What the Ultra-Fast Reaction Time of Our President Is Actually Telling You

I was going to talk today about the hairstyle that has become the new object of my desire, and particularly the stiltwalker from the ABC circus who wears said coiffure. We'll come back to that later. Because in the words of The Brady Bunch Movie, something suddenly came up. Namely this:

I have to take a break from laughing for a minute to compliment the gentleman on his aim. That is precision! I have plenty of experience hurling projectiles toward people (usually volleyballs toward the bare-chested assholes from rival New York City fruit production companies... watch the f**k out, Chiquita...), but given my limited practice time throwing shoes (I have actually thrown shoes three times in my life), I don't think I could guarantee that the direction of my missiles would be quite this true.

Nice work, dude! I hope you enjoy the beating.

But I reserve my highest praise for Mr. President himself -- not because he kept his cool and somehow managed to act with less rashness than the invasion in the first place, but because he managed to dodge not one, but both shoes! You normally only see him employ that kind of dexterity fending off uncomfortable questions from reporters about his motivation and decision-making, or evading military service, or ignoring the wants and needs of his fellow Americans.

That is impressive, sir.

It has made me wonder if perhaps there is more to this hobbit than meets the eye, and by hobbit, I mean monkey-faced politician. Those reflexes can't be easy to come by. Does he maybe know karate or judo, or some other martial art? Does he fight crime during the ten hours a night in which he claims to be sleeping? Is it like a Jekyll and Hyde thing, where he is fated to forever be possessed of two rival personalities - by night, a behind-the-scenes doer of good works, valiant and of unimpeachable character; and by day, a improbably daft world leader of totally impeachable character?

Maybe that memoir won't be so hard to sell after all, eh there, Mr. Prez? YOU'RE WELCOME FOR SAVING YOUR REPUTATION. You can owe me one later.

The Few, the Proud

From Politico:

Blagojevich's approval rating at 7 percent

The vast majority of Illinois voters want scandal-plagued Gov. Rod Blagojevich to immediately resign as governor, according to a new poll conducted by the Glengariff Group.

The poll shows 70 percent of voters believing that Blagojevich should resign now, while only 25 percent should wait until he is proven guilty. A 73 percent majority support the impeachment of the governor – including a majority of Democrats – with 58 percent “strongly supporting” his impeachment.

His approval rating, meanwhile, has tanked to seven percent. Among Democrats, only 13 percent approve of his performance.

As a lifelong Illinoisan, I am proud to count myself one of the noble Seven Percent who would undyingly pledge my support to my captain, my kinsman, and my governor, Rod Blagojevich. As long as there is breath in my body, I shall endeavor to expend that breath giving him my full-throated endorsement. Not torture, not damnation, not the very fires of Armageddon could possibly make me lessen my commitment to the Blagojevich cause. Wild wolves may tear my flesh asunder, but my enthusiasm for this man and his super-stylish haircut will not diminish.

For it is as is said in Scripture: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou canst go fuck thyself if thou wilt not give me five hundred thousand dollars (US) for a Senate vacancy."

Know your Bible, people. Do the right thing.

You Know Who You Are

I cannot claim credit for finding this. I can't even claim credit for blogging about this first. This comes courtesy of my college roommate and another former housemate of ours from the days when we lived on Duke Street in Nueva Brunswick, which is in Nueva Jersey. If you didn't ever stay up late enough to see NJN sign off at like 2:30 in the morning, chances are you haven't seen this. But for those other owls who were sitting awake on their living room couches, contemplating actually doing homework for once or just masturbating and then heading to bed, all while going into their fourth straight hour of channel-flipping, you know what I'm bloggin' about...

I'm blogging about this "movie."

On this subject, I can't write anything more sublime than this, which was written by our good friend Squawking VFR. Mr. VFR and I were roommates for more than four years. And rather than try to tack my thoughts onto his gorgeous testimonial to Garden State pride, allow me instead to present for you a fun fact about Mr. VFR.

Mr. VFR's favorite movie is (or at least was) none other than the 1987 box office juggernaut, Planes, Trains & Automobiles. (Directed by John Hughes, starring John Candy and Steve Martin, runtime: 93 minutes.) Who wouldn't love it, right? But VFR was a quirky dude, and his relevant quirk was that he would only watch this movie on Thanksgiving.

Understandable. It's a holiday thing, a tradtion thing, whatever. Except that we never celebrated holidays together, and we certainly never celebrated them at our college places of residence. (To some extent you could argue that at college, every Friday and Saturday night is a holiday, but again, whatever.) So why the hell did he bring the tape to school with him?

I think I know why. It was to tempt me into the embarrassing predicament, late in our sophomore year, of having to explain to a room full of my friends why my roommate had just interrupted us, 45 minutes into Plains, Trains & Automobiles, and angrily demanded that we eject the tape from the VCR immediately. And in so doing, Mr. VFR had generously also given me this very story that you're reading. And stories are the rarest gift of all, kids.

I have no shadowy psychological idiosyncrasies to share about the other housemate involved in the finding of this fine piece of Jerseyana. But if he's out there reading this, I hope he knows that he has my sincere gratitude for its discovery. Good job, man.

How I Imagine the Inaugural Ball Will Go: A Play in Less Than One Act

[SMOKEY slides up to SCARLETT JOHANSSON]

SMOKEY: Hey, Scar-Yo. Wasssaaaaaaaaa...? Are you enjoying the Inaugural Ball? Hey, remember just before I asked if you were enjoying the Inaugural Ball when I said, wassaaaaaaa...?

SCARLETT JOHANSSON: Ew. Who are you?

SMOKEY: I'm Smokey Robinson, baby. [sings "ONE HEARTBEAT - THE JESUS VERSION"]

SCARLETT JOHANSSON: Sorry, Smokebag or whatever, I only like guys with vaguely Middle Eastern middle names. 

[SMOKEY stares blankly.]

SCARLETT JOHANSSON: Middle name, Middle East. Middle, middle. It's about the symmetry.

SMOKEY: Do you have someone writing your dialogue or something?

SCARLETT JOHANSSON: Yes. You, stupid.

SMOKEY: Right.

SCARLETT JOHANSSON: I gotta go.

SMOKEY: No, wait. 

SCARLETT JOHANSSON: No, you wait, Mister... what did you say your name was?

SMOKEY: Smokey Falafel Robinson.

SCARLETT JOHANSSON: Oh. [This next one should be read VERY SWEETLY.] Oh! Hiya, Smokey. Wanna come back to my place?

SMOKEY: You mean, ditch out of the Inaugural Ball to go have sex with Scarlett Johannson?

SCARLETT JOHANSSON: Hey, back off, pal, who said anything about sex? I just wanted to snort cocaine off your ass and break some shit in my hotel room.

SMOKEY: You know, you really are a lot more freaky than you seem like you would be, Scarlett Johansson.

SCARLETT JOHANSSON: A girl's gotta eat.

SMOKEY: Fair point. Although I don't really see how that's related to anything we just talked about. 

[Enter JESUS CHRIST, Our Lord and Savior.]

JESUS: [interrupting] Excuse me, have either of you seen a Yellow Lab puppy? Looks like Old Yeller, only smaller? Like two months old maybe?

SCARLETT JOHANSSON: I saw a Golden Retriever once.

[JESUS and SMOKEY stare at her.]

JESUS: Man, the Obamas are gonna kill Me. I was supposed to be puppysitting but then I saw Kate Moss over by the ice sculpture, talking to Bill Ayers and some dude in a turban. I mean, Kate Moss. I had to try and tap that, man, she's a supermodel. I'm only human. Plus, I'm like Her Hugest Fan. Now what the fuck am I gonna do about the Obamas' dog?

SMOKEY: You know, Jesus, You seem like a lot more of a Douchebag Fuckup than I thought You would be.

JESUS: Dude, not now, okay? Like I don't have enough to fucking deal with just from the Parental disappointment. You think your dad is a ballbuster? Fuck, I gotta find that dog. Sparkles!

[JESUS exits.]

SMOKEY: Did Jesus just say the Obamas were going to kill Him?

SCARLETT JOHANSSON: Do you have any cocaine, Falafel?

SMOKEY: Indeed I do. [SMOKEY winks at audience and smiles expansively, that liar.]

