What an Outrageous Waste!!!!!!

Has anyone else seen this Coors Light commercial where they launch a giant, rocket-shaped bottle into space? What the hell sort of world is this? Why is this a worthwhile expenditure of time and efforts when there are diseases in the world that need curing??!

And did you know that every hour, 36 homeless children learn that they have cancer? Or that there is a new line of Ford axles that make your car extra- extra-tuff?

I can honestly not remember the last time my liberal morals were subject to such outrage as this evening's NFL telecast on NBC. I feel like writing someone a letter and voting for the Green Party.

RIGHT AFTER I GO TO CHILI'S FOR THE $20 DINNER FOR TWO!

Bananaphone Down!

Usually, getting my attention during the morning commute to the Dole Fruit Plant (still not affiliated with Dole Food Company, in spite of some serious efforts on the part of Plant management) is the province of peeple with fashion sense that is SO NOT FASHION as to endanger the eyes of both me and my fellow subway riders. Someone has to stand up for the little guy and tell those peeple just how NOT FASHION they are.

But not today.

Today's subway crisis began, simply enough, with a traditional male-female couple that boarded the A train at 175th Street. I didn't look at their faces, I just got a sense of them as the woman sat down next to me in the middle seat of a bank of three, and her dude stood in front of her holding onto the railing. Somewhere just before 168th Street, he reached into some pocket or pouch and handed her a banana, which I presume she ate. We were between 145th and 125th Streets when I noticed her out of the corner of my eye brandishing the limp, empty banana peel at him. The two of them then had the following exchange:

Girl: My bananaphone isn't working.

Guy: What?

Girl: My bananaphone isn't working. It collapsed.

Guy: It has no dial tone.

Girl: It's not working.

Guy: Mine is ringing.

Girl: Brrring! Brring!

Guy: Hahaha.

Girl: Hello? It's still not working.

She ended up tucking the collapsed bananaphone into his belt or a strap on his backpack somewhere in the 70s or 80s, and when we pulled into 59th Street, she got up and walked past him with what appeared to be little more than a friendly tap on his shoulder.

By then, I was already blaming Barack Obama. This is what happens when an Orwellian socialist Muslim takes over the USA: people become so afraid of the government and public services that they literally let their bananaphones go to waste, or even stupidly attempt self-repair, instead calling up the bananaphone company and getting the help they require. This, in turn, leads to the bananaphone companies not having enough work to merit paying full salaries, which then puts all kinds of talented, qualified bananaphone operators and technicians out of work when the companies outsource their jobs to China and the Philippines and Peru and stuff.

This country is the worst.

The Retirement of Amanda Bynes: Day 2

It's still hard to believe it's over, that she's gone and she won't ever come back. I really thought I had enough to deal with this week, what with the BP Oil Spill hitting the two-month mark and the death of sausage legend Jimmy Dean. But no more Bynes?

In the immortal words of the intranetz, "fffffffuuuuuuuuuuuu." And also, "lolcats."

This is what you're missing, world.

It's what we're all missing.

Dear Jesus,

Don't do this, man. Give us back our Amanda Bynes. Give us that Bynes!

Love and pickles,

Smokey.

How to Fix the Oil Spill

The peeple at BP (hereinafter, "Beeple") are obviously retarded. They're going to fix a leaking oil well with a junk shot? Or a top kill? Or relief wells? Are these really the best ideas those Beeple could come up with to plug the hole?

Earth to Beeple: everyone knows that natural disasters are caused by zombies. So obviously, the solution this problem is brains. Duh, beeple. Or as a zombie would say, "brains."

Chuckle chuckle chuckle vurp.

If you wanna get serious, the solution to this problem is Jack Shephard from LOST. If anyone knows how to put a cork in a hole that's leaking poison into the world, it's that guy.

And look how happy it makes him!

(Thanks be to videogum for the pics.)

Dear Teh Obama,

Forget about Jack Bauer. His show got canceled anywhoop. CALL JACK SHEPHARD. He's on an island somewhere.

