Distraught Ochocinco Vows to Wear Henry Jersey

Cincinnati. Chad Ochocinco said that he will honor his late teammate Chris Henry on Sunday by wearing his number 15 jersey against the San Diego Chargers and by legally changing his name to Unocinco.

When told by a reporter that "fifteen in spanish is actually quince," Ochocinco put on a sombrero and spit in the reporter's face.

An emotional and teary Ochocinco then asked, "Why did Chris Henry have to die so young?"

The same reporter replied, "The guy was beating on the back window of a speeding pickup truck with no shirt on and an arm in a sling. I'd say he died of poor judgement."

Authorities have not ruled out suicide as the cause of death.

Our Trip to Latkeland

Last night, I bundled up the family and headed out to Latkeland in Teaneck, New Jersey. For you folks that aren't in the know, a latke is a potato pancake and Latkeland is like Legoland only greasier.



It was an evening of slippery fun! As the sun set over Passaic, guess what we had for dinner? Nope. We fooled you. We had burgers at the Burger House. Delicious! The missus and I sat at our table enjoying some Manny's over ice while the kids played in the nearby fountain.


What a surprise! The fountain squirted applesauce! Our little Sascha snuck some sour cream when he thought nobody was looking.


There are over 18 rides and many exhibits. The most impressive exhibit was a five story statue of Sitting Bull made entirely of latkes. Never before has a Native American seemed like he belonged to one of OUR tribes! :)


The Melonosky family gives Latkeland 5 stars!!! Enjoy it with your family soon!

Sitting Bull says, "Ugh. Me no like latkes."

Isle of Misfit Sex Toys

Hermey and Rudolph rode the little iceberg through the night until they got to a strange and desolate island. "This looks like the just the place for a couple of misfits," said Hermey.
But they were not alone. Soon, Benny introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Benny and this is the Isle of Misfit Sex Toys," he said. Hermey was confused and asked, "Why are you a misfit?"

"I'm a pair of ben wah cubes and no little girl wants to play with a pair of ben wah cubes," Benny replied sadly. "I'm a misfit."

Gary Glitter was next . "I'm body glitter that looks like herpes. No, little girl wants to wear me when she goes out dancing," he said. "I'm a misfit."

"No woman wants to wear me when they play either" said a sad Consuelo. "I'm a frumpy, Guatemalan maid costume. This island will always be my home."

UPDATE:

I had to remove the rest of the post because the content filter at work wouldn't let me visit my own blog -- too many bad words. It gets more disgusting and more funny, promise.

I moved the entire bit to UncleMelon.com.

Chanukkah Chilarity

A True Story

I wasn't planning on doing a Hanukkah bit because its all been done and most of it more than 5,000 years ago. But then Steve, the guy in the cubicle next to me, said the funniest damn thing ever and I figured I would share.

Steve, Kat and I were discussing the holidays over coffee. Kat was singing some lame Hanukkah song that her kid learned in school. We all decided that the best Hanukkah song is Adam Sandler's song about Jews that are so gentile looking (i.e., attractive) that they can't possibly be Jewish. Steve found it on youtube, funny Jew -- had to happen eventually.

Then Steve said, "What about the Ladle Song? That's pretty good and really famous."

Did I mention that Steve and Kat are Catholic? Me being the half-Jew asked, "Ladle Song? How does it go?"

Steve proudly sang, "Ladle! Ladle! Ladle! I made it out of clay!"

After I wet them, I asked, "Why the hell would we sing about an effing ladle?"

"Cause you spin it around or something."

It troubles me that Steve would think that tonight, all over the world, Jews are gathering together to spin a ladle. But you know what? I didn't correct him because (1) the son-of-a-bitch grew up in the Bronx and should know better and (2) it's so frickin' funny that other Jews he runs into during his life should get a little joy from Steve's ideas about their holiday.

Spinning a ladle is not that much stranger than spinning a dreidel. That's a dreidel down there.

Steve's photos can be found at HudsonValleyXXXposed.com.

I'm working on a game involving spinning a ladle for next Hanukkah. I think its going to be like Spin the Bottle only Jewisher.

