Wednesday, January 27, 2010

36 Hours in Mexico City: A Travel Guide*

*Not associated with the New York Times article that pissed me off and I admit that writing this was like shooting illegal immigrants packed in a van fish in a barrel.

Last week, when the editors at George Magazine pitched this assignment, I said, "¿Donde esta mi tickets de plane?" On the way to JFK, I stopped at my storage place for my cabana wear, bulletproof vest and self-contained-breathing-apparatus.

Friday 5 P.M.

While you're waiting on line for a cab, take a moment to appreciate that late afternoon Mexican sun. Don't forget that sun gods have been worshipped in this ancient land from the Toltecs through the Mayans and Aztecs. No sun? That damn Smog God has been out of control lately.

Warm smog is still better than cold, New York sleet. Take a deep breath and clean out your system.

Friday 7 P.M.

Stop coughing. Time to go out to dinner. In Honolulu, you're greeted by hot mamacitas bearing flower leis. In Mexico City, you're greeted by armed health officers bearing sky blue masks. It's the only blue sky you are going to see in this part of the country so put yours on before you head out into the streets -- oh, and that swine flu is a bitch.

Friday 9 P.M.

It's time to grow a pair and try the exotic, mysterious, gastronomic treats that the natives call Mexican food. At Taco Bell in the Polanco district, the ground chicken tacos (121 pesos) and Coca Cola (110 pesos) are "muy delicioso!"

Friday 11 P.M.

Tequila is for gringos and sterlizing machete wounds. Buy a bottle of Mezcal Xanaxupchuck from a street vendor (30 pesos), steeped with chicken livers and corn fungus inside the bladder of a prepubescent drug mule, this stuff is more that a few steps up from that gimmicky worm-flavored peepee you can get back in the States. Find a stoop and enjoy a front row seat for the nightly drug trafficking battle. You don't want to end up in the trunk of a 1993 Ford Taurus (457 pesos) so tip everyone you meet liberally.

Saturday 11 A.M.

After a quick breakfast at the Taco Bell Drive-Thru, Double Sausage and Huevo Breakfast Gordito with a side of Cinnamon Toast Chimichanga with Cheese (76 pesos), it's time to engulf yourself in the world of Mexican Art.

Cavemen in France may have invented the mural but the Mexicans perfected the form and created iconic masterpieces of political and social commentary.

Marvel at the attention to detail, use of tropical colors and thoroughly modern design aesthetics.

A tour of Mexico City's vibrant art scene would not be complete without a stop at the Museo Frida Kahlo (admission - 5 pesos). No artist before or since has been able to paint breasts this beguiling using only a single No. 47 Black Sable Eyebrow.

Saturday 6 P.M.

Get in touch with your inner Aztec by visiting Aztec Land brought to you courtesy of the Ford Motor Company (admission - 4,003 pesos). Enduring contributions by the Aztec civilizaton include chocolate, popcorn and chewing-gum-snapping prostitutes. Sample all these pleasures (package deal - 511 pesos) but save time for a truly remarkable experience. For a few pesos more (3 pesos), ritually behead a young Juarez woman that has been used, abused and abandoned by a Texas billionaire.

Saturday 8 P.M.

¡Holy guacamole, Batman! It's dinner time and there is no better place to fill your bat cave with gastronomic splendor than the sleek new Taco Bell in the ritzy Sante Fe business district. Order the provocative Surf and Turf Special (344 pesos). It's a bottomless, cardboard container of premium All-Beef Tostados and Fillet of Fish Burritos with a side of french fried patatas. Wash it down with "cerveza de ninos." Coca Cola is a local favorite (110 pesos).

Saturday 10 P.M.

