Thursday, December 03, 2009

Tuff Times for Us All

Hi, everybuzzy. Please forgive the unpleasant greeting, but I'm so mad I could eat Pop Rocks and not share them. Jesus isn't returning my emails these days.

And I think I know exactly who is to blame for that.

No, not Barack Obama. For once, this appears to have nothing to do with Him.

But it DOES have something to do with one of Barack Obama's brothers, and I mean that in the sense of how black people call other black people their brothers, because they were all born in the same village in Kenya and have forged Hawaiian birth certificates just so they can be president, because as we all know, being president is such a low-stress gig and so easy to get that what African citizen WOULDN'T want a job like that?

Anywhoop, the great "Jesus's Email Silence of 2009" is the fault of another Obama: Eldrick "Tiger Woods" Obama.

I understand that Tiger's "transgressions" are morally reprehensible to the upright and unimpeachable paparazzi stalkers and tabloid journalists who can't stop covering this story, and that no one else in the country has ever cheated on someone they were married to or tried to flee a golf-club-wielding former bikini model while they were hopped up on painkillers at 2:30 in the morning. But does it really mean that every professional golfer and/or Son of Man has to suddenly and without warning abruptly cease communication with his or His mistress(es)?

How is that remotely fair?

It feels a lot like when you're speeding down your local parkway and you happen upon some miscreant in a '98 Nissan who just got pulled over by a quota-hunting state trooper, and then all of a sudden traffic slows down for about a quarter mile. But the officer has virtually every single one of his faculties occupied by the scalawag in the Sentra! That is the quarter mile in which to live it up!

Speed all you want! Drive drunk! Suspend habeas corpus! Start an illegal war! Wiretap your fellow Americans! Ban stem cell research! THE COP IS BUSY! GO NUTS!

All the gossip sites have all their microscopes and telescopes and garbage picking operations and forensic fabrication artists squarely pointed at Tiger Woods Obama right now, which means there simply isn't the time or manpower for them to cover another celebrity scandal or a budding romance between, say, a random Messiah and an aged Motown star masquerading as a bloggerizer/Fruit Plant employee. It's simple mathemagicians!

And here's some more good advice, courtesy of Accenture:

Ha ha ha, you know what ELSE isn't always paved? The patch of the Nevada desert where I'm going to take Jesus and bury His (Sweet) Ass if he doesn't start answering my Himdamned emails. I don't expect Him to stay buried for more than three days (he has a pretty well-documented pattern), but I still have to try to get through to that Bastard somehow. I WILL NOT BE JILTED BY JESUS*!

Translation: quit being such a Youdamned Goody-Goody, Jesus. The "morality cops" are looking the other way.

More importantly, this motel room is expensive, this negligee is itchy, and this champagne isn't going to drink itself.

Answer my emails. And don't go pretending You didn't get them either - I know that Youdamned iPhone of Yours is on all the time.

*Actually, that statement might be factually inaccurate. It seems quite likely that I, like all the Jews in Christendom will, in fact, be jilted by Jesus.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Another Deflated Gasbag

So Lou Dobbs quit, eh? Or did he really get pushed out so they could outsource his job to an illegal immigrant who will work for a much lower wage and no healthcare?

Ha ha ha, I totally have Dobbs's number.

I was originally inclined to buy the man a cupcake as my way of saying thank you for shutting the fuck up. But then I found something even more speshul.



Dear Lou Dobbs,

America is a better country with you not on television. On behalf of a grateful nation, please accept this can of Manhattan style fish assholes.

Love and kisses,
Smokey Robinson and the Funky Bunch

Thursday, November 05, 2009

Consoration for the Phirries and Their Phans

The Whirled Series is officially over now, everybuzzy, and whether you rooted for the Broad Street Bullies, the Bronx Bombers, or the Minnesota Bullwinkles (not pictured), I think it's pretty safe to say that, in spite of all the time you spent watching, in spite of all the energy you spent cheering, in spite of all the cocaine you let Robinson Cano and Pedro Feliz snort off your delicious ass, chances are that they probably won't call the next day.

And if you're from Frilladelphia, that's not the only ring you won't be getting this year. (Zing!)

Well cheer up there, Phuckaroo! Don't let the Phils' ills be too much for this fan! I know it looks like the entire city of New York is giving you the Phinger and telling you to phuck oph, but that's just the way the skyline is shaped.

But if you still can't bear the 370-day championship drought in the City of Brotherly Lovers (ew!), here's some things you can be gratephul phor while you're waiting around for next year.

1. You already won the 2009 Whirled Series!



At least according to the Philadelphia Inquirer, you did. This ad ran on Monday, just after the Yankees had taken a 3-1 series lead. Perhaps they borrowed phact checkers from Phox News. Or perhaps they were merely taking their cues from Jimmy Rollins's pre-Series prediction that the Phillies would win in phour games - or phive if they were pheeling generous. It's not at all clear which phour or phive games Mr. Rollins's was referring to, but one thing IS clear, and it happens to be the second thing Philly phans can be happy about:

2. No Jimmy Rollins fortune telling business!



With the myth of his psychic skills now debunked, Rollins's entre into the lucrative world of astral projection and Wee-Jee Boards and Professional Mumbo Jumbo-ism can now comfortably fall in the ditch of broken dreams along with Philadelphia's hopes to repeat as Whirled Champions.

He had to see it coming, though, right? Oh, maybe not.

3. Ryan Howard's Birthday is in two weeks!


That's something to be happy about, isn't it?

4. It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia!

Not the show, I'm talking about the actual fact that it is literally ALWAYS SUNNY IN PHILADELPHIA. Scholars maintain that the reason for this is because of a dracula named Twilight. And scholars are never wrong, or else they wouldn't be called that.


5. No more foul territory reports from Ken Rosenthal!


I initially thought Ken Rosenthal's imitation of Steve Carell's character from Anchorman was Fox Sports' attempt to make more hip by bringing in a comedy act - kind of like when ABC brought in Dennis Miller to do Monday Night Foosball, only much, much, much funnier. It turns out, however, that Ken Rosenthal is just a short white dude with a microphone and an IQ approaching 36. And since we already have enough of those guys on the teevee (I'm talking to YOU, Barack Obama), I am very much looking forward to seeing Ken Rosenthal shut the hell up.

Or not seeing it. Or... well, whatever.

6. You're not that phar from New York!

So if you want to come to the parade, or if you'd like to call into WFAN and rant about Yankee steroid usage (because I'm sure nobody in the history of the Phillies ever even HEARD of steroids, and also that the windows in their glass houses are all perfectly streak-free), or if you just want to drive up the Turnpike to remind yourself what a champion city looks like, all it'll cost you is $11 or $12 in tolls, which the grate state of New Jersey will be more than happy to accept.

I really think six things is enough, and if you can't be happy with that, maybe you should start doing yoga or something. Anyways, I don't have time to keep going with this. There's a parade in New York tomorrow, and my victory outfit isn't going to plan itself.

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

Not Our Year

It saddens me to no end to report that in yesterday's New York City mayoral election, it was Mike Bloomberg, and not the Muppets, who took Manhattan.


In fact, the Muppets didn't even come in second. That honor went to someone called "City Comptroller Bill Thompson," whose haircut led me to believe he was at least half-Muppet himself.

(Hey, psst! Am I the only one who thinks "Bill Thompson" sounds like a made up name? How generic can you get? Bill Thompson? It might as well have been Jack Smith or Bob Mitchell or Bill Thompson or something. Bill Thompson is like the kind of name you used to check into a hotel when you don't want the federales or that nosey wife of yours to find out where you're staying. What are you hiding, Bill Thompson, if that fake-sounding name IS your real name?)

Anyway, Bill Thompson lost, and now he has to go back to the same job he had before, and probably have lunch at the same stupid cafe downstairs in the lobby of the same dumb, boring building, which is almost as frowny face as the Muppets NOT taking Manhattan, as I was led to believe they would.

The New York times says Mayor Bloomberg no longer seems invincible, and I agree that he does look pretty vincible, which is what makes the Muppets' failure to take Manhattan all the more heartbreaking. This is like reliving the failed Oscar the Grouch '08 campaign all over again. Only this time, with 30-35 percent more tears.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Is Athletic Success the New Black?

Fruit workers, particularly those in the various canning divisions of your major fruit conglomerates are a shifty bunch, full of testiness and simmering currents of rich, creamy, bacon-and-cherry-flavored, race-based bias and resentment. And nothing brings that bias and resentment bubbling to the surface like beisbol.

When Jackie Robinson broke the Collar Barrier in 1947, there were riots and looting throughout the fruit canning world, and the entire operation of the Dole Fruit Plant here in midtown Manhattan had to be suspended for almost thirty years before the furor could be calmed. It took a surprise appearance and impromptu concert by a dashing young black man named Kenny Loggins to get things stable.