End Note

During my research for this post I came across this disturbing page on Wikipedia:

Its a list of Jews. And they have us categorized by type. It's hard to see but some of the types are:

Real Jew
Easily Bruised Jew
Jew Lawyers
Kind of Handsome for a Jew
Pretty Nice Guy for a Jew
Some of my Best Friends that are Jews
Jew that Occasionally Buys a Round
Italian Women that are so Jewish they might as well be Jews
The Jew at the Club

---

Additional types on Wikipedia's List of Jews submitted by my readers*

Blonde Jews
Blind Jews
Deaf Jews
Dumb Jews
Deaf, Dumb and Blind Jews
Deaf, Dumb and Blind Jews that Sure Play a Mean Pinball
Jews for Jesus
Jews Not for Jesus
Jesus
Non-Religious Jews
Jewish Jews
Jew-ish Jews
Un-Jewish Jews
Jews You Know
Jews You Don't Know
Jews Who Eat Armour Hot Dogs
Jews that Only Eat Hebrew National
Jews Who've Been In Space
Jews Who've Helped Gentiles Get In Space Using their Mathematical Jewish Brains
Jewish Women With Sexy Voices
Jewish Women Who Perform Oral
Jews Who Make Lists
Jews Who End Up on Lists
Half-Jews that Make Lists of the Types of Jews on Wikipedia's List of Jews

*That reader would be my brother, Dave Melonosky

Toy for Tots

Every year the company that pays my salary collects toys for needy children through the Toy for Tots Foundation. Some nameless drone from HR puts a box in the lobby and then a month later calls the Marines and they send a guy to pick up the toy.


There's going to be one happy kid this holiday season!!! It's Thomas the Tank Engine!!!


Calling All Engines! Thomas is in trouble and he needs all his friends to help him! Don't cry, Timmy. I'm sure you can help Thomas. It's not like he's in real trouble -- like he's gotten his coal tender preggers. He's in a little trouble -- like he's forgotten where he's placed his kippers and doesn't want crumpets for breakfast. You'll be able to help your friend Thomas.

You're crying because it's a a video tape? You want one of those new fangled DVDs instead? Shut your trap, you ungrateful, needy, little bastard...

It has only been a couple of weeks. Even with all the pretty lights and piped in Christmas music, I'm not really in my full holiday depression mode yet, so the tots might still have time.

I know you're saying to yourself something like, "Instead of cracking wise skinflint, go to Toys R Us and buy a frickin toy you cheap, half-Jew, joyless, cranky f-tard!"

That would require me to get up out of my chair (work) and/or couch (home).

An aside:

The Toys for Tots Foundation has been around since 1947.

The mission:

The mission of the U. S. Marine Corps Reserve Toys for Tots Program is to collect new, unwrapped toys during October, November and December each year, and distribute a lethal barrage of 40 mm Bofors cannon fire at a rate of 30 rounds per second to needy children in the community in which the campaign is conducted.

The poster:

This poster creeps me out. I would have gone with the happy American-style Santa, you know, the guy that hangs with Ronald McDonald, not the Norman Rockwellian German-style Santa that is scary in a killer clown sort of way.

And the poster implies that Santa was in the Corps. Once a Marine, always a Marine. When was Santa a highly trained killing machine? He's pretty old. No way was he killing gooks in Nam. Krauts in the Big One? Krauts in the not-quite-as-big-as-the-Big-One? Confederates during the Civil War? Mexicans in Montezuma? Barbarians in Tripoli? Don't worry Timmy, Santa only kills when he has exhausted every other possible option.

Merry Christmas to All and to All a Good Semper Fi!

The Blind Side - Showing Off Sandra Bullock's Best Side

Today's guest blogger is a frequent contributor of insightful posts and unsightly stains, my dick.

Why is the The Blind Side so popular?

Let's ask my dick. My dick says "Sandra Bullock's ass." I've seen the newspaper ad for this movie probably 50 to 100 times and Sandra's ass looks better everytime.

Big Time Producer: What have you got for me, baby?

Marketing Guy: A closeup shot of Sandra Bullock smiling, with tears in her eyes, from late in the third act, black guy out of focus in the distance.