[SMOKEY and SCARLETT JOHANSSON exit. Later, SCARLETT JOHANSSON finds out that SMOKEY doesn't have an exotic middle name, and that the song "ONE HEARTBEAT" is cheesy as hell, and also that SMOKEY has a pretty obvious crush on JESUS. Meanwhile, Jesus flees the country when He's unable to find the OBAMAS' NEW DOG, which they were going to take with them to the WHITE HOUSE.]

Welcome to the Future, America. Population: You (as long as you are not teh gay).

Boy, oh boy, America. You sure do know how to pick 'em. At least, 52.3% of you do.

For me personally, this is a pretty dark day, because Barack Obama still owes me the measly $32 he borrowed from me three years ago at a restaurant in Georgetown, and now there is virtually no chance I will be able to get him to pay up. Seriously, do you have any idea how difficult it is to get close enough to yell threats at a U.S. President if he doesn't give you your money?

Well, I'll tell you. It's very difficult.

It's a dark day for other reasons too. In picking the more sober, serious, intelligent, energetic, pragmatic, and progressive candidate, I think we've pretty much spelled the end of comedy for the forseeable future. Saturday Night Live is probably going to have to go back to forcefeeding us unbearable tripe like "Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer" and "Mr. Bill." I gagged a little just writing that last sentence.

Worse still (as if there could be anything worse than an Obama presidency) is the apparent passage of several bills that outlaw teh gay marriage. (Does anyone else smell a revival of "Church Chat?") As long as gays are facing this kind of institutional rejection, there is almost no chance that I will live to see a President who is truly teh gay and mock him/her for being a President and First Lady rolled into one. I was really looking forward to that.

Then again, up until yesterday, I never thought I'd live to make fun of a black President either, so I suppose you never know.

Here's a Nickel's Worth of Free Advice

Just because two people say things does not mean that they both made valid points. Much more often, one person is just speaking nonsense, and should consequently be punished for their insolent behavior.

For example, if I say something and you disagree with it, you are wrong and should be ostracized from society.

Therefore, ergo, and henceforth, you shall all be on notice, people. No more Mister Nice Smokey. And do you want to know why? Because not ONE of you sent me a Guy Fawkes Day card. Not one.

Disappointed, America. Very disappointed. [SMOKEY shakes head.]

And don't be all like, "oh, I was busy," because I know you fucking found time to vote. Jerk.

This was SO going to be Oscar the Grouch's last-minute Get Out The Vote message!

Curse you, Barack O'Bama. You've outflanked me for the last time. I hope you nearly choke on a pretzel during the Super Bowl - even if you don't win.

Just When You Thought You Were Safe from Rush Limbaugh...

In addition to having a token Jew here in the Canning Ops Division at Dole(I'm talking about Rebecca Goodman, who hasn't stopped yammering about her kid's effing Jedi costume like it's the most original fucking idea in the world, which it maybe was THIRTY YEARS AGO), we also have a token black guy, who has been here all along and was not just invented for the sake of this blog post, I swear to Zod.

His name, by a freak coincidence, is Rush Limbaugh. That's right - Rush Limbaugh is a big, husky black dude who likes to make off-color jokes about having sex with Rebecca Goodman's kids - the boy and the girl - which we all tolerate because it's the only thing that shuts Rebecca Goldman up. You have NO IDEA how hard it is to fall asleep on the job while Rebecca Goodman keeps yammering on about her kid's effing Jedi costume, which I am mentioning again because that's what Rebecca Goodman does, and I want to share the misery with you. Smokey equals spite for the win!

Anywhoop, here is what I just said to Rush Limbaugh The Black a few minutes ago, during the annual Hallowe'en jokey-joke fest that will be occurring in front of the coffee machine in the break room all the livelong day today: I said, "hey, Rush - isn't that the same costume you had on last year, or is it just that all your outfits look the same to me?" Chuckle chuckle chuckle gum disease.

Human Resources - or Human Re-SNORE-ces, as I call them, ha ha ha - just called me up for a meeting. Not sure what it's about, but I'm guessing that despite the rough economic circumstances, and despite the constant calls for budget restrictions and the threat of layoffs due to a sharp decrease in the consumption of canned goods*, they're probably going to give me a raise.

Fingers crossed, everybuzzy!

P.S. I came dressed as Rachel from Friends today. Weird coincidence that it happened to be Hallowe'en.

*This is actually not true. Because of their durability and their long association with camping, fallout shelters and other forms of apocalypse survival, the canned goods industry thrives in the worst economic climates. Canned goods are like the roaches of the food world, which is why, for a brief time during the 1970s, Dole experimented with adding a roach to its logo.

Is There No Depth to Which this Year's Crop of Candidates Will Not Stoop?

Ever since I stopped running the Oscar '08 campaign (for which I was beaten soundly with the Big O's trash can lid), I've been hearing a lot more about this Irish fellow named Barack O'Bama who's running for El Presidente, and this other guy named Sarah Palin, who is starring in the upcoming JJ Abrams Star Trek movie. No, wait - that's Zachary Quinto. Sorry, I keep getting them confused. I think it's the ears.

Anyway, you won't believe what these two guys are up to! Check out this headline about the O'Bama guy:

He left a trail for his ill grandmother? Seriously? Why didn't he just go see her? What kind of a jerk makes his sick grandmother get up from her death bed - in Hawaii, no less - to do a scavenger hunt to find him? Is he so busy running for president that he can't just take a couple of days away from the campaign and go visit her? What about her needs?

I think it's pretty shameless to keep trying to grab votes while you're ailing grandmother is chasing after your bread crumbs. But it's not the most shameless vote-grabbing effort this week - not by a long shot. Because it turns out that Sarah Palin is actually not a dude, but a chick! And that's not all. Check this out:


Amazingly, the video has since been removed. Go figure.

Obama was on TV? And I missed it? Wait, is he the black dude or the white dude? He is? And I MISSED IT?

W*** T** FUCK?

Well, I can't be the only one. I bet ABC can't wait for the Nielsen dials to come in tomorrow - this is probably going to be an EASY win for Pushing Daisies. Chuckle chuckle chuckle crap my pants.

Oh, and P.S. Gary Unmarried will return next week at its regular place and time. So you can exhale now, America.

Whew!

That was a great episode of Pushing Daisies! Can you believe that thing that happened with Ned and Emerson and Charlotte where they all got dressed up to play poker? Remember how funny it was? Ha ha ha funny!

What else did I miss on tv?

What a Day!

Okay, what the hell, New York City? What's with the kamikaze plastic ramekin that came spinning down the staircase at me in the 59th Street Station today, and then veered off toward the turnstile like it was trying to cut me in line (which is offensive) before crashing, disturbingly into a wall? It was like a little trapezoidal wheel of fear and death and plastic. I was scared!

Uhh!

Wow. I need to unwind. I'm gonna put on Pushing Daisies and relax for a little while.

-Smokey

This Week in Guns

Hello, fellow patriots and residents of the Great Trailer Park that is the U S of A!

Wilkommen and bienvenue to This Week in Guns: a celebration of freedom and God and the rootin'-est, tootin'-est, shootin'-est amendment in the Bill of Rights - that's right, I'm talking about good old Number Two.

In this week's edition of TWIG, we're doing some good old fashioned Jew-blaming. So put down the Stroh's and the Beretta, and take off those safety goggles, and let's get started!

Ah, who are we kidding - you don't use safety goggles, do you? But seriously, put down the gun and the beer, just so you don't accidentally shoot yourself in the drinking hand, spilling beer and blood all over your keyboard and destroying your ability to scroll down and read the rest of the Jew-blaming.

Not that gun accidents are for realsies. They're just a device used by the liberal media coastal elites to rob of us the freedoms guaranteed in the God-stitution. Which brings us to today's item:

Boy Accidentally Kills Himself With Uzi

(AP) An 8-year-old boy died after accidentally shooting himself in the head while firing an Uzi submachine gun under adult supervision at a gun fair.

The boy lost control of the weapon while firing it Sunday at the Machine Gun Shoot and Firearms Expo at the Westfield Sportsman's Club, Police Lt. Lawrence Valliere said.

The boy was with a certified instructor and "was shooting the weapon down range when the force of the weapon made it travel up and back toward his head, where he suffered the injury," a police statement said. Police called it a "self-inflicted accidental shooting."

more...

