me up and would not stop whining about how much fun I would have and why was I scared.

So I laid the fourth kind of Scrabble on them.

I told them about the article I read in MIT's alumi magazine about tournament Scrabble. I explained that real Scrabble players have all 43,560 words in the dictionary memorized. I explained that really good players count tiles and during the end game know exactly what tiles you have and what words you can make. I told them that the best player in the world was a Thai named Pitiwong Tandichook that can't even speak english. (Not his real name. I told you I can't remember shit. Pitiwong was a guy I went to grad school with that was studying non-commercial bivalves in Phang Nga Bay. Oh, and, 43,560 is the number of square feet in an acre. For whatever reason that particular brain cell is Cannabis impenetrable.)

The important thing when you are castrating a dickhead is not the actual facts but knowing their weaknesses. Exploit these weaknesses making sure to leave only a bloody stump. These particular dickheads were not going to be displaying any moneyshots that night. They played another game or two, quietly -- and then went off to a bar.

Score one for the math geek.

Now, if we could only really sterilize all the Wall Street dickheads in the world, the future would be a brighter place.

My Thoughts on Patrick Swayze's Passing (with my dick)

When Patrick Swayze died, I thought about it like I think about almost everything, with my dick. My dick kind of hates Patrick Swayze. Obviously, my dick doesn't hate the version of Patrick Swayze that looked like an old lesbian or the wasting away version that decorated the aisles of every supermarket over the last several months. And my dick doesn't even hate the Roadhouse version; dancing, lisping tough guys with hair like Lady from Lady and the Tramp amuse me and my dick. My dick just hates the Dirty Dancing version of Patrick Swayze*.

By every God given right, I should have had a legitimate shot at banging girls like Jennifer Grey. Once again for clarification, not the post-surgery, teeny-nosed, massively-boobed Jennifer Grey. I'm talking the really cute, Jewish girl with the tighter than average body. As a teen, I was kind of a cute boy with a tighter than average body. But after watching Dirty Dancing 18,000 times on HBO, every girl that looked remotely like "Don't Put Baby in a Corner" Baby aspired to mates far better than me. "Damn that Patrick Swayze!" cursed my dick.

Back in the day, my old man wasn't competing with a tall, massively muscled gentile that was so soft spoken that the bastard seemed non-threatening. He wasn't trying to outshine a bulging hunk of non-kosher meat that could flitter and float like a beautiful butterfly. My dad was competing with Butchie, the slightly plump son of the butcher or Schmutzie, the bespeckled son of the dry cleaner. Those guys couldn't have lifted a brisket over their heads nevermind a hot, little number like Baby.

See that poor guy up there with Baby. That guy thought he had a shot and so did I. And just like me, the poor guy probably ended up sleeping with the watermelon.

*Notes From The Author

1. Growing up I was a boy so I never watched any scene in Ghost that didn't involve Demi Moore giving clay a handjob.

2. You: "You're so gay! You know so much about Dirty Dancing!"

Me: Dirty Dancing is basically a sports movie. I like to think of it as the Jewish Rocky.

3. These same girls grew into women that all thought that they were going to marry Jerry Seinfeld. Life is so unfair -- not for them, for my dick.

4. Too soon? When was I going to post this bit, three years from now? Out of respect, I waited like a whole week knowing full well that I would lose all those cheap google "Patrick Swayze" hits.

Sorry Folks, But I Have Never Been to Zagreb

A couple of days ago I spoofed a New York Times travel article that recommended spending a weekend in Zagreb, Croatia. Even if you're stinking rich and bored out of your mothereffing mind, are you really going to spend all that money to waste 36 hours in Zagreb, Croatia? The best the Times writer could come up with was eating watermelon and getting drunk. I mean come on. I don't have to get off the couch to partake in those particular threads of life's rich tapestry. Here's the spoof or you could scroll down.

Funny thing is that a crappy travel website reposted my bit and treated it like it was a real guide. Their automated robot even slapped some actual photos of Croatia under it.

So, for all you intrepid but clueless travellers visiting my blog in search of the very best way to experience a few hours in Zagreb, here is an errata sheet of sorts:

The big cathedral is not called the Cathedral of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary on the Rocks

There is no Croatian cocktail called a Fuzzy Liverwurst.

Frog and Eel Stew, real. Snail and Snot Omelete, not real.

Zagreb is apparently full of leggy, high-heeled blondes but they do not participate in a saturday morning porn ritual called SpiXXXa.

A Stalin Burger is NOT made with ground up Serbian infants nor does it necessarily exist.

If you really want tips on traveling to Croatia, go to the actual New York Times article. If you want funny stuff that is fun, stay here. If you're dumb, don't trust anything you see on the internet.

Glory Days - Freedom Fries and Hot, Leggy Blondes in High Heels

I was cleaning off my desk at home when I found an old copy of the Russia Journal. I appeared in an article with Maureen Dowd about the funniness of freedom fries. It's the second time I have crossed paths with Ms. Dowd. Remember when I bitched about the time at National Lampoon when her lame Santa Claus bit bumped my killer Bush bit ruining Christmas for everyone expecting a present from me. No? That post is called Maureen Dowd's cameltoe.

The main point of the Russia Journal article is how I was much funnier than some guy named Ivan Eland, a writer for American Prospect.

The best part of the article is that when they referred to my site they got the name wrong. They called it unclemelon.org. Everyone knows that my site is called unclemelon.com. UncleMelon.org is the website for an organization that raises money for old guys with gigantism of the testes.

When they used the wrong name, I lost out on all the traffic I would have gotten from the massive readership of the Russia Journal. Think of all the oligarch hating Russians that prefer their news in English that I missed out on. One of those guys was a fan that actually e-mailed me about the article which is how I found about it.

My bit makes fun of the fact that the stupid congress went after only the French and only fries. You can read it here. The real suporters of Freedom Fries were Bob "Mayor of Capitol Hill" Ney and Jimmy "No Prostate" Saxton. Ney is now a convicted felon and spends his days lowering his handicap at Federal Correctional Institute, Morgantown, West Virginia. Saxton is still protecting us from the French from his recliner somewhere in the swamps of Jersey. I ended up marrying the beautiful Mandy Pepperidge and becoming a U.S. senator. Yea, me!

Besides actual laughs, my bit also had something nobody else had, a hot French freedom maid with a french freedom fry between her legs. Back in the day, I used to have to come up with a hot babe tease or nobody ever visited the bit. Oh wait, I still have to do that.

This image not only got casual readers to visit a political bit void of sex, it also made unclemelon.com extremely popular with microphiliacs worldwide. If microphilia is not a fetish that you are familiar with, it's when you have a sexual attraction to little people. And by little, I'm not talking about the everyday regular guy desire to munch on a Munchkin, I'm talking REALLY little like a 3-inch tall, leggy blonde in high heels.

36 Hours in Zagreb, Croatia. A Travel Guide

36 Hours in Zagreb, Croatia (not affiliated with the NY Times article that pissed me off with the same title)

Last week, when the editors at George Magazine came to me with this assignment, I jumped on it. What the heck, I mean Zagreb is 873rd on my list of cities I sort of want to visit.