Also, brains.

Brains,

Smokey

Because We Are Nashville?

A large part of the reason that we are being ignored is because of who we are. Think about that for just a second. Did you hear about looting? Did you hear about crime sprees? No…you didn’t. You heard about people pulling their neighbors off of rooftops. You saw a group of people trying to move two horses to higher ground. No…we didn’t loot. Our biggest warning was, “Don’t play in the floodwater.” When you think about it…that speaks a lot for our city. A large portion of why we were being ignored was that we weren’t doing anything to draw attention to ourselves. We were handling it on our own.

Some will be quick to find fault in the way rescue operations were handled, but the fact of the matter is that the catastrophe could not have been prevented and it is simply ignorant beyond all reason to suggest otherwise. It is a flood. It was caused by rain. You can try to find a face to stick this tragedy to, but you’ll be wrong.

Parts of Nashville that could never even conceivably be underwater were underwater. Some of them still are. Opry Mills and the Opryland Hotel are, for all intents and purposes, destroyed. People died sitting in standstill traffic on the Interstate. We saw boats going down West End. And, of course, we all saw the surreal image of the portable building from Lighthouse Christian floating into traffic and being destroyed when cars were knocked into it. I’m still having trouble comprehending all of it.

And yet…life will go on. We’ll go back to work, to school, to our lives…and we’ll carry on. In a little over a month, I’ll be on this website talking about the draft. In October, we’ll be discussing the new Predators’ season with nary a thought of these past few days. But in a way, they changed everyone in this town. We now know that that it can happen to us…but also know that we can handle it.

Because we are Nashville.

-by Patton Fuqua

taken from here

First of all, and I say this as (no joke) a die-hard Nashville Predators fan, what the fuck? You know why no one is paying attention to Nashville? It's because it's Nashville.

You know why people paid attention to New Orleans? Because a) our thankfully now ex-president double-booked himself with both "crisis management" and "press conference in which I will break my arm patting the FEMA director on the back for his insanely grate crisis management skillz" during the exact same 45 minutes, and b) because IT'S NEW ORLEANS. IT'S FREAKING AWESOME.

(I have an expanded theory on the Bush double-booking incident that involves Dick Cheney conjuring up Hurricane Katrina in a cauldron in the White House Dungeon, cackling all the way, and then popping upstairs and telling Georgie W. to go ahead to the press conference and he would totally take care of everything. A sinister grin slowly spreads across Cheney's face, he snickers evilly to himself, and as the unsuspecting prezident skips out to the Rose Garden, Cheney's snicker crescendoes into a maniacal laugh, and lightning surges in the window behind him. That dude was a villain with a robot heart.)

New Orleans rules. They have Pat O'Brien's. They have crawfish and po'boys (and po'men and po'women too, ba dum bum!), there are streetcars and awesome Creole restaurants. There's Bourbon Street, for crying out loud! Anyone in their right mind in Nashville would have to concede that the most awesomest street in Nashville wasn't anywhere nearly as awesomest as Bourbon Street. (Which of course would beg the question, "what the hell am I still doing in Nashville?")

When was the last time you heard someone talk about the amazing meal they just had at one of the best seafood restaurants in Nashville? Or about how they went on Spring Break there? Do they even HAVE Spring Break in Nashville? Is it like Bible study and country music at the Grand Ol' Opry for a week?

Nashville, I'm sorry, but you're basically the New Jersey of the South. And New Jersey, I'm even sorrier to associate you with anything as bland and dull as the home of country mus-blichh. You know the ol' Smoke Monster loves you, Miss Jurzie.

But honestly, no one would care if either one of you got looted.

Which, by the way, Nashville, you did. Ahem.

But will the Nashville looting get as much attention as the head-up-your-ass, holier-than-thou, look-how-God-DIDN'T-rain-fire-on-Dollywood superiority complex on steroids that Patton Fuqua vomited up? No way, man. Because they're Nashville.

Virginia Is For Losers!

