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. The 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.

Other posts by my dick:

My Dick Reviews The Hobbit
My Dick Discusses The Debt
My Dick Discusses the Winter Olympics
My Dick Discusses Avatar 3D
My Dick Explains Why the Blind Side is So Popular

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.