Friday 3 P.M.

When I travel to a weird, former Soviet satellite place, I like to get my feet firmly on the ground by acquainting myself with the local history. I told the Croat cabbie to take me to the famous Nazi and he punched me in the face. Croat is one of those words that's incredibly fun to say but when you typ it out it looks like its got to be missing some letters. "Croat." Cool sounding but a little touchy with a quick right hand. I finally found a Serb cabbie that took me on a tour of Upper Town and left me off at the Cathedral of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary on the Rocks. Try getting that on the front of a CYO basketball jersey!

The cathedral houses the well preserved remains of Blessed Cardinal Alojzije Stepinac. You remember him. The Nazi sympathizer with a soft spot for Jews but an extremely hard spot for the Eastern Orthodox and Serbs. I believe he's the Patron Saint of Closemindedness and Hatred which makes him pretty damn popular. The nausea you get from seeing him in his elaborate tomb will make any dinner unpalatable so it's time to start drinking.

Friday 8 P.M.

At Cafe Jazz order a Fuzzy Liverwurst (157 kunas). It's a mix of Croatian vodka and a delightful local liqueur called Kümmel that can only be described as sweet, liquid caraway. The drink comes garnished with a dill pickle and a slice of liverwurst. Place those in your ears because Croatian Jazz makes Bulgarian Jazz seem as good as Estonian Jazz.

Saturday 2 P.M.

Get your Kümmel induced hangover to Jelacic Square for some coffee and the saturday morning ritual called "SpiXXXa." Watch the intricate dance of the French, Russian and Californian porn producers as they recruit the leggy, high-heeled blondes inhabiting every patio chair in the piazza. Purchase a vente cafe americano with an extra shot at Starbücks (43 kunas), sit your fat ass down and enjoy the spectacle.

Saturday 4 P.M.

For a late lunch, eschew the overpriced restaurants and walk to Zagreb's best open air market, Dolac. Under the red umbrellas, choose from the amazing spread of seasonal nuts, cheeses, fruits and vegetables. Below is a local Croatian fruitmonger with a slice of a local delicacy called watermelon. Try it. You didn't pay $5,000 and travel halfway across the world to eat at McDonalds, did you?

Saturday 8 P.M.

With the exotic taste of watermelon still on your lips, visit Luigi's, a Dalamation-style tavern, and order the frog and eel stew (84 kunas). If you ask the waiter nicely, he will flip the floating frogs over because sometimes their beady little eyes looking up at you can be down right unappetizing.

Saturday 11 P.M.

Go clubbing in Jaregrub within the warren of hotspots found in the shadow of that scary neo-gigantic cathedral. To get up the courage to hit on those extremely attractive blondes that were too smart to fall for those porn producers practiced lines, try a Tesla Coil (212 kunas), an alternating set of 3 dozen liquor shots served in actual vacuum tubes designed by Nikola Tesla.

Saturday 12:15 P.M.

Pass out.

Sunday 10 A.M.

At Runa's, a Weimaraner-style cafe, order the traditional snail and snot omelet with a side of smoky pickled slugs (40 kunas) or you could eat toast and jam (57 kunas).

Sunday 1 P.M.

Purge last night's demons with a modest walk through the Croatian Museum of Naive Art (adult, 20 kunas; children, 10 kunas). Marvel that all those plump hard-working women with those bodies so well evolved to dig potatoes with a stick have produced all those leggy, high-heeled blondes. Before catching your plane, grab lunch at one of the many pushcarts found outside the museum. Get a Coca Cola and Stalin Burger (243 kunas). The juicy burger is 95% ground Serbian infant with 5% Albanian filler and was a personal favorite of the former Cardinal. Muy delicioso!

Note: File this under An Unfuckingbelievable Coincidence. I post this bit and I immediately go check my e-mail and British FHM has sent an article about the hot women of Croatia called, Croatians, Not All Completely Useless.

Also unbelievable, tho not the unfucking kind, the British FHM used to love UncleMelon and I had a semi-working arrangement with them. For some reason, my humor goes over well in England, Australia, Canada and Iceland. Croatia? Not so good.

Cougars and Milfs and Rabbis, Oh My!

Another Post Courtesy of the New York Post - I kid Rupert Murdoch a lot when we see each other at the Friar's Club but his rag does supply an endless assortment of crap for my blog.

Three Headlines Gleaned From Todays' NY Post

Miss Cougar Crowned in California

I'm embarassed to admit it but up to a year ago I thought a cougar was a big cat and, until today, I was not exactly sure what the difference was between a MILF and a Cougar.

Clearly, in the porn world there is no difference. A MILF/Cougar is a female participant between the age of 18 and 30. She usually has big breasts, often enhanced, and is allowed to eat normally. She may wear glasses for the first minute or so to set up her identity as a woman old enough to read.

In the real world there is a difference, and thanks to the Post, I can now explain it to you. A MILF is an older woman that is attractive enough that a younger man wants to F her. The MILF's feelings about this desire are unimportant. A Cougar is an older woman that prefers Fing younger men. These willing younger men are called Cubs. They are not necessarily cub scouts and, unlike in the porn world, are not required to have prison tattoos.

So, let's summarize. A Cougar is not necessarily a MILF, as evidenced by this year's winner of Miss Cougar America.




Conversely, a MILF is not necessarily a Cougar. A Cub would F a MILF or a Cougar but a MILF may not have any interest in a Cub. Wait, I'm doing a shit job. We need a venn diagram.





Any questions? No? Good.


Me? I would obviously F a MILF and a Cougar that is a MILF, but I'm no Cub, I'm also willing to F a woman that isn't a MILF but is a WILFWAFM.

WILFWAFM = Woman that I'd Like to Fuck that Would Actually Fuck Me


Unfortunately I have runout of time and will not be able to riff on the last two headlines:

MISS UNIVERSE CONDOM CONTEST IRKS SOME and GO AHEAD, MAKE MY HIGH HOLIDAY: MAZEL-TOUGH GUYS GUNNING FOR TERRORISTS. Maybe I'll do those on Tuesday.

My Right Armpit (soon to be a major motion picture)

This post is about my armpit, specifically my right armpit. You probably shouldn't read it but I am compelled to write it. File it with those posts by others that describe the time they produced a Guiness Book of World Record stool sample or how they broke their favorite coffee mug.

While on vacation, I forgot to put deodorant on. Given that I hadn't showered in 5 days because the campground had no shower, I was as ripe as a late August tomato falling from the vine, but that's not the story. If I sweat without antiperspirant coating the delicate skin of my armpit, I get this angry, raw rash as red as a late August tomato falling from the vine.

My armpits did not always react this way. When I was in high school antiperspirant made me break out. I was strictly a deodorant man for years and years. Suddenly, and without warning, my pits did a switcheroo, now I need antiperspirant to protect my skin from my own sweat.

The cure for this malady is to apply the antiperspirant to the angry rash. This results in blood curdling screaming as the alcohol in the stuff burns and sizzles. After a couple of days my armpits return to their normal state, soft as a late August toma a baby's armpit. Unfortunately, I ran out of antiperspirant before the healing completed and was forced to go shopping at a Target in Maine.