Sitting in the relative safety of your hotel room fantasizing about the caliente women of Telemundo Mexico is for wimps! Take off all your jewelry, remove any article of clothing worth anything, and leave behind all body hair, moles, or canker sores that might look valuable. Then hide your wallet in a plastic bag submerged in the tank of your toilet and, ignoring all those warnings from the U.S. State Department, head downtown. No really. Remember to bring one ATM card for the eventual kidnapping. The only thing worse than ending up in the trunk of a Ford Taurus somewhere in the bowels of Mexico City is ending up DEAD in the trunk of a Ford Taurus somewhere in the bowels of Mexico City.

Take a taxi, rental cars refuse to enter the downtown area even if you bribe them with carrots or lumps of sugar, to the teeny-weeny, La Perla (cover - 1,230 pesos) and enjoy the nightly drag queen cabaret. Yes, I do expect you to risk your life. Is it better than the relative safety of Lucky Chengs back home in the East Village, NYC? No, and the food isn't nearly as good, but did I mention that these are hairy, Mexican drag queens?

Saturday 1 A.M.

While you are downtown, and all hot and bothered by the cabaret show, don't miss a traditional Mexican cockfight. Michael Vick recommends El Palenquito and who are we to argue? Enjoy the spectacle of two proud, strutting cocks engaged in fisticuffs with the multigenerational crowd of mostly heterosexual locals (cover - you'll have no money or shoes by this time so its a quick trip to the alley and bruises on your knees).

Sunday 11 A.M.

How about a free bicycle ride courtesy of the Mexican government? In a pathetic attempt to curb the eye-watering air pollution that has inflicting every breathing organism in the city with countless variations of repiratory disease, the government provides free bicycles at kiosks along the Paseo de la Reforma.

Possible dangers in Mexico City include being kidnapped, stumbling into a drug battle, and breathing the air but those activities are akin to snuggling up in your favorite blanket on your favorite couch in your favorite home compared to crossing the street. Traffic accidents have killed more locals than Spanish smallpox. Wear your helmet!

Sunday 1 P.M.

On your way back to the airport, have your cab driver stop at any roadside stand to pick up some authentic Mexican cacao and Pre-Columbian artifacts. A careful purchase (20 pesos) can help defray the entire cost of your trip. My vacation was expensed so I'm going to save my money for those exorbitant iron lung rentals I forsee in my future.

Other Wasted Weekends

36 Hours in Rajasthan, India
36 Hours in Zagreb, Croatia

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Brett Favre Retiring? Includes an Endless Analysis of NFL TV Reaction Cut-Aways

Brett Favre's bruises haven't even started to get yellow around the edges and he's already begun his retirement whining. There is nothing worse than a grizzled crybaby. I'm boycotting SportCenter if they start running with this crap. Why can't Brett stay retired? I explained this already -- has something to do with Mississippi and pigshit.

But then I noticed Brett's wife during the NFC Championship game. How could I miss her? She got more air time than Peyton Manning. If my wife looked like Deanna Favre and I could retire at 40, I'd skip the party, the last uncomfortable, parting e-mail, and the ESPN press conference and get my grizzled butt down to Hattiesburg.

That got me thinking about NFL Reaction Cut-Aways or RCAs as we like to call them in the biz. If you watch a Colts game, you get Peyton Manning chewing on a hang nail or analyzing computer printouts of national importance. If you watch a Patriots game, you get to see, Grumpy Belichick dressed in the same clothes he wears to change his oil.

For a while, while watching a Cowboys game, we got to see Jessica Simpson in a pink Tony Romo jersey.

Annoying? Yes, but a whole lot cuter and a whole lot less annoying than having to watch the Cowboys owner Jimmy Jones looking happy/sad in his owners box or on the sidelines.

I live in New York City so I get to watch a lot of Giants and Jets games. During a Giant game, we ONLY get to see Tom Coughlin overreact after every play. Nobody grimaces like Coach Tom. When the Giants get called for holding, Tom acts like he has never seen that particular penalty called before in all his years on the gridiron.

Jet games are worse. Jet fans get Fireman Ed. A man, much like Joe the Plumber, that is not a fireman nor associated with the Jets in anyway*.