Let me be the first one to call bullshit on this story.

Are we honestly expected to believe that an eight-year-old kid, firing an Uzi under professional supervision, would have an "accident" like this? Ridiculous! Shooting guns is like the safest thing in the world, and every professional knows exactly what they're doing. Also, there are no accidents, only cleverly disguised conspiracies, which is why it's so important to have guns in the first place.

This has "Children of Israel" written all over it. Think about this, anyone who's skeptical: who manufactures the Uzi? I'll give you a hint: it starts with an "I" and ends with "srael Miltary Industries." I am optimistic that you can do the rest of the math yourselves.

The boy's name is not being released. But I think it's clear that he was no Einstein, since Einstein was a Jew and a pacifist and probably never would have picked up the gun in the first place. Which is fine, I guess, if that's how you want to live your life, Einstein, you pussy. Personally, I'd rather die in a blaze of glory at eight years old.

It's Not Easy Being Green

Hey, everybuzzy. Hi. How are you doing. I hope you're okay.

Sigh.

So Oscar the Grouch isn't really speaking to me. We have two weeks left in the campaign, and it turns out that thanks to the work of ACORN, there are more people registered to vote under the name "Oscar the Grouch" than there are who plan to actually vote for him. All that red state-blue state-green state mumbo jumbo that we were hoping for has turned out to be nothing but a bunch of red state-blue state-green state mumbo jumbo that we were hoping for.

It's time to face the facts: this election is pretty much done for the Grouch-Piggy ticket. Maybe it was over before it started, like one of the aborted fetuses that Barack Obama loves so damn much and probably eats for breakfast before he prays to Mecca and calls up Bill Ayers and Osama bin Laden on the phone to talk about which buildings he's planning on blowing up first after he gets inaugurated.

In the end, we never had any hope of competing with Obama's far superior marketing machine. I mean, when you've got advertising like this:

and this:


What hope is there for anyone else? How can you look at these things and NOT want to vote for Barack Obama? I want some Obama Bucks! I want more abortions and same sex marriages! Sign me the hell up!

But the Oscar campaign was beset by further struggles too. Remember back when Hillary Rodman Clinton dropped out of the race, when the candidate field had been whittled all the way down to two with just a few months left before the election? This Race to the White House™ started with eighteen people and got all the way down to TWO! How much longer could it possibly be before the pool narrowed even further, to just ONE, and then ZERO! That was the centerpiece of my electoral strategy, if you recall.

There were a few problems I didn't foresee. First of all, these McCain and Obama chaps turned out to be much more persistent about becoming president than I thought. I just assumed that since every other Democrat and Republican changed their minds and decided not to run, so would John McCain and Barack Obama. I assumed wrong.

Worse than that, it seems I wasn't the only person who backed a surprise candidate with the hope of gaining some late momentum. Check out some of the competition:


Seriously, how the fuck is Oscar supposed to compete with Caligula? Talk about executive experience - dude was in charge of the Roman Empire! I'm sure in comparison, people are gonna be real impressed by a raggedy puppet in a fucking garbage can, right?

And the Nurglon thing? Folksy, family values - that's what the American electorate responds to! Plus, I have no idea how, but they lined up a major party affiliation! All I can say is wow. Good luck to you, being. I hear judge rimjob the blah* is even considering endorsing them, and who can blame him?

Worse than all that, it turns out the John McCain is actually a much bigger grouch than Oscar could ever hope to be.

Which brings us back to why Oscar isn't speaking to me. See, I was a little bit pissed off at him for not even acknowledging the lovely chopsticks set I got him for National Grouch Day last week, and so I may have accidentally referred to Oscar as "would not even be in the same grouch league as John McCain if there were an official league of grouches" on a conference call with members of the press and virtually all of our high-level donors.

Oops.

Anyway.

Two weeks left before the election, and I think it's time to call it on the Oscar '08 campaign. Time of death: still in the womb.

Oh, and to all those of you who will say they saw this coming, please feel free to fuck yourself with something large, metallic, furry, and partially green. Like, say, a garbage can with a Muppet sticking out of one end. Fuck yourself with that.

Have a Lousy Grouch Day!

You know what to-day is? It's official Grouch Day. I hope your grouch day is filled with trash and anger. Now get out of my garbage can!

Calling it off?

I had one last ace I was waiting to play. I didn't have it all together just yet, though. The God endorsement. Nothing trumps Jesus coming out for the Republicans except the God endorsement. Carries a lot of weight with the aerial hunting crowd and the "we get our news from 'The Daily Show'" crowd.

Oscar's people (meaning me) have been on the horn to God every day for the past six months. You know, praying. The way people telephone their deity when they need absolution for not remembering to DVR the season premiere of "The Office."

I guess someone else was praying a little harder though.

You, O God, have raised up Senator John McCain and Governor Sarah Palin for such a time as this. . . Help them, O God, to strengthen our economy, to keep our taxes and spending low . . . and grant them the privilege of being elected the next president and vice president."

From the Washington Post, somewhere in the middle of the article

SMOKEY: (shaking head, looking downward toward the sidewalk) Republicans. (looking upward, shaking fist at the sky) Republicans!

Oscar's plans to beat Kenny Crandell are rapidly eroding.

No, no, MY Fellow Prisoners!

Damn you, John McCain! "My Fellow Prisoners" was going to be the name of my hit Broadway musical comedy about living in a police state masquerading as a democracy. But now, all anyone will think is that I'm alluding to you.

It was also going to be the title of a chapter in my eventually forthcoming novel, The Brass Ring. Thanks for spoiling that too, you jerk.

JERK!

[SMOKEY runs off, sobbing.]

You Made Me Do This, Moviegoing Public

On my way to work this morning, I saw a woman in a battery-operated wheelchair walking a dog, and I felt compelled to laugh. I immediately regretted the compulsion, but I think it's important for me to get all defensive right now and note that what I was reacting to was not the wheelchair or the dog, but rather the comedic possibilities if she were to walk (or roll) into a bar.

If this kind of lowbrow humor offends you, you have nobody to blame but yourself. I was all prepared to make a more sophisticated joke, but I am as sensitive to my cultural surroundings as a flower is to being shat upon. Because while the nitrogen in said shit may be nourishing, on the whole, it fucking stinks.

So if you want a return to finer things, to campaign updates from Oscar '08, to tales of the Dole Fruit Plant and the Canning Ops division, to letters to Jesus, and to spotlights on my junk mail, you have a responsibility not to let fucking Beverley Hills Chihuahua finish anywhere near the top of the box office standings ever ever again.

Otherwise, my next post will start something like, "so this gay Jewish crippled woman taking her dog for a walk from her wheelchair walks into a bar," and you'll have nobody to blame but yourself for that either.

Seriously. Which of you fuckbags saw that movie this weekend? Raise your hand. Good. Now chop off your hand, pick it up, and pound yourself in the head with it as hard as you can until you pass out from the combination of concussive blows, shame, and blood loss. Then get some kind of unconventional object to replace your hand, like a desk lamp or a maraca or a rubber chicken or something, and write your story into a hilarious movie called Johnny Desk Lamp Hand and make a million dollars. It won't buy you a new hand, but at least you'll have a million dollars. You're welcome.

Things to Look For At the Vice Presidential Debate

This isn't actually so much of a post about things to look for as it is about things to NOT look for, because the people who run the debates are fascist jerks and I hate them. So instead of seeing the rambling old codger with the hearing aid and the pit bull with lipstick and the pig, um, also with lipstick, all America gets is the codger and the pit bull, because the Committee Who Selfishly Runs The Vice Presidential Debates (their official name) doesn't want the voters to have to make any actual choices. Thank Zod the CWSRTVPD doesn't also run a restaurant, or else every meal at their restaurant would probably be a choice between a hamburger and a chicken sandwich, both served with a heaping helping of their special "Who gives a crap, we want Miss Piggy in the debate too!" sauce.

Fucking politics sucks. Muppet Show film festival at my place tonight. BYO episodes of the Muppet Show.

Screw You, Mars

I can't decide who pisses me off more - the Martian lander(s) that discovered it's snowing on Mars, or the planet Mars itself for basically mocking us and our global warming problem that may not be a problem but may in fact be simply the will of God and Jesus and Alex Rodriguez.