This Target was half empty. It had been ravished by "Back to School" shoppers. There was not a 3 subject spiral notebook to be found or, strangely, a tube of Old Spice High Endurance Original Scent Invisible Solid with aluminum zirconium trichlorohydrex. I was desperate so I grabbed what I thought was the next best thing, Old Spice High Endurance Pure Sport Scent Invisible Solid with aluminum zirconium trichlorohydrex.

I applied the new product to my armpits and everything seemed okay. The stinging brought the customary tears to my eyes, my luxurious pit hairs got all clumpy and sticky, I was good to go.

But the smell. It was different, weird, strong. I felt like I was walking in a cloud of cologne. I put it down to an unfamiliar scent and hoped that it would soon go unnoticed. I was wrong. Everytime I moved an arm, the friction and resulting increase in temperature would send an unwanted waft of "Pure Sport" up to my face. I was determined to stay the course and not spend another $3.49 until this invisible solid was worn down to the plastic plunger. Until last night.

I woke from a blissful sleep with the god awful sensation that Ted from work was lying next to me in my bed. Ted's not a bad guy. Older, his salt and pepper hair well-groomed, his clothes a little better than mine with buttons and collars, he's just not my type. I took a deep, calming breath full of "Pure Sport Scent" from my unfettered pits and realized a horrible realization. My pits smelled like Ted. Old Ted was a "Pure Sport Scent" man. I was screwed. I slept poorly the rest of the night, my pillow placed strategically over my ass protecting me from the possibility of Ted attack.


At lunch today, I will be forced to fork over the $3.49 for a tube of Old Spice High Endurance Original Scent Invisible Solid with aluminum zirconium trichlorohydrex.

David "Dark Helmet" Wright

May the Schwartz be with you, young Wrightwalker...

Original photo from deadspin

EDIT: For the confused, and I really shouldn't have to do this people. Spaceballs, Dark Helmet, Rick Moranis, David Wright, funny hat. Now stop e-mailing and leave an effing comment.

Escape from Vacationland

I'm back from a week in Maine. I was happy to discover that all three of my readers hung in there and did not abandon me. A personal thanks to Rob, Muriel and Patsy.


The last time I went to Maine I came back with an idea for a movie and I wrote Lobster Cop.


I got the idea while I was fishing in a canoe with my brother and his son. My brother was flyfishing, his rod a blur of movement as 47 feet of fluorescent green line flashed overhead. His son was using a Garcia ultralight setup with 2 pound test. I was using a sweet, hot pink Scooby Doo rig and a hula popper. In my opinion, there's nothing in this world beats a hula popper and a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952. If you are not a real man, a hula popper is a fishing lure that looks like a frog in a hula skirt. Hey, there's one right down there.

I started with a short story called One and a Half Jews in a Canoe that Dave Eggers called lyrical and laugh out loud funny. I told him to use lol next time cause then the kids will think he's cool.

The short story became a screenplay. The first scene I wrote for Lobster Cop was a fishing scene. Our hero, Jake Marino is fishing in a rowboat with our villian, Commodore Dudley Saltonstall III. For Jake, think a skinnier Vince Vaughn with a slight New York accent. For the Commodore, think Ted Knight in Caddyshack.

One hundred and fourteen pages later, I'm four pages over and because of the whole story arc, three act structure, and pushing the plot forward crap, I'm forced to cut the fishing scene -- the original, first-written scene that got the whole thing started in the first place.

No screenplay this time, but I plan on a mess of Maine posts.

Derek Jesus Christ for MVP

There's a lot of talk about Jesus Christ, Jeter Christ, Derek Jesus, Derek Jeter for MVP. I've not got much problem with it but Sweeny Murti, the Yankee reporter for WFAN Sports Radio brought up a good point, how can Derek Jeter be the MVP if he's been the lead off hitter all year and he doesn't lead the Yankees in runs scored. Johnny Damon has the most runs scored. Let's compare.

Runs Jeter-81, Damon-85

Doubles Jeter-21, Damon-29

HRs Jeter-15, Damon-22

RBIs Jeter-54, Damon-68

Walks Jeter-48, Damon-53

BA Jeter-.331, Damon-.285

OB Jeter-.395, Damon-.365

SLG Jeter-.471, Damon-.519

Pretty damn interesting. Both are less than average fielders, with less than average arms and less than average range (despite the Yankee talk "The Fishermen of Wins" is still not a good fielding shortstop. Damon is a corner outfielder so no MVP talk even by John Sterling.

Here's a TEX message to you Yankee fans. The mouth-breathing first baseman with the scrunched up face is your best shot.

As a former catcher, I'm voting for Joe Mauer.

The Dead Pope Sketch

From the Archives:


A couple of years ago, the magical forces of the comedy cosmos perfectly aligned or if you are religious person, God proved once again that S/He has one helluva a wicked sense of humor. Pope John Paul II was dying.

Shepard Smith, is a "reporter" from Fox News. That's him up there. Pretty smug looking for a guy that flunked out of the University of Mississippi. The only way you can flunk out of the University of Mississippi is by mispelling Mississippi on on the bursar's check. How did a guy that flunked out of Ole Miss get to be a star reporter on Fox News? al;jfl;fjoennele'ekjggasdfg.8
asdf*&^%gnb
afjasl;jfoe098hjs
asHJopafJHS"""

Sorry, your question made me fall off my chair and knock my keyboard to the floor. Take a good look at Shepard (btw, who names his kid Shepard? Maybe he got kicked out Ole Miss for mispelling his own name). Note the widely spaced, bedroom eyes and the plump, cock sucking lips and the eyelashes, can't really see it in this photo but the guy knows his Mabelline.

So, Shepard Smith breaks the news that the pope is dead, but the pope isn't dead, Fox News is wrong. Had to happen eventually. So then Shepard Smith has to break the news that the pope is not dead. Then the pope really does die so Shepard Smith finally does get to break the news that the pope is dead and the pope is really dead.

Which totally reminded me of Monty Python's Dead Parrot Sketch only the Norwegian Blue has been replaced with Pope John Paul II and you can finish with the Bring Out Your Dead bit from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. God bless Shepard Smith and Monty Python and your God with a sense of humor!


The funny thing about this bit is that it is the only bit I ever submitted to National Lampoon that they passed on because it wasn't funny. They had passed on other bits. I remember once that I submitted a limerick about a Pakistani woman with really big areolas. They liked the bit but had just run a similar one. I also sometimes submitted bits that were deemed too offensive. I see you shuddered. Yes, there are things too offensive for National Lampoon and some of those things are in my head. But the senior editor wasn't offended, he just thought that The Dead Pope Sketch wasn't funny. He said something like, "this isn't funny, it's just like that old Monty Python bit." The managing editor liked it but he didn't get the final vote.

You decide, The Dead Pope Sketch.

Don't Cry for Me, Brett Favre! You were supposed to be immortal...

