Friday, July 30, 2010
No internet, no updates, no Sarah or Bristol Palin, no N.Y. Post, no morning cameltoe, no morning camel toe, no Sandra Bullock butt, no C.C. Sabathia's big pants, no inside jokes.
To my six loyal readers (you know who you guys are, I sure don't -- but the server statistics do not lie, you guys are out there), thanks! See you sometime in August.
For those of you that accidently stumble in here, I offer a few links to some better than average posts currently buried deep within the archival anarchy of blogspot:
My Thoughts on Patrick Swayze's Passing (with my dick) - Wherein my dick makes its first appearance on this blog -- as a guest writer.
Another Great Moment in Photoshopping History - Wherein I once again brag about my superior photoshopping skills. If you visit only one humorous post about William Howard Taft today, make it this post.
Our Trip to Latkeland and A George W. Bush Christmas Carol - Wherein I bravely make fun of all the major American religions that won't put out a fatwah on me.
My Dick Discusses Avatar 3D: The Nexus of Religion, Spiritualism and Boinking Aliens - Wherein my dick writes a post with a ridiculously long title.
My Dick Discusses the Winter Olympics - Wherein my dick begins my month long obsession with Women's curling and specifically the Dupont sisters of Team Denmark.
More Wall Street Journal Humor - St. Patrick's Day, Leprechaums, But No Irish Jokes Please - A good example of my life-long hatred of the Wall Street Journal and my ability to poke gentle fun at the Irish.
It appears that my dick has written most of the good posts on this blog. Not that surprising given that I have been accused of thinking with my dick more often than my brain likes to admit.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
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. I borrowed a crisp white shirt with lots of buttons, a pair of Nantucket Reds, and a blue blazer from my obnoxious neighbor Spaulding, and headed for the ferry.
Nantucket is like Martha's Vineyard without the annoying black dog. With a name easier to pronounce than the nearby islands of Tuckernuck or Muskecunt, it is also far more popular. Nantucket is Algongouin for "in the midst of old money," if you ever visit, you literally have to bring a boatload of cash -- not a Boston Whaler, we're talking at least a 41-footer.
Friday 5 PM
Take a stroll down Main Street and stare at people that all look like the grandparents of those precious Lands' End models. It will make you feel good to rudely bump into all these rich assholes that some how manage to spend the whole summer on an island not working, so do it.
Stop in at the revered Mitchell's Book Nook. This store was recently saved from being turned into a Juicy Girl Couture Outlet by the wife of Google Founder, Willoughby C. Googlebinder. Talk about throwing heaps of new money after old. I bought a book of Robert Frost poems set in New England (57 dollars). I plan on sprinkling poems throughout this article in order to haughty it up a bit. Don't worry, they are in the public domain.
Friday 8 PM
The coolest new restaurant in Nantucket is called Dune. Way sweeter than Hard Rock or Mars 2112, you'll be greeted by young Paul Atreides, the heir apparent to Duke Leto Atreides and the scion of House Atreides. Order the tasty Melange-Spiced Duck with a side order of Duncan Idaho potatos (74 dollars) from your lovely blue-eyed waitress.
Good Food in a Fun Setting By Robert Frost
There once was a bistro named Dune
I went there for lunch just past noon
The waitress was hot
A tube collected her snot
When she tossed my salad, I finished too soon.
Friday 10 PM
Have a drink with the young (on Nantucket that's anyone under 62) crowd that gathers down by the water at the Weathered Beam. Try a Boston College Coed on the Beach (28 dollars), that's made with aged rum, Nantucket Nectar Pomegranate Pear Cocktail with a squeeze of an old man's sack. Now try a breathing Boston College coed on one of the sofas that are scattered on the actual beach.
A Girl from Nantucket by Robert Frost
There once was a girl from Nantucket
With a cunt so small no one could fuck it
She said with a grin
As it failed to go in
If you want, I can bend down and suck it.
Saturday 10 AM
Stroll through the Nantucket Farmer's and Artisans Market, two whole blocks containing 65 booths filled with every imaginable piece of crap made out of blueberries or driftwood.
There once was a dawk from New Yawk
Who needed a rich bitch to powk
Struck out at the Club
So he started to rub
And sprayed jizz from Nantucket to Montauk
Where he drank and he drank to escape
He once killed a daughter
But it wasn't manslaughter
And his nephew got away with a rape.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Blog Number 1: allen. stefanie. & paislee.
First blog up is a nice, young family that doesn't like initial caps or commas but loves Jesus! and periods.
You guessed it. Blonde, smiling, Mormons. I've been to Utah and most Mormons do not look like the Osmonds, they look like these guys. This blog consists of 800 billion photos of their cute, little daughter and their blonde, Mormon friends and family.
Why is this Blog like Mine?
I'm a half-Jew, atheist from New York City that writes a blog full of raunchy, political humor. The only thing I can think of is that I do take the Lord's name in vain a lot. Does anybody see any similarities?
Great title. I've been singing it to The Ramones' Sheena ia a Punk Rocker for the past 5 minutes. I really like the exclamation mark. You can tell that Danice is a scrapbooker and damn proud of it!
