Updates

Sorry I've been gone a while. I know how excruciating life can be without something new on this blog to read, so here are some updates for you on the various stories this website has covered since the most recent Ice Age:

Oscar '08

The same Texas vendor who got in trouble for selling racist buttons at the state GOP is back at it again, this time with an offering targeted squarely at my main Muppet, Oscar.


Personally, I don't really care about the dig at Oscar's accommodations. But I'm deeply offended at the choice of color. Why the WHITE can? Why is the Texas state GOP always fighting so hard to keep purple and fuchsia and lavender out of the mix? What's wrong with ocher, or burnt sienna? How about a nice, soothing taupe? I love taupe!

Speaking of which, for all you enterprising young enterprisers out there, ilovetaupe.com is currently available as a domain name...

The campaign, incidentally, is not going well. Recent polling indicates that McCain and Obama are way, way ahead in every major poll of both likely and unlikely voters. We're out of money, the staff hasn't been fed in a month, and my fundraising letters to the Children's Television Workshop have all gone unanswered. Also, Maria from Sesame Street is totally stonewalling me, that frigid bitch. And here I was, set to suggest her as VP. Your loss, Maria. I hope that job in public television doesn't disappear when ObaMcCain cuts all your funding. Jerk.

A-Rod, Pervez Musharraf, and Britney Spears's Vagina

Not much doing here. After a short stint on the disabled list (which is kind of a slap in the face of people with actual disabilities), A-Rod returned to the Yankees lineup with a vengeance, hitting .740 with 52 home runs and 131 RBI in his last 20 games. It is no coincidence that the smell of Gouda cheese has completely disappeared from Grand Central Station and its surrounds.

As for Pervez, he and I haven't seen each other since the State Department effectively made him persona non grata on this side of the world. We were slated to meet up in Beijing this summer at the Olympics, but we're having one tiny hangup, which is that it is fucking expensive to go to China! I could start my own colony on Mars for cheaper than the airfare alone, and that's not even including the cost of lodging, meals, cheap fireworks, and a trimmed-down budget for hookers and opium. The moral of the story is that it might be a while before Pervez and I are eating ice cream and guffawing over one of A-Rod's jokes again.

Britney Spears and her vagina remain at-large. Gross.

Lollipop the Bear

Despite his lucrative job as a delivery guy for a Korean restaurant on 32nd Street, Lollipop the Bear has been largely invisible of late. I keep searching all the Vespa Scooters in New York, but I haven't seen the elusive skull-and-crossbones decal or the side-mounted holster for his AK-47 in a long, long time. I kind of miss him, actually. New York isn't the same place without him and his unique brand of terrifying adorableness.

Lollipop the Bear would actually be a fantastic choice for VP on the Oscar ticket, in my humble estimation. Riding the recent surge of gun-wagging in the wake of the Supreme Court's decision in District of Columbia vs. Heller, Lollipop seems singularly positioned to haul in major votes from the gun-and-bullet crowd. Also, despite the machine gun, Lollipop is cute and cuddly, which balances well with Oscar's gruff, raggedy, firearm-free exterior.

But Lollipop does have pretty severe anger issues, stemming from the dismemberment of his father, Sunshine, by a three-year-old having a temper tantrum, and the rise of Build-A-Bear Workshops all over this great land of ours. Oscar and Lollipop would no doubt make a pretty serious play for the rage vote, but that's probably only good for about 10 or 12 percent of the American electorate - not enough to win the election. And since only 3-5 people read this blog (on a good day), it's going to be a little bit challenging to get the word out to Rage-Americans.

If you, or someone you know, is a Rage-American, tell that person about the proposed Oscar-Lollipop ticket. And if you survive their resulting outburst, hop back on here and tell me their reaction in the comments. After you're done, contact a physician, or visit a local emergency room to treat your wounds.

Dole Fruit Company Volleyball Team

We just broke through for a 2-games-to-1 victory over the women's team from Marshall University, and the women's team from Marshall University is no joke. Rex "The Supervisor" Hymen was an absolute monster.

Our secret weapon, though, was a dissertation on Kierkegaard written by none other than Ronny Balboa (yes, that's his real name). Using a perfect professorial intonation, Ronny read excepts of the dissertation during the match while we were serving. The ladies of the Thundering Herd, apparently not used to the soporific effects of listening to a philosophy lecture, were lulled to sleep. Literally.

Maybe they should go to class once in a while. In the meantime, they most certainly got taken to school. (Zing!)

Unfortunately, the blue-clad warriors from the Cannery are dead last in Group 19 of New York Metro League Volleyball, and Group 19 of New York Metro League Volleyball is a total joke. Most of our games are more about pints than points, and there's usually so much lager flowing by the end of a match that we're lucky if we can blow the breathalyzer locks to get into our cars when it's all over.