I figured out why Brett Favre can't stay retired. He lives in Hattiesburg, Mississippi! I know he says he likes it there. I know he says he likes spendin' his time killin' things, huntin', fishin', and trappin'. But if Hattiesburg is so great, how come every August he gets an itchin' to get the hell out of Hattiesburg? Maybe because the average daily temperature in August in Hattiesburg, Mississippi is 99 degrees. And it's not a pleasant dry heat, its 100% humidity heat -- with the nearest ocean breeze 1,000 miles away.

Brett Favre made 890 million dollars playing football. This makes him the richest man in Hattiesburg by $889.5 million. The next richest guy has a lot of pigs. He doesn't even bother to turn it into dollars. He just sends the IRS a couple of piglets every year.

I mean look at Brett over there in Minnesota straight off a private jet from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He's wearing a hat with SHIT ON IT!!! He has retired to a place where he's ass deep in shit. Pig shit, probably. There's so much nasty shit in Hattiesburg, Mississippi that the cleanest hat Brett Favre could find for his press conference still has a shitload of shit on it. I know what you're thinking, it's a fashion statement, the hat with shit goes with the homeless beard, toothless grin and inarticulate mumbling. I say $890 million and he's wearing a hat with shit on it.

I did some exhaustive research for a few minutes and learned a thing or two about Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Two things actually, because that's all there is to know about Hattiesburg. First, it was named after a wife named Hattie who was born with out an edge to her face. Second, it's famous for having a history so racist, the Klan is embarassed.

So, how can we avoid 890 billion hours of Brett Favre coverage on ESPN? How can we avoid the God awful feeling we get watching a grown man crying, over and over again? Somebody has to buy the guy a couch and tell him to move to Florida FerChristSakes! Hey Brett, I hear Arizona is nice, lots of white people and you can kill stuff like snakes and gila monsters.

Another Great Moment in Photoshopping History

Great Moment 2

Start with a subway map for Seoul, South Korea. Manhattan and London will not do.

Create a bogus legend using the various train line colors.
Add a clinical, generic diagram of female external gentalia. For some reason, I found this too 'in your face' for this blog so I'm leaving it out. Don't know why but when blogging I prefer my female gentalia obscurred with train lines.

Put them all together and you get a diagram of Basic Pussy Eating Techniques.

I know what you are thinking, is this really a great moment in photoshopping history? The results might not be great but what happened after it was posted was definitely great. I joked that it was available as a convenient, laminated card for only $19.99 and I got hundreds and hundreds of e-mails from people (men) desperately trying to buy one. I also got a whole bunch of t-shirt requests.

I used this image in How to Eat Pussy *or Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Cunnilingus But You Were Too Busy Picking the Hairs Out of Your Teeth to Ask

Great Moments in Photoshopping History

Moment Number 1

Start with a photo of a guy that is so taken with his blue tongue that he felt compelled to post it on the internet.
Combine it with a photo of a dog with a grotesquely long tongue that was probably photoshopped by somebody else.

And end up with a guy that is ready to satisfy any woman.

I used this image in How to Eat Pussy*or Everything You Need to Know About Cunnilingus But You Were Too Busy Picking the Hairs Out of Your Teeth to Ask.

Afterword

The only downside to this Great Moment is that everyone seems to think that the guy is me. That guy is not me, and that photo up there on the right of the blog is not me either. It's Yankee GM Brian Cashman with a NY Met hat photoshopped on his head (btw, not a great moment). The day my actual photo shows up on the internet I will be sure to notify you.

Old School GI Joe

This is a shameless plug for an OLD SCHOOL GI JOE bit at CircusAfterDark.com.


A while back, I was planting a bush in my mother's backyard. It was a nice schrubbery, not too large, maybe a yew. The first foot, or so, there was nothing special, dirt, stones, roots, the usual things you find while digging. Then, to my surprise, I unearthed an aluminum can pull top.

It was old, real old. The kind that popped off the can. The kind that littered our highways and cut our feet open at Jones Beach. Finally, I owned something that I could bring to the Antiques Roadshow. I slipped it in my pocket while my mom was busy weeding the azaleas and kept on digging.

The next artifact was plastic. No analysis of the teeth marks was necessary. My old man went through a longer than normal tiparillos phase. He was a White Owl man, though despite the claims in the television ads, this never resulted in him getting groped by Joey Heatherton. There was nothing he didn't smoke, sequentially, cigarettes, cigars, a ridiculous Hugh Hefner pipe, skinny cigars with plastic mouthpieces, *INSIDE JOKE WARNING* he even snuck a fag now and then, we figured this out when we saw Pete slipping out his bathroom window*INSIDE JOKE OVER* The tiparillo tip did not go in my pocket because that would be gross but it was a certain indicator of great things to come.

I had reached what we amateur archeologists call a landscape within my dig. A landscape, or horizon if you will, that most probably carbon dated back to the 1970's. I asked my mother to fetch a brush so that I could more carefully reveal my next find. She ignored me. I asked for a lemonade. She just continued weeding. My hole was now big enough for the ball of the yew. Stop snickering. The ball of the yew was the burlap wrapped roots of the bush not it's external genitalia. The yew, being a vascular plant, used pistols and stamens for sexual reproduction not balls and stems.


The sweat on my brow felt good and so I pushed on. A few inches deeper and I found this.

An abandoned bayonet from a little plastic M1. GI Joe. A 12 inch GI Joe. Sweet merciful crap! The Olduvai Man of action figures. My dream of owning a Wii was within my grasp. I dug quicker.

A Russian anti-tank grenade! How did I know this was a Russian anti-tank grenade? Well, it wasn't an American "pineapple" grenade and me and my brother were sort of Jewish, so playing with dolls dressed up like Nazis was considered verboten back in the day. But a nice, Cold War Ruskie caught sneaking across the Czechoslovakian border was considered the perfect enemy.

Now I was excited. Screw the accessories! I knew that there had to be dozens of GI Joes scattered throughout the rolling hills of Dix. My shovel flew -- and than I saw the pale flesh of a Joe rising up out of the soil. A trigger hand! An articulated arm with outrageously complicated metal hinges -- clearly first generation action figure design.

And nothing else. No torso. No legs. No head. No left arm. What horrors had befallen this Joe? The Viet Cong, the dog, the girl next door, me? I dug holes like Sigourney Weaver and nothing. The End.

Come on, if I had cashed in a 12 inch GI Joe for a Wii would I be wasting my time blogging? If you got the Sigourney Weaver reference, I'm buying. If you want more GI Joe humor with MUCH LESS REQUIRED READING, go to CafterD.

That Was No First Lady, That Was My Wife! (rim shot, please)

President Obama is funny, edgy, dark and pretty damn funny. Who knew? I found this in the New York Times Magazine on Sunday, Funny Obama.

Just before he said that those stupid cops in Boston acted "stupidly," he told this joke.

President Obama standing in the White House tried to put himself in Henry Louis Gates position: "I mean, if I was trying to jigger into — well, I guess this is my house now, so it probably wouldn’t happen," then he flashed a mischievous grin and added, “Here I’d get shot.”

Wow! or perhaps even lol. The first black president makes a joke about the Secret Service accidentally shooting him at the White House door because he's black. I always thought I would be able to hang with President Obama. Now, I know I can.