This blog is about Danice's art and her life in New Zealand. It is full of cool, close-up photos of scrapbooking paraphernalia. It is well-written and sincere.
On her birthday, her friend made her this cake. Yes, made her this cake. Scrapbookers are multi-talented and seem to be incredibly useful.
And they are hot! Would I do a scrapbooker? Yes, three times!
Kangaroos lounging in the shade. Apparently if you live in New Zealand you can take like a subway to Australia which is better than going to the Bronx.
Why is this Blog like Mine?
I may have used the words "scrap" and "book" over the past year. I live in New York and Danice lives in New Zealand. I breathe a combination of gases consisting of 78% nitrogen, 21% oxygen with traces of other stuff and so does she.
The Next Blog>> button sucks.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Friday Fotoshop Funny No. 3: Sarah Palin discusses her Southern Strategy with a Teaparty lawyer. The ethics of this strategy have come into question after the NAACP declared it racist.
I'd be sporting wood and wetting my pants at the same time.
I go topical, incestuous, short, the trifecta
of internet comedy. Can you be more funny?
Leave a comment or e-mail me.
rashburn1927 sent in this oldtimey classic.
If I could hypnotize Sarah Palin, I would tell her to act like a moose
and hope that Todd or Dick Cheney, well, you know...
Thomas Agee of Mobile, Alabama asks the eternal question,
pain or pleasure? Sarah Palin in thigh-high boots, leather corset
and a dog sled whip? Whatever gets you through the night.
NailsNYM4 threw off the chains of political correctness with
this tardy submission. Before you babies all start complaining,
let me assure you that Nails is both mentally and physically challenged
from years of steroid abuse.
Brian McRae of Bradenton, Florida makes it personal.
I like to think that Sarah Palin would get a laugh from my stuff.
Then we would hold hands, get down on our knees and pray to
Jesus for my forgiveness and redemption. After I accept Jesus
as my personal savior, we'd get busy making Christian babies while
Todd watches helplessly, his external gentitals left ruined
by years of snowmobiling.
Can't Get Enough of this Crap?
During the last election I created the site AndtheOtherisaDog.com (voted by Moveon.org as the leftist comedy site most likely to be mispelled).
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The Best George Steinbrenner Stories - Helping the Little People, A Tampa Bellhop Remembers The Boss
When I was in college, I worked nights and weekends in a Tampa Hotel owned by Mr. George Steinbrenner. I was a bellhop -- little hat, little velour jacket, I looked just like a monkey. Mr. Steinbrenner had a huge apartment that occupied the entire 9th floor of the hotel. You had to have a special key to open the elevator at that floor.
Funny thing, his wife didn't have a key. Years later, I found out that they had a similar rule at Yankee Stadium. She was not allowed on the floor where Mr. Steinbrenner had his office. It was explained to me by the hotel manager that Mr. Steinbrenner did not like to mix business with his personal life.
One late night in December I was told to go up to the 9th floor right away -- there was an emergency. I hated going up there because I dreaded that I might do some little thing wrong that would upset The Boss. It was great gig for a college kid and I didn't want to lose it. Lots of money for almost no work and I could do a lot of studying between room service calls.
When I got up there, Mr. Steinbrenner was in the shower. I found a big, fat hooker on his bed. She was dead. It was well known that The Boss liked a lady with some meat on her bones. This one looked like a side of beef. I went to the supply closet in the hallway and got an enormous plastic bag that housekeeping used to use to collect the linens.
After a bit of a struggle, I had the poor woman safely in the bag and was dragging her slowly across the bedroom floor when a dripping George Steinbrenner came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel.
What a scene! George Steinbrenner sees me lugging a huge bag of dead whore and you know what he does? He asks if he can help!
"You need help with that, son?" he says.
I was totally freaking out. This guy fired you if your shoe laces were tied crooked and now he was watching my every move. I told him that I could handle the load and then The Boss opened up a drawer, pulled out his wallet and gave me a $100 bill. He said it was my tip!
Two weeks later, I made a repeat visit to the 9th floor -- only this time Mr. Steinbrenner and former President Gerald Ford were both in the shower and there were three dead hookers on the bed. Now, I knew why I never heard about any of this stuff on the news!
He never paid for my college education but the tips were real good.
Even More Best George Steinbrenner Stories Ever
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Told to Michael Kay by Derek Jeter during an interview on the show Centerstage on the YES Network
Back when Derek Jeter was an eighteen year old nobody, he was walking alone through Legend's Field, the Yankee Spring Training Complex, when The Boss called out to him. Jeter couldn't believe that Yankee owner George Steinbrenner knew his name. Mr. Steinbrenner put his arm around the young man and told him that the club had big plans for him.
"Son, my baseball people tell me that someday you may be as good as Bucky Dent," said the owner with a smile.
Jeter, always self-confident, politely asked Mr. Steinbrenner if he had heard about the long-term contracts several rising young stars like Carlos Baerga were signing.
Mr. Steinbrenner lost the smile but guided the young prospect up to his office. They sat in silence as The Boss made a phone call.