My question is, why do we get to see only one official reactor at a game? My gut tells me that the networks think that showing more than one person reacting will confuse the average football fan.

Maybe I wanted to see how Drew Brees' wife reacts between every good or bad play the Saints made. I was starting to think that Drew is the only quarterback in the history of football that chose to marry a woman that doesn't deserve to be on the cover of Sports Illustrated in a bikini.

Don't fret, Brittany Brees looks gorgeous. She just didn't get any air time. I hope she wasn't pushing a book on mothering, or scrapbooking, or accepting Jesus as your personal savior.

The thing about these reaction shots is, we know how every single one of them is going to look. Touchdown? Happy. Interception? Sad. Bonecrushing blow to grizzled, old Brett? "Home Alone" hands to the face, "Ohhh!."

What's the point?

Here's Vikings Coach Brad Childress' reaction to my question.

P.S. Yeah, I saw Brett Favre's hot daughter sitting next to his hot wife. Banging your daughter has been illegal in Mississippi since 1997 so she does not figure in the retirement discussion.

* Apparently Fireman Ed did a commercial for the Jets promoting Bloomberg's ridiculous West Side Stadium project even though the NYC Fireman's union, working without a contract, was rightfully opposed to it. Another good reason to hate the guy.

More Favre Family Fun!
Looking for Brett Favre's Junk? - An in-depth look at Brett's penis includes hot photos of Deanna Favre and Jenn Sterger
The Favre Refrigerator - An in-depth look at what's hanging on Brett Favre's refrigerator includes Brett Favre's penis and a hot photo of Jenn Sterger
Don't Cry for Me, Brett Favre. You Were Supposed to be Immortal - An in-depth look at life in Mississippi with a hot wife
Deanna Favre Stand by her Man* - An in-depth look at Deanna Favre's love of her man, Jesus includes Brett Favre's penis and a hot photo of Deanna Favre.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Wall Street Journal Plagarism? Probably not, so I apologize, sort of

Yesterday, during one of my usual "ripping the Wall Street Journal's cartoon a new one" rant I accused the artist of stealing from Matt Groening (the creator of the The Simpsons). I went home last night and found my old School is Hell book and...

Here's the Wall Street Journal cartoon:

Here's the Matt Groening cartoon I was thinking of from 1987:

In my head, the one-eared, Bart rabbit was holding a report card. Cut me a slight break though, I haven't seen this comic in over 20 years. Mistakes were made. That wording is strange enough that I did remember it. I guess it was "influenced" by Groening not stolen from him.

I apologize, sort of.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Even More Wall Street Humor - No Child Left Behind

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.

Education! Talk about shooting liberal fish in a barrel. The Draconian teacher's unions, wishy-washy "Lake Wobegon" school reform, hip hop in the classroom. Go ahead, you don't have to aim, just fire. What? Maybe you should aim a little. When you first read these cartoons you think, oh no, they're 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.

There is an interesting thing about this cartoon. Matt Groening, creator of the Simpsons, drew it 20 years ago in his "School is Hell" series of comics. I know what you're thinking. Coincidence. If you draw cartoons, you would remember it. I did and I don't even get paid for the cartoons I draw. When I get home tonight, I'm going to look for it.

This is the part of the post where I attempt to write funnier captions. Don't forget, 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. 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.
Note: There are a bunch of these cartoon rips so just scroll on down.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

My Dick Discusses Avatar 3D: The Nexus of Religion, Spiritualism and Boinking Aliens

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

About halfway through Avatar (that's 18 months in dog years), I got to thinking, would I rather bang Sigourney Weaver the human or Sigourney Weaver the 9 ft. tall blue alien?

Not as obvious an answer as you might think. Sure, Dr. Sigourney Weaver, the chain-smoking, xeno-botanist in Avatar, looked haggard and worn, droopy and old, and wrinkled and musty, but we're talking the same long, delicious drink of prune juice that battled the mother of all space monsters with nothing but a wife beater, a pair of skimpy panties and a really big laser rifle. I was fantasing about Ms. Weaver back when I was still latched on me mudda's teat. (Not a pleasant visual so let's both stop thinking about it.)