Wih respect to the Henry Louis Gates incident. I like to imagine Albert Einstein locking himself out of his little house down in Princeton. Do you think the cops down there would have assumed the old guy was a burgler and handcuffed the gray-haired professor or do you think they would have treated him with respect? Nuffsaid. Henry Louis Gates is pretty famous. Even I know what he looks like and I'm a dumbass.

David Ortiz, a Fallen Hero and a No More Christmas in August

That's the top of my dresser and that's a fallen Little David Ortiz -- and I refuse to pick him up and stick him back into his base. I've picked Little David Ortiz up about a million times since the summer of 2004 but not today, not anymore.



Yeah, I'm a grown man with vintage South Park stuffies on his dresser. You got a problem with that?



So, now you know a not-so-well kept secret, I'm a Boston Red Sox fan. I'm a Mets fan and a Sox fan. It's possible. It's allowed. And its fairly common. It's a natural progression for a born and bred Yankee hater. Especially for a kid in 1975 that got to watch the most amazing World Series ever. When a bunch of regular guys with names like Doyle, Tiant, Carbo, Evans, Burleson and Lee took on the Big Red Machine.

That's a bar stool with the faces of many of the perfectly tooled cogs of the Machine. Bill Simmons found it at a convention. Lots of great stuff. Go!

Later in 1978, I was in a room at a party, wearing my red, Red Sox hat adrift in a sea of angry, dark blue Yankee fans, watching TV, when Bucky Dent did what he did and, even more memorably, Yaz ( a fellow Long Islander) didn't do what he might have.

That's why I bought Little David Ortiz back in the late summer of 2004 and set him up in the kitchen. When the Sox lost a game, everyone who cared found something to put on Little David Ortiz before the next game. When the Sox won, there was much rejoicing and our Little David Ortiz shrine got partial credit. When the Sox won it all, well, Little David Ortiz became a legend.

Now, its a late summer tradition, moving Little David Ortiz from my dresser to the kitchen, dusting him off and removing last seasons collection of talismans. The kids looked forward to it. It was like getting to bring down the big box of Christmas stuff in August.

It's getting to be that time of year and I don't know what to do.

John Hughes and My Vagina

John Hughes had a major influence on me. Not through his movies, although I liked a bunch of them, but with his writing at National Lampoon.

My Vagina published in April 1979 was the funniest damn thing I had ever read. It was about a typical teenage guy that wakes up one morning to find that his penis has been replaced with a vagina. Not only was it very funny, it was also the kind of thing I wanted to write.

Vacation '58 was great, when the aunt dies, shit! It was way better than the movie.

I never realized it before today, but I have been ripping off his Engagement Guide for the past 10 years. An excerpt:

Question: "What is at the core of our current problems with Mexico?"

If she answers: "I just love this song, turn it up! Oooo, I love the nightlife!" She is a dumbass.

If she answers: "You haven't phrased the question very well. Are you referring to the natural-gas pricing debacle or the general ill feeling toward the Yanqui?" She is a smartass.

If she answers: "We're not very nice to them; let's fuck, then I'll make you dinner and vacuum out your car." Don't wait for the wedding. Elope and buy her anything she wants.

I found a pirated version of My Vagina on a transgender site! Enjoy.

David "Rip Van" Wright or That Just Might Be One Very, Very, Long Beard

After their satisfying five game winning streak, many Mets swore not to shave until they reached the .500 mark. Oops. After a tough weekend against the Arizona Diamondbacks, one of the few teams with a worse record than themselves, this ZZ Top photo of David Wright was required photoshopping.

If the Mets never get to .500 this year, and they are not a bunch of liars, then they will have to grow their beards until opening day 2010 when their official record will 0-0 or .500.

Let's give a big round of applause to your 2010 New York Mets!!!

Omar Minaya: Regrets? I've Had a Few, But Then Again, Too Few to Mention...

When asked if he had any regrets, General Manager Omar Minaya answered with,

"No, I mean, well, no. I don't regret. I don't, I don't regret saying. I mean I regret saying, you know, you know what I'm saying. I mean, I stand by the things that I said, but I don't regret, I regret saying, that in that forum. That was not the proper forum."


Do you think the Wilpons regret not firing Omar Minaya?

A Big Thank You to Rickey Henderson

Heartfelt thanks to Rickey Henderson for the thoughtful gift.

Even with all the festivities up in Cooperstown, Mr. Henderson found the time to bring me back a bottle of Costa Rican hot sauce from his recent vacation before heading for the Hall of Fame.

The sauce is very tasty. However, on the hotness scale, 10 being Vanessa Hudgens and 1 being your wife and/or girlfriend, this sauce is a Liza Minelli (Thanks, Steve).

Hot it ain't.

Maureen Dowd's Cameltoe

This morning I was perusing the visitor statistics for this blog and discovered that one of the ten visitors I had yesterday got here by typing "Maureen Dowd cameltoe" into google.

For those Yankee fans out there that only get their news from the Post and Fox, that's Ms. Dowd over there on the right. She's a columnist for the New York Times that writes humorously scathing articles about Bushs and Clintons. She's kinda good looking for a reporter that writes stuff. Not ridiculously good looking like the fake Newsday reporter in Crocodile Dundee, but okay for a real woman. She's an almost 5.

If I was sitting across from her on an R train and caught some serious cameltoe, I'm not sure if I would get an erection or nauseous.

To be fair and balanced, back when I was writing regularly for National Lampoon, an article Ms. Dowd wrote bumped a bit I wrote. My bit was a very funny and clever Christmas satire with Bush and Cheney and Scrooge by way of the Blackadder. Her's was this Santa Claus thing that was not-so-funny and not-so-original. Why was a Pulitzer prize winning reporter submitting to Lampoon? And I was planning on using that $350 for Christmas presents! And fake redheads don't usually do it for me!

So some guy is looking for relief and figures a nice photo of Maureen Dowd's cameltoe is going to put him over the top. How did he get here?

We're Number 1! We're Number 1! We're the number 1 site for Maureen Dowd Cameltoe. Who knew? So, why are we number 1?

Because Rickey Henderson wrote the following in a comment a couple of months ago:

Would Maureen Dowd's cameltoe have kept you at the NYTimes website? Rickey suspects so...

Unfortunately for me, in the whole frickin' world, there is only one pervert with a computer interested in this particular toe. Hey Rickey, next time can you do me a favor and work "Erin Andrews cameltoe" into a comment?

PC Team Names

From the PtB archives: Rather than write another depressing post about the cluster-eff that is the Mets, I'm posting an old bit. My excuse is that they are in Atlanta. I've updated it for 2009 by adding Omir Santos. It amazes me that I took so much time drawing each guy yet I totally screwed up the glove. It's at least three sizes to small and for those of you that grew up on Village Hill Drive looks just like Joey Apicella's old mitt. I'm going to blame all the oxycontin I was popping for my ruptured achilles tendon.

As always, these bits are not intended for the faint of heart, pregnant women or the discriminating reader.

The Mets are heading down to the deep south to play a certain team that has a name that offends all the PC police. See if you can pick out the real team from all the made up teams I've assembled here on my blog.