Arthur Richman soon appeared at the door with a bottle of single malt scotch, a box of Cuban cigars and two attractive prostitutes. The smile returned to The Boss' face and he said, "Don't you worry about what some bush leaguer in Cleveland is getting, son. You're a Yankee now."
After a memorable afternoon, Mr. Steinbrenner turned to his young phenom and offered up some words of advice, "Never validate their parking."
And Derek Jeter never did.
Billy told this story on The David Letterman Show, December 4, 1985.
This one time, Mickey Mantle took George hunting. Mickey was a country boy but George grew up in the city. Mickey takes him to a farm right outside Commerce, Oklahoma. Mickey had known the farmer since he was a kid. When he called to make sure the gates would be unlocked, the farmer asked him if he would kill an old cow. The cow had been a family favorite but was now suffering and in lots of pain. The farmer was a tough guy but couldn't bring himself to put the old girl down. Mickey told him no problem -- but let's play a joke on Mr. George Steinbrenner III.
They pull up to the farmhouse in a big, shiny limo. Mickey tells George to wait outside while Mickey lets the farmer know that they are going to be hunting out back. A couple minutes later, Mickey storms out of the house slamming the screen door.
"That old fool won't let us hunt!" Mickey yelled. Then he rushed pass George, grabbed a shotgun out of the car and went into the barn. George chased after him.
"What are you doing, Mickey?" asked an out of breath George.
"I'm gonna kill one of the bastard's cows!" Mickey yelled. And he did.
As they were walking back to the car, the farmer storms out of the house yelling and cussing. Mickey grabbed George and pulled him into the limo. A clearly shaken George whispered something to his driver but instead of gunning the engine, the driver got out of the limo, walked up to the farmer, pulled a revolver from a shoulder holster and put a bullet in the farmer's head, recreating almost exactly, the earlier scene in the barn.
Now, Mickey was shaken and he began crying. He told George all about the joke gone bad. George said, "Don't worry son, I'll handle everything." He had the driver take Mickey back to the airport. Then George spent the entire evening consoling the only surviving family member, a comely daughter.
A month later, George Steinbrenner paid for the abortion and the girl's entire college education. When the sheriff started snooping around, President Gerald Ford himself, made sure nothing came of the investigation.
George Steinbrenner was a complicated man.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Yes, I stole the World War I helmet from NY Daily News cartoonist Bill Gallo, and I stole the Patton missive idea from Mike Francesa, a talk show host on WFAN, New York, but the Dr. Evil outfit is all me.
I have this picture in my head. It's the first Dead George Steinbrenner Joke.
George Steinbrenner gets to the pearly gates and is met by a bearded St. Peter and a bearded Jesus Christ.
Jesus says, "We'll forget all about the lying, cheating, envy, avarice, greed, pridefulness and adultery but you will have to grow a beard to get into heaven. Sorry, but it is the rule."
"Never!" bellowed an outraged Steinbrenner.
So, George Steinbrenner is burning in hell.
I know Johnny Damon laughed.
Here's another image of George Steinbrenner I created for a bit that never was.
I had discovered the liquify tool in Photoshop and started playing with images of Barry Bonds. The visuals were cool but the writing was not funny, so I let it die.
Friday, July 9, 2010
I was perusing the "Paper of Record," electronically, so no paper was actually involved in my perusal, when I noticed these.
Big, pink boobs. The staid, "All the News Thats Fit to Print," New York Times has strapped on the underwire and is proudly displaying it's broadsheet for everyone to see.
That added a few column inches to my masthead!
Because this is the "Virtual Paper of Record," the boobs even move. They're preparing the perfect Bloody Mary. Then the camera pulls back revealing an actual woman, the general manager of a trendy NY restaurant, that has a six Bloody Mary mug.
NY Times Editor: "Jesus Christ! Zoom in! Zoom in! Tighter, tighter, good. Beautiful Bloody Mary, my ass! Almost lost the free peanuts and Clamato Cocktail. Wow, talk about the dangers of gonzo journalism."
I'm not a Bloody Mary guy. Give me a perfect Bloody Mary and I'll pop it in the microwave for two minutes and pour it over a bowl of penne.
I may have mentioned this before, but I hate my job with a passion worthy of Mel Gibson. My job is mind-numbingly boring, unfathomly useless and demeaning in ways that only a piss bucket boy from the 1700's would understand. Every minute I am at work is a punch in the neck, a kick in the balls, a spike hammered through my eye into the part of my brain where joy resides. Still, it does pay the bills and I'm eternally grateful for all the pain and anguish.
I was going to create this nifty visual with comic legend, Flip Wilson,
an exceptionally hot photo of Queen Latifa,
a goofy LeBron headshot and some words in Cooper Black font,
Coulda, shoulda, woulda, frickin' boss.
He was gonna be all misty and sing it in a duet with
mega-star Joey Heatherton. You remember her, Joey looked like Mrs. Brady from The Brady Bunch after a month long bender spent in a hotel room with the entire roster of the Kentucky Colonels.