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.

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.

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.

Hold me close, young Tony Danza

So here it is, mid-February already. The days are starting to lengthen, the groundhogs are in the midst of shutting the fuck up for another year, and I find myself fighting a rising tide of disappointment in Tony Danza.

It's not because of "Who's the Boss?" - at least, not entirely because of that - and it's not because of his ill-fated daytime talk show. It's because I walked by the display window of a Barnes and Noble this morning on my way to the Fruit Plant, and I did not see a Republican-themed cookbook called Grill, Baby, Grill, written by Tony Danza, with an introduction by Arnold Schwarzenegger.

WT Fuck, Danza? WT Fuck?

I honestly don't know what I have to do to make this happen. I've tried everything there is. For the past six months, I have wished on every star I've seen. I have said prayers to Jesus and the Easter Bunny and All Their Buddies. I have farted "The Star-Spangled Banner." I have used radiation to amplify my brainwaves to that Tony Danza could receive the suggestion telepathically.

So far, I have nothing to show for all of that. Actually, I do have quite a large tumor just above my neck, but... oh, no, wait, that's just my head. So we're back to nothing. Six months of wishing and hoping and planning and praying down the drain.

I guess Dusty Springfield was right after all.

Now it's 2009, mid-February, all that other stuff I mentioned in the first paragraph. And there is still no Tony Danza Republican cookbook on the market. Meanwhile, the resonance of "drill, baby, drill" is disintegrating faster than the Democrats' ability to stay on message. Stupid Democrats. Stupid Republicans. Stupid Tony Danza. Stupid me. Stupid everybody.

But mostly, Stupid Jesus. If you go back far enough, this is clearly His fault. Jesus is the alpha and the omega of blame. So to those red-state consumers who are flush with spare cash for politically-themed cookbooks written by C-List celebrities who are not as telepathic as they're supposed to be, you know Whose fault this really is.

A Sandwich Board of the Times

An old, grizzled man with a sour look wanders up to the counter of a pawn shop, lustily tugging at something in his coat pocket, and nursing a mouth dryer than a British sitcom. The man is desperate for liquor. He's desperate for food too, but a man's gotta have priorities, and that bottle of Old Granddad next door isn't likely to drink itself, because even a bottle of Old Granddad finds Old Granddad disgusting.

The man's clothes are a vision of decrepitude and dereliction, the uniform of a veteran of the war for survival on the cruel streets. It's a war that no one is winning, since the sides and the battle lines haven't ever been made clear. Nor, for that matter, have the opposing forces who are supposed to be squaring off. Is anyone fighting against survival on the cruel streets? Because if so, I'd like to meet them. Please contact the blog.

For now, though, let's get back to the story of the old man with the sour look and the as-yet-unrevealed object in his pocket, which I will tell you right now is a Blackberry.

The cashier raises an eyebrow at the approaching "customer." He looks bored and unimpressed. Between the sob stories and the outright frauds, this man has had more of his time wasted than all of the time wasted on the internet by all of Generation X put together. He barely looks up from his e-paper, although this is in part because the opacity setting on the e-paper is low enough that he can see through it, since the pawn shop is roughly as likely to look after itself as the Old Granddad is to drink itself. If these analogies and metaphors aren't clear enough for you, please contact the blog.

"Yeah?" says the nonplussed cashier.

"I wanna sell this," says the old sourpuss. And he whips out a Blackberry Curve, which once retailed for the unthinkable sum of $349.99 without a contract from AT&T Wireless.

Sorry, that sentence was wrong. It should say, "And he whips out a FUCKING Blackberry Curve, which once retailed for the unthinkable sum of $349.99 without a contract from AT&T Wireless." I changed it at the last second because I was worried that people might freak out about the profanity if I didn't mention it first and give them a chance to look away. Spoiler alert.

Anyway.