Team: Terre Haute Fighting Dagos

History: The third most famous fighting team after the Irish and the Gamecocks, this Chicago White Sox affiliate got its name after the owner, Bill Hancock, watched his Italian gardener beat up his Irish maid.

Mascot: His Holiness Pope George Ringo II

Mascot Antics: No visit to the old War Memorial is complete without the traditional running of the Papist during the 7th inning stretch. A young boy between the ages of 8 and 12 is selected at random from the crowd, dressed in an altar boy costume and sent out on the field. The bells ring and the boy races for the centerfield gate with the Papist close behind. If the boy gets there first, he wins knockwurst for his entire section. If the Papist catches him, well, we're talking a different kind of wurst.

Fills that holywater thing with Budweiser and the crowd opens up to receive communion!

Famous Alumni: Rico Petrocelli, Phil Rizutto and Tony C.

---

Team: Nashville Jewboys

History: This Double A member of the Southern League used to be called the Nashville Jigaboos until some savvy marketing guy noticed that while there were no Jews in the crowd, they were a couple of Jigaboos. After the name change, the cheap seats were always full.

Mascot: Rebe Schlomo

Mascot Antics: The Rebe keeps the crowd rolling in the aisles with his childish ways. Eyes light up when he gives away one of his ridicuously large crackers that he calls matzohs. During the 7th inning stretch this "meshugeh" mascot has been known to blow a chauffer or drink the blood of a God fearing Christian.

Famous Alumni: Sandy Koufax, Hank Greenberg, Art Shamsky and Rod Carew.

---

Team: Atlanta Braves

History: The Braves started out in Boston but Bostonians wanted to name their team after a pair of socks so they moved to Milwaukee but Milwaukians wanted to name their team after beer so they moved to Atlanta.

Mascot: Chief Knockahoma

Mascot Antics: Formerly the Chief of the Creek Nation, Knockahoma sold out his tribe for a dry teepee in the leftfield bullpen and a whole lot of wampum. So while the rest of the Creek cried their way to Oklahoma, Chief Knockahoma does a little dance after every hometeam homerun.Woo, woo, woo, woo, woo, Tomahawk Chop or are they heiling Chipper Jones? Hanoi Jane knows.

Famous Alumni: John "White Rat with Mouth of Squaw" Rocker.

---

Team: Jacksonville Men's Room Attendants

History: Formally known as the Jacksonville Watutsi, the team changed its name to be more politically correct in the late 80's after some protesting by the local rabble rousers.

Mascot: ol' Willie

Mascot Antics: Changed the name but kept the mascot. Instead of a bone in his nose, ol' Willie gets tangled in the TP and then asks the crowd for tips. Invariably, the crowd chants "Get a Job!" and the bleachers erupt in laughter.

ol' Willie will loan you his comb and slap on some aftershave, just don't tinkle on his shoes!

Famous Alumni: Joe Black, Kevin Brown, Mordecai "Three Finger" Brown and Alvin Dark.

---

Team: Lackawanna Camel Jockeys

History: Famous for their "Homeland Defense" strategy, this minor league team is currently on hiatus pending military tribunals. Always popular with visiting Kings and Shah's, the Lackawanna/Nashville rivalry often leads to bloodshed.

Mascot: A-hab the A-rab

Mascot Antics: During the 7th inning stretch A-hab, with sticks of dynamite strapped to his chest, chases down groundskeepers dressed in yarmulkes. When he catches them they all "explode" in a cloud of smoke, leaving the happy Mullah dancing in tattered clothes. On special events night local police take turns beating the mascot with nightsticks. Twice a game he lays out a blanket on top of the dugout, faces east and prays for a comeback.

Famous Alumni: Omar Vizquel, Omir Santos and Khalil Greene.

---

Team: Cleveland Indians

History: The lesser known team by the lake, the Indians have a storied history of success, drawing incredible crowds that seem to breed and expand during extra-inning games. While attending these games is fun, don't try ordering an all beef hotdog.

Mascot: Mahatma

Mascot Antics: Mahatma thrills the crowd by drinking his own urine, demonstrating his abstinence by ignoring the advances of a tipsy Suzyn Waldman, and telling an off-color Bangladeshi joke now and again. When the opposing team homers, he immolates himself (and a few fans) using petrol and an incense burner.

Every Tueday is Leper Night. All lepers that purchase a general admission ticket get a cherry Slurpee at half price.

Famous Alumni: R. Swoboda

---

Team: Rock Ridge Drunken Irish

History: The town wanted something Irish and "fighting" was already taken. Besides the only real fighting the Irish ever do is killing themselves, and that's not good for team unity.

Mascot: Hank the Angry Leprechuan

Mascot Antics: A drunken, angry Hank leaves a trail of green vomit wherever he goes. Buy him a Big Beer and in return, Hank will shower you with gold, if you know what I mean. Once in the playoffs with the score tied and the bases loaded, the manager sent Hank in to pinch hit. Instead of drawing a game winning base-on-balls, Hank dry-humped the umpire's leg resulting in immediate ejaculation.

Famous Alumni: Roberto Kelly, Fred McGriff and Chone Figgins.

---

Team: Massachusetts Mid-Level Managers

History: Formed in the mid-70's by that leftist, half-wit Ted Kennedy to avoid any possible insult to any type of human being with any type of behavior and/or belief that might not represent majority or minority thinking, the Middies never keep score so as to not hurt anyone's feelings.

Mascot: Ronnie Rainbow changes his/her head every inning.

Mascot Antics: Handing out "Have a Nice Day" smiley faces and taunting umps when they yell "Yer Out" and "Strike," or "Yer Safe" and "Ball." Spends a lot of time on the cell phone. When wearing the disabled head, Ronnie has fun spelling out Massachusetts in American Sign Language.

Famous Alumni: Frank Off-White, Bill Navajo-White and Roy Oatmeal-White.

Even FOX Sports Hates Obama

Six hundred cameras and FOX misses President Obama's first pitch. We get to see his windup and then, nothing. Not even a replay. What the eff?

I found the video on MLB.com. It's not enough pressure throwing a baseball in front of millions of viewers, they have to line up the surviving members of the Gashouse Gang behind home plate. Imagine if President Obama had accidently nailed Red Schoen­dienst in the head. Think FOX would have been able to show that 1200 times from 600 different angles. Bill O'Reilly would have done a week on it.

My Review

Obama may have short armed the ball (New York fans get to see Jeter and Wright short arm throws several times a week), but I liked the jeans, the jacket and the jogging -- and the arm pump after. Maybe in seven years, President Obama will become a lefthanded reliever instead of building houses for the less fortunate, or making boatloads of money working for the Bin Ladens.

Chief Justice Roseanne Barr!!! I mean Sonia Sotomayor!!!

Is it just me or does Sonia Sotomayor look just like Roseanne Barr?

I keep expected Tom Arnold to lean in and whisper something in her ear.

David Wright, a Joke

Mr. Met: Did you hear that All Star David Wright is going to participate in the 2009 Home Run Derby?

Lady Met: Really?