Big Time Producer: Whoa, a little airbrushing please. She has wrinkles. Gross.

Marketing Guy: Yes, Sir. Remove the hint of laugh lines. Got it.
Big Time Producer: To hell with it. Give me her ass!

Marketing Guy: Excuse me, Sir?
Big Time Producer: I want Sandra Bullock's ass right in my face. I want painted on white pants, I want ass crack, butt camel toe, whatever you kids call it, I want an ass that looks so tasty that all of America wants to eat it for Thanksgiving!!!
Marketing Guy: Yes, Sir!
Big Time Producer: And tell the art department geeks to take 3 inchs off her waist. That'll make that ass pop!
Marketing Guy: Great idea, Sir. What should we do with the black guy? Make him really small and have the yard markers point from his distant silhouette directly at Sandra Bullock's ass?
Big Time Producer: Nah, put his big fat ass right next to Sandra's delicious little ass. Black/white. Yin/yang. Beautful/ugly. It's feng shui, baby!!!

So, will I go to the movie theater to see Sandra Bullock's ass and another uplifting "What Would a Poor Black Person do Without a Kindly-Hearted White Person" biopic? No. While I would love to be able to ease my liberal guilt by spending $12 and 2 hours watching another "White People as Savior" flick and I'm obviously fascinated with Sandra Bullock's ass, I'm broke and I already have the newspaper ad of Sandra's ass. Thank you, Big Time Producer.

If you liked my dick this time, you'll love what it had to say about Patrick Swayze's untimely death or Avatar 3D or maybe the Vancouver Winter Olympics.

Eli Manning Signs Wall at Cowboy Stadium

Dallas Cowboys not Happy about Eli's Autograph on Wall

IRVING — Cowboy linebacker Bradie James was at his outspoken best Wednesday when he talked about the Cowboys - Giants rivalry and one of the points he made was that New York Giants quarterback Eli Manning had defiled the new stadium after New York’s 33-31 victory in September.

"Eli signed the inside of the locker room," James said. "He put his phone number. You got to be discreet about that stuff. We won’t forget that. It just makes for a more intense game."

If there was any doubt about the authenticity of the signature, Manning put an end to that Thursday when he confirmed that he did, in fact, sign a concrete column in the visitors’ locker room.

"It’s a pretty common thing," Manning told reporters in New York. "It's how Peyton hooked up with Zach Thomas. Heck, it's how my dad met Jack Youngblood."

Archie and Peyton Manning was unavailable for comment.

Cowboys coach Wade Phillips said he likes and respects Manning, but also said, "Things come back around in this league. Eli is a classy player but he has to learn to keep it on the down low. I really respect him, especially his family. I played football against his dad in college and we shared the soap in the shower but you won't find my signature on the wall at Ole Miss."

Manning did not seem concerned when told that the Cowboys were using his autograph as motivational fodder.

"I kind of heard a few things about it," Manning said. "I figure they’ll eventually get over it. Next time I'll just put my number on my facebook wall."

On Language: Douche Bag, Encouraging its Proper Use

It's Thursday which means it's time for another fun edition of On Language.

Douchebag when used properly is a great word. There's a guy at work that has mastered its use. It's often funny and always paints an exacting picture of the targeted person. I do not use douche bag enough in polite conversation. I tend to use an asshole when a douche bag is more appropriate.

This got me thinking about what a douche bag really is. I know what a douche is, I have a TV and a mom, but what is a douche bag?From Wikipedia, A douche bag is a piece of equipment for douching—a bag for holding the fluid used in douching. In case you do not have a mother or a television, a douche is a device used to introduce a stream of water into the body for medical or hygienic reasons. Prepackaged douches look like little water bottles with fancy spouts. I prefer Summer's Eve. It has just the right balance of sweet and tart with a nice citrus finish.

The Wiki boys don't stop at the Webster line, Douching has been touted as having a number of supposed but unproven benefits. In addition to promising to clean the vagina of unwanted odors, it can also be used by women who wish to avoid smearing a sexual partner's penis with menstrual blood while having intercourse during menstruation.

Hey, I'm from New York. I enjoy a nice schmear on my bagel, my penis, just about anywhere, smear away, baby!