Those were the days.

Needless to say, my friendship with Alex Rodriguez (the baseball player Alex Rodriguez, not the nuclear physicist Alex Rodriguez, that punk ass) has therefore been somewhat problematic for me at the old Fruit Plant. It's not because he's a widely despised public figure. Dole-mites love widely despised public figures as a general rule. It's because he's black.

Welcome to post-modern America, and thank you very much, Barack Obama.

There used to be a time when men were real men, women were real women, transvestites were neither real men nor real women, and Americans could comfortably use race as a reason to dislike other Americans. Remember the politics of hate and all that? I miss the 80s so much sometimes.

See, because now, it's the opposite of that. The peeple I work with don't dislike I-Can't-Believe-Clay-Aiken-is-Gay-Rod because of his race. They dislike him because of his repeated postseason failures, his admission of steroid usage, and the fact that he loves to pull down his pants and run screaming through midtown Manhattan with fermented wheels of Gouda cheese. And because they dislike him, they therefore assume he must be black. QED, quid pro quo, summa cum laude, lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, Amen.

On the handful of occasions when my pal has stopped by to visit, his reception at the hands of the various members of Canning Operations staff has run the gamut from nasty, sustained peltings with full cans of bacon-wrapped cherries to much more friendly peltings with half-eaten cans of bacon-wrapped cherries with the tops removed, because the edges of those tops could really hurt somebody. (That's how you can tell the C-Ops staff are in a forgiving mood.)

Of course, discerning cultural anthropologists, as well as anyone with a pair of eyes and a rudimentary understanding of Spanish names, would dispute the notion of Tina-Fey-Rod's blackness. Then again, he is dating Kate Hudson, goes the counter-argument. Also not helping matters: all this postseason success and glory and clutch performance, the kind of performance reminiscent of notable black men like Tiger Woods and Michael Jordan and the aforementioned Kenny Loggins, who rushed for a then-record 282 yards and 7 touchdowns in a game between Georgia and LSU in 1982.

It's getting so you can't be good at anything in this country without peeple assuming that you're black and hating you for your success, although not necessarily in that order. Thanks again, Democratic Party.

And thanks also to fine folks in the C-Ops division at Dole, who are throwing those cans of bacon-wrapped cherries at me for no readily discernible reason. They couldn't possibly think ol' Smokey Robinson here is black, could they?

I've-Been-Workin'-On-The-Railroad-All-The-Livelong-Day-Rod, take me away-Rod!

Friday, October 16, 2009

This Week in Balloonery

In the roughly 14 minutes a day when I’m not either bloggerizing, canning peaches, discussing Sartre, or prank-calling the assholes from the Chiquita company volleyball team (just kiddin’, those calls totally weren’t from me! Love you guys!), it’s a pretty safe bet that you can find me trolling the internerds for all things balloon-related. Balloonery is always pretty widely covered by bloggers and the Jew-run media alike, and deservedly so, for what other adventure sport gets the pulse pounding like a balloon ride? This is what has kept balloonism at the forefront of the American imagination for centuries, while things like revolutions, powdered wigs, the Cola Wars, and Bayrock Alabama (or whatever that guy’s name was) have all fallen by the wayside like the passing fads they were.

Needless to say, I was caught entirely by surprise yesterday to see the entire nation hold its collective breath while a child hid in his parents’ garage. It wasn’t until much, much later, when I read the story on pinkthingsandballoons.com (my fave site on the planet! xoxoxo!) that it started to make sense why this story had captured the hearts and medullae oblongatae of everyone you know and I know combined, including the oh-so-lickable Diana Ross: They thought Falcon Heene was in a balloon!

No wonder the story got three hours of airtime on CNN!

Of course, what the Falcon Heene incident highlights (other than the obviously impending grounding of that adorbzable little trickster) is the compelling and urgent need for stringent legislation to protect children from balloons, and perhaps from homebrew aircraft of every stripe. We can’t have the irresponsible amateur aviators of this nation leave their temptingly fun flying contraptions loosely tethered to their backyard fences where children might accidentally not climb into them and thereby transfix an entire nation without some sort of consequence. Or else the next kid not to climb into a Reynolds-Wrap-and-toothpick craft could be YOURS…

The balloonistas in this country are inevitably going to cry foul over such an egregious restriction of their rights. But they only have themselves to blame. I mentioned how popular their chosen pursuit is, didn’t I? This would be totally different if it were, say, a story about a kid getting shot with an Uzi at a gun show. Gun-related mishaps don’t garner nearly the attention that balloon safety non-incidents do, and for very good reason. You can’t even find reliable statistics about gun deaths in this country, because it’s just not that big a deal. Meanwhile, the Falcon Heene Affair very publicly raises the number of balloon-related media frenzies that do not involve fatality or injury throughout recorded history to ONE. And that’s something that we and our elected representatives can simply not afford to ignore.

Also birthday clowns. They cannot afford to ignore this either. And carnival workers. And horses. Pay attention, horses, if you're not already doing so. (It's hard to tell with horses in New York - you get the distinct impression that a lot of them are going through life with blinders on.)

To think, this all could have been avoided if the Heenes were gun enthusiasts. Nothing like a good Second-Amendment-sanctioned child slaying to keep a family below the radar, eh? Chuckle chuckle chuckle bang.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

A letter to an Old Friend

Dear Jesus,

Hi!

So I know You and me haven’t really talked since Angelina Jolie took over Your spot as my spiritual adviser and frozen yogurt buddy. I mean, You kind of had it coming after You spent the entire summer on Fox News telling people to bring their guns everywhere and blasting “President Hopey McNobel Prize” (Your words) for trying to horn in on Your healing-the-sick game. Let’s just face it: I needed help, and You were Nowhere to be found. There were no sets of footprints in the sand.

Between You and me (and Your Dad, since He/She knows All), I think frosting me at the ESPYs was a little bit juvenile, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like the stigmata. You certainly know how to cut me, Lord. Angelina and I can’t seem to find our footing as spiritual adviser/advisee and fro-yo enthusiasts either. She always insists on meeting up in LA even though she knows I can’t fly without potentially lethal doses of horse tranquilizer in my system. Also, she likes Pinkberry even though that shit is disgusting. (Nice job fooling the masses on that one, BTDouble-You. That abomination has Jesus written all over it.)

But that’s not what I’m writing to talk about today. I’m writing to talk about Japan, the benighted land that You and Daddy obviously either forgot or gave up on, as evidenced by the country-wide obsessions with sushi, Godzilla, Scooby-Doo, and being teeny tiny. I strongly suspect Your Abandonment is also why the Japans have to keep inventing so many technologies there so they can keep up with your chosen people, the Americas, where Hummers and M&Ms plain chocolate candy and Motorola-brand cellular telephones rain from the sky, and where free syringes full of Your magical healing essence periodically wash up on the shores of Long Island and New Jersey only to be “mistaken” for medical waste (probably to fool the poors into being afraid to eat the syringes themselves, right? Thought so.).

The Japans have none of that, except the cellular telephones. But their cars are much more smaller, and M&Ms there have a distinct octopus flavor. (Okay, I don’t know for certain that it’s Octopus, but it’s definitely the flavor of some kind of underwater cephalopod.) And according to this miraculously preserved piece of video evidence from YouTube, the Japans are also evidently forced to walk around at a fraction of normal human speed.



Wasn’t Your Mother Jewish? How do You not feel just the teensiest, Japan-sized amount of guilt for this?

You disgust me, Jesus. That is the opposite how Renee Zellweger made Tom Cruise feel in the hit ABC sitcom Jerry Maguire. But since I need some delicious fro-yo STAT, and since we don’t really take breaks from canning during the pre-holiday rush, can You possibly pick me up some? And please don’t forsake me with the atrocity that is Pinkberry.

Yours in David Schwimmer (he played Ross on the hit ABC sitcom "Friends", in case You forgot who he was or thought he was a Japan or something),
Smokey

Monday, September 28, 2009

The Facts Are In!

Allow me to kick a scenario your way:

Imagine that you are Adolf Hitler.

Heaven knows (heavenos?) that some of y’all have zero problem imagining that you are Adolf Hitler, particularly if you want public healthcare or are named Barack Obama. Shame on y’all. Hitler was like the Abominable Snowman, but of people. Stop imagining that you are Adolf Hitler RIGHT NOW, sickos!

Now. Where was I?

Right.

So imagine that you are Adolf Hitler.

Just, you know, free your mind and conceptualize yourself managing a two-front global war and orchestrating the death of millions of human beings, all while speaking German and scratching at your itchy vagina.

“Wait, what?” you are probably saying. “Hitler had a vagina?” you are hypothetically adding. “Wouldn’t a man that powerful have access to some kind of topical cream or ointment to alleviate the itching?”