On the one hand, there's the Martian lander(s), joyriding around another planet, taking pictures of the scenery, sending vacation slide shows back to Earth, and never ONCE asking how we're doing even though the economy is on fire like it was made out of a pile of wood that somebody lit on fire with a match or a torch or a crude fire-bearing device of some kind. Um, Earth to Martian lander(s): whose tax dollars do you think are paying for your little ski trip up there on Olympus Mons, or wherever the hell you are?

But on the other hand, I don't appreciate a whole planet making fun of the degrading conditions of our global climate either. That is Jay Leno's job, Mars. Not cool. Know your place. I hope God starts blessing you with His attention one of these days, and then you'll be sorry, just like we are. Fuck off, Mars, if that is your real name. I'm totally canceling my planned mission to you.

Oh, and happy Breast Cancer Awareness Month, everybuzzy. Stay aware.

Bad Joke Alert, Awesome Marketing IDEA

Matt's Debate Summary: Blah blah blah Obama, blah blah blah McCain, 90 minutes, and not one "yo mama" joke. Like, "yo mama's so poor, she would qualify for a tax cut under both of our tax policies," or "yo mama's so fat that all of our impressive strides in airport security are probably an added difficulty for her," or "yo mama's so old, she was there for McCain's first debate, which was scheduled to pit him against a velociraptor, but McCain successfully managed to avoid that debate by postponing it until after the dinosaurs went extinct a mere 5,000 years ago."

Not one.

Just a lot of mumbo jumbo about policies and other countries and how K-Mart commercials, the belwether of the advertising industry, have really sucked since Rosie O'Donnell and Penny Marshall stopped doing product endorsement.

The whole hour and a half, do you know what I was thinking? Three things:

A. I hope Jesus is watching this*

B. What the fuck am I supposed to do with the 250 "O vs. O" banners I had printed after Jim Lehrer told me that they were going to let Oscar the Grouch stand in for John McCain? And why is that the third time this week I got seduced and lied to by a PBS show anchor? God!

C. What if I made a calendar with pictures of nuns stripping and called it, "Getting Out of the Habit?"

That last idea has promise.

*Of course Jesus is watching this. Jesus watches everything we do and takes notes on who's' naughty and who's nice, just like the government, and Santa Claus.

Reports of Advancing Ice in Hell...

Dear Clay Aiken,

Okay.

I can deal with the Fannie Mae collapse. I can deal with the government buying AIG. I can deal with the entire economic sector on the verge of meltdown. But you? Teh gay?

This, sir, is too much.

This is a time to set aside our partisan blinders, to forget that we are Republicans and Democrats, to ignore the bitter schism between those of us who voted for you and those of us who voted for Ruben Studdard. This is a time for idle Americans and American Idols to come together as one to solve our nation's problems, and then to vigorously massage our nation's shoulders with warm oil, like you did to me at that party in Seattle when you swore that you weren't gay.

Seriously, what the fuck are you thinking? Is this really the time to make shocking announcements? Haven't we - meaning you and me, but also all of America - been through enough this week? Mortgages are going bad. Banks are failing. Must we also now face the knowledge that you, Clay G. Aiken, are a member of Dumbledore's Army? Must we now also be forced to learn that the G is for Gay, and not for Gilbert, as was previously reported?

For shame, sir.

I think you should suspend your homosexuality and fly back to Washington, DC to meet with the president and the other leaders of Congress about how best to handle the current economic crisis.

Oops, I meant, I think you should suspend your homosexuality and fly back to Washington, DC to meet with the president and the other leaders of Congress about how best to handle the current economic crisis, you homo.

Seriously, I can't believe you're gay. You swore to me that you weren't. You swore, Clay. I am so never making out with you again. I hope you drop dead, but in a very prissy and obviously homosexual way.

But I do have a question: are gay people capable of finding themselves attractive? Because if so, ew.

Okay, bye!

Love and kisses, but in a totally manly and appropriate way,
Smokey.

News from the Campaign Front

I'll be honest, the atmosphere around the Oscar the Grouch '08 campaign offices has been pretty grim lately. We fumbled what looked like sure endorsements from jerk rimjob the blah (aka judge reinhold, whose name is still unworthy of capitalization), and from Ron Paul - although we were able to claim at least a minor victory in getting him to endorse third party candidates in general. The category definitely includes us, so in the most technical of senses, we actually did get Ron Paul's endorsement. Then again, technically, so did the freaking Communists.

We're also making zero headway with the Children's Television Workshop and noted chef Jim Henson. CTW is still pretending not to read this blog, and Jim Henson, it turns out, is dead. (Spoiler alert.) Bobby Flay was willing to come on board to help us out, but the grilled Gonzo he auditioned with was fucking terrible. What a hack.

Also, we have no money. The only greenbacks in the entire campaign office are the green backs of Oscar's puppeteer-controlled hands, which he keeps slapping me with every time I deliver him another piece of bad news. And bad news hasn't exactly been in short supply lately. So we got domestic abuse going for us too. But please don't tell Oscar I told you, or I don't even know what he'll do - probably send me to Bobby Flay's house to be made into inedible smoked Smokey.

I am pleased, however, to announce two pieces of good news today, the proverbial silver linings on the cloud that is otherwise raining bird shit and dog shit and the pain of being slapped by a Muppet all over me.

Firstly, we have dumped Pervez Musharraf from the ticket. Oscar's new vice president will be pause none other than drum roll sound effect Miss Piggy exclamation point.

Something seems wrong with that last sentence. But NOTHING seems wrong with our new VP choice, a pig that you can truly put lipstick on, although you will get viciously karate chopped if you try. True, Miss Piggy may not have a retarded baby, but she does have some pretty weird-looking children on account of being married to a puppet frog.

As expected, the Mrs. Miss Piggy the Frog selection has considerably shored up our support among the Muppet American community, where we currently hold a 65-30 lead over Barack Obama, who has been widely mistaken for a Muppet because of his massive ears. Other than that, putting Piggy on the ticket has done jack squat. For me personally, it means having to deal with the two most high maintenance puppets this side of Statler and Waldorf, both of whom have endorsed John McCain, by the way.

Still, it qualifies as good news, because Oscar and Miss Piggy told me so, and because they're the ones with their fingers on the buttons that, when pressed, administer high-level electrical shocks to the battery clamps on my singed nipples. Please, if you're reading this, send help. These fuckers are vicious!

I'm kidding! I love being tortured by icons of children's television! Where was I? It's so tough to concentrate past the blinding pain...

Oh, right - the second bit of good news. Which is this: no matter what else happens, Jesus is still my friend.

And he'll zap you any way he can. Word. Who needs to win an election when you have friends like this?

Couldn't you just slide off your chair looking at this guy?

Oh my Zod, check this OUT.

Fast forward to 3:25 if you want to skip the dreck and get right to the good stuff. I'm talking, of course, about Bob Barker's exquisite coiffure. Hide your vaginas, ladies, for no female body part will be safe from the awesome erotic force that is Bob Barker's hair.

I'm trying to swallow my jealousy, but it tastes awful, like someone put too much soy milk in it.

Hitting the Links

Dear Jesus,

from Slog

I freakhog LOVE THIS.

I thought You were maybe slightly offended with my idea for what to do with the host wafers. But this tells me You're ready to put a whole new spin on the marketing ideas for "body of Christ."

Now maybe You and me could get together and make that Sausage a little "Smokey," if you know what I'm saying. (I'm implying that We should have teh gay sex.)

Toodles,
Smokey Robinson

Dr. Ahab

Hi, everybuzzy. Smokey L. Robinson here, and I'm tellin' you the truth today. Starting with this: the L is for Love. Smokey Love Robinson. I'll give the ladies a minute to recover before I continue.



Okay.

We're taking a short trip back in time now, to a little over a month ago, the day that I sauntered past "The Future." As I mentioned, I was coming out of an early-morning medical procedure when I saw The Future. It wasn't hard to imagine I'd be seeing something, since, also as I mentioned, I was on some absolutely awesome anesthetic (hereinafter, the "AAA").

I got a call this week from my gastrointerologist, with what seemed like good news. "Your biopsy came back negative," meaning, in this case, that I don't have Celiac Sprue. I know, thank Zod, right? So I can go on eating anything I want, but the mysterious stomach pains which sometimes plague me will evidently go on unexplained. This is why I say it seemed like good news.