That douche bag up there holds a gallon of douche. No matter the time of the month, I'm not sure I want to go anywhere near a vagina that needs a gallon of fluid to feel fresh and clean. Hygiene-wise its clear, front door gets a douche, backdoor gets an enema and the side door gets you right on the driveway.

But what about the slang meaning? While the French have been douching since 47 B.C. and gynecological handbooks started using the term douche bag around 1907, Dr. Bill Long traced the use of douche-bag (sic) as a derogatory term back to 1967, douche-bag - an unattractive co-ed. Interesting that a device use to clean out female gentalia was used to describe females. By 1970, it morphed into its contemporary usage and is almost always used to describe males. Interesting that a device inserted into female gentalia is used to describe males.

Here's my favorite definition courtesy of Wikipedia: Douche bag, a person with a variety of negative qualities, specifically arrogance and engaging in obnoxious and/or irritating actions without malicious intent.

The most famous douche bags according to the Urban Dictionary are:
Kevin Federline

Macaulay Culkin

Leonardo DiCaprio

Chris Klein

The Gallaghers from Oasis

and P. Diddy.

I can't argue with that list because I do not know any of those guys. Thousands of websites claim that that you can tell a douche bag by just looking, this I can argue with.

I'll use my boss as an example.

Let's start off with a picture of my coffee mug and the following words, I love my boss (wink). So, while it is true that I hate my job with a passion worthy of Mel Gibson, and it is true that my job is mind-numbingly boring, unfathomly useless and demeaning in ways that only a piss bucket boy from the 1700's would understand, it does pay the bills and I love my boss (wink).

You saw the wink, right?

Lets look at my boss. There he is at a retirement party for that retired guy from Management and Budget. Sure he looks like a tool but he doesn't look like the Urban Dictionary description of a douche bag.

Wide open collar that exposes his manly chest? No. Dickish wannabe hairdo with too much product? No. Really hot babe that we all want to f by his side? Not likely.

Is he a person with a variety of negative qualities, specifically arrogance and engaging in obnoxious and/or irritating actions without malicious intent. Hellyes! Arrogance and irritating without malicious intent? That my friends is my boss the douche bag.

Tiger Woods Beaten Up By Swedish Wife

or Shocking Photo of Tiger Woods Revealed!!!


Up to a few days ago, I could give a fart about Tiger Woods.

However.

Based on my TV, the idea that Tiger Woods may have cheated on a woman that looks as good as a woman can look fascinates everyone. That Mrs. Perfect 10 may have hit Tiger Woods upside the head with his own golf club? That cracks me up.

***I expunged the rest of this bit because it made me cringe.***

Solange Magnano: Former Miss Argentina Dies From Cosmetic Buttocks Surgery

Another Post Courtesy of the Huffington Post - I kid Arianna Huffington when we end up in the same Pilates class but her site does supply an endless assortment of crap for my blog.



BUENOS AIRES, Argentina — A 38-year-old former Miss Argentina has died from complications after undergoing cosmetic surgery on her buttocks.

Solange Magnano, a mother of twins who won the crown in 1994, died of a pulmonary embolism Sunday after three days in critical condition following a gluteoplasty in Buenos Aires.

"Mr. Magnano? About your wife, there's good news and bad news. First the good news, your wife's ass looks terrific! Now the bad news, she's never going to use it again and neither are you."

Feel free to bombard me with buttock puns, gluteoplasty euphemisms and hate e-mails.

UPDATE

---

From my brother, Dave:

I once tricked a girl into a little "cosmetic surgery" on her buttocks. She didn't die, but she couldn't sit down for a week.

Miss Argentina?! Of course I do, that country's got quality ass. Unfortunately, the quality of their ass surgeons? Not so good.

Sphincter?! Hell, it killed her!

If only the embolism had gone to her brain, it wouldn't have done any damage!

She said umm...

In my last post I borrowed a joke written by my brother Dave that went something like:


I whipped out my tikka masala, and to her surprise
It was every bit as hot as her vindaloo


Like Superman and Batman, every joke has an origin story and this one was conceived in a canoe on a lake in Connecticut.