Well the joke’s on you because no, he wouldn’t have, because Germany had (dramatic music) the Public Option.

Okay, that’s not true. Germany never had (dramatic music) the Public Option, because that was invented by Barack Hussein Obama, whose name, roughly translated from its Swahili origins, means “Adolf Hitler, but reincarnated, and this time with (dramatic music) the Public Option, muhuhahahahaaa!”

All right, that’s not true either (I think).

But what is true is that Adolf Hitler, it turns out, was a girl.

US archaeologist Nick Bellantoni found fragments from the skull believed to be Hitler's were too thin to be from a male, and suspected it was the remains of a much younger woman, The Sun reports.

"The bone seemed very thin - male bone tends to be more robust. It corresponds to a woman between the ages of 20 and 40," Dr Bellantoni said.

Well that explains the fake mustache, eh? Chuckle chuckle chuckle poop my pants.

The experts, of course, have all wrongly concluded that the remains must belong to someone else other than Adolf Hitler. Stupid experts. When are they EVER right? Obviously, it's the right skull, we just got the other facts about Adolf Hitler wrong. Duh.

But you’re probably still wondering how a man with cooties and menstruations and such managed to almost take over Europe, and also whether there were ever any naked pictures of him on the internets. Well, you’re right to wonder. We’re all right to wonder.

By the way, remember before when you imagined you were Adolf Hitler? Hahahahahahaha, I win. I just sort of made you teh gay. Take that, Kirk "Teh Gay" Cameron!

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Farewell, Jorge Montenero, we hardly knew ye.

On the way to the Fruit Plant this morning, I walked past a Verizon truck blaring "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" while the driver screamed along at the top of his very out-of-key lungs, and a line of people on 46th Street waiting to see LeBron James sign books at the 5th Avenue Barnes & Noble, proving that not having ever spent a day in college is no obstacle to getting a book deal in the 21st-century US of A.

What more fitting expression of grief could there be, I thought, for the late Patrick Swayze, who sailed off to the Grey Havens to be with Gandalf and Frodo and Tupac and the gang yesterday?

He may never have had the musical chops of Dan Fogelberg or the hair styling chops of Bob Barker or the dancing chops of Tom DeLay, but there is virtually no way to reasonably deny that the Swayz would have been at least as good as, if not marginally better than that shitbag Peter Horton in the hit 1990 volleyball flick Side Out, a role that would have landed him back where he belonged, opposite his The Outsiders co-star C. Thomas Howell.

Now that is a reunion I would maybe have watched on HBO if there were nothing better on at the same time.

And who can forget the pottery love scene in Ghost when P to the "atrick Swayze" wrapped his oiled, muscular arms around that short-haired raspy-voiced dude and ruined a bunch of clay while "Unchained Melody" played from a boom box hidden in the open kiln behind them? Poetry on film, everybuzzy. Although it does make a person wonder what ever happened to the other guy in that scene...

Of course, P-Swayz was most famous for uttering the line "nobody puts Baby in a corner" in a pivotal scene in the movie Point Break, a line which has been relegated to meme status in the past 18 hours by every two-bit hack with a Twitter account. I have news for you twits: nobody puts "nobody puts Baby in a corner" in a corner. Whatever that means.

For me, the death of "the House Swayze and Means Committee" is eckspecially hard-hitting, since, like most American boys, I once longed to grow up to become Jerry Orbach so I could appear opposite The Swerz onscreen and admit how wrong I was for assuming he knocked up Penny, and then tacitly give him permission to go screw my daughter in his stylishly messy Catskill dance instructor bungalow. Who among us DIDN'T have that dream? Here's hoping Swayze and Orbach reprise that scene for God and Jesus and Santa Claus and the deceased cultural relevance of Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen and all the angels and saints and demons in heaven.

Although the low-hanging fruit here would be a Kanye West joke, I can think of no more fitting or appropriate farewell for Patrick Swayze than this Surge Wakefield remix of "Bacon is Good For Me." Feast your eyes, and your grief, on this, America.


Wednesday, September 09, 2009

9/9/09 9pm

OH MY FUCKING GOD, IS BARACK OBAMA ON GLEE??!?!?!!!?!!

<3
<3
<3
<3
<3
<3
<3
<3

I LOVE Him!! Like more than Jesus and Bob Barker and Len Cariou and Dan Fogelberg and the World Wildlife Fund and Tacos and Diana Ross put together! This is better than the Justice League!

Wait...

It's 8:45.

Fuck. I'm early.

And yes, I suppose I could just NOT PUBLISH this piece, but you could also simply not have read it.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Jesus, teh Obama, do I always have to do ALL YOUR WORK FOR YOU?

Oh, teh Obama. Teh Obama, teh Obama, teh Obama. If I've told you one thing over and over again since you started running to teh president, it's that you can't get anything done in American politics without getting help from celebrities. I tried to warn you after jigg razzlefrazzle the blah (the artist sometimes referred to as Judge Reinhold, but not on this here blog here since his refusal to endorse Oscar the Grouch for President) endorsed someone else other than you for president, but you didn't listen. You didn't listen then, and you don't listen now, and it's surprising that a man with ears the size of satellite dishes would not listen that much, because you would think that ALL you would do is listen, which is not true. It's like you have to wrongfully arrest a high-profile black Harvard professor just to get five minutes alone with you these days, teh Obama!

This is not the change we can believe in. Again.

And just look at the state of your Heathcliff Healthcare Reform-Time Play Pal, or whatever clever and catchy thing your marketing experts are failing to call it. Nobody wants it! Nobody was actually interviewed for the writing of this piece. Nobody very clearly went on record in support to teh Obama or to his Heathcliff Healthcare. I HAS QUOTABLE SOURCES. I AM JOURNALIST.

But this is not about me. This is about you, teh Obama, and how I can help you win back public support for Heathcliff Healthcare from more people than Nobody. All you need is two celebrities and a little bit o' hope.

Here's whatchagottadoo:

1. Get the Jesus Endorsement

Show a picture of Jesus and Heathcliff Healthcare (seriously, how is there not a man, woman, or post-op transsexual dressed up in furry mascot suit yet?) with their arms over each other's shoulders, all smiles and birthday cake and Skittles. And a banner that says, "Jesus endorses the Obama healthcare plan and the public option!"

Then you get Jesus to write a statement on his facebag page like Sarah Palin did. For instance:
I support the Obama healthcare plan because there are like 300 million Americans and I am totally fucking exhausted from having to answer prayers from people without insurance. Come on, mankind. Do you have any idea how many wide wide receivers there are that need My help to catch touchdown passes? Go Steelers! JK! LOL! My point is that I am a Busy Dude. I don't have time for that AND sick people. What am I, Superman? LOL.

Also, from what I hear up in Heaven, Obama's a pretty great guy. Then again, We really don't get that that many Republican voters visiting the Great Death Panel in the Sky.
See? Piece o' cake, teh Obama!

And then you can stand there at your town halls and be like, "who's gonna fuck with Jesus? You gonna fuck with Jesus?" Then you throw down the microphone, walk off stage, and write me a thank-you card.

2. Get Harry Potter to Bounce at Your Town Hall Meetings

People wanna show up with guns, I have a real simple fix. It's called magic. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History.

Psych! That is totally not where I read about it.

But cereal, teh Obama, this is Problem Solving 101. If you have a leaky pipe, you call a plumber. If you have people calling you a Nazi and carrying rifles and handguns to your rallies, you get Harry Potter out there to run your crowd control operation. Dude handled a fully-grown cave troll when he was 11! (SPOILER ALERT.) AND he beat freaking Voldemort! (SPOILER ALERT x2.) Some whacked-out muggle with a big metal stick isn't gonna be much of a threat.

Of course, those same asshole protesters who are out there with signs calling you a Nazi will probably show up with new signs that say "you can expelliarmus our guns, but you can't expelliarmus our ridiculous overblown partisan rancor!" But the joke's on them because yes, we can.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Look, ABC, We Need to Get Something Straight. And that Something is Tom DeLay.

Here in the Canning Operations division at Dole, we have a saying. I won't tell you what that saying is, because wow, is it off-color. I hereby refused to publish said saying on the blog. But we have it, and you don't, so there. Mnyeh.
Dear you (if that IS your real name),

PLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL.

That's the equivalent of me giving you the raspberry. Hurts, doesn't it? Kinda gets you right there in the ego, right? Right? Sorry about that. But you brought this on yourself.

Yours in Angelina Jolie,
Smokey.
In case you're curious as to how I come to my seemingly arbitrary and capricious decisions about what content I omit (or "censor" since "omit" is such an ugly and politically sensitive term) from the blog, I apply the same standards as are used by such fine entertainment organizations as, for example, the American Broadcasting Corporation (hereinafter referred to as "ABC"). ABC, for example, would not allow the word "motherfucker" to appear in one of their broadcasts, so neither will I. ABC would also never air a piece claiming that former House Majority Leader Tom DeLay is a violently flaming homosexual with a fetishist streak and a taste for the blood of small children. And neither will I.