Mr. Met: Yeah, they needed another guy to run around in the outfield and catch flyballs!


I never claimed it was a good joke.



Isn't it about time that someone told David the old Ralph Kiner quote?



Home run hitters date Molly Beers, singles hitters date hometown steers.






I know you jokers, it looks like David Wright in a wig but it isn't. I asked her if she was a woman and she said yes. I asked if she would be willing to date David Wright this year and she said yes. She's Janice from Astoria. She's nice and plain.

Jesus Christ, Jeter Christ, Derek Jeter Messes Up!

Derek Jeter messes up. His bone head move probably cost the Yankees a game and a sweep of Toronto and all anybody wants to talk about is the ump.

Because Jesus Jeter is infallible

Of course, unlike the real Jesus, Jeter did not turn the other cheek. Embarassed by his Little League mistake, he threw the umpire under the bus. That's a bad "Pinstriped Prince of Peace."

The ump blew the call. It happens. Then, finding himself in an unwanted audience with a vengeful "Fisherman of Wins," he stumbled on his words and now may be excommunicated.

I got to listen to this play described on the radio by the Yankee announcers. So, I had no clue what was happening. John Sterling thought Jeter was out by a mile (for you out of towners, the poor, old man has very bad eyesight). He couldn't be bothered to look at the monitor for the replay but assigned the task to his color commentator, Suzyn Waldman. She got distracted by Jeter arguing.

This manly display by the Yankee Son of God shortstop caused her to audibly moan as another cunt bunny was ejected onto the floor of the Lowe's broadcasting booth. BTW, you can buy an authentic game used Waldman cunt bunny here.

For anybody that knows anything about the game of baseball let me remind you that Jeter got thrown out trying to steal third with no outs. I waited for the mandatory lecture about not making the first or third out at third base. That's what announcers do. They have to. It's in their contracts. It's mandated by Major League Baseball, Inc.

Nope. It was Jeter. Not a single mention about the bad baseball play. Bad fundamental baseball. Even after the next batter singled -- which would have driven Jeter home from second easily.

Hey Yankee fans, how do you listen to this crap, game after game?

Obligatory Michael Jackson Post

From the PtB Archives

Okay, an inevitable post about the recent trainwreck -- not the Mets, the Man in the Mirror.

"You should do a bit about Michael Jackson. Now, that would be funny."

You don't know how many times I've heard that lately. God forbid they should leave a comment so it looks like someone visits. No, its always face to face.

Problem is, I don't find Michael Jackson's death that funny. All that talent, all that money, wasted.

But I am here to please the three readers I have, so I'm going to repost an old Michael Jackson bit from back when he was alive and an old movie that you probably don't remember was in the theaters, Bad Santa.

To be honest I don't find the bit that funny. It was from a time when we were posting a bit a week for some reason I can't remember. I think casting lil' Michael as the dwarf was clever. Oh, and I do not include these photoshops in my portfolio. So now, for the guys at work, I give you Really Bad Santa starring Michael Jackson...

Really Bad Santa

Starring Michael Jackson

Before Bad Santa there was Really Bad Santa, a movie even the Farelly brothers wouldn't touch. The Melonosky brothers tried to cast Bill Murray, but he was too busy playing golf in France, they tried Billy Bob, but he was too busy beating an ex-wife, and then they found Michael. The role appealed both to Michael's inner child and the child he was in. Although never released due to legal wranglings with the distributor and Mr. Jackson's fifth amendment rights regarding self incrimination, I kept some stills from the set of some critical scenes. As you can tell, Bad Santa (playing at a theatre near you) is a blatant rip-off of our earlier work. An incredibly subtle, comic performance by lil' Michael Jackson, as Santa's little helper, who helps Santa find little helpers, almost saves the film.

Fade out.
Roll credits.

$70,000,000 of Boo-Boos

There are nine teams with smaller payrolls than the Mets DL including my third favorite team, the classy Minnesota Twins.

Our Lovable Ragtag Bunch of Scrappy Blue Collar Guys

In my last post, I affectionately called the latest version of the Mets a "motley bunch of scrappy bush leaguers." Baseball salaries are effing unfathomable so I attempted to put a price tag on the players the Mets fielded last night. Data are from Cots' Baseball Contracts, basically it's salary plus prorated bonus. I assigned Santos, Switzer and F. Martinez the league minimum (I know Martinez got a big bonus when he was 16 but I don't know the length of his contract.).

Starting Lineup
$2,000,000 Cora
$401,000 Murphy
$7,750,000 Wright

$1,700,000 Tatis
$2,800,000 Church

$400,000 Santos

$925,000 Reed
$6,250,000 Castillo

$2,250,000 Redding

Subs:
$409,500 Stokes
$400,000 Switzer

$400,000 F. Martinez

$9,166,667 F. Rodriguez

The Mets starting nine have a combined salary of $24,476,000. Add the subs (including don't call me K-Rod) and the total is $34,852,167.

So they can't compare to the Yankees 80 million dollar infield, but that ain't chicken scratch. Those 13 guys make about what the Florida Marlins entire roster will make in 2009.

Luis Castillo Giveth and He Taketh Away

Luis Castillo made a play last night that was as good as his drop last week was bad. Ranging way to the right, Castillo dove for the ball, got to his knees, and threw the strongest four hop throw to first that you will ever see.

No hype. Great play.

Castillo also went 3 for 3 with an rbi and two runs scored.

Wow, a positive post. I have discovered that positive posts are rare in sports blogs. This is especially true if a.) you are attempting to be funny and b.) your team is under performing. From now to the allstar break, with the Mets playing a slew of tough teams while sending out a motley bunch of scrappy bush leaguers, I will try my best to avoid typos.

Shameless Plug: The Vermont BJ Company

From the PtB Archives:I reposted a Father's Day Classic, The Vermont BJ Company.

This bit has a special place in comedy history. It was the first time National Lampoon ever rejected one of my submissions. It was called The Vermont BJ Company or How to Write a Funny Article for National Lampoon. Why did they reject it? I'll give you three guesses.

Was it not dirty enough for the frat boys? It's called Vermont BJ Company! Next.

Was it not funny enough? I wrote it! Next.

They were afraid of being sued? This is the U.S. of effing A. Satire and parody are protected under the first amendment, and by satire and parody, they mean any lame attempt at humor even if its not satire or parody, e.g., The Onion.

They rejected it because it made fun of National Lampoon.

That's when I realized that this was not my daddy's National Lampoon.

Is Luis Castillo Smarter than a Little Leaguer?

What's that, Luis? You want catching pop ups for $1,000?

Okay, when catching a pop up should you use one hand or two hands?

You look hesitant. Would you like to use you life line? Sure. Who is it? Gary Sheffield? Uh oh. Why not ask Lakeisha up there. She seemed very confident when she wrote down her answer. No? Okay. What is you answer?

Is Luis Castillo smarter than a Little Leaguer? No.

Look, he's going to catch that pop up 99,998 times out of 100,000. If he uses two hands, he's going to catch that pop up 99,999 times. Maybe that one time is going to be in the ninth inning, with two outs, and two on, up by one, against the hated Yankees, with the despicable Alex Rodriguez at the plate.