If there's one thing that everyone in America agrees on, it's that we all love a loser. That probably explains why the Boston Red Sux have lost so many fans since they won the Whirled Series in 2004, and why nobody likes black people ever since we elected Tracy Morgan (or whatever her name is) to be our first black president in 2008.

Because let's face it, everybuzzy, what is there to love about the Red Sux or black people if they're not losers anymore?

Fortunately, the great Commonwealth of Virginia has given us something else to love: namely, the great Commonwealth of Virginia, which has gone beyond the call of duty to remind the world what humongous losers they are.

To wit, the following proclamation:

WHEREAS, April is the month in which the people of Virginia joined the Confederate States of America in a four year war between the states for independence that concluded at Appomattox Courthouse; and

WHEREAS, Virginia has long recognized her Confederate history, the numerous civil war battlefields that mark every region of the state, the leaders and individuals in the Army, Navy and at home who fought for their homes and communities and Commonwealth in a time very different than ours today; and

WHEREAS, it is important for all Virginians to reflect upon our Commonwealth’s shared history, to understand the sacrifices of the Confederate leaders, soldiers and citizens during the period of the Civil War, and to recognize how our history has led to our present; and

WHEREAS, Confederate historical sites such as the White House of the Confederacy are open for people to visit in Richmond today; and

WHEREAS, all Virginians can appreciate the fact that when ultimately overwhelmed by the insurmountable numbers and resources of the Union Army, the surviving, imprisoned and injured Confederate soldiers gave their word and allegiance to the United States of America, and returned to their homes and families to rebuild their communities in peace, following the instruction of General Robert E. Lee of Virginia, who wrote that, “...all should unite in honest efforts to obliterate the effects of war and to restore the blessings of peace."; and

WHEREAS, this defining chapter in Virginia’s history should not be forgotten, but instead should be studied, understood and remembered by all Virginians, both in the context of the time in which it took place, but also in the context of the time in which we live, and this study and remembrance takes on particular importance as the Commonwealth prepares to welcome the nation and the world to visit Virginia for the Sesquicentennial Anniversary of the Civil War, a four-year period in which the exploration of our history can benefit all;

NOW, THEREFORE, I, Robert McDonnell, do hereby recognize April 2010 as CONFEDERATE HISTORY MONTH in our COMMONWEALTH OF VIRGINIA, and I call this observance to the attention of all our citizens.

If you're wondering who Robert McDonnell is, he's the governor of Virginia. And if you're wondering who Virginia is, it was one of the many Southern states that LOST THE CIVIL WAR.

I think we all everybuzzy owe Governor Ronald McDonald a great big thank you for resurrecting the memory of Confederate history during these turbulent political times, as talk of insurgency and rebellion against the lawfully established United States government are once again becoming fashionable. It's helpful to look back and reminisce about those glory days of yestercentury when the mighty Union army crushed the pitiful southern rebellion, thus proving that THE CONFEDERACY WAS A BUNCH OF COMPLETE AND TOTAL LOSERS.

Of course, Governor McDoodle is a white male, which means he has very little experience being a loser - although he is a member of the Republican Party. (A zing! About teh politix! Ouch!)

To McDiggle's credit, he's certainly making a valiant attempt to establish his LOSER credentials. Public proclamations about his Commonwealth's role in helping the South lose the Civil War are a very good start. Next thing you know, he'll issue a statement reminding all of us how strongly he supported insurance companies' right to deny sick people health insurance - another victory for the North! (And another zing for Smokey!)

Conveniently (is conveniently the right word?), Governor McDweeble's Confederate History Month proclamation neglected to mention anything about that whole people-owning-people thing. But that's not really his fault. After all, when you lose as miserably, and on as many fronts as the South did when THEY LOST THE CIVIL WAR, it gets hard to keep all the details straight of how badly you got beaten.

McDurgle defended the omission with the rationale that "there were any number of aspects to that conflict between the states. Obviously, it involved slavery. It involved other issues. But I focused on the ones I thought were most significant for Virginia."