The cashier says, "fuck off," and then adds something in Spanish to the effect that he wishes he had a boot long enough to kick that gavron in the mantequillas while the old man hustles to grab his prize and shuffles backward to the door, the look on his face grown even sourer. This is the fourth FUCKING pawn shop that turned him down! (Spoiler alert: more swearing.)

He emerges onto the cruel streets and with his arms outstretched, casts a hideous curse at the heavens above. Just a few short years ago, the Blackberry was a status symbol, a veritable declaration that the person carrying it was too much of a self-important asshole to leave his email behind for like an hour and a half while we grab dinner with his friends. It used to be like, diamond shoes? Check. Pockets stuffed with $50 and $60 bills? Check. Blackberry Curve? Check. But now, this bedraggled, poopyheaded old man can't even scrape together enough cash from the resale value to buy a bottle of cheap, disgusting booze.

"Why?" the old man yells, anguished, at the God who has forsaken him every bit as much as He forsook Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord and Savior, that day on the Cross a couple thousand years or so ago. The old man's inadvertent sobs divide his subsequent bellowing calls into syllables: "Why-hy-hy-hy? Wah-hah-hah-hah-ha-ha-haaaaaaaeeeeee?" And as he rears back and hurls the worthless hunk of really sophisticated electronic equipment downward at the oddly anachronistic cobblestones of the road, the old man gets struck by lightning and dies, because I couldn't think of a reasonable way to end this paragraph without killing him.

People, the story you've just read is true. Except that it hasn't happened yet. But it will. Oh yes, it will. These economic crisis times are worse than I ever conceived, even in the wild safari that is my imagination. Because while it's true that homeless men aren't actually selling Blackberries for crack or alcohol or ice skating money (yet), you can tell we're headed in that direction. I discovered the proof from a sandwich board I saw outside of Whole Foods earlier this evening.

Take a look, world:

That's right. BLACKBERRIES ARE 2 FOR $4 AT WHOLE FOODS. I double-checked with three store clerks, a manager, eighteen other customers, the cops who dragged me out of the store, and the old homeless man with the sour face who was lying on the sidewalk about four feet from where this picture was taken.

You can't see him because I had to stand astride him in order to get a good angle on the sign. But his face was really sour, let me tell you. I wish I had a Blackberry to donate to him, but I don't really carry loose change in my pocket anymore, because I'm a grown-up now.

Oh, and FYI: this picture was taken by my pal Knickers, who is a FUCKING iPhone.

[SPOILER ALERT: There is plentiful swearing contained in this post.]

Decepticons!

When the timer on my microwave runs out, my microwave does more than just beep. Just beeping would be enough. Frankly, it's sometimes too much. But the beep I will take for granted. Beeping is what microwaves do, after all, and to ask them not to do it would be like asking a plate of lasagna to not be delicious, which would be ridiculous.

I'm not asking my microwave not to beep, I'm saying it's cool about the beep, and can we please move on? Because there are other things to talk about in regards to this microwave, whom I occasionally refer to as MicroDave the microwave. As in, 'sup, MicroDave the microwave? Y U beepin at me? That is how I talk to my MicroDave. And he beeps back at me. That is what is up.

But that is not what is all.

My microwave then - then, as in after the beeping - displays the following words, in the monochromatic digital alarm clock font that would obviously be monotone and masculine if it had a voice:

YOUR FOOD IS DONE

Pardon me, MicroDave, but all you know is that the timer is done. You don't know jack shit about whether my jack cheese is melted, and half the time, you're fuckin' wrong, okay? Okay, MicroDave? (the microwave?) Don't presume to tell me my food is done when for all you know, I've finally snapped and stuck a handful of metal canisters full of pressurized cleaning agents inside you and decided to end it all. You are a deceiver, MicroDave. You are a liar! You are a machine who spreads deception and we all know that deception is just one letter away from Decepticon, which is another sort of deceitful machine altogether, but you're probably cousins.

It's times like this when I long for the old days, when the machines didn't talk back so damn much. I miss those old days. I feel nostalgia.