Dave and I were fishing as the sun began to set behind a million dollar lakeside home. As long time readers of this blog know, I only fish with a hula popper because if I was a fish I would be unable to resist a frog in a skirt. My brother was using a real lure and was actually catching fish.


When me and Dave are together, the jokes fly and loud, obnoxious laughter fills the air. It's like a writer's room. No boundaries, no shame, no joke too rancid. And like a good writer's room, we are both willing to let loose with 30 bombs in a row in the hope that the 31st is a winner. Dave must have killed because I laughed so hard that I tipped the canoe.


Me and Dave are city boys that swim worse than we fish so a rocking canoe is a precarious perch. So, I decided to give the canoe a good shake everytime the lucky bastard landed another fish. This gave me a great idea for a bit, or a youtube video or an actual porn site.

Hold on to your paddles, boys!!! Here comes the Bang Canoe. The premise? Two losers decide to create a website but all the good vehicles are taken. Bang Bus? Been done. Minivan Soccer Moms? Been there. Bang Boat? Cabin cruiser, Miami, scorching mamacitas, old in 1998. Car backseats? So boring that even I have done it.


So the two loser guys come up with Bang Canoe. A canoe has so many advantages, its novel, its cheap, its outdoors, its OUTRAGEOUS!!! Of course the two guys have never actually been in a canoe and soon find out that the required positions and rythmic pounding are really hard to achieve in a canoe. HILARIOUS! (If you agree, call my agent.)

That's when a woman in a beautiful sari walked out on to the deck of her house and looked out across the lake. It may have been the soft light of the fading sun. It may have been that she was close enough to see but not so close that you could really see. It may have been the look of longing in her deep, brown eyes. Or it may have been the beer, but she looked just like this:

It only lasted a moment but her gaze fell upon the two half jews in the canoe and she smiled. Then her husband came out to check on the grill with a kid right behind him. The woman sighed and disappeared into the bright yellow light of her house.

Talk of fish and canoes turned to talk of women -- exotic, unattainable women and then I open with the classic, although club-worn:

She wants me.

My brother starts riffing, and I riff back and he ends up at the old Blues Brothers song that I'm sure they stole from some poor, incredibly talented, incredibly old, black guy. If you're a serious student of comedy, you know it goes something like this:

I said woman, you going to walk a mile for a camel
Or are you going to make like Mr. Chesterfield and satisfy?
She said that all depends on what you're packing
Regular or kingsize?
Then she pulled out my Jim Beam, and to her surprise
It was every bit as hard as my Canadian Club
I said what now you got to say baby?
She said umm...

So Dave starts with:

I opened up her aloo ghobi, and to my surprise
It was every bit as creamy as her chicken korma

I countered lamely with:

I covered her face in my kheer, and to my surprise
It curried her pakora

He smirked and responded with:

She took all of my palak paneer, and to my surprise
She let me skewer her meen moli

Definitely a step back so I tried to take advantage:

I pulled out my chipatti, and to her surprise
It was every bit as hard as her saag panir

Hard and saag makes no sense, though when you think about it, Jim Beam and Canadian Club? Did John Belushi have two dicks?

Then my brother ironed out her creases and put her to bed with:

I whipped out my tikka masala, and to her surprise
It was every bit as hot as her vindaloo.

For some reason tikki masala sounds penisy and vindaloo sounds vaginary and hot is the right adjective.

So thanks to my brother, Dave Melonosky for the help. Here he is with a prize winning yellow perch.

36 Hours in Rajasthan, India. A Travel Guide*

*Not associated with the New York Times article that pissed me off.

Last week, when the editors at George Magazine pitched this assignment, I jumped at it. With the exception of Houston, Texas, there are not too many places in the world I won't visit as long as I'm paid well and get to expense everything. Normally, I would spend my 36 hours in Rajasthan, India at the airport trying to get a flight out but that wouldn't be much of an article so I put a clothespin on my nose and went looking for fun.


Friday 5 P.M.

After 23 hours of air travel and eight hours on a crowded train from New Dehli, you're starting to think that another weekend in Milan might have been a better way to spend $60,000, but one glance at the cannonball dents left in the wall of a fort will put a smile back on your face. Be careful not to step on a dusty beggar as you trod past Mehrangarh Fort in beautiful Jodphur. Named for those silly pants favored by British fairies, this city of sandalwood, dirt and open sewers puts the "in" back in India, as in, get inside a fancy hotel and stay in!