Then I realized how I could probably kill the chubby Indian dude, attach all those wires to myself, climb into her high tech coffin, and boink the real Sigourney Weaver while SIMULTANEOUSLY boinking the 9 ft. tall blue Sigourney Weaver.

Because while the blue alien females were all uniformly hot, they were also uniformly 9 ft. tall. That's when I got to thinking how a skinny-ass, white boy would go about fornicating with a hot, 9 ft. tall chick. The tallest woman I have successfully mounted on Earth was about 6'1". What position would be suitable for a mate 3 feet taller?

Doggy style would be impossible without a step ladder, and a step ladder is inclined to wobble. I possess lightning hips. A wobbly step ladder would seriously cramp my style.

Missionary would be pathetic. Would I even be able to get the necessary leverage if my feet never touched the ground?

Cowgirl? Painful. Nine feet of muscle bouncing up and down on you with those grasshopper thighs. My hip bones would be crushed into flour. (There's a Shrek joke there somewhere but I can't seem to locate it.)

That's when I noticed that there was an action sequence taking place on the big, 3D screen. Oh no, what intricate plot twists did I miss while I was fantasizing about me and Big Blue? Oh right, there ain't no plot.

That's when the crippled avatar and the Lieutenant Uhura alien started bedding down under Mama tree. This was going to be good! Hot alien on alien action. Ho hum, a couple of kisses, a dreamy look and surprise, it's morning. Reminded me of every other not-allowed-to-see coupling since Edison invented popcorn.

That got me thinking about how I would make love to Zoe Saldana if we were both big, blue aliens. Granted, I have been thinking about how I would make love to Zoe Saldana if we were both humans, stranded on a desert island, with Zoe rendered temporarily blind by a near death experience, during our narrow escape, when I risked my life to save her, leaving her filled with gratitude and desire for me, ever since Star Trek -- but this was different. Now, we were both big and blue.

I got to thinking about those ultra-cool pink tendrils that I have hidden in my ponytail. They're excellent for horseback riding and pterodactyl riding, but can you imagine what it would be like to attach that thing to one of Zoe's turgid, little nipples? Dozen's of those corally-polypy-like appendages wrapping around her, each one more sensitive than the tip of my tongue...

That's when I started thinking about what Zoe could do with her ultra-cool pink tendrils hidden in her ponytail.

That's when I noticed the movie was over and the guy with the broom and the garbage can on wheels was asking me politely to get out.

Quick Endnote: My dick also thinks that the blue alien religion is better than Christianity, Judaism and Islam but not as good as Zen Buddhism. But to be honest, he hasn't put that much thought into it.

If you liked this post by my dick, you will probably enjoy:

My Dick's Thoughts on Patrick Swayze's Passing Hint: My dick kind of hated Patrick Swayze

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Out Damn Spot! My Eulogy to the G-Spot

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.

Sexy G-spot a Myth
Scientists say new research shows that the G-spot -- the reputed hot zone for women's intense orgasms -- simply doesn't exist.

blah, blah, blah

The study aroused the ire of G-spot proponents, such as Rutgers University professor emeritus Beverly Whipple.
blah, blah, blah

I consider myself a bit of an expert on the finer points of the female anatomy and have had long, passionate discussions with Dr. Beverly Whipple, Ph.D., R.N.

That's Dr. Whipple up there just before she presented me with the Best Digital Stimulation of a G-Spot Award for 2009. Yes, I did nail her during a coffee break at the Spongiosum Symposium at Rutgers last April.

But seriously, is Rupert Murdoch telling me that I have rubbed some of my most important digits to the bone in search of a mythical cluster of nerves?

Speaking of clusters of nerves, the same article reported that the Male G-spot does exist. That's great because, you know, we don't have enough going for us.