Thank Zod I'm not a vampire, or I would probably be able to achingly remember all the way back to when we didn't even have the word "microwave." And also, thank Zod I'm not a vampire because my nephew would be scared of me. I know I'm about to risk losing a sizeable contingent of my audience by saying this, but I am totally and one hundred percent anti-vampire.

Gay Men and Puppets Are Here to Save You

I have the lyrics from "Away in a Manger" stuck in my head this Sunday late morning, just sitting there in my brain like yesterday's oatmeal, which is sitting in the GladWare container out of which I didn't finish eating it, getting crustier by the second. Somehow, the metaphor seems to have drawn me away from my point, though, which is about the lyrics from "Away in a Manger."

It's not a subconsciously guilty response to having skipped church this morning. I have skipped church for more consecutive weeks than Tiger Woods has been number one at golf, and for more consecutive weeks than Barack Obama (who is the Tiger Woods of black US presidents) has been number one at being awesome. At least, I don't think it's a subconsciously guilty response to skipping church. But that's the thing with subconsciousness, isn't it. You can never be sure.

Except for this time. I am sure this time. I am sure it's not my subconscious because I know what this "Away in a Manger" business is about. That was the song that first made me fall in love with baby Jesus. And it's hard to think that after all those years of being at least as devoted to him as most of the nuns I'm friends with, I would give it all up for a flash-in-the-pan circus man named Paul Anderson, just because Paul Anderson can walk on stilts.

Then again, Paul Anderson looks like this:

So we really can't blame me, can we?

In the words of the Tiger Woods of black US presidents, Yes We Can.

People are always talking about sin. Studies show that apart from talking about childhood obesity and chewing gum, talking about sin is the most popular use of the human mouth that there is. Catholic priests use their mouths to talk about sin ALL THE TIME, which is ironic because they probably also use those same mouths to fellate their altar boys, because all Catholic priests are child molesters, again, according to studies.

Speaking of which, I once had a molestation-minded Catholic priest chase me around a church once. He caught me by the organ.

You can't really consider Jesus my boyfriend, but I think the point that my subconscious, and my conscious, and Barack Obama are trying to make is that by falling so hard for Paul Anderson, I have sinned against the Lord Jesus, or J-Lord Perry, as I sometimes call him. After all, Jesus was a carpenter, and Paul Anderson is a circus performer, and the only place a circus performer should come before a carpenter is in the bizarro Yellow Pages, where things are in backwards alphabetical order, and where forsaking Jesus for Paul Anderson is not a sin.

But this is not the bizarro world. It's the world where Barack Obama is president, Tiger Woods is number one at golf (even though he hasn't played since June), and religious comeuppance comes not only from subconscious lyrical reminders of Jesus, but also from moralistic musical sermons by men on YouTube who are obviously gay:

I have always taken pretty much a "meet it head-on" approach to dealing with sin. Obviously, that was wrong. I don't know why this didn't occur to me before. I guess because I am not Tiger Woods, or Barack Obama, or Jesus. I am but a poor servant of the higher mastery that is the Dole Fruit Company, a practicing existentialist, and a sucker for a dude who can make his own stilts.

Here's a little more temptation to look away from:

How to Saw Wood To Build Circus Stilts -- powered by ExpertVillage.com

Where are your puppets and homos to save you now, bitches?

Look out, Jesus.

All right, check this dude out:



And tell me that hair doesn't make your chest go all thumpy-thumpy like in the cartoons.

Blam. You have been hypnotized.

This is Paul Anderson, and he is like Jesus on stilts. Which makes him better than Jesus, because Jesus didn't walk on stilts. That takes talent, the kind of talent you would definitely read about in the Bible, which covered every single detail of Jesus's life in the kind of detail that only Michael Phelps and Barack Obama can appreciate.

In fact, there should be a Bible of stilt-walking, and it should star Paul Anderson. (INTERNET: THIS IDEA CAN BE YOURS, FREE OF CHARGE. YOU'RE WELCOME.)

Instead, there's this.