Friday 8 P.M.

Book yourself a room at the Umaid Bhawan Palace, a lavish Art-Deco masterpiece that proudly contains the longest sewer pipe in the eastern subcontinent, assuring that you won't be smelling yourself two hours later. Rooms start at 500,000 rupees, or $10,740 a night and for an additional 10,000 rupees Elizabeth Hurley will recreate her wedding night -- with you as the groom. After quenching your carnal apetite, dine at the hotel's restaurant. Order the Indian-influenced lamb curry (47 rupees) and a delightful bottle of Mumbai Merlot (114 rupees).

Friday 11 P.M.

Jodphur is a world famous exporter of polyester and opium. Skip the polyester but head over to The Devil's Bargain, a safe but touristy opium den on the darkside of town. Find a comfortable pillow and spoil yourself with some top shelf, pea-sized "pills" of the local Bollywood Brown (64 rupees a pill). Don't forget to pick up an artfully wrapped tin (160 rupees) of raw opium paste for the folks back home.

Saturday 11 A.M.

Forget where you are and how you got there? Go back and read the entry for Friday 11 P.M. then hire one of the colorful elephant cabs for the short ride to Bikaner. Remember to ride side saddle or you may lose an hour recovering from a elephant-induced episiotomy.


Bikaner is one of the few places in the country where the cow is treated like a cow and the rat is treated like a cow in India. Enjoy a 100% beef 114 Grammer with Cheese (12 rupees) with a traditional Cherry Slurpee (6 rupees) at the clean and well lit Burger and Lassi before standing in the long lines at the Karni Mata Temple.


Saturday 1 P.M.


The locals call it the Rat Temple but don't let the teaming swarms of rats discourage you from visiting. The 14th century architecture is splendid, the historical mumbo jumbo relayed to you by a guide with poor english and few teeth about how Ms. Mati asked the god of death to reincarnate the son of a grieving story teller and ended up with a temple and 30,000 rats makes you feel good about being a Christian, and the smell of rat feces is a refreshing break from the smell of human feces.



Much like a Japanese Restaurant, no shoes are allowed in the temple, and if a rat scurries over your foot, legend has it that you will have seven years of good luck -- and goosebumps for three hours. If you see an albino white rat, you win a date with Padma Lakshmi. If you are truly blessed and a rat shits in your coffee mug, this auspicious occurence will result in you being reincarnated as a guy married to one of those buxom multi-arm goddesses that are hotter than a five story walk up in old Bombay.



Saturday 6 P.M.


After a four hour bus ride to the pink city of Jaiper, visit the snack bar at the bus depot and order a chai (6 rupees) and a sweet fan biscuit (4 rupees). Watch as the weird herby stuff is steeped in exotic steamed milk, just like at the Starbucks back home where a chai (6 rupees) is almost as good and the maple oat nut scone (9 rupees) is actually better than anything you can get in India.

Get back in the bus and leave because Jaiper has way too many Indians and the curry is subpar.



Saturday 10 P.M.


Sitting on the edge of an endless desert where the sand in the wind painlessly removes the enamel from your front teeth, Udaipur is considered the most romantic city in India, --the Reno, Nevada of the subcontinent. It also has really good curry. At the Royal Sitar eschew the tempting chicken fingers and fries (15 rupees) and order the mutton curry (29 rupees). It's a hearty stew-like dish flavored with curry and the freshly killed parents of lambs, and it will provide you with the fuel you'll need for the frantic festivities to come.



Saturday 12 A.M.


At the upscale Bengali Ranch, choose from the well thought out selection of local varietals. In a small but elegant room (200 rupees an hour), she'll remove her shimmering sari then you'll whip out your tikki masala, and to her surpise it will be every bit as hot as her vindaloo.



Sunday 12 P.M.

