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.

-news.com.au

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!

U.B. Kim Jong-Illin'

SEOUL, South Korea — North 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.

-The New York Times

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.

My poor former dictator buddy...

Just saw this on facebook:



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

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

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

Some people can be so selfish.

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

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

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

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

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

"They're midges," I said.

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

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

"Shit! I got his fucking voicemail!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

How Something as Simple as a Mixed Cone in Battery Park City Can Shape the Course of World Events

I remember the sticky day at the beginning of June when Alex Rodriguez, Pervez Musharraf and I were sitting on a bench in Battery Park City eating half-chocolate/half-vanilla ice cream cones and sucking down cans of Red Bull like there was a crazy Pakistani dictator sitting on a bench in Battery Park City. Oh, times were simpler then. Men were men. Women were women. Quantum physics still trafficked in realms of uncertainty. And my days were a colorful melange of innocent games of tag, scouring the city in Pervez's stretch limo looking for dandelions to pick, and sleepovers at Derek Jeter's place in the Trump Tower, where Alex wasn't invited because he had already been there four times that week and still hadn't cleaned up the Blue Raspberry Slurpie he spilled on the kitchen floor.

That day in Battery Park City, as A-Rod and I were busy lamenting Britney's sudden February haircut and worrying over her ongoing battle for custody of her two boys, it was Pervez who lightened the mood by reminding us that in his country, Britney would probably have been stoned to death in some obscenely barbaric ritual for any of her numerous and unforgivable transgressions against her role as a woman. We laughed for long minutes at the thought of it. Then, and it might just have been the Red Bull talking, I said, "hey, Pervez, is there anything that would make you consider giving up the head of the military thing?"

Pervez's usually jovial face turned dark and angry. His buoyant expression sank underneath the dark clouds of his cheeks and the grim horizon of his eyebrow ridge. A stray droplet of choco-vanilla dripped out of the corner of his mouth just below the fine brushwork of his moustache, and just above his turgid jowls. "No," he said flatly.

Between the ice cream dripping down Pervez's chin, the idea of Britney Spears' being stoned to death, and the dizzying high from too much energy drink, A-Rod started laughing his fool head off.

"This is not funny," insisted Pervez. But once one of us started laughing, it was like a laughter grenade exploding on a pile of other laughter grenades, sending laughter shrapnel in all directions, and making passersby run for cover even though there wasn't really any danger of being hit by the shrapnel. This was Battery Park City, remember, where passersby are not generally noted for their ability to distinguish between real shrapnel and the kind of shrapnel that exists only metaphorically.

"Come on," said A-Rod, who had laughed until there was ice cream dripping down his chin too, "there must be something."

Pervez's face settled into a gentle, wise smile. "No," he said. "There is nothing."

"What about another ice cream cone?" said A-Rod.

"Yeah," I said, "since you barely got any of that last one in your mouth anyway."

We all lost it again. The passersby hid behind bushes and called their loved ones on their cell phones.

"Okay, I will tell you what," said Pervez. "Alex, if you can get the Yankees to agree to a contract worth more than 300 million American dollars, then I will resign as the military head of Pakistan."

Alex looked at me, then back at Pervez, then at me again, then at his wallet-sized picture of Britney Spears (pre-psycho haircut), then back at Pervez, then in quick succession at each of us three times. Baseball players are so superstitious. Anyway, then he said, "all right, but can part of the contract be laid off into what will be called 'Historical Achievement Bonuses,' which will ultimately be a convenient way of being paid to reach home run milestones in violation of the Collective Bargaining Agreement?"

Pervez looked momentarily stunned. "Why, Alex," he said, "it is simply diabolical. Make it happen."

I remember that day in June for lots of reasons. I remember that it seemed such an unseasonable time for Pervez Musharraf to be in New York wearing an impeccably tailored brown wool suit. I remember being reasonably sure that A-Rod was supposed to be in Chicago for a series against the White Sox that night. But mostly, I remember looking at the ice cream trickling down both their faces and thinking what idiots my friends were.