You have to appreciate when a white man takes a stand on principle, even if that principle is racism.

But after hearing his stance decried by just about every single person with even the faintest sense of decency, Governor McDribble did what southerners do best: HE BACKED DOWN.

That's why we here at the blog love Governor McDipple - he's a loser, through and through. And since he already works in the former capital city of the Confederacy, he should feel right at home.

The Pillow Bride

Lee Jin-gyu fell for his 'dakimakura' - a kind of large, huggable pillow from Japan, often with a picture of a popular anime character printed on the side.

In Lee's case, his beloved pillow has an image of Fate Testarossa, from the 'magical girl' anime series Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha.

Now the 28-year-old otaku (a Japanese term that roughly translates to somewhere between 'obsessive' and 'nerd') has wed the pillow in a special ceremony, after fitting it out with a wedding dress for the service in front of a local priest. Their nuptials were eagerly chronicled by the local media.

'He is completely obsessed with this pillow and takes it everywhere,' said one friend.

'They go out to the park or the funfair where it will go on all the rides with him. Then when he goes out to eat he takes it with him and it gets its own seat and its own meal,' they added.

The pillow marriage is not the first similarly-themed unusual marriage in recent times - it comes after a Japanese otaku married his virtual girlfriend Nene Anegasaki, a character who only exists in the Nintendo DS game Love Plus, last November.

from Metro.co.uk

Dear Dad,

I know what I disappointment I am to you. I know how much you hoped that by now, I would have worked my way to a respectable career, or at least moved out of the basement. But I need you to start accepting the choices I've made. I don't think that's too much to ask. A man has to follow his heart and his dreams, or else he ends up nowhere. You told me that once, and I have lived my life by that advice even when you refused to support me in the past, like the time I went on the all Kool-Aid diet for three weeks and ended up giving myself diabetes. I followed your advice then, and I'm following that same advice now too, and so I have some news to share with you: I married Liz.

I know the two of you haven't always gotten along in the past, and I know you don't particularly trust her. She confessed to me about all the times she tried to force herself on you, but she's really sorry about all of them, and she promised they won't happen again. It's water under the rug at this point as far as I'm concerned. I hope you can believe that too, and I hope you can find it in your heart to support this marriage, because it's what both of us really want.

Liz is so much like you, Dad: willful and headstrong; sassy and overbearing; deathly afraid of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. You even have the same bizarre fetish for Costa Rican men who wear socks with sandals. I wish you could see that. I wish you could take the time to bond with her, to get to know her, and to forgive her for using all of your spoons to freebase cocaine with her friends in the backyard. She's such a good person, and she has such a kind and generous soul, and such a soft, cottony exterior too. I really wish you could open yourself to those parts of her, and not just focus on the questionable things. We all have our demons, after all. (Remember that time you got arrested for trying to rob a McDonald's?)

It's funny, we were talking on the bus this morning on our way to City Hall, and she actually mentioned how much the two of you have in common. I wonder if maybe that's what you dislike about her? It's a perfectly natural thing for a boy to want to marry a girl who is just like his father, but if you need time to acknowledge and accept that, I understand.

There's something else too. Liz told me what you said to her about how she could do better than to get stuck with a guy like me. I know when you said that, you were looking out for my best interests, and trying to make sure I didn't get hurt, and I love you for that. She's a really beautiful girl, and I know what a shameless flirt she is, and how much attention she gets when we're out at the park or the funfair. A lot of men (and women too) make comments to her like, "hey, why don't you ditch this guy who is somewhere between 'obsessive' and 'nerd' and come home with me?" I must hear that upwards of sixteen or twenty times every weekend. But she loves me, and I love her, and I promise I can handle it. You don't have to worry about me getting hurt. I may always be your little boy, but I'm married now. We know what we're doing, and both of us went into this with our eyes wide open. I promise, no matter what happens, I'll be okay. (Unless she leaves me, in which case I'll most likely kill myself.)