Just like it's sister city of sin, Udaipur is full of one arm bandits. It is also home to an alarming number of two armed bandits, one legged bandits and one armed one legged bandits so watch your pocket book as you stroll to Lake Pichola. Take a boat (24 rupees) or wade (0 rupees) to the island in the middle of the lake and have lunch at the Isleoflosttoys Palace. Built in 1373, it's menu hasn't changed since 1397, and for good reason, everything is delicious. Order the curry (62 rupees).


Sunday 4 P.M.

As you begin your 31 hours of travel back home, with an ice pack strategically placed on your inflamed sphincter, squeezed in a train that is stuffed like a samosa with less than savory ingredients, think back on the last 36 hours and be thankful that you didn't go to Milan or Miami for the weekend because then you'd be forced to go back to work on Monday instead of Wednesday. (You don't get sentences like that at the New York Times!)

I did this better before:
36 Hours in Zagreb, Croatia

Attack of the Zombie Salmon from Hell

Thanks to Steve, the guy in the cubicle next to mine, for this bit. He came back from his fishing weekend with no fish but a bunch of cool photos. Less revolting photos taken by Steve can be found at HudsonvalleyXXXposed.com.

Dragonflies hovered and darted above the riffles like NASCAR drivers anxiously awaiting the green flag after an overlong yellow. The light of dawn made reading the water a challenge - but a challenge was just what Steve was looking for after 40 hours of sitting on his fat ass staring at a damn computer monitor. Little did Steve know that sun glare would be the least of his worries -- not when stinking, putrid death was lurking inches from his ankles!

Dr. Merv Rettenmund, an Ear, Nose and Throat man at Putnam Hospital, noticed the smell first. "Jesus, it smells like rotting fish!" he exclaimed between puffs on his Newport Menthol.

Gravity sees to it that all watery things merge into one, and a river runs under it. It was an old train trestle bridge that never seemed to get used by a train. The river was the 18 Mile Creek, cut by a glacier 47 billion years ago from the igneous spawn of long forgotten volcanos. The steady flow of the mighty river was the timeless result of countless rainfalls, culverts that kept the highways passable, the outfall from the Town of Olcott sewage treatment plant and hundreds of failing septic systems located throughout the valley.

After he buttoned his supple, calfskin glove he would hold his rod straight out in front of him, where it trembled with the beating of the blood in his veins. Although it was 8.5" long, it only weighed four and half ounces. It was wrapped with red and blue silk thread and, the wrappings were carefully spaced to make the delicate rod powerful but not so stiff it could not tremble.

But that was earlier, back in the bathroom of Room 7 of the Lighthouse Motel, and Steve was now thigh deep in the middle of a cold river in western New York State. Still, Steve remembered the good old days when he could get off with nothing but spit, his bare hand and the lingering memory of Katie Couric.

The stink of fish flesh brought him back to the river. The river often smelled like a mixture of ripe cheese and warm piss in a pair of worn corduroys, but this stench was nose bleed awful. Steve was a Catholic and a bait fisherman. His first cast of the day sank a sack of brown trout eggs right in front of a Steelhead Trout. The big fish swam like a bat out of hell that was being chased by a legion of the Devil's own zombie assassins. Steve chuckled. "That fish will be in Lake Ontario by noon," Steve thought to himself, "Next time I cast I'll have to place it a little further away."

There was a muffled cry from behind the railroad trestle that was a good thousand yards away.

Dr. Rettenmund cursed, "Damn amateurs." He fired his butt into a fast moving current and lit up another one.

Dr. Rettenmund saw the first zombie fish. It was alone and swimming slowly and methodically right at him. "Damn, unusual for a salmon," he muttered. Dr. Rettenmund was a Presbyterian and a fly fisherman. His rod rocked back and forth to an unheard four count and the Royal Coachman landed at the strange salmon's nose. That was the last cast Dr. Rettenmund would ever make but thankfully, it was a beauty.

There was a gurgle and the good doctor was gone.

Steve looked up in disbelief. "Zombie salmon from hell!" he shouted. An overpowering stench rose up out of his chest waders. It was not the foul smell of zombie fish or a fart ignited from last night's Hommel Chili with Beans. Tough guy Steve had crapped his pants.

He started to the nearest shore but the zombie fish had him cut off.