The doctor told me to watch out for spicy foods and dairy, which is exactly what I told him was my problem in our first meeting in June or July. But the thing is, we already knew that. Everyone knows the perils of eating spicy food. It's why Indian people and country singers make such great masochists: you can overdo it with the cumin, but you run the social risk of committing the massive party foul of crapping your pants.

But I am neither Indian nor a country singer. I'm just your average bloggerizer with a trick digestive tract.

It's a month since my visit to the [redacted] Center, and I'm finally finishing coming down from the AAA, or perhaps it's the roofie I got slipped last night at the bar when I accidentally drank that chick's cosmopolitan instead of mine. It's three months since my first visit to Dr. [redacted], whom I had really hoped would be a better criminologist. This is what I was thinking last night, when it occurred to me that maybe he was a better criminologist than that. Maybe I was the one unsolvable case that was torturing him and keeping him up nights. Maybe he was tuning in to reruns of House, or ER, or Grey's Anatomy, or Scrubs (Zod, I hope it wasn't Scrubs), trying to find some clue as to what was wrong with me.

Audible gasp! Maybe I was his white whale! I read Moby-Dick once! (Once!) I am therefore qualified to make this analogy! Maybe he was up nights, sitting at the kitchen table in front of a stack of books and a six-year-old laptop trailing wires to the wall because its battery was dead, searching the realm of available knowledge (including WebMD) for an answer. Maybe he was back to the late-night drinking, smoking again too, rubbing his jowls or the freshly waxed top of his head and muttering sweet nothings into his stethoscope. I mean, maybe the mysterious ailment that was eating me up inside was eating him up inside too!

Now, I realize that strays a little bit from more traditional representations of Ahab and Moby Dick, that maybe my gut was really more like Sir Gawaine's green dragon. I also understand that my "Dr. [redacted]'s Office as Pequod" allegory completely neglects the role of Starbuck, who may have been represented by the stern and stentorian, yet somehow warm and welcoming German woman who manned the actual office at the Dr. [redacted]'s office. I'm not really sure how, though. And the thing is, I don't really know Sir Gawaine. I read Moby-Dick once (once!), and Ahab went crazy trying to catch that whale, much like I hope Dr. [redacted] goes trying to solve my stomach issue.

I would love to read the story of that doctor's slow descent into madness. Three months till Christmas, everybuzzy. Let's get busy on this one.

Smokey wonders...

...if churches ever donate their organs.

A Public Service Announcement

Hey, all you Catholics! You've been taking communion every Sunday since you were eight years old, but did you ever stop to consider how fattening your host wafers are? Because it turns out they're made with (gasp of horror) Crisco™!

(Actually, the gasp of horror comes now. The last one should have been a "wait for it, wait for it..." My bad.)

This is according to the website Kingdom.com, which, I must admit, is the cleverest fucking name I can think of. Say it out loud if you don't get it. Now say it without the "dot" in "dot com." See? Genius.

What's not so genius is this ingredient list:

"Unleavened recipe," eh? Sounds like they're going after the Jewish Catholics to me. And how about that recipe, huh? "Flour, water, and vegetable shortening" - it doesn't quite set your toes a-tapping, now does it? How is this recipe going to get on the radar of any of the personalities from the Food Network? We're talking 6-second prep time, max.

The real tragedy is the tremendous marketing opportunity that everyone from Nabisco to the Vatican is missing out on. Think about the ornamental crucifix industry. People spend BILLIONS on those things every year! If they'll bring the cash for jewelry, just think of the possibilities for a snack food deal. Or don't, since I already did it for you.

Endless possibilities (Cinnamon Jeez-It? Hello?) and a built-in market. It's a surefire winner. Boo-ya.

Dear Jesus and Nabisco,

You're welcome (again!). Send checks to [redacted].

Love and weight gain,
Smokey.

I have to confess that Sarah Palin kept me up last night...

Not so much because of her rousing call-to-arms to a Republican party that had been back on its heels, but mostly, because she farts in her sleep.

Highlights from New York's Ongoing Fashion Parade

Sometimes, it's like every week is Fashion Week in New York City. Take, for example, this week, when an unidentified, but nevertheless totally Asian, woman wore this on her feet:

If you're stuck on the blue shoes and/or the artlessly ripped up jeans (and no one would blame you if you were), then you're missing the high point of the outfit, which is just below the jeans, and just above the shoes. Those are not socks, folks. Those are some unholy marriage of pantyhose (yuck) and those little pantyhose-material foot covers that they make you wear if you attempt to try shoes on barefoot at Kinney Shoes or Payless (double yuck).

I'm calling them stocklets, because it sounds like the retching noise you make when you see them.

But what is even more remarkable than simply one Asian woman on the 6 train wearing stocklets is this:
Yes, a second Asian woman in stocklets! On the very same train!

Now, I realize that it's hard to tell that these women are Asian without seeing them drive a car, but this whole post wouldn't have been near as riotously funny as it was if they weren't the real deal. (Ha! Try saying that with a Chinese accent!) So once you come to the conclusion that this post was riotously funny (any minute now... you're almost there), it follows logically that the women must therefore be Asian, and that my pillorying them publicly for their lousy fashion sense could quite possibly make me teh gay.

Don't worry, though. I am not teh gay. But they are definitely teh Asian.

This Shit Writes Itself

“Give the woman a chance to at least have two or three weeks of answering questions before you say, ‘Oh, she’s not prepared to be president or vice president,’ ” Mr. Giuliani said in an interview on the ABC program “Good Morning America.”

See the article here.

Spotlight on my junk mail

From: E.Claid@surrey.ac.uk
To: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
Date: Tue, Sep 2, 2008 at 1:53 AM
Subject: Confirmation Letter from COEFA

Dear Beneficiary,
Good day to you and Compliment of the season. I wish to Congratulate
and Inform you that you have been shortlisted as One Of the Beneficiary Of
this Year Chevron Online Endowment Fund Award (COEFA). For more
Information please contact the Officer Incharge.
Mr. Alexander Dickson
Email: chevrontexacoclaimsprocess@hotmail.com
Tel: :+44-703-592-9763
**Note: All replies and querries or questions concerning this message
should be sent to chevrontexacoclaimsprocess@hotmail.com
Yours Faithfully,
Dr.LEWIS ANDERSON
Chief Executive Officer

***

From: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
To: E.Claid@surrey.ac.uk
Date: Wed, Sep 3, 2008 at 3:16 PM
Subject: Re: Confirmation Letter from COEFA

Lew,

Dude.

What the fuck.

Wait, sorry, that's impolite. Despite the behavior of SOME PEOPLE who don't bother answering their emails, even when you send in your application to the Chevron Online Endowment Fund Award in JULY 2003, I am going to be polite here. So let me begin again.

Lew,

Compliment of the season to you too. But what the fuck.

Are you really just going to send me this email today like NOTHING EVER HAPPENED BEFORE? Are you really going to act like we never met at that party, or like you ever promised me IN FRONT OF MY MOM that I was a shoo-in for this award FIVE YEARS AGO? Are you really going to have the unmitigated gall to stand there in your jodhpurs and your pea coat and tell me that five years later, I am merely a FINALIST?

Fuck you, Lew. I wish I never fucking met you. I don't even think I want to be one of the Beneficiary Of this Year Award. And I want those fucking cuff links back too. I only give birthday gifts to real friends.

Piss off, jerkwad,
Smokey.

Invisible Gallagher Fever: Catch It!

Hey, everybuzzy. I'm a little down in the dumps today. First of all because I went into Labrador Weekend without writing anything about my thoughts about the VP announcement by the re-Pube-Lick-ens. I started writing this Friday morning, back when I had all this hyperintelligent pre-pick analysis to make. But just like Hurricane Gustav's expected direct hit on New Orleans, it didn't quite happen.

I'm also a little down in the dumps because when I started to write said analysis, it was gloomy outside. And gloominess, it is widely known, is the best backdrop available for waxing philosophical about candidates for high public office. But now it's all sunny and beautiful and perfect outside, which of course makes me utterly miserable.

But because I am as courageous and daring as a beauty contestant-turned governor, I'm going to give my pre-pick analysis to alls of yous anyways. I'm going to pretend like it's Friday morning, like it's still gloomy outside, and like we haven't yet found out that Tina Fey was the governor of Alaska.