How to Add Multiple Levels to Your Stilts -- powered by ExpertVillage.com

I kind of wish I could go back in time and vote No on Proposition 8 in California so that I could gay marry this man's hair and stilts and his cool, cool glasses too. The rest of him I could kind of take or leave, especially after 22 episodes that all start with that "...and here we are!" line.

Look, Paul Anderson: just because you're in the circus doesn't mean you have to talk like you're in the circus, you know what I mean? You're better than Jesus, dammit. Start acting like it.

Dear Jesus,

Move over, Son of Man. There's a new heartthrob in town. Barack Obama has brought the change we need, and his name is Paul Anderson.

You are officially Yesterday's News, Jesus. You are the Pull-My-Finger of Messiahs.

Peace, love, and Freedom toast,
Smokey.

Behold, The Printed Blog.

I have just discovered a site known as The Printed Blog, which I refuse to link to out of principle. (I think it's principle. It might be out of principal - I can never remember which of those is which.) If you want the link, send me a SASE (that's a self-addressed, stamped envelope, to any Nickelodeon fans from the mid-80s who happen to be in the audience today!), and I'll send you the link by US Mail, which is like the Pony Express with a massive carbon footprint and stamps that no longer need licking.

Sorry, getting back to my point. The Printed Blog (not pictured) (or "hyperlinked").

I thought one of the nice features of blogs was the drastic reduction of our US Mail-sized carbon footprint, wasn't it? I mean, wasn't the whole point of "zines" and "weblogs" and the "intranet" to conserve paper? Wasn't that at least part of it?

And now comes a service willing to print out the good parts of the internet and deliver it to you. This is not progress. This is not change blah blah blah-ieve in. This is what was missing from Alanis Morisette's song "Isn't It Ironic:" this is IRONY.

I propose that we all start a letter-writing campaign to The Printed Blog to tell them how ridiculous they are and how much paper they're wasting. And be persistent - they usually throw out the first 500 or 1000 pieces of hate mail - you have to really want it, people! Be with me on this! Letter-writing campaign to conserve paper!

Dear Fozzy Bear:

Per our agreement, enclosed above please find your one (1) corny joke. Your payment is due in ten (10) business days. Please don't tell Kermit about this. Or Jesus.

For services rendered.............................................$8,000

Your pal in Jesus,
Smokey.

Obama Sucks Inaugural Balls

I woke up this morning with a smile on my face and a clear breath of air in my lungs, because I knew that I had gone to sleep last night with President Barack Obama protecting me. Of course, Mister Prez (or The Old Shoe Magnet, as I like to call him) was probably heading to his fifth or sixth party when I went to sleep, but that's beside the point. Things were just better this morning. Even the green crusty thing in the corner of my eye was somehow less crusty and a more pleasing shade of green. Also, it was singing show tunes.

But then I went outside, and discovered that change hadn't come to the streets of New York City, at least not in the literal sense that there would be actual change littering the streets of New York City. Then again, we do have a pretty dedicated and conscientious sanitation department, so I guess it's possible that change came to the streets of New York City last night, and our modest municipal services workers already got it cleaned up, leaving no evidence of the change we were told would come to the streets of New York City, which is basically the same thing as if change did not come to the streets of New York City.

Pardon me, The Old Shoe Magnet. Sorry to interrupt your dance party, but I believe we were promised change?

I feel justified in my blooming rage. A lot of people don't feel justified in their blooming rage, but I am not one of those people. Maybe I was one of those people yesterday, but I've changed since then, and my rage is in bloom, and I feel justified in that. Because as far as I can tell, the only thing that came to the streets of New York City since yesterday was plenty of dog shit. Other than that, and the singing green crusty thing in my eye, and my feeling of justification in my blooming rage, and the air smelling sweeter, nothing has changed at all since Obama became The Old Shoe Magnet.

That's not change we can believe in.