Of course, the other side of that particular rare, commemorative, nautically themed coin is that ABC will also never air any piece in which Mr. DeLay is complimented on what a fantastic piece of ass he is, or the stunning gentleness of his womanly caresses, or how great he looks wearing a tiger-print miniskirt and NOTHING ELSE. And so, even though that is the Zod's-honest truth, I'm afraid I won't either.

That is how much I respect the standards of ABC, the network that brought us the hit ABC sitcom "Growing Pains," and the other hit ABC sitcom "Lost."

But I do have one beef with ABC, and it concerns, of all things, former House Majority Leader Tom DeLay, whose multi-faceted attractiveness is as much a mystery to me as his sexual proclivities are, I swear, I swear, I swear.

My beef concerns the definition of the word "star."

And the motivation for said beef is the news that former Texas Congressperson (and current cutey-patootie) Tom DeLay will be appearing on the next season of the hit ABC sitcom, "Dancing with the Stars."

In most cases, I'm perfectly willing to grant some poetic license when it comes to nebulous terms relating to human characteristics or classifications that are hard to quantify in the first place - a flexibility that ABC nearly exhausted in its repeated attempts to promote The George Lopez Show as "comedy." It works, provided you broaden the definition of "comedy" to mean "something that someone, somewhere in America, either living or dead, might laugh at, or at least yawn at in a manner that could be confused with laughter if your eyes were also narrowed from yawning at the same time." See? Makes comedy almost seem sort of elusive and all-encompassing, doesn't it?

English, it turns out, is brimming with terms just like that, with definitions that are hard to pin down. What, for instance, is retarded? Actually, that's easy. Retarded is putting Tom DeLay on a show like the hit ABC sitcom "Dancing with the Stars" and not changing the name of the show. Because frankly, the idea of expanding the term "stars" to include "hot and sexy former congressmen/criminals who may or may not have obscenely kinky streaks in them" is a stretch, even for the network that brought us the hit ABC sitcom "Gray's Anatomy" and also the other hit ABC sitcom "NBC Nightly News with Tom Brokaw."

I think we can all agree that the lords and ministers and privy counselors at ABC ought to sit down and, as they themselves would say, "straighten some shit the fuck out." Because that saying that we have at Dole is one cocksucking motherfucker of a hilarious saying, and goddammit would I love to share the fucking shit out of it with all of you. If only it weren't so off-color!

Thursday, August 13, 2009

U.B. Kim Jong-Illin'

SEOUL, South KoreaNorth Korea on Thursday released a South Korean worker it had held for several months on charges of denouncing its political system, signaling what analysts called a desire by the North to ease relations with the South after months of tensions over its nuclear weapons program.
It's crazy times in North Korea these days, everybuzzy. You may think it's crazy times right here in America, where the Obama evidently wants to kill old people and get the government involved in Medicare for the first time ever, but that's peanuts compared to North Korea. Remember when they used to be able to hold a grudge? Remember when they put the "is of evil" into George W. McBush's "Axis of Evil?" Remember how scared you were after you microwaved that can of Pepsi when you were 11 years old, and your parents threatened to send you to a North Korean prison, which was like the most unimaginably brutal and awful punishment in the parental arsenal?

Nuh uh, not anymore. You don't even need a swashbuckling, womanizing ex-President on your side either. In these enlightened times, getting released from a North Korean prison is basically as easy as getting out of high school detention. Just forge a note from one of your parents, and you are GOOD TO GO.
Dear North Korea,

Please let go of my Eggo. And by Eggo, I mean son, not the delicious brand of waffle we sell here in America, where we think you are evil. Adios, amigo. La puerta esta abierta.

Hola,
Mr. Robinson (Smokey Robinson's dad).*
So simple, even a caveman could do it, provided that the caveman could write Chinese, like my dad. Why, it's easier than trading in your cash for a brand new government clunker - and faster too!

Of course, the ultra-modern space children of Nowadays have far more gruesome things to worry about. Like having their iPhone 3GS's and all their apps for that and their facebag status updates taken away, or being forced to go outside and get some fresh air. Also, what's a microwave? And a Pepsi? That's what the kids say today, in this age of replicators and delicious food in pill form, because this is the future. Not this The Future either. The actual future. With flying cars and office buildings that can come pick you up if you're late for work, like in the Harry Potter show. Technology! Dumbledore!

*Not his actual name. The note, however, is real.

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Thanks for pooping in my ice cream AGAIN, internets

Here. This is from the internets. Please has some.

According to the New York Observer, Dustin Diamond's deal to write a tell-all memoir for Gotham Books fell through a few months back. According to a source, Gotham Books dropped the project after they deemed the ghostwritten manuscript to be unpublishable, largely because "it contained many assertions about cast members from Saved by the Bell that Gotham felt were unverifiable."


This is heartbreaking news. Screech's tale deserves to be told, not airbrushed out of the cover of Peep-hole Magazine and also at the same time retroactively airbrushed out of the official cast photo from 1989 like he was some fourth-rate child actor on a third-rate TV show whose career never amounted to anything.

SCREECH'S TALE OF WOE AND HOT, BUT STILL HEARTBREAKING "SAVED BY THE BELL" INCEST DESERVES TO BE TOLD, GODDAMMIT! YOU HAVE PISSED ME OFF AGAIN, INTERNETS!

And to those of you who would say, "um, dude, chill, it's just Screech," I have this to say to you, right up in your face, or "grill" as they say in the parlance of our times:

Wait a tick. JUST Screech? Was the blonde sister from "Family Ties" JUST the blonde sister from Family Ties"? Was Jonathan Bauer (the weirdo freaky gay little brother from "Who's the Boss?") JUST Jonathan Bauer (the weirdo freaky gay little brother from "Who's the Boss?")? Was Buddy from "Charles in Charge" JUST Buddy from "Charles in Charge?" Was Vinnie from "Doogie Howser, MD" JUST Vinnie from "Doogie Howser, MD?"

Okay, okay, Buddy did go on to become a fundamentalist Christian and make movies with Kirk Cameron or something, I think, and the freaky gay kid from "Who's the Boss?" went on to become an even freakier and gayer adult. And Vinnie might be a bad example too, since he actually had some success after changing his name to Jude Law and impregnating a bunch of women. But how many of them landed another TV series? These losers weren't even compelling enough to get an E! True Hollywood Story, right? I mean, come on! Even the Coreys got a freaking E! True Hollywood Story.

Jennifer Keaton, I'm pretty sure, is dead*. Rest in peace, Tina Yothers.

I'd like to read what Styles from the Teen Wolf movies has to say about the behind-the-scenes on those joints. Where's that book at? Oh, is it being SILENCED by the internets too? These "actors" are "people" too, and THEIR HEARTBREAKING TALES OF INCEST AND LOVE AND HEARTBREAKING INCEST DESERVE TO BE TOLD! Just like those little dudes who played the mismatched twins on "The Hogan Family." That's the juicy tell-all America is clamoring for!

You went too far this time, internets, if that IS your real name. In the words of Jack Nicholson, you have fucked with the wrong marine. Not me, of course. I'm not marine material, what with the pacifism and the poor eyesight and the tracheotomy and all. But Dustin Diamond - he is the wrong marine, and you have fucked with him, internets. Nice work.

*our fact-checking department assures me this is false.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

The Power of Leprechauns

Well, good morning, America! (HEY, that's catchy...) Have a YouTube link, on the house!



I am completely beside myself by the power of teh cute and teh adorbz. Which is why the video player is pink, because of teh power of teh cute and teh adorbz. I would have preferred little heartbursts, or choruses of angels, but YouTube - stingy bastard that he is - doesn't offer little heartbursts or choruses of angels as a choices of customization. So it's pink. Kiss my ass. (Also pink, relatively speaking.)

Where was I?

Right. The boy.

Can you believe this teeny tiny miracle child is only five years old? And he wrote that song? And played it? And (more or less) sang it? On a stage? In Seattle? On Earth? In front of "people" from Seattle, Earth? And did I mention he's only five?!!

He sings about murder so capably for a five-year-old, doesn't he? I remember when I was a five-year-old, all we did was watch Barney and eat Jujyfruit and crap our diapers and occasionally - occasionally - get in really vicious bar fights where brass knuckles may or may not have been involved, I'm not telling.

But actually killing a man...

And then writing a song about it...

This little five-year-old motherfucker is cold, yo. In addition to teh cute and teh adorbz. But I suspect teh cute and teh adorbz are probably just cuz of special effects and leprechauns.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

To Whom It May Concern:

Dear Diana Ross (aka Sandy Arugula, for purposes of remaining anonymous on this here blog which you are the only person not reading),

I believe I have gone on record as to how I feel about them apples.