Here goes.

Hey, everybuzzy. Happy Labrador Weekend.

I'm a little down in the dumps today, because it's gloomy outside. And when it's gloomy outside, the Fruit Plant is an almost unbearably sad place to be. Most of us who work in Dole Canning Operations are pretty hardcore existentialists, and existentialists are extre-hee-hee-heemly prone to weather-related depression. This is why the powers-that-be at Dole are pretty seriously debating the possibility of moving the entire C-Ops division to Hawaii. Of course, a lot of us are glum about that too because we fucking LOVE New York, if for no other reason than it provides us relatively easy access to the Annual Briggs-Goering Existentialism-athon and Bake-Off, which is routinely held in rural Pennsylvania.

But as Sartre himself would be the first to point out, existence comes before essence. And moving to Hawaii, where everything is all sunshine and rainbows and overabundances of pineapple is bound to put some smiles on the faces of even the most hardened scabs in the C-Ops crew. So lube up those laugh lines, Rebecca Goodman! Also, get some sunscreen, because you have a really fair complexion, and you don't want to burn. Oh, and please, please, please stop with the freaking email poetry about your son's soccer skillz. Just because he's named Pele does not make him some sort of prodigy of el futbol. Sending your son away to live in Brazil, on the other hand...

But that's not the only reason I'm depressed. Additionally to the aforementioned weather-induced funk, it appears that I won't get the Republican nod for VP with John McCain this year. Not that I particularly wanted it, mind you, but I was still hoping. I was hoping blindly, in the blind way that blind people blindly hope to win the lottery without buying a ticket, or how little kids hope that the watermelon at the church summer picnic this Sunday will spontaneously explode, showering everyone in gory pink and green carnage.

It's called Invisible Gallagher.

Always brings a tear to my eye.

Anyway.

Obviously, if they're passing on ol' Smokey Robinson for Veep, they must have someone pretty good in mind. So here's my three guesses for who McCain's vice presidential pick will be, based on my detailed analysis of the political landscape, particularly the formidable challenges posed by Barack Obama and the Democrats after this week's convention, and by the torturous legacy of George W. Bush as commander-in-chief.

1. Voldemort.

His conservative credentials are outstanding. His debating skills are unmatched. And his ability to torture his opponents into submission through use of the three "Unforgivable" curses is going to prove a pretty tricky obstacle for Joe Biden to overcome in the Vice Presidential Debate in St. Louis. Also, this is a dude who managed to survive by transferring his essence to the body of one of his followers and drinking the blood of unicorns, which he presumably first killed with a legally obtained firearm. That's the kind of survival ethos the Republican party desperately needs this year.

He's pro-torture, he's pro-little people suffering, and he speaks Parseltongue, three things that are certain to resonate loudly with the conservative base and the evangelical vote. And let's not forget, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named killed that sniveling whiner Cedric Diggory, the jackass who tried to steal Harry's girlfriend. It's time we all admit that none of us really liked Cedric, and that the reason we felt so bad about him getting killed in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (oops, spoiler alert) is because we secretly wished Voldemort would step in and do the dirty work. Mission accomplished.

2. Rep. Jesus (R - WI).

Even though he voted against the Bush tax cuts, Jesus has usually been a lockstep supporter of the President for the last eight years. Yet somehow, he has managed to emerge from the Bush era with his reputation totally unscathed. Leading political analysts speculate that some sort of divine intervention may be involved, though this has largely been debunked by a series of press releases attributed to God himself, in which the Creator enumerates several complaints about Jesus's behavior on earth, citing specifically his "party tricks" of turning water into wine and walking on water as "the kind of showboating We simply do not condone up Here."

Jesus also has only tepid support among evangelicals and so-called "values voters" who see his lack of a family as hypocritical, particuarly in light of all that shit he said about cleaving to your wife. In a 2005 press conference, Jesus seemed to backtrack from the 2,000-year-old comment, noting that it was "really just something You say in an election year."

But the Jesus pick, despite its controversies, would still be a predictable move for so-called "maverick" John McCain, which has led political analysts and conservative radio hosts to speculate that McCain will forsake Jesus "like God did when He was on the cross," and pick someone completely out of left field. (Note: I wrote that before I heard about Sarah Palin, I swear.)

3. Rep. Jesus (R - WI) disguised as Voldemort

This one more or less speaks for itself. All the Jesu Bambino, with none of the softy, leftist, hippie bullcrap about being kind to your neighbors or loving each other the way God loves us. This election year, it's kill-or-be-killed. And who better to do the killing than a man who can later rip of his mask and forgive himself for doing it?

I think this is the clear favorite.


So there you have it. That's what I thought was going to happen on Friday, back when the weather was gloomy. Obviously, I now know better. But I still think Voldemort and Jesus are probably both in line for cabinet-level positions in a McCain administration. Voldemort would be a hell of a secretary of Labor, wouldn't he? And can't you just see Jesus at the Department of Housing and Urban Development, getting into fights with low-level staffers and sending memos that everyone laughs at behind his back? Because I totally can.

Get it? I totally can? 'Cause I work in canning operations? I think that's why Obama has taken the place by storm lately. His whole "yes, we can" slogan really resonates with the people here at Dole. And I hear he does pretty well among PepsiCo and Coke employees too, because yes, they can.

An Oscar Campaign Promise™!

If Oscar is elected president, he promises to take pretzels off the enemy combatant list, where they have been ever since January 14, 2002, when a brave pretzel (coincidentally named Dennis Kucinich) tried to, um, "serve articles of impeachment" on the President, as an actor said to a bishop.

You have to be very careful with your wording when mentioning what Dennis Kucinich, the Pretzel was really trying to do.

Note to the government: these are all jokes. I just wanted to spell that out, because I know how easy it would be to, um, "be misread and sent to Guantanamo," as an actor said to a bishop.

Anyway, that's an Oscar Promise™!

And because this isn't getting nearly enough media coverage, here's Oscar's campaign poster again:

The Oscar '08 Endgame

Heaveno, people. Oscar '08 update comin' atcha.

It's crunch time at the Oscar '08 campaign headquarters, and you know what that means. It's time to name our vice president, and map out our final strategy for defeating both Barack Obama and George W. Bush. Oops, I mean John W. McBush.

First off, a little managing expectations.

Yes, I believe that Oscar is a better candidate than either of these men, if for no other reason than he's a Jim Henson puppet, so people already know whose hand is up his ass. But Oscar has a significant electoral problem that neither Obama nor McBain has, and that problem is this: no one reads this fucking blog. How in the hell I managed to scare up 3,152 votes for Kenny Crandle in 2004 remains a mystery. If Oscar manages to get TWO votes, I would consider that a victory. And if he manages to actually carry a state, then I will buy everyone in that state pizza. (I'm talking to you, Texas and California!)

Now, on to the main events.

1. Oscar's vice presidential pick.

Seems like a lot of the emphasis with the VP picks centers on experience - specifically, foreign policy experience. One little crisis with the Russians in Georgia, and there's, like, a stampede of contenders to get to the nearest airport: Joe Lieberman, Lindsay Graham (who is a dude, by the way, despite the name), Joe Biden, Cindy McCain, Lou Diamond Phillips, and Sherman Helmsley, each one jockeying to prove that he is the man who can pull the world back from the brink of collapse.

But Georgia is a lot like the actress who played Kimmy Gibler on Full House, in that they are both overrun by undersized Slavic men with poor personal hygiene. Also, because no one in America really has any idea where they are. (Republican VP hopeful Tim Pawlenty would have been on his way to Georgia too, but having been educated in the American public school system, he bought a plane ticket to Atlanta. Zing.) And while it's easy to crack jokes about how dumb Americans are and how remote and useless and stinky Georgia is, the point is that there are other countries in the world with more John-Stamos-esque global statures, where a candidate for Vice President could reasonably hope to glean some meaningful foreign policy experience. Countries like Pakistan, for example.

Therefore, it is with great pride that we announce that Oscar the Grouch's running mate for Vice President of the United States shall be...

Pervez Musharraf.