We're going to the arcade now to play video games until I run out of my allowance, but I just want you to know that I love you, I'll be home by 7, and I would really appreciate it if you could buy us a package of gummi bears and some Cherry Kool-Aid to celebrate our good news. Liz is really excited to have you as a part of her life and her family now, so I hope you can be equally welcoming to her.

I love you more than I love Ryan Seacrest, Dad. I really mean that.

Your son,
Lee Jing-yu

P.S. Liz asked if she could call you "daddy" from now on, but she said she only meant it in a purely sexual way. Isn't that cute?

The Search for a Missing Boner

I think we can all agree that when a man who delighted millions with his science fiction portrayal of a Cold War-era Russian stereotype living on a spaceship commanded by a dude from Iowa begets another man who delights millions with his portrayal of a Spiccoli-esque D+ high school student on Long Island in a seminal '80s sitcom, and the second man goes missing in Vancouver on Valentine's Day, then we as a culture have really let ourselves down.

Thankfully, that has never happened.

No, I'm just kidding, it totally has. Where have you disappeared to, Andrew Koenig? Alyssa Milano is sick with worry. As are a surprising amount of people on the facebag.

Frankly, I say all those people are hypocrites. Why is it only when Dustin Diamond is getting airbrushed out of "Saved By the Bell" cast photos, or when the miniature black kid who played Willis's younger brother on "Diff'rent Strokes" is getting arrested in Utah, or when the dude who played Boner on "Growing Pains" goes missing in Vancouver that we, as a society, wake up and take notice? Maybe if any of us (meaning all of you who are the only ones not reading this blog) had bothered to check in with Boner Koenig before he disappeared, then none of this would have happened. We (again, I mean you) have nobody but (y)ourselves to blame.

But here's what I really don't understand: he went missing in Vancouver during the Olympics? How this is possible, Kiptin? Vancouver is covered all over in cameras! (Side note: how much better would that sentence have been if it was "Vancouver is covered all over in clover?") Anybody thought of checking all that HD footage of everything except hockey to see if Boenig is visible in the crowd? 'Cause tell me a guy with this hairstyle wouldn't stand out, even in a crowd of weirdo figure skating fans:


You picked the wrong part of the world to go missing in, Boenig. We're gonna find you, and then as soon as we know you're okay, we're gonna go right back to forgetting about you, just like we forgot about Boner after he left "Growing Pains" for the army. I guess we'll be seeing you in Sochi in 2014...

What We Know About the Future

It is a well documented fact that Jesus's first act after graduating from Hogwarts, changing his name to Santa Claus, and moving to North Pole, Alaska was to start the original Frozen Olympics right here in the good old U. S. of A. Here we are 4,000 years later, and the FroLympics have moved to the icy wasteland of Vancouver, Canada, all because of stupid Al Gore, who just had to come along and invent global warming, didn't he? Why couldn't that jerk have been born in Antarctica? That place is freezing! (At least, until he gets his grubby, climate-changey hands on it...)

But as upsetting as that is, that's all in the past now. And the FroLympics, in spite of the fact that NBC's coverage is pretty heavily grounded in the present (and that the coverage itself is tape-delayed), are all about the future. News flash, everybuzzy: the future is very gay, and very Canadian.

Meet Adam Rippon (also known as "Laser Batman"). At this year's U.S. men's figure skating championships (or, "Homopallooza"), Laser Batman was touted by none other than Scott "I'm At Least As Gay As Boitano" Hamilton as the future of American men's figure skating. Sadly, Laser Batman didn't qualify to represent America in the FroLympics this year, because the future of American figure skating is evidently only the fifth or sixth best skater in the country. If I were Laser Batman's parents, I would pretty much stop loving him for that.

I don't think Laser Batman is even a third as gay as Johnny Weird (or whatever his name is) either, which is pretty shocking considering just how gay Laser Batman is. How gay is he? Let's put it this way: Laser Batman is gayer than Adam Lambert and Albus Dumbledore and boys who read Twilight combined! But Johnny Weird has a show on the Sundance Channel, meaning that Laser Batman's only real chance to out-gay him is to land a multi-season deal with Bravo.