Alcoholism, of course, is one of the major Achilles' heals of Dole's canning division. About 12 years ago, someone in HR (probably a drunk him- or herself) instituted a campaign to specifically hire and retain admitted alcoholics. Holiday parties got a lot more spirited, let me tell you. And let me also tell you how hard it is to fire someone once they make it past the 90-day probationary period: it's really, really, very hard to do it. I don't even recommend trying, unless you like failing at things.

Anyway, it's fairly evident that our volleyball adversaries in Group 19 of NYMLV are aware of some of our... tendencies, if you will. The constant invitations to drink from their pregame keg, which they are always conveniently not using right then, are just a tiny bit suspicious. And so we end up falling all over ourselves and losing, then getting monstrously depressed and even more monstrously drunk before waking up midmorning on front lawns all over the tri-state area.

Needless to say, this is not quite what I had in mind when I joined the team. I mean, blue uniforms? Seriously?

Bananas

are still delicious, and available in the produce section of your local grocery store.

Curse my bad timing!

I was all set to make a joke about this little tidbit I read on Gawker.com the other day about a prospective art reality show (for serious?!) starring Sarah Jessica Parker (for serious again?!) as the host. And the joke I was going to make, with more appropriate phrasing (naturally) was about the title of the show. This is as far as my inner monologue got:

"An art show? Who the hell would watch that? What will they call that show, 'Watching Paint Dry'? Oh my Zod, that's funny! I should totally bloggerize about th-... uh oh, the phone is ringing. I hope this isn't A-Rod again. Oh, great. It's from 561 area code. It is A-Rod. Again."

Seriously, who the hell wants to watch a painter paint or a sculptor sculpt? Most of the time, I'm not interested in the finished product, let alone the process involved in making it. I like my art like I like my women: simple, clean, mostly white, squarish, and mounted on a wooden easel in the corner where she/it can be easily ignored. I mean, maybe, maybe, if we were talking some kind of medieval reality show where the challenge was to paint a cathedral ceiling every week, and the losers got pushed off their scaffoldings... maybe then I'd be tempted to watch. MAYBE.

As if television isn't stupid enough for having reality shows about cooking. Hello? Cooking? On television? Last time I checked, none of the audience can taste or smell the food - experiences which, I am told, are intrinsic to judging whether or not said cooking is actually any good - through their television, no matter how high-definition you make it. I find the whole concept of the Food Network almost utterly baffling as I find the odd, mannish charm of Fred Flinstone.

Anyway, sadly for me, Gawker beat me to the punchline.

I blame Alex Rodriguez, or, as I have recently taken to calling him, "I've been working on the railroad all the livelong day-Rod."

You would not BELIEVE the hysterical phone calls I've been getting from this "guy" lately. The 561 area code is somewhere in Florida, where Mr. Rod is supposed to be getting ready for February minicamps, and for a season full of high jinks both on the basepaths in the Bronx and in the streets of midtown Manhattan. Except that, instead of focusing on planning his wacky 2008 pranks, all Alex can talk (or rather, cry and squeal) about this entire month is fucking Britney fucking Spears fuck. What the hell do I care if she got carted off to UCLA for a mental evaluation? She never returns my calls anyway! Important bloggerizing is falling by the wayside here!!

I'm beginning to suspect that Britney is on the Boston Red Sox payroll for an undisclosed sum. I mean, think about it. That whole Taco Bell stolen base promotion during the World Series last year were Jacoby Ellsbury won free tacos for the nation? Tell me that doesn't have Britney's inimitable, cheese-and-hot-sauce-from-a-packet-covered paw prints all over it.

And now she's ruining my jokes too, thanks to San Tropez-Rod. It may seem like she doesn't have a clue about the impact of her lifestyle on her fans (I'm talking to you, Chris Crocker), but deep down, you can tell she knows. She knows.

Medical Myths Debunked! Gays and Britons Cannot Be Trusted!

This is from an article in the online scientific journal BMJ (Helping Doctors Make Better Decisions, they claim...bunch of liars) about some common medical misconceptions that most people think are true. Things like tryptophan in turkey being a sleep agent. Basically, if you think that, they're calling you a moron. And FYI, when they say "you," they're talking about YOU.

Also, they're British, which might help explain the snotty, condescending tone of the article, as well as why they can't spell "theater" or "color" the right way. I can't help noticing that they don't bother to debunk the mystery of why they spell the word realize with an S instead of a Z. (That means REALISE, not SEALIZE, in case you're not to good with your alphabet, since I know most of my reader(s) was(were) educated in American public schools. Ooh, burn - I can be snotty and condescending too, BMJ! Up yours!)

Anyway, the excerpt. (Please pardon the spelling for being British.)