Think about it. You can't beat him for foreign policy experience. He's been the president of an entirely separate country for most of this millennium! And his credentials keep looking stronger and stronger since the government of Pakistan took about four days to collapse after he left office - a fact which also provides a fantastic contrast with George W. Bush, whose government collapse occurred not only while he was on the job, but also because he was on the job.

I know that given my longstanding friendship with Pervez, not to mention our mutual affection for all things Ben and/or Jerry, people will scream patronage. Also, they will scream for ice cream. And you know what, those people will be right. They'll be absolutely right.

2. How to beat Obama.

This one is simple. So simple that it's a wonder the Republican party hasn't figured it out already. Then again, the Republican party is pretty dumb. I mean, we're talking about an "organization" (I use the term loosely) of "people" (I use the term even more loosely) that has actually fielded Dan Quayle and George W. Bush - two men whose combined IQ would be easily outdistanced by a mentally retarded stick of chewing gum - as candidates for high public office. Translation: Republicans are very dumb.

So here's some help. This is the new slogan of the campaign to elect John McCain:

John McCain already got beaten by a bunch of Asians. Let's not let him get beaten by a black guy too.

It's that simple. No one will vote for teh Obama now.

3. How to beat John McCain.

I really don't know how to beat John McCain. Maybe we can ask his Viet Cong captors for some tips. Zing.

No, seriously, let's ask them. My bet is that they're working at Guantanamo right now - as janitors, though, because their torture résumés aren't nearly extreme enough to qualify them as interrogators. It's true! And it's also today's fun fact for the day: the "torture" practiced by John McCain's captors in Vietnam is actually significantly less severe than the "interrogation techniques" sanctioned by the Bush Administration for use in prisoner questioning in Guantanamo!

Nothing but the best for our enemy combatants!

But unfortunately, this still doesn't answer the question of how to win against John McCain. Maybe it's like that old riddle about the minister, the rabbi, and John McCain being on an airplane together, and the airplane starts to crash, but with only two parachutes available, and bearing in mind that this is after John McCain was tortured but before he met Cindy, the minister says he has a wife who loves him and he just wants to see her again, and the rabbi says he has a wife who loves him and he just wants to see her again, and John McCain says, "I'm married to a former model who's now five-foot-four and big as a house; you guys take the parachutes." Maybe that's how you beat John McCain. I'm not sure.

Mao's Successor Hua Dies; Number to Be Retired

Hua Guofeng, former Chairman of the Communist Party of China, Premier of the People's Republic of China, and NHL left winger, died today at the age of 87. Hua is most remembered for being Mao's handpicked successor, and for his two-year stint as a left wing on the Stanley-Cup winning New York Islander teams in 1982 and '83. In tribute to his memory, the Islanders announced today that they will retire his number 43 sweater at a ceremony in the Nassau Colliseum this October.

Hua joined the Communist Party in 1938 and rose through the ranks, becoming minister of public security in 1975, and ascending to the premiership of China following the death of the super-sexy Chou En-Lai in early 1976. He assumed the chairmanship of the Communist Party in China after Mao died later in the year. But the Triple Crown (Premier of China, Chairman of the Communist Party, World's Greatest Grandpa) eluded him, the third title having been granted, via coffee mug, to 88,000 men across the United States, but never to Hua despite being really, really, really nice to his daughter's brats in Guangzhou.

After being ousted from power by the sinister wiles of Deng Xiao Ping, Hua went west all the way to Long Island to live out his childhood fantasy of playing in the NHL. He joined the New York Islanders in the midst of their run of four straight Stanley Cups, playing along such notables as Denis Potvin, Mike Bossy, and Jesus Christ. Although Hua was mostly known as a bruising, checking-line forward and penalty killer, he occasionally managed to dazzle with his skating and his stickwork. His 28-goal campaign in 1981-82 included nearly a dozen goals that would have been included in highlight reels, if anyone in America watched hockey highlight reels in the first place, which they didn't.

His most spectacular moment on the ice, however, came in the second period of game 3 of the 1982 Stanley Cup finals, when Hua leapt eight feet into the air and pirouetted over Vancouver Canucks defenseman Lars Lindgren near his own blue line, landing immediately behind him. Hua then stole the puck from the confused Lindgren, skated into the Canucks' zone unmolested, and floated a wrist shot past a gaping Richard Brodeur for an easy goal.

For his career, he amassed 52 goals and 159 points in two NHL seasons with New York, winning the Stanley Cup both years, all while retaining his title as junior Vice Chairman of the Communist Party until the position was eliminated in the middle of the 1982-83 season. He spent the end of 1983 and most of 1984 backpacking across Europe, returning to China in December after having discovered the joy that is Michael Jackson's Thriller.

In addition to being remembered and celebrated in his own country, the Islanders have announced that Hua's number, 43, will be retired by the team on Monday, October 27th before a game against the New York Rangers. Hua will also be posthumously given the World's Greatest Grandpa award that he coveted for so much of his adult life.

When Metaphorical Hurdles Become Actual Hurdles, or Vice Versa

Chances are you've never heard of Lolo Jones. No, it's not the name of a Chris Tucker character in a wacky, multi-racial cop movie. No, it's not the gimmicky, redneck mascot for a chain of midwestern discount stores ("Lolo Jones says low, low prices!"). No, it's not my pornstar name either. Lolo Jones is an American hurdler at a small local sporting event called "the Olympics," which I believe is taking place right now somewhere in the world. It's kind of hard to tell, though, from the almost total lack of attention they're getting.

Lolo overcame a constant stream of hurdles in her quest to reach the Olympics this year - most notably, homelessness, living in Iowa, and being a girl.

But there was one hurdle Lolo couldn't overcome.

A hurdle.


FYI, My pornstar name is either James Cooper or Sadie Melrose, depending on your particular methodology for determining pornstar names. Lolo Jones is pretty good though. I might start using that instead. I wonder if anyone else is named that?

Oh, right! The hurdler! Sorry, it's just that it's the Olympics, so I just abruptly stopped caring. Wake me up when they get to the hot-dog eating contest.

My poor former dictator buddy...

Just saw this on facebook:



Poor Old Perv. That's what me and A-Rod call him. And the best part is that old Perv doesn't even know it's a goof! Of course, A-Rod doesn't know it's a goof either. Or should I say, "Even Though I Like Madonna, I Swear I'm Not Gay-Rod" doesn't know it's a goof either.

Speaking of Madonna and Mr. Rod, I couldn't help noticing that he was conspicuously absent from her 50th birthday party on Saturday. I know there was a Yankee game scheduled that day, and that the team is clinging to its delusions of making the playoffs by a gossamer thread, but couldn't you call out sick and take her to Chuck E. Cheese for a couple hours?

That's what a real friend would do. That's what Old Perv did for your birthday last month, even though his authoritarian grip on power was crumbling and he was being threatened with impeachment. That trip probably cost him his job. But he came anyway, and he did the whole Chuck E. Cheese bit even though he really didn't want to, and then he gave you all his Skee-Ball tickets so you could get that stupid fucking kazoo that I bet you threw out already. Remember? Don't you want Madonna to have memories like that too?

Some people can be so selfish.

Some Advice on Being an Out-Of-Work Quasi-Dictator

If you live in Pakistan and you don't live under a rock, chances are pretty good that you've already heard the news about my good buddy Pervez Musharraf. That's right, he bought a dog.

Unfortunately, that news was eclipsed today with the announcement of his resignation as the President of Pakistan. Needless to say, he's pretty distraught, not only because it means he has to file for unemployment - and those Pakistani unemployment forms are about three miles long and read like they're written in a foreign language - but also because Mr. Fluffles (that's the dog's name) wasn't even properly housebroken yet. And now he needs to start the whole breaking process over again in a new house.

Still, at least he'll have a house in which to break Mr. Fluffles, unlike the millions of Pakistanis who live under rocks.

Pervez can be a pretty emotional guy when things aren't going his way. Last year, for instance, during Game 2 of the American League Divisional Series between New York and Cleveland, Pervez was literally tearing his hair out when Joba Chamberlain pitched through a storm cloud of Lake Erie midges in the 8th inning instead of calling a timeout. "What the hell is he doing?" Pervez kept screaming. "Why does he persevere? Why doesn't Torre pull him off the mound and refuse to continue? He is fucking blind from these gnats!"

"They're midges," I said.