I just assumed the dogs would start crapping Skittles or fruit salad or something. (Maybe cole slaw?) I mean, aren't things supposed to be better now? Wasn't yesterday supposedly the beginning of a whole new era? Blah blah blah watershed moment blah blah impossible sixty years ago blah blah blah free pizza for everyone?

What happened to all that?

I'm sick of this President Obama dude already. It's like 10:07 in the morning now, and he's basically done nothing at all since he got sworn in. Where's my health care, dammit? Where's my dog that shits Skittles? Where's my 3 AM phone call, which I probably would have gotten if Hillary Clinton were The Old Shoe Magnet.

This is the worst day. You said you would be different, Obama but you're just like every other President because the dogs still poop dog poop and the pizza place isn't even open yet, much less giving out free pizza. So all I'm saying, as we get ready to watch your approval ratings drop to the mid-20s by later today, is watch out for flying shoes, you big jerk.

Plane Crash Theory #3: Blame the NFL!

Sometimes, the answer to a riddle is staring you right in the face, and so you write a blog piece explaining it, only to discover that there is an even more staring-you-right-in-the-face answer to the same riddle lurking in the shadows. Why is it lurking there, you wonder? But you ignore that question and instead write another blog piece about the second answer, only to discover that you have once again been taken in like Steve Jobs's wardrobe, and that a third answer is now in the mix that beats the piss out of both the first answer, which was staring you in the face, and the second answer, which was also staring you in the face but also lurking in the shadows for some weird reason that it will probably never bother to tell you about.

Thankfully, this has never happened to me.

Even more thankfully, I'm done writing that paragraph.

And yet more thankfully than that, I have once again solved the case of the crashing US Airways plane, saving the NTSB the trouble of doing its job, and saving the taxpayers of the United States a sum equivalent to roughly 15,000 Vietnamese Dong, or 98 cents.

The whole crash was an elaborately staged metaphor, paid for by the NFL, to augur the result of this weekend's AFC Championship game between the Baltimore Ravens and the Pittsburgh Steelers. Bird beats man! Ravens win!

Of course, it's entirely possible that I'm wrong, but if I were the Steelers, I wouldn't be too comfortable, even if they did manage to somehow squeak past the Ravens. Because you know who'll be waiting in the Super Bowl? The winner of the NFC Championship game between the Philadelphia EAGLES and the Arizona CARDINALS.

Anyone who waited until after reading this post to call their bookie, YOU'RE WELCOME.

Unemployment Scam Alert - A Public Service Message from the blog

So apparently, this inauguration thing is a pretty big deal. Word on the "street" is that there's going to be speeches and a big parade, network coverage, and a whole slew of people freezing their keesters off, all to celebrate the fact that an old white dude from Texas is joining the swelling ranks of the unemployed.

Speaking of which, Texas's unemployment was sitting at 5.7 percent as of November '08. Add in George W. and whoever else lost their jobs in Texas in the past couple months, and it could easily top 6 percent when the next report comes out January 27th.

Why is this relevant?

Maybe it's all that sleuth-work I did yesterday twice solving the mystery of the crash of US Airways 1549, or maybe it's the fact that I've been wracking my brain trying to track down the Pee Bandit in the Canning Operations Division of Dole Fruit who keeps leaving the urinals full, or maybe it's the fact that I constantly smell conspiracies at work around me, but I smell a conspiracy at work around me.

Because pursuant to the unemployment extension signed into law by Gorge Bush last November, in states with unemployment rates higher than 6 percent, unemployed workers are eligible for an additional 13 weeks of benefits vs. states where the unemployment rate is underneath the 6 percent line.

So to all of my readers in the Dallas area, if you would please be so kind as to keep your eyes on the local unemployment offices to see if and when Mr. W. Bush shows up to file. He has to give a goodbye speech at Andrews Air Force Base Tuesday afternoon, and it's like a three-hour flight from DC to Texas, so I'm guessing he'll be the first guy in line Wednesday morning. I got a shiny nickel for the first person who sends in a photo.

Plane Crash Theory #2