We use only 10% of our brains

The belief that we use only 10% of our brains has persisted for over a century, despite dramatic advances in neuroscience. In another extensive expert literature review, Barry Beyerstein provides a detailed account of the origins of this myth and the evidence disputing it. Some sources attribute this claim to Albert Einstein, but no such reference or statement by Einstein has ever been recorded. This myth arose as early as 1907, propagated by multiple sources advocating the power of self improvement and tapping into each person’s unrealised [sic] latent abilities.

Evidence from studies of brain damage, brain imaging, localisation [sic] of function, microstructural analysis, and metabolic studies show that people use much more than 10% of their brains. Studies of patients with brain injury suggest that damage to almost any area of the brain has specific and lasting effects on mental, vegetative, and behavioural [sic] capabilities. Numerous types of brain imaging studies show that no area of the brain is completely silent or inactive. The many functions of the brain are highly localised [sic], with different tasks allocated to different anatomical regions. Detailed probing of the brain has failed to identify the "non-functioning" 90%. Even micro-level localisation [sic], isolating the response of single neurones [sic], reveals no gaps or inactive areas. Metabolic studies, tracking differential rates of cellular metabolism within the brain, reveal no dormant areas.

Full article here...

Here's what I have to say about this:

BULLSHIT.

Tell it to the woman in the 42nd Street Station this morning wearing a sandwich board and ranting about the end of the world being nigh because Jamie Lynn Spears was pregnant. There is NO WAY that woman was using more than like 4 percent of her brain. I bet she was gay too. Why can't the gays leave Britney's precociously whorish little sister alone? So what if Paul Janka impregnated her?

Dear Jesus,

I know it's been a while since we talked, but if You could please do me a favor and for Your Birthday, make sure that everyone down here on Planet Earth has a very happy holiday EXCEPT FOR BRITISH PEOPLE AND THE GAYS AND ALL THE JERKS WHO KEEP CRITICIZING JAMIE LYNN!!!

(And also the Jews. They're the ones who killed You and can't figure out how to standardize the spelling of Chaka Khan, or whatever their wannabe holiday is called.)

Happy upcoming birthday, by the way.

Love and kisses,
Smokey Robinson.

P.S. Please also make a news story about Britney Spears's vagina before it goes kee-razy from lack of attention. Thanks, Dude. I totally owe You one.

WWBS'sVD

Uh oh! What will Britney Spears's vagina do now that we are entering day 4 of the non-stop news cycle about her little sister's pregnancy, which even CNN IS COVERING!?!? That's right, American Teenage Girl-istas, take note: all it takes is a TV show on Nickelodeon, a little unprotected underage sex, and a family history of pathological sluttiness, and your vagina could be making national headlines too!

But seriously, Britney is a girl whose woman parts do NOT like to be upstaged. I'm worried about her, and so is Alex Rodriguez - more than usual, in fact. I think he's nervous that the judge who robbed her of Sean Preston and Demonspawn #2 might also award custody of Britney's privates to K-Fed as well, purely for their own protection.

It's not a half-bad idea, really, but I thought I had come up with a better one - namely, that they replace the light show in Grand Central Station with a great big pictorial history of Britney Spears's genitalia, set to the soundtrack of 2001: A Space Odyssey mashed up with Oops...I Did It Again. Seriously, if you were taking your kids on a holiday trip to the Big Apple, what would you want to show them - a light show that they can come back and see EVERY YEAR EXACTLY THE SAME BORING WAY, or Britney Spears's oh-so-fame-worthy naughty bits?

Unfortunately, the powers-that-be at GRINCH CENTRAL STATION didn't agree with me, so on with the light show, idiots. Meanwhile, A-Rod and I are stewing, and now that we have no recourse in the form of Yankee contracts to opt out of, what else can we do except pull a prank to exact our revenge? A prank that will affect all of BLAND CENTRAL, but that won't cause the national terror alert level to go higher than yellow.

Wait...does anyone remember if yellow is good or bad? I completely forget what the desirable color is, although if I had my way, I'd like to see the national terror level hovering at right around a blue iris, which incidentally, is Pantone's choice for color of the year for 2008! So soothing... imagine being told the terror alert level was blue iris. You could totally go right back to sleep.

Then, we would strike! With wheels of cheese!

Enter Alex Rod. What better revenge prank is there than to make all of Grand Central smell like smoked gouda for a few days (which also makes quite a fitting tribute to Britney's stinky hoo-ha, by the way...)? A-Rod, you are so clever! So thematic! So steroid- and HGH-free! So rolling giant wheels of smoked gouda down Lexington Avenue in the 40s with your pinstripe pants at your ankles and your great big giant trackmark-free ass hanging in the breeze, singing "Peanut Butter Jelly Time!" at the top of your lungs. Peanut butter jelly with a baseball bat indeed.

Happy Holidays, midtown Manhattan. A-Rod says so, that's why. What.