"Fuck you! I'm calling A-Rod!" Pervez screamed back at me, the veins in his forehead and neck pressing to escape the surface of his creamy brown skin. "What the hell is he doing?"

"A-Rod's on the field right now, dude," I said. "You need to relax."

"Shit! I got his fucking voicemail!"

"Alex is on the field right now," I said plaintively, in my best voicemail system voice. "He can't take your call."

"Alex! It's Pervez! Call me right away, it's very important!" He hung up and waited, staring alternately at the television screen and the phone, absently fingering a merit medal near the lapel of his jacket. "Fuck this, I'll send him a text message."

"Dude, you need to chill out. Maybe you should get a dog or something," I sagely, and somewhat contrivedly advised him.

"Fuck you!" he crowed. "Don't fucking tell me what to do, you buzzard!"

In the spirit of that comment, and out of my desire not to be called a buzzard again, I am not going to offer Pervez any advice on what to do with his life now that the whole President of Pakistan thing didn't pan out. I know he's always entertained the fanciful notion of taking eight months to backpack through Europe till he got to Amsterdam, where he would load up on weed and have sex with as many hookers as his considerable personal wealth would allow. But I also know he's something of an ice cream connosieur, and that he has a longstanding wish to tour the Ben & Jerry's factory in Waterbury, Vermont.

They give you free samples on that factory tour, which, in my opinion, makes it totally worthwhile. I couldn't care less what temperature the milk is reduced to, or how they add a ripple of fudge to their fudge ripple. The movie they show about the personal history of Ben and Jerry might as well be called "nap time." But bring on the free scoop of Chubby Hubby, you know what I'm saying?

They also give you free samples at the Guinness factory in Dublin, Ireland. Anyone else smell a theme trip idea? Not for Pervez Musharraf necessarily - it's an idea that anyone could use, whether he happens to be a recently deposed leader of a semi-authoritarian regime in southwest Asia, or, say, a 22-year-old with a freshly minted diploma from Brown.

Unrelated: I'm looking for some assistance with the Oscar '08 campaign, just in case there's any former Asian heads of state who suddenly have a lot of free time on their hands. No dogs allowed, though. Sorry, Mr. F.

Will We Still Dress All Retro in the Future? Yes.

These people, who look like ordinary, run-of-the-mill white people, are more than just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill white people. Why, you ask? Take a gander at the name of the building, which is emblazoned in futuristic-looking letters. It says, in case I didn't just give it away blatantly enough, "The Future."



These people are from The Future.


Weird how they dress the same as people from like, eight years ago, right? I mean, that's the first thing I thought, was that wow, they are really nailing the 2000 summer fashions. Then again, I was coming down pretty hard from some primo anesthetic after an early-morning medical procedure. On a Thursday.

Speaking of which,

Dear [redacted] Center,

Many, many thanks for your fine quality drugs. I'm sure their street value must have far exceeded what my insurance company is going to pay you, so thank you for holding onto them and forfeiting the vast sums of cash you could have gotten in a local high school cafeteria.

Anyway, awesome stuff. You could have molested me in my sleep, and I would still have woken up smiling and laughing.

Yours in Christ,
Smokey Robinson.

But back to the future. (Zing!)



This is what the future looks like. I know, it's bright, right? So bright that you gotta wear shades. (Zing! 2)

Also, I'm pretty sure Michael J. Fox and/or Christopher Lloyd lives in this building, because from just down the street, I overheard the following conversation, in New York:

Marty McFly: Oh, shit, I forgot my wallet.
Girl with Marty (Jennifer?): You forgot your wallet?
Marty: Yeah, we have to go back to The Future to get it.
Jennifer (the Elisabeth Shue version, not the other one): Back to the Future? That's catchy!
Doc Brown: Great Scott!

(Zing!, 3)

Three zing!s. That's a pretty good day at the plate for old Smokey here. I'm going to go shop local high school cafeterias for more of that mind-numbingly good anesthesia. (Zing!, 4)

Zings:

Robinson, S .... 4

Quick thought: they should totally make a tv show about The Future. A reality show, maybe. On Bravo, this fall, after My Life on the D-List.

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE:

Why I'm Boycotting the Beijing Olympics

I read this morning that Joey Cheek, the former Olympic speedskater, had his visa revoked by the Chinese government, meaning that he won't be able to go through with his planned demonstration to urge China to help establish peace in Darfur.

News flash for any activists out there: next time you have a chance to protest in China, DON'T TELL THEM IN ADVANCE. Just show up like you're any other world famous speedskater, disappear into a phone booth, and pop out with a big sign that says

Dear China,

I want you to make peace in Darfur.

With affection,
Joey Cheek.

It also helps if you're not as high-profile as former Olympic speedskater Joey Cheek, the man who once held entire nations in thrall with his former Olympic speedskating prowess. (Though he's less well known for it, Joey Cheek is also famous for his barbecue sauce, which he claims is his grandmother's recipe. Tastes a lot like KC Masterpiece to me though...)

Joey Cheek is not a guy who can sneak around, not even in a country as big as China. Someone is going to spot him on a street corner somewhere, and there's going to be a full-scale Joey Cheek riot once that happens, and that could seriously fuck with your Darfur peace protest mojo if you're even a little bit unlucky.

Still, I'm just saying. If you want to "get your protest on" during the 2008 Olympics in Beijing, you should think long and hard* about what you write in the "Reason for Visit" box on your visa applications.

Personally, I think you're much better off saying you're coming to China just to see the sights, then springing a surprise protest on them after you get there. From everything I've read, the Chinese authorities just LOVE surprises. Especially protest-flavored ones!

But the Sino-Cheek conflict is not the reason I'm boycotting the Olympics this year. I'm boycotting the Olympics for the following two reasons:

1. There's no hot dog eating contest.
2. THERE'S NO FREAKING HOT DOG EATING CONTEST!!!!!!!

It's a total outrage! It's a travesty! Give me one good reason why that dude who wins the Nathan's contest every July 4th doesn't deserve to be an Olympian.

See? You can't. Because he totally deserves it. He deserves it at least as much as Joey Cheek deserves the medals of some color that he won back when he was a current Olympic speedskater, if not more.

I think this calls for a protest. First stop: the nearest Pearl art supply store for oak tag and magic markers. Second stop: China.

*that is so totally what she said...

Vote for Oscar, Or This Could Happen to You

John McCain's campaign staff was up in arms about this unwarranted, unprovoked, and irresponsible attack on the candidate's ankles by a row of jars of Mott's brand applesauce. Imagine how pissed they'd be if they discovered that this attack was politically motivated, though.

That's right, folks, the Oscar campaign funds are finally going to use!

Sadly, the applesauce barrage is about as high profile as we can afford. In fact, after the $8 bribe we paid the ham-fisted stock clerk to stack the jars just so, the Oscar '08 campaign war chest is now down to a quarter, two nickels, and a parking token from the West Windsor Parking Authority intended for use at the Princeton Junction train station.

We would obviously have vastly preferred for McCain to be buried underneath an avalanche of Oscar Meyer hot dogs, bologna, and other packaged cold cuts (available in your grocer's refrigerator section - ask for them by name!), but that would have cost an extra dollar, and we just didn't have it.

So you probably won't be seeing any national ad buys (or any regional or local ad buys, for that matter), unless those stingy rat jerks at the Children's Television Workshop come through with the donation I have been begging and pleading for, but obviously in a very dignified way.

As for Obama, he's been a little bit harder to get to, what with all the muscular, athletic, rippling-muscled Secret Service men he surrounds himself with. I wonder why he likes to be around so many chiseled guys? And also, why did he need to go to a gym full of similarly mouth-watering dudes on his overseas trip, instead of going to visit our hot and sexy American soldiers?

Audible gasp! Could Obama be teh gay?

Dear Obama,

Ha ha ha ha ha, I just convinced America that you are teh gay. Now you will never win the president because everyone will be scared that you are going to sodomize their children and make them marry other children in the same sex as they are.

I am laughing all the way to the bank, in the sense that the bank is politics and the money inside the bank is Oscar the Grouch winning the president and you not winning the president.

You are not winning the president though. No-bama.

Go check out some more guys!

Love,
Smokey D. Robinson
Chairman
Campaign to Get Oscar the Grouch Elected President, or at Least to Make The Other Candidates Look Stupid and/or Gay