It's more of a G area, really. Rub it and he will come. Since we're all looking, can I ask a question that has been bothering me? Like most guys, my Cowper's gland enjoys a little special attention. Why do I have to pay extra for it in Atlantic City?

I would like to take this opportunity to explain what this discovery means to me. This is not only disheartening to millions of women, I'm very worried that this might effect all the web traffic I get from this classic piece of photoshop.

The original diagram is from the University of Cincinnati and shows, concisely, how to stimulate the G-spot and the clitoris simultaneously. I mostly just added the NY Yankees World Series Ring and the doodie.

When I was a grad student at SUNY Stony Brook, I used to TA Biology 151. I had a diagram that was even better. It showed how to stimulate the G-spot, the clitoris, both nipples and the sluggish economy, all with one hand. The other hand was working the remote, flipping back and forth between Sportscenter and Family Guy on Cartoon Network. We never went over this material in class, I used to require that my favorite students meet me in my dorm room for extra help.

Finally, I would like to end with this thought. While I know we are all filled with enough sorrow to dampen dozens of panties due to the loss of our close friend, I would like to suggest that there is a cause for celebration, however slight. For as long as G-spot lives on in our memory, it can never truly be dead. I believe it was Juliet from Venice Beach that penned these encouraging words:

"What's in a name? That which we call a G-spot
By any other name would feel as sweet.
If you lick us, do we not sigh?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh and tell you to get back to work down there smart-ass?
If you rub us for 20 to 40 minutes and combine it with a jaw-numbing amount of tongue action, do we not orgasm?"

Don't get too cheerful, people. Mr. Murdoch just texted me that the Post is going to run a story tomorrow proving that the clitoris is also a myth.

I forgot that when I do stuff like this I have to include attractive women hot babes or I get zero traffic from Google, so here you go.

Can you match the gorgeous celebrity to the graphical approximation of her G-spot? Have fun!

Interesting that Jennifer Anniston and Kelly Ripa have near identical hair but vastly different G-spots.

Updated Update
My favorite dead reader, William Safire, sent me this pathetic attempt.

Very nice try but WRONG!

Obviously, this is the correct answer.

What am I basing my analysis on? I work during the day so I know next to zero about Kelly Ripa but based on my extremely limited knowledge she seems like a gal that would enjoy a good one as frequently as possible.

Jennifer Anniston was mean to my friend Jay Mohr when they worked on a movie together. Therefore, she must be microscopic.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Jayson WIlliams Hits a Tree, with his SUV, in Manhattan. And Susanna Hoffs Looking Incredibly Hot

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.


Former NBA player Jayson Williams is facing DWI charges after smashing his SUV into a tree in an early morning East Side crash.

Shocking. Not that Jayson Williams was driving drunk in Manhattan but that he managed to hit a tree!

The tree he hit was at 18th Street and Avenue C. I lived for many years only a few blocks away from that location. I am intimately familiar with those beautiful trees.

Let's take a moment of silence for that poor tree. Can you imagine being a majestic oak trying to grow out of a sidewalk on Avenue C? You've survived decades of steady mulching with empty crack vials and spent cigarette butts from passers-by. You've toiled for decades while your roots search for scant nutrients amongest the underground maze of subways, sewer lines, and pre-revolutionary negro burial grounds. Your delicate leaves have received a daily dose of electromagnetic radiation from the East 14th Con Edison Power Station that is so high it would give George Hamilton a melanoma.

Then frickin' Jayson Williams slams his big-ass SUV into your ass.

Let's take a moment of silence for Jayson Williams. Does anybody remember the funny, non-threatening, Sinbad-like Williams that was a star at Christ the King, St. Johns, the Nets and the David Letterman Show!?!

A big thanks to The Yankee Princess for that photo of Jayson Williams.

What's hotter a gorgeous chick talking about sports or a gorgeous chick playing an electric guitar? Please discuss. That photo of Susanna Hoffs is probably not fair but I'm pretty sure that the Yankee Princess would not give me, an infamous Yankee hater, a similar photo to use.