Your pal in Jolie,
Smokey

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Really, amazon.com? If that IS your real name?

So the fucking "Yo Quiero Taco Bell" dog dies, and all amazon.com can think about is buying a billion dollars worth of shoes? That's sick, amazon.com. Sick.

I wish it was the 1990s again. Nothing bad ever happened then, and everyone had morals. Like Newt Gangrich, whoever he was. Also, there was Pearl Jam. I mean, when they were good.

Accio the '90s!

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Will Wieners Ever Taste the Same?

It's a sad time to be in America, everybuzzy. Not because of the unexpected demise of 50-years young Michael Jetson, which was sad and all, but not nearly at this level. Do you, America, realize who ELSE just died last week? Do you? I'll give you a hint: he had a way with B-O-L-O-G-N-A.

Oscar G. Mayer, Jr. is gone. No joke. Fucking Oscar Mayer fucking DIED! Now he's with Tupac too!
Dear People Who Are Famous Enough to Have Wikipedia Pages,

STOP FLEEING US TO BE WITH TUPAC. We need you here, or else there's no need to have wikipedia in the first place.

Make with the not dying. Good. Now just keep that up.

Still breathing,
Smokey.
I know I run the risk of blowing this Oscar Mayer thing way, way, wa-hay-haaaaay out of proportion. Thank Zod it's the first time in my life I have ever done that. But seriously, my facebag status = "mourning", everybuzzy! And your facebag status should = "mourning" too, for who among us can claim not to have been touched by this great man's meat? Why, for generations, Americans from sea to shining sea, young and old alike, have gladly and gratefully been raised with this man's wiener between their buns. The next time someone even mentions the word "United Nations," I just know it's gonna make me think of that wonderful man and the thin, fleshy tubes that were so amazing to have in my mouth. Especially covered in mustard.

But now he's dead, and I for one think this is one of those occasions where you probably want an open casket funeral, just so we're all very clear on what becomes of the body.

Rest in peace, Wiener Man.

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Playin' Hooky

So hi.

I'm not at work today, because I had to call out sick so I could fly to LA so I could briefly take off my Canning Operations Technician hat and put on my Aging Motown Star With a Mild Case of Typhoid Fever hat, which I had to do because they asked me - Smokey Robinson - to open the festivities at the memorial service for Michael Jackson, who is with Tupac now, by reading letters from Diana Ross (friend of the blog) and Nelson Mandela (NOT friend of the blog, or if you prefer, friend of the NOT blog). That's totally worth faking an illness for. I told Rex "the Supervisor" Hymen that I had an aortic dissection. What is that, by the way? Does it clear up in 24 hours?

For the record, Diana's letter was awesome. But that Mandela dude - it's like he's from a different continent or something. Or that he's incontinent maybe.

Of course, the most fitting and moving tributes came courtesy of Magic Johnson and Kobe Bryant, because who better to commemorate Michael's years in the NBA than two of his former Laker teammates? Personally, I'll never forget that time during the '87 Finals when he elbowed Robert Parrish right in the Adam's Apple and got ejected with the Lakers down by 2. Kuh-razy, right? And then he moonwalked off the court yelling "ho!" at the top of his lungs... so typical. I was sitting courtside with Jack Nicholson at the time, while a young prostitute named Hugh Grant was going down on me.

Ah, memories.

Anyway, so long, Michael. I'm glad America forgave you for being weird and perverted. There's probably a lesson in there for George W. Bush and Dick Cheney, but I don't have any idea what that lesson is.

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

Smokey Robinson, Artiste!!

Hey, everybuzzy! It's happy times today! Fun and goodness and Skittles are in the air! And Cheerios, which are heart healthy, but also better for your teeth than Skittles!

Also safer, since there are no Cheerios-fueled riots. You have not known fear until you've been walking down the streets of midtown Manhattan munching on a falafel sandwich only to be set upon by crazed hordes of sugar-saturated business people trailing rivulets of rainbow-colored Skittle spit (or "Spittle") down their neckties and shirts. That's fear. And as I said, you have not yet been properly introduced to fear. Fear? This is my audience. Audience? This is fear. Come to New York and visit us today, because in addition to facing fear in person, Skittles are in the air, as I believe I mentioned a couple times already. PAY ATTENTION. Free Skittles for anybuzzy who wants them!

And WHY are Skittles in the air? Along with fun and goodness and happy times and smiley-faced balloons (not pictured)? I'll tell you why.

Really.

But not yet.

Okay, I lied. I'm about to tell you now.

Ready?

Wait, seriously, are you ready? I mean, it's not like you need to strap yourself in or anything, which would be ridiculous, but are you prepared for this kind of good news - the kind that will make you click your heels and pop your gum and fart "The Star-Spangled Banner?" Because that's the level of goodness of the news about which I am rhapsodizing. Skittles are in the air. Fucking SKITTLES, everybuzzy.

And do you want to know why?

It's because canning is making a comeback. BOO-YA.

Obviously, some of the harder-bitten existentialists here at Dole (I'm talking to you, Rex "The Supervisor" Hymen) don't really care, and have been trying to burst the rest of our bubbles all the livelong day. "Canning never went anywhere," they said, "we've been doing it for years. Now quit farting 'The Star-Spangled Banner,' dammit, and get back to work!" But to the doubting Rex "The Supervisor" Hymens of the world, all I have to say is this:

Nanner nanner.

Because yes, it's true, we haven't stopped canning for years now (not counting coffee breaks and national holidays). But only rarely - like maybe once every six months - has our work been favorably compared in the mainstream media to Baroque painting and Renaissance sculpture.

Check this out (emphasis added, but only slightly):
When tough times hit, it's said that people "go back to what they know." Across the country, some people are trying to find out what their grandparents knew. Old and young alike are trying to pick up a new skill and save a little money by learning the art of canning food.

-Jennifer Moore
National Public Radio (!)
June 20, 2009


I AM AN ARTIST! YES, I CAN! JENNIFER MORE FROM NPR SAID SO!

So stick that in Your Stigmata and smoke it, Jesus. You're dealing with Smokey Robinson the artist now! I'm so freaking stoked I could fart "The Star-Spangled Banner!"

But if you'll excuse me, first I have to do some work. Those bacon-wrapped cherries aren't going to make art out of themselves...

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

The Endless New York City Fashion Parade Continues

I will never understand how, in an era where the sidewalks of cities across the world are littered with bloggerizers armed with 32GB iPhone 3G S's that have cameras and internet connections and apps for that, how a grown man could let himself walk out of the house with the bottom half of his body clad in this...


...and not expect to be made famous (or infamous, perhaps?? Like a pirate? Yar? Who's with me?) by this blog, which you are the only person not reading.

Blue pants? Seriously? AND blue shoes that are not made from suede, but rather from some mass-produced, glossy, scratch-resistant polymer (sort of pictured, and also sort of not pictured)? Even the great Elvis Prestley would has his work cut out for him trying to rhapsodize about those shoes while keeping his rhymes and beats funky fresh, and Alvis Prasley is the greatest ever* when it comes to rhapsodizing about shoes while keeping his rhymes and beats funky fresh, right? Right?

Oh, and as for the blurriness, ha ha, yeah, thanks for pointing that out! See, what happened was that I was laughing, and also I took this picture on a moving train, and also, fuck you for noticing, you jerk. I suppose you're too cool to spend entire subway rides covertly snapping pictures of random strangers and their fashion faux pas, right? Why don't you go stick your head in a bucket of something gross and/or toxic. Who do you think you are, Alvin Praxley or something? You make me sick.

'Kay, bye! Thanks for reading!

*Okay, that's not true. Technically. Pretzly is good, but nobody beats Michael Bublé when it comes to songs about shoes and funky fresh beats.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

A Brief, But Still Panoramic History of the Dole Fruit Plant, Part I

The Dole Fruit Plant is not associated with the Dole Food Company, Dole Food Company, Inc. or Castle & Cooke, Inc, currently headquartered in Westlake, California. Neither is the Dole Fruit Plant affiliated with the Hawaiian Pineapple Company, the historical forebear of Dole Fruit. This much needs must be made clear right at the start of things; despite appearances which were designed to fool the public into believing the contrary, the fine people at the Dole Food Company have done absolutely nothing to deserve having their names and reputations besmirched by any association with the scandalous and unsavory history of the Dole Fruit Plant in New York City. At various times though the years, Dole Food Company has attempted to sue the Dole Fruit Plant for trademark infringement and various other things (i.e. a 1978 nuisance suit over a particular Dole Fruit Plant employee’s bad breath), but the Fruit Plant has two distinct advantages in this regard: first, its internal legal staff has had surgical alterations to their brains to allow them to be extra-vicious and need less sleep than ordinary human beings; and second, said legal staff enjoys a close relationship with the governments of the United States, Canada, the Philippines, Vatican City, the Principality of Monaco, France, and an endive salad made in 1982 that rules most of northern Africa and the Middle East.