A big ugly mother came right at him. Steve stumbled on a rock and twisted his ankle. "Ouch," he thought and fell into the water.

An eye drawn way into its socket looked at him vacantly as 100 sharp little zombie teeth bit into his face.

Buddy was sitting in the warmth and comfort of his dad's Honda Pilot listening to Linkin Park as he explored the contents of the glove compartment. The high pitched scream of a woman rose up from the river.

"That's Dad!" yelled Buddy. "And he's in trouble."

Buddy burst from the SUV and headed down the steep embankment. At the shoreline he saw Steve, no more that 50 feet away, struggling in the water. Buddy raised his Crosman 1280 Break Barrel pellet gun up to his shoulder. He sighted down the blue steel and let out a long breath. If he was less than an inch off, he would take out his dad's eye and that meant no trip to Wal Mart and no Pokeman cards. Buddy pulled the trigger. There was a sudden cloud of pink salmon flesh. Buddy pulled the trigger again, and again, and again, and again.

This was the best fishing trip ever! After a return visit to the Pilot for more ammo, Buddy finally cleared the nearby water of zombies. He struggled into his chest waders because his mom would kill him if he got his new basketball shoes muddy, then he waded to his dad.

"Dad looks terrible," thought Buddy. "I mean he always looks terrible but now he really looks terrible." Buddy found the inner strength to drag the massive bulk of his overweight dad onto the shore.

"Don't die, Dad!" Buddy was about to cry but if his dad wasn't dead and saw him crying? No trip to Wal Mart.

Steve opened his one good eye and watched a single tear travel down the flushed cheek of his only son. "What are you a pussy!?!" Steve yelled, but he wasn't really mad. It was a joke.

That night there was a trip to Wal Mart and dinner at Outback. Steve finished a third beer as Buddy finished a second sundae. "Hurry up son, I have to go to work in the morning."

The mind-numbing monotony of work would never be so good.

My Baseball Card Collection

Over the weekend, while I was throwing out useless stuff, I found my old baseball card collection. I used to buy hundreds of packs of cards every spring -- the good ones I kept in a shoebox, the Carmen Fanzones and Horace Clarkes ended up on the floor of my closet where my mom would scoop them up and throw them out.

Here are the best of the best. I know these cards are worth a small fortune and as soon as Antiques Roadshow comes to New York I'm going to find out if I'm getting myself a Wii for Christmas or a BMW!

All the Greatest New York Mets Collection

I was a Met fan growing up and until Daniel Murphy showed up this year there was only one Met worth idolizing, George Thomas Seaver. Tom Seaver cards were so coveted that I used to glue and tape them to the cover of the shoebox so that I didn't accidently flip them or stick them in the spokes of my bike.


I've left the old yellowing tape on because I know that collectors of fine antiquities really go for the warm glow of a well-aged patina.

"Mr. Seaver? Please take of your warm up jacket for this action photograph."

"FU. I 'm afraid I'll get a chill."

Tom was a former marine and was against the Vietnam war. He also had a smoking hot wife. He was like a Kennedy at our house.

I saved the best for last. The official Tom Seaver rookie card. Back in the day they didn't waste real cards on rookies so Tom had to share his card. I didn't want any of the guys to think I was in love with Bill Denehy so I made sure everyone knew that I was a Tom Seaver fan.

My Hall of Fame Collection

Johnny Bench was like the white Roy Campanella. He hit like Joe Mauer and fielded like whichever Molina brother is really good at fielding. Catcher cards were always great for drawing little piles of poop.

I didn't know that Reggie Jackson would someday become Mr. October for the hated Yankees but how could I resist that pose? Just 11 years old and I already knew that drawing a penis was funny. It would be a few more years before I realized that drawing an erect penis was REALLY funny.

Damn that evil Nolan Ryan for getting himself traded to the Angels for Jim Fregosi.

Even I knew that Hank Aaron was going to be an all time great but my little brother didn't give a damn.

Mickey Mantle was the most hated player of the most hated Yankees. Here he is after an imaginary fight with Felix Millian. This card in near mint condition recently sold at Christies for $500,000,000,000,000,000. Yo! - I'm free friday night - hit me at facebook - no ugly chicks, rly!