Luis, if you use two hands, maybe you catch it. If you use two hands, you definitely won't have to hear about it on sports talk radio from every dick with a phone.

Biden Bid to Bury Boner Beneath Begonias

There's no journalism like Rupert Murdoch journalism -- I'll let you fill in the punchline.

Biden Bid to Bury Boner. Now that's what I call an alliteration!

How about, Illustrative Illiteration Inuendo? I can do it, too.

Except that nobody under 35 knows the dictionary definition of boner. When normal people hear the word boner they think, penis, erection, dick, cock (please note that I put in the extra effort and arranged those words in decending order based on the likelihood of one of them being said by Laura Bush when she's sober. That's the kind of craftsmanship you've come to expect at PtB).

bon·er (bō'ner) n. [Slang] a stupid or silly blunder

When I first read this headline my brain, along with every other brain reading the New York Post, finished it with "in Michelle Obama!" My unique combination of OCD and Tourettes even compelled me to write it in pencil on the page although I managed to stop myself before I included the exclamation point.

You might ask, "What's the point?" I would reply, "Of the article? I have no idea, I never got past the headline. Of this post? Good point, no point. Except, maybe, the obvious, the headlines are the only reason to read the New York Post."

Morning Camel Toe (or is it cameltoe) and the Struggles of Local Newspapers

This morning I was sitting in my cubicle for only a few minutes, perusing the New York Times website hoping for some early morning stimulation from the wit and wisdom of Frank Rich or one of his esteemed colleagues, when Steve in the next cubicle yelled out.

"Hey, you wanna see some cameltoe?"

Is 6:50 AM a little early for porn? lol Ouch, I just hurt myself.

As I bounded out of my chair, my mind raced. Porn at work? It's not only a no-no, it's an impossibility. Our internet access is so restricted that we can't visit yahoo because it's a "web community" site.

When I finally got to Steve's cubicle, out of breath, face flushed, I mean come on it's almost 5 feet away, I saw this:



Sweet!

It's LoHud.com, the internet home of the Journal News, a Gannett Co. Inc. newspaper serving Westchester, Rockland and Putnam counties in New York. The Pulitizer prize winning Journal staff did a hard hitting investigation into the hot babes lounging on the beach over the weekend. Why am I reading the Times?

Oh yeah, here's the close up of the camel toe because I care about my reader (you know who you are).


There is nothing like the newspaper and the morning's first cup of coffee.

The Joba Chamberlain Report - 5/29/09

Never has so much been made of so little -- even in Yankee land. If Yankee fans hear John Sterling, Michael Kay, and Brian Cashman say it often enough, they will believe anything. You know, things like Joba Chamberlain is having a good year or he's going to be a "special" starter.

Joba Chamberalin is not having a good year. He's having a terrible year. His WHIP is 1.57, that means he's in 107th out of 124 starters. His innings per start is 5.03, good for 112 out of 124.

Special? He's not even mediocre. He's down near the bottom in every meaningful statistic. Don't stick his ERA in my face, he gets taken out of games before he ever gets pounded. Joba has never taken even a third of an inning for the team.

You say, "But Suzyn Waldman says he has great stuff!" Daniel Cabrera has great stuff, so does Ollie Perez. Good stuff does not equal good pitching.

Joba Chamberlain was a special reliever over a short period of time. So far, as a starter, Joba Chamberlain sucks.

The Sheffield Report - 5/28/2009

This is my obligatory Gary Sheffield Report that explains that I was wrong about him being totally washed up. But before I put my tail between my legs...

Why wasn't Gary Sheffield running hard last night when he got thrown out at home? And why did Jerry Manuel give him a pass? If Ryan Church had failed to run hard, Jerry would have thrown Mr. Church under the bus, backed the bus over his body and kicked him in the nuts for good measure.

Could Jerry be scared that Sheffield would go off like a cluster bomb filled with hate, entitlement and 'roid rage? Probably.

Is it just me or should they have made that bobble head's head a little bigger? What with the massive amounts of steroids and human growth hormones it looks as if Gary Sheffield's head was designed to scale.

I'm sorry but I have forgotten the point of this post. Oh wait, steroids and HGH make hitters better.

David Stern is a Fan

***Update***

Though he will never admit it when you ask him face to face, I always had the feeling that NBA Commissioner David Stern read this blog. Dwight Howard's technical foul was overturned. The free throws that were taken because of the bad call don't get overturned which leads one to wonder what would happen if the Magic has lost the game by one.

That's a lovely photo of David Stern and another fat, white, old, guy entertaining their nieces from out of town.

Why I Should Be Coaching the Cavaliers

If I was coaching the Cavaliers, they would move on to the finals. No doubt. Guaranteed. No shit. A two word game plan will result in victory.

Bait Howard

Dwight Howard got his 6th technical foul of the playoffs last night. If he gets called for one more technical foul, he will be thrown out of the game and suspended for an additional game. Without Dwight Howard, the Orlando Magic will lose.

The Cavaliers should do whatever it takes to get Howard a technical. Punch him, trip him, call his mother an ugly whore that sucks off Dick Vitale for nickels.

It's not cheating. It's called gamesmanship. It must be done early in the next game.

It doesn't take much to get a technical foul nowadays -- unless you are LeBron James. Last night Howard got one for striking a WWF pose after a slam dunk. What was laughable about the foul call was that the reason he struck a pose was that a big hairy Brazilian guy grabbed him and tried to wrestle him to the ground. Howard ignored the goon, leaped into the air and finished the play. Dave Stern's refs called a technical. Dave Stern really wants LeBron in the finals.

I know what you're thinking, Dwight Howard is a pretty smart guy. He went to high school and stuff. He's going to expect the Cavaliers to go after him.

I'd use Sasha Pavlovic. He barely plays and he's a Serb. As we all know, Serbs can be really annoying. If I was the Cavalier coach, within the first minute of the next game, Dwight Howard would get a technical and my team would be guaranteed a berth in the NBA Finals.

Sasha Pavlovic would foul Howard hard. He would grab Howard's ass. He would curse as only a Serb can. He would lick the rivulets of sweat off of Howard's finely chiseled upper arms. Whatever it takes, by all means necessary, he would get Howard to commit a technical foul or I would send him back to Serbia.

And the Cavaliers would win. No doubt. Guaranteed. No shit.

Funny Porn Names

I need a current movie porn name for a bit I'm posting at the site. The best I can do is, Gapes of Girlfriends Ass. The guys at work didn't even recognize the move I was mocking (Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, duh. And no I haven't been dragged to it, yet). So, I e-mail my brother and 5 minutes later I get a long list that contains the following:






There Will Be Blood, She's A Virgin
No Cunt for Old Men
The Taking Of Helen by 1, 2, 3!
Up, Yours
Twatlight
Journey to the Center of Eartha Kitt
Marley and Me and Peanut Butter


The guy is a comedic idiot savant. Up,Yours might be my favorite. It's the touching story of a square old pedophile, his pear-shaped, vaguely Asian, special boy and a dog that talks dirty. Up,Yours with Peanut Butter, anyone?