In short, they are not to be trifled with.

The Dole Fruit Plant was founded in New York City in 1921, at the height of a trend of fashionable political discord that the Fruit Plant’s Founder, Dr. Joseph Dmitri, wanted desperately to get in on. Dr. Dmitri was raised by his proto-fascist godparents in an obscure Greek corner of the Tyrolean Mountains, and he had always dreamed of being able to freely libel and slander anyone he chose for the express purpose of establishing them as villains in what he liked to think of as “The Great Comic Book of Life.” Given the state of world politics in the early 20th century and the seeming obsession with ideology-based “scares,” Dr. Dmitri perceived the time was right to create his own. So he set sail for America – America, the Home of the Brave And Also of the Highly Susceptible to Paranoia; America, the Land of Opportunity for Extreme Political Fear-Mongering. Dr. Dmitri saw America as a melting pot, but also as a seething cauldron of anxiousness and unrest ready to boil over if heat could simply be applied. And he saw himself as just the man to apply that heat. “America is a melting pot,” he wrote in his journal in 1919, “but also a seething cauldron of anxiousness and unrest ready to boil over if heat can simply be applied. And I am just the man to apply that heat.”

America was full of opportunity for scores of tens of dozens of hundreds of millions of thousands of pounds of immigrants in those days – and not just for extreme political fear-mongering, either. The American economy was festooned with plum, high-paying jobs in fields as diverse and satisfying as 18-hours-a-day-sewing and rock-breaking-from-sunrise-to-sunset. Some immigrant laborers earned entire, luxurious pennies every day.

Dr. Dmitri, however, did not need to seek his fortune. His family was already wealthy. His journey to America and his quest to capitalize on the “scare” phenomenon were predicated largely on boredom, the sort of deep malaise that had led so many other great men (such as Einstein and Hemingway) to lives of decadence and sloth and murder. So Dr. Dmitri spent some of his considerable family fortune purchasing a zeppelin, which he flew to America and then detonated for no better reason than it was simpler than paying for hangar space. Also, because it really impressed a girl he had picked up in Paris whose name he failed to learn before she perished in the zeppelin’s fiery explosion.

Dr. Dmitri was not a man who sensibly dispensed his considerable sums of money. It was well known in Tyrol that Josef Dmitri could get a bit slack in his guard on the old purse strings, particularly if you fed him enough feta cheese. Also, he had terrible luck with women. his combustible companion from Paris was neither the first nor last woman who would explode at his hands.

Dr. Dmitri quickly discovered that there was no money to be made from scares in the private sector. Government funding seemed to be the way to go. And in order to secure said funding, Dr. Dmitri quite sensibly approached the venture under the guise of research. “Far easier,” he wrote “to convince the American government to study the ill effects of a major social movement than to simply vilify and eradicate them, though extermination is obviously still the objective here. Muhuhahahaha.”

How Dr. Dmitri settled on existentialists as his choice of scare targets is, at this point, a mystery lost for the ages, a mere pebble dropped into a vast ocean of time and meatball parmesan sandwiches from one of the finer Italian restaurants on the eastern side of midtown Manhattan. Why someone would need to drop a pebble into such a ridiculous and confusing metaphorical ocean is beyond the power of scholars to understand because scholars are really nowhere near as smart as they’re always rumored to be. Also, it’s irrelevant, because the metaphor is really weak. An ocean of time and (really, really good) sandwiches? Even really good sandwiches have limits to their usefulness at some level, and this is that level.

The point is that Dr. Dmitri chose, as his scare victims, existentialists. That jerk.

Coming in part 2: Dr. Dmitri gets an enemy.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

My Immortality, Realized

Bienvenue to my legendariness.

I have done it. I am now immortal. I am the Author of the One Millionth Word Ever in the English Language Ever, of All Time. And what's even better is that YOU ARE NOT the Author of the One Millionth Word Ever in the English Language Ever, of All Time. By the way, that is totally going on my next business card.

The One Millionth Word Ever in the English Language Ever, of All Time...

Is...

"Web 2.0"

[this was the placeholder for the One Millionth Word Ever in the English Language Ever, of All Time, which was not, as it turns out, "noob." But it totally could have been "blorkenheim" if enough people would just have believed in themselves.]

I don't want or need to get all preachy on y'all, but you know, the One Millionth Whatever totally could have been "blorkenheim" if enough people would just have believed in themselves. You would have manned up if I were Colbert, and you goshdarn well know it.

Anyway, congratulations. To ME!

Oh, and by the way, I'm not kidding.

Thursday, June 04, 2009

Meet the new Jesus (this time with really awesome boobs)

Move over, Oprah Whimfree. Now there's something leaner, whiter, and more descended-from-the-loins-of-Jon Voight on top of the Hollywood Reporter's list of the 100 most powerful celebrities in celebrity-dom. That's right, it's Angelina Jolie. Yes, that Angelina. Yes, that Jolie. The coup has been staged, and thanks to the laser-guided incendiary missiles (not pictured) she had installed in her massive lips (yes pictured), Jolie is now more powerful than you, Oprah!


It's true, too. How else do you explain the fact that she's even on the list after the release of that piece of trash Wanted? (Which, for those of you keeping score at home, also starred the dude who played the half-goat in Narnia, the Witch, and the Kids in the Armoire - what was his name? Right, Morgan Freeman.) I'm no film expert, but I would think attaching yourself to that kind of box office poison would be enough to strangle the life out of most people's movie careers. But what does Jolie do? She maneuvers it into sequel talks. And her character died at the end! Spoiler alert!

In and of itself, that's not really enought to make Jolie more powerful that Oprah, with the book club, and the ability to induce poultry-related riots on a whim, and her daily strangle-hold over the consciousness of millions of suburban women that make up the backbone of this recession. You have to add in the lip missiles (not pictured). Then it's power. A sword would be cool too; just something to think about.

So no more letters to Jesus, because that dude's act is getting way old at this point. (Seriously, Son of Man, get some Band-Aids and put on some Your-Dad-damnned Nikes and a pair of jeans already.) And no more letters to Oprah either, because you're not number one anymore, Oprah, and also because the touchy Chicago courts are really, really narrow-minded when it comes to the definitions of "harassment" and "violating a restraining order." From now on, it's Jolie for me.
Dear Jolie,

Smite them. Smite them all. Unleash teh fury.

A sword would be cool too; just something to think about.

Yours in number-one-ness,
Smokey F. Robinson

P.S. Can you make it so we don't have to wait till January for the next episode of Lost? I NEED TO GO BACK TO THE ISLAND.

Thursday, May 07, 2009

My Immortality

I have literarily just been given a golden opportunity to realize my potential and become world famous for something. I am going to the be the author of the One Millionth (1,000,000th) Word Ever in the English Language Ever, of All Time. In fact, thanks to some creativity, and a secret which I will now reveal to the world - on the condition that you all promise not to plagiarize my idea in any language or in any country of the world, from now until the end of time, come what may, E Pluribus Unum, amen - I am technically already the writer of the One Millionth Word Ever in the English Language Ever, of All Time.

Here's the scam, everybuzzy:

First, you has to read this article here.

Then you has to reed the millionth word, which is [insert MILLIONTH WORD here, probably "noob" at this point], and will appear also in a post which, thanks to the magic of the internet, I have scheduled to be published at precisely 10:22 AM on June the 10th.

Then, you has to look at the date 'n' time of the blog post published on 10:22 AM on June the 10th (hint: it will be 10:22 AM on June the 10th) and compare it to the date and time in the article I referenced above. Go on, be resourceful. And pay no attention to the fact that this article was actually written on May 7, 2009 at 6:17 PM. Or actually, pay all the attention that you want. Because it is now recorded for posterity, thanks to the swell folks at blogger.com (hi, guys!), and I therefore must be right. Because the internet - and in particular blogger.com - never lie.

Seriously, guys, this is like if someone told you the date and time you could get away with robbing a bank, only there's no money in it, and also it's much, much, much, much more nerdy than that. But whatever. I thought of it, and you didn't. And I didn't even need to spin the Frozen Donkey Wheel or leave the Island!

So there, Alfred Feinstein, or whatever yer name was. Stick that in your General Theory of Relativity and smoke it. And don't forget to tell all the other people in Hell that Smokey sez wassuuuuup!

By the way, if you do plagiarize my idea and scoop me as the million-word-writer, I will still be the guy who brought you The Idea to Become Famous on the Internet by Writing the Millionth Word in the English Language. And you, Mister or Miss Poopyhead who stole my idea, can go kiss your own poopy head. Also, I will write your obituary on blogger.com, and date it for JUNE 11, and then I will be famous (and possibly wanted) for being suspiciously, precognitively aware of the death of a complete Poopyhead stranger.

Also by the way, there are still 544 words to be accepted into the language before the Millionth, so if we work really hard and our timing is impeccable, and we can somehow choreograph a 25,000-person simultaneous media posting, we can all get together to make the Millionth something unexpected, like "blorkenheim," which so far appears nowhere on the Internet or in the media. Except here, I guess. So make that a 24,999-person effort. And I don't want or need to get all preachy on y'all, but you know, the One Millionth Whatever could totally be "blorkenheim" (24,998!) if enough people believe in themselves. You would man up if I were Colbert, and you goddamn well know it.

Blorkenheim! 24,997!

Friday, May 01, 2009

Finally!

There is no fight left to fight anymore, people. Satan has been killed. In Mississippi. Take a look:



Sort of an ignominious end for the Prince of Evil, isn't it? To be killed in Mississippi? I mean, shouldn't he at least have gotten gunned down while he was on Spring Break in Daytona Beach, passed out from drinking $2 "you call it" shots? This is actually sort of pathetic.

And frankly, if that chalk outline is to be believed, he's not quite as svelte as I would've thought either. I wonder how he charmed generations worth of people into sinning with a figure like that? He must've had a great personality or something, I guess.

Oh well. He's gone now, so I suppose we'll never know.

Thanks again, Jesus!

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Boo-Earth!

Today, as everyone knows, is Earth Day, which is earth's birthday, which means that according to the Jewish calendar (official calendar system of the blog), the earth is 5,769 years old. That means that if there were really a Mother Earth, she would have hit menopause and moved to Florida like 5,720 years ago. I bet she has a hell of a tan by now.

I know I've publicly celebrated Earth Day in the past, but that is so over now. I am taking a page out of the Republican playbook here - not the page where I actively campaign for the dissolution of the country that I claim to love more than you, or the page where I make eloquent defenses of the choice movement at Right To Life dinners, or the page where the people who expose the people who okay'd torture have their judgment publicly questioned while the okay'ers slink freely among the public. Wait, is that the hypocritical page? Okay, then yes, that is the page I'm taking out of the Republican playbook.

Because I am refusing to celebrate Earth Day this year. I protest!

I've been in kind of a protestical (not pro-testicle, you pervert) mood this week, actually. It all goes back to Monday morning, when I looked in my sock drawer and saw that among my scant choices were a pair of black socks that said "Wednesday" on them (in yellow). Initially, I recoiled at those socks. Oh no, I thought. I can't possibly wear Wednesday socks on a Monday... But then I started wondering exactly what repercussion would befall me if I just went ahead and shot the lock off, and put on the damn socks. Before I knew it I was yanking the socks out of the drawer and cursing at them, "fuck you, socks! You're not the boss of me! Why don't you swallow my foot and see how you like it?"

It felt so good that I followed that up by wearing my Sunday socks yesterday. On a Tuesday. Nobody pushes me around, see!

Which brings us to today. Earth Day, if that is its real name. Give me one good goddamn reason why I should celebrate Earth Day. Every fucking day is Earth Day, let's not kid ourselves. This isn't like that whole Mother's Day thing where we have to pretend that our mothers are actual human beings with feelings and take them out of the home for an entire excruciating day, this is for real. There is no alternative to Earth. We are being bullied into submission by a dictatorial planet so intent on keeping us here that you literally have to get your kinetic energy equal to the magnitude of your gravitational potential energy in order to reach escape velocity! Talk about clingy...

Besides which. Earth is responsible for giving us this:



Absolutely unforgivable, Earth. Shame on you. SHAME! I hope your birthday sucks and that you explode from eating poison cake.

Friday, April 17, 2009

This could be the beginning of a 6,000,000-page serial novel!

The premise of my next work of fiction, length undecided:

“So, um, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a trained killer.”

“A trained killer.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m really a trained killer.”

“Okay. So, um,… what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a trained killer.”

“That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

“Yes. That’s my story. I’m a trained killer.”

“And for whom do you kill trains?”

“Cute.”

“Sorry. For whom do you turn tricks?”

“I’m a trained killer, not a trained seal.”

“I was calling you a whore, not a trained seal.”

“Probably not the wisest thing to say to a trained killer.”

“If only I knew one.”

“Oh! Me, pick me! Hi, I’m a trained killer!”

“How do you, um, do it?”

“Like, what’s my method?”

“Okay, sure.”

“I poison people.”

“You poison people from the government, and they still let you have a profile on eHarmony?”

“I know. ExceptI don’t poison people for the government.”

“So do you work for?”

“A small private security company. I’m not at liberty to say more than that.”

“I think you’ve said plenty.”

“Well, I’m having doubts about it.”

“About your…career choice?”

“Yes.”

“Which you still maintain is that you professionally poison people.”

“Right. I’m having some doubts about that though.”

“Like, ethics questions?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Huh. Let’s talk.”

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

This Ex-stinks.

These two news items remind me of this great stegosaurus place I used to know on 9th Avenue, back in the Mesozoic era. Damn, I haven't been there in ages. Boy, could I go for a nice, medium rare stego-steak right about now...

Anyway.

Item 1:

A rare Worcester’s buttonquail (Turnix worcesteri), a probable female, which is also locally known as the Philippines quail, is shown being photographed while being held by a bird hunter in Caraballo (above).

The bird, thought to be extinct, was photographed for the first time in the Philippines, and then sold to a poultry market as food.


Item 2:

Fishermen in the Philippines accidentally caught and later ate a megamouth shark, one of the rarest fishes in the world with only 40 others recorded to have been encountered, the World Wildlife Fund said Tuesday. The 1,100-pound, 13-foot megamouth died while struggling in the fishermen's net on March 30 off Burias island in the central Philippines. It was taken to nearby Donsol in Sorsogon province, where it was butchered and eaten, said Gregg Yan, spokesman for WWF-Philippines.

from Yahoo!, also via boingboing

Now, I realize I might have Easter on the brain (you should too, Christians...), but isn't this a little bit like if the apostles had tried to take a bite out of Jesus when he reappeared? It's like, "oh, hey, Son of Man, we totally thought You were extinct! We're so glad You're back! And have You been working out, because That Flank of Yours is looking pretty tasty... no, wait, come back!!"

They don't call him the Lamb of God for nothing, folks. Am I right? Who's with me?

What's with all that gathering lightning?

Dear Jesus,

Zap.


Marshmallows and lollipops,
The Smoke Monster.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Dude, the Day After Easter is Painful Enough As It Is

I don't know about anybuzzy else, but the day after Easter is not a happy day for me AT ALL. First of all, there's the realization that good ol' Jesus C. (Friend of the blog) has gone back to His spaceship with Elvis Presley and the Tooth Fairy until His birthday party in December, or at least until one of those fake "Christmas in July" promotions where retail stores give huge discounts on vacuum cleaners and Michael Bolton CDs (Jesus's two favorite gifts!).

And second of all, I'm always a little bit sluggish the day after Easter because of the massive amount of labor involved in obtaining my favorite Easter delicacy, chocolate-covered rabbits (not pictured). Because as any connosieur of chocolate-covered rabbits knows, it is really hard to catch a rabbit. And it is even harder to convince the rabbit to sit still while you dip it in a pot of molten chocolate. There may be more than one way to skin a cat, but that's cats, and that's skinning, and we're talking catching rabbits and dipping them in molten chocolate, which is quite the holiday undertaking, let me tell you.

I remember the days when Cadbury Creme Eggs used to be enough for me. But then I discovered that not only are they not real eggs, they're not laid by a real bunny either. Fakers! And I am all about the authenticity, folks, as you probably already know from a cursory critical examination of the lyrics to my hit song, "Tears of a Clown."

Anyway.

I always try and make a few extra chocolate-covered rabbits, sometimes to give out as gifts, and sometimes just for me. But these are lean times. The Great Repression is in full effect. So this year, I not only had to compete with the speed and caginess of my leporine prey, but also with the dozens of hungry Wall Street bankers who prowl the streets of New York nowadays in search of pigeons, rodents, and small game animals for sustenance. I'm not a competitive person by nature. I just want to collect my coneys and be left in peace, not harrassed and held at Blackberry-point by some down-and-out Lehman Brothers layoff-ee who rifles through my pockets and then laughs at me for carrying around Goonies trading cards. They're just there to give me luck with the hunting, you jerk.

God damn, was that woman mean.

And of course, that's all not to mention the disappointment that comes when you bite into the head of a chocolate-covered bunny and discover that the rabbit you worked so hard to catch and dip has somehow managed to disappear from its chocolate tomb, leaving you with nothing but a hollow, hare-shaped piece of chocolate. I know it's very thematic and Easter-appropriate and all, and I strongly suspect that Jesus somehow magicks them out of there as a prank on me (very funny, Jesus), but honest to Christ: if I wanted hollow chocolate, I'd buy it from a fucking store.

My point is that the post-Easter Monday is already fraught with enough exhaustion and heartache. So the last thing I needed to see when I looked at my Internet first thing this morning was this:


The Peekaru? Seriously? W.T. Fuck, America? Who's responsible for this? I want names. When Jesus comes back next year*, I'm totally ratting you guys out.

*That's assuming Barack Obama doesn't blow up the world before then, which is a pretty generous assumption considering how he's doing so far.

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

How Cheerios' Heart-Healthiness Was Put to Complete Shame

Looks like Lucky has a new marshmallow buddy:


This is not your breakfast cereal. This is like Jesus's breakfast cereal and Superman's breakfast cereal combined, only on steroids and methamphetamines and crack, and with surprisingly low nutritional value. Your breakfast cereal can't even keep you from getting hungry again before noon, though, because all it has are seven healthy grains, and not marshmallows with the power to manipulate time-space.

I hate to say it, Kix. You may be kid-tested and mother-approved, but we're talking about the ability to violate Einstein's laws here. Lucky Charms wins in a landslide.

The problem is that it's a gateway physics-defying cereal. I already have one friend who got looped on time-controlling Lucky Charms and gravity-defying Captain Crunch, and is now in suspended animation 300 feet above Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, just hanging there in mid-air with this horrified look on his face. It's pretty gruesome. But it's also a very visible cautionary tale for the children.

Gasp! Oh my Zod, I think I just figured out how they're going to end the hit ABC documentary Lost! With a cartoon leprechaun!

You're welcome, America, for once again doing your homework for you.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Spotlight on my junk mail (yes, again)

From: Elaine Masters [mastelaine@gmail.com]
To: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
Date: Tue, Mar 17, 2008 at 5:31 PM
Subject: My Honest Desire

Hello,

I am Elaine Masters now undergoing medical treatment for cancer. I am married to Dr. David Masters who worked with United Kingdom Embassy for ten years before he died in the year 2002.

Before my Husband died, we both made a deposit of a total sum $8.6M in a financial company here in U.K. Recently, my Doctor told me that I have few months to live due to cancer problem. Having known my condition I have decided to donate this fund to an honest Person. who will be trusted to assist me in my last desire to help the poor and the sick through charity.

Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I stated herein. Hoping to hear from you. Remember to send your response to this email address: mastelaine@gmail.com

In His Arms.

Mrs. Elaine Masters

***

From: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
To: Elaine Masters [mastelaine@gmail.com]
Date: Tue, Mar 17, 2008 at 5:33 PM
Subject: Re: Your Honest Desire

Dear Mrs. Elaine Masters,

Thank you for contacting me with your offer to donate $8.6 million to me. I'm sure there are a lot of people out there who wouldn't know quite how to respond to such an offer, or who might think that someone sending an unsolicited email offering to give $8.6 million to a stranger is too good to be true. Fortunately for you, I have a great deal of experience accepting huge random donations from people with limited functional English knowledge who have never met me.

So let's do this.

I'm sure the easiest way to arrange the transfer would be for me to forward my bank account information, including PIN numbers and online passwords and whatnot. But that's just what they'll be expecting us to do. So here's what I'm thinking instead: if you can arrange to get the $8.6 million in $20 bills, I will send you 430,000 stamped business envelopes, and you can mail the Jacksons to me one at a time.

I know this plan might seem inefficient and somewhat costly, but trust me when I tell you that you do not want the tax-related hassle of writing me a check, or directly depositing the funds into one of my many bank accounts. Too many questions. Too much paperwork. Too many sticky entanglements with the law. Too much marshmallow on my fluffernutter.

Besides which, I'm the one doing you a favor anyway. I'm not talking about assisting you in your last desire to help the poor and the sick through charity, I'm talking about the other favor I'm doing for you, which is to spare you the burden of being rich anymore. I'm sure you'll agree that this economic climate is not exactly hospitable to people who have lots of money. Why, just yesterday, Senator Charles Grassley (R-Iowa) called for fatcat AIG executives who approved bonuses to their Financial Products division to either resign or commit suicide. Suicide! Just for being rich!

It's times like this when you have to ask yourself what the point of the American dream is. Well, not you, since you're apparently in U.K. Also because you have cancer problem and will be dead soon.

Anyway, the money. Let me know if my plan is acceptable to you, or if you have a different suggestion about how to get me the money. I say "different suggestion" and not "better suggestion" because honestly, I don't see how you can top my 430,000-envelope idea. But go ahead and try if you want to, chuckle chuckle chuckle.

Yours in song,
Smokey Robinson.

Monday, March 16, 2009

And now, an offer for FreshDirect...

Dear FreshDirect:

You did it!

I am so excited and so proud of you for finally managing to deliver me my eggs without cracking any of them in the course of said delivery. I admit, I was less than optimistic when I opened up the box and saw one of the egg cartons lying on its side. Oh no, I thought. Here we go again.

Actually, that's not exactly what I thought. My inner monologue tends to be a great deal more profane than that. I think it's because one of my personalities is a sailor who swears like, well, a sailor, frankly. What I actually thought was, oh fucking no. Here we fucking go fuck a-fuck-gain. Fuck.

Please excuse the language. Also, please excuse the low expectations. (My sailor personality is also very jaded about 21st century customer service. Sorry.) I'm just being honest here, though, which I hope will give you greater insight into the FreshDirect customer experience, which, believe me, can be a profanity- and pessimism-inducing experience even if you don't have an alternate personality with a maritime background and a bitter streak.

Anyway, I just wanted to compliment you on finally getting the egg thing right. This is the third time I've ordered eggs from you, FreshDirect, but it's only the first time I've actually gotten all the eggs I ordered intact. Both of the other times, various amounts of egg breakage in my orders have resulted in my account being credited for the full value of all the eggs. In other words, I have not yet actually paid for a single egg.

Until today. And believe me when I tell you that I am fucking happy to do so.

As a matter of fact, I even feel kind of guilty, probably because one of my other personalities is an abusive parent with an overdeveloped sense of remorse. I feel guilty about everything.

But I especially feel guilty about having eaten so many free eggs. So, FreshDirect, in the spirit of quid pro quo (Is there a spirit of quid pro quo? What does that even mean?), I'd like to credit you $5.00 on my next order. If you could please just add a random $5.00 charge - not in return for a product, not for a service, but just because I asked you to - I would be very much obliged. It's my way of saying, "good job, fucking FreshDirect! Thank you for all the free goddamn eggs. Oh, and I'm sorry I hit you - please don't tell your mother."

Yours truly,
Smokey Robinson.

Saturday, March 07, 2009

Conversations with Jesus about People Our Age: Alex Rodriguez

This is the year that yours truly, Smokey Falafel Robinson, the Motown Marauder himself, turns 33 years old. Now, some of the skeptics out there will say, "hey Smokey, that's impossible," or "hey, Smokey, you're a liar," or "come on, Smokey, quit stealing my gummi bears," citing the following evidence:

1. "Shop Around," my first chart-topper, was released in 1960,

2. According to my wikipedia page - I mean, birth certificate - I was born in 1940.

3. I have, in fact, been stealing gummi bears.

But what those skeptics do not know is that I was actually born on a small island named "Lost," which is the same island where they currently film the ABC documentary of the same name. So while it may seem impossible, trust me when I tell you that, as hard as it may seem to believe, I am only as old as Jesus was when He croaked.

Speaking of Jesus (a Friend of the blog, by the way), we here at YATOPNRTB managed to get Him to take a little bit of time out of His Busy Schedule to chat with us about some other luminary personalities who are celebrating their year of Crucifixion, only without the crucifixion part.

First up is Alex Rodriguez.

Alex, or "A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media," is a baseball player for the New York Yankers, or so we are told. And A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media has been having something of a rough go of it lately, ever since his fourth-favorite Chihuahua, Calcetin, died of a poison-related illness some weeks ago that I swear to Zod I know nothing about. To a lesser extent, A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media has been dogged by recently confirmed rumors that he is of Hispanic descent - something that would be hard for anyone to get over. (Right, Mom?)

Jesus and I sat down with A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media over a cold glass of steroid juice and some Growth Hormone sandwiches, which are a specialty of Jesus's.

Unfortunately, because of an unexpected wizard's duel between Jesus and A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media, and a memory charm that shot off sideways, I am unable to reprint the happenings of that meeting, because I can't remember them. But suffice it to say that it's probably not a good idea to say to Jesus that "at least I wasn't crucified, Dude," no matter how hard Jesus is laughing at your misfortune. Something to keep in mind next week when we sit down with Tiger Tiger Tiger Woods, y'all.