Something to shoot for if you ever want your parents to love you again, Laser Batman.

The future is far less bleak in Canada, however, not just because they have the FroLympics and no global warming, but because of Marianne St-Gelais, who actually managed to win a silver medal in women's 500-meter short track speed skating yesterday, on her 20th birthday - a performance that far outdistances Laser Batman in terms of competitive success, but falls miles short in homo-sin-uality. Here's a picture of Marianne St-Gelais at a competition last October, and you can tell just by looking how gay she ISN'T:


My guess is that Laser Batman watched her victory at home yesterday, consoling himself with a pastel-colored cocktail while taking refuge in the arms of some big, burly-chested lumberjack who thinks he's actually a girl. There could the makings of Laser Batman's Bravo show based on that relationship, but for the life of me, I would NEVER EVER WATCH THAT EVER.

If you're concerned about the lack of silver and gold in America's future, however, there is a lawmaker in South Carolina who might have you covered.

Meet Mike Pitts, a retired police officer turned State Representative with an idea so crazy that it just might work. Pitts is ready to turn back the clock on financial sanity with a bill that would outlaw money - or, as Pitts refers to it, "paper with ink on it." Pitts uses words like "collapse" (the verb, not the noun) and "collapsing" and "collapse" (the noun this time) to describe the potential dangers to the U.S. economy if we keep trying to use money to pay for goods and services. His wise and researched alternative: load up your pockets with precious metals, like gold and silver - commodities whose fluctuating values could leave you feeling like you just won (or lost) the lottery every day!

I think Pitts is onto something here. Because we may never be able to bring snow or winter or the FroLympics back to America, but if Pitts has his way, at least we'll have gold and silver (assuming we don't get robbed by people who aren't weighted down by pockets full of gold and silver, that is). And I know from my long correspondence with Him that that is exactly what Jesus Claus would have wanted - that, and for Laser Batman to get that show on Bravo.

I'm-a back!

Well, that was easy!

It turns out that all I had to do to get resurrected was agree to appear at jury duty. Naturally, I assumed jury duty would be like Purgatory, where people sit around bored all day, waiting to get called into small rooms with lawyers. But real jury duty is actually SO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT.

The first person who came to speak with us Monday morning was a wizard, as in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Class of '88 - that kind of wizard. Of course, he didn't do any majick tricks - he was just there to tell us how to fill out our jury questionnaires. But he did sign majick autographs afterward: his name morphs into the great seal of the state of New York, and back again! That alone was worth the price of admission.

Speaking of which, was jury duty always that expensive to get into? $70, and I didn't even get a good seat. If that happened at a Knicks game, I'd be pretty mad. (Although unlike jury duty, a Knicks game is an unbelievably boring place to spend two days.)

Anyway, jury duty was great. I'm still full from the hummus and vegetable platters. But now that I've been dead for like a month, I have an absolute shit-ton of paperwork to take care of. Not to mention the many issues I keep having with my reassembled body, but I really don't think this is the forum to talk about those things. Does anyone know a good doctor who specializes in zombies and/or reanimated tissue, though? I'm thinking whoever works on Joan Rivers would probably be good.

Hello from Beyond

Hey, everybuzzy. Please forgive me for the frowny-facedness of this here blurg post here, but the thing is that I, Smokey Robinson, am now dead.

I'm kind of ashamed to admit it. It's not the kind of thing you proudly show up at home one day and you're like, "hey, guys, guess what? I'm dead! Hello? Guys?" It's mostly like in the movies, where you're either a zombie and some "vigilante hero" is trying to hack you to bits with a chainsaw, or else you're invisible and inaudible to everybuzzy who isn't Whoopi Goldberg (who, by the by, makes really amazing oatmeal raisin cookies.)

The actual dying part is kind of a gruesome story. I was sitting in the Cannery one day at Dole Fruit, reading The Loving Bones, which is this book by Alex Sebold about a teenage kid who is actually dead for the entire book, which they tell you on page 1 without even writing SPOILER ALERT. (Speaking of which, spoiler alert: I die at the end of this paragraph. See how easy it is?) Anyway, Rebecca Goodman (our token Jew) must have overheard me saying "I wish I could know what it was like to be dead," because when I stood up, my shoelaces had been tied together, but in a very Jewish way. Next thing I knew, I fell over the railing and then tumbled ass-over-elbows into a very inconveniently placed pineapple slicer.

Those pineapple slicers are a real bitch to clean, especially when the guy who regularly cleans them is beginning to ooze out of one of them. Rex "The Supervisor" Hymen kept yelling and yelling, "Smokey! Where the [censored] is Smokey [censored] Robinson, god[censored]?!" I would gladly have told him where I was, except that one of my lips was, at that very moment, about to drip onto his right shoe. Also, the living can't hear the dead without the aid of the aforementioned Ms. Goldberg. But at the time, I didn't know that.

Anyway, hi!

This whole dead thing really isn't that bad. Did you know that in heaven, Bill Clinton is still president, and the Democrats enjoy sizeable majorities in both the House and Senate? And that ALL the bears are named Lollipop the Bear and drive around on Vespa Scooters with skull-and-crossbone stickers and holsters for their AK-47s? Also, the only meal is Kraft Cheese and Macaroni too, because it's the cheesiest. This place is gratest. It really is!

(Psych! It isn't really. This place is the worst - not "the wurst," like a hot dog, which would really go great with all the mac-and-cheese, but the WORST, as in the most miserable place I've ever been. Every time someone calls up Dole to complain about finding one of my eyeballs or a tooth or a fingernail fragment, I have to sit there while Patrick Swayze and the guy who originally played Dumbledore laugh at me for like three hours, which feels like eternity. Also, it takes like four minutes to press a single key. I have been writing this blog post since December 30!)

By the way, I was wrong: there is a God. He wears a turban and He doesn't speak English, so nobody up here understands what He's saying, and most people think He's a Terrorist. He is also in no way affiliated with My Buddy (and Friend of the blog) Jesus Christ. God is actually the Assistant Night Manager at a convenience store called Seventh Heaven, which is supposed to be a clever reference to "Seven Eleven," but nobody gets that without having it explained to them. Some say He really is all-powerful. I say He pours a mean cherry Icee - easily the third-best I've ever tasted.

Anyway.

I recently met Dan Fogelberg, who was quite touched by the flattering obituary I wrote him. We were sipping cherry Icees around Christmas with Carol Channing, and the two of them told me that there's actually a way for me to come back. Are you ready to learn what it is? All that has to happen is that a single cell from my former body has to be ingested by a human male, get metabolized, undergo meiosis, get broken down into amino acids (they're the building blocks of protein!), and finally, be converted into a sperm cell. Assuming I don't then end up in a sock or a drainpipe, it's a simple matter of racing the other sperm cells to an egg cell, become a zygote, then an embryo, then a fetus, then get born in Detroit, have a successful career as an R&B singer, and move to New York City at 68 years old to work for a middling fruit concern.

Piece of cake.

So here's what I need from you, dear readers: eat Dole Fruit Factory brand pineapple.

I'm sure the slicer where I met my end was probably very thoroughly scrubbed before the next batch of pineapple went in. Dole Fruit Factory has very exacting standards of hygiene, after all. But even the most exacting standards must have left a cell or two of mine behind, right? (Don't think about that too long, or else you won't want to eat the pineapple anymore.) Presto. We're halfway home already.

This, obviously, only applies to my male readers. Ladies, for once, this isn't about you. (Until I get back to the top of the charts, that is!) Let's get eatin', dudes! We're just 70 short years from being able to start this whole bloggerizing operation up again!

And just to be on the safe side:

Dear Jesus,

A little halp, (Son of) Man?

Thanx,
Smokey

P.S. Can You catch me up on what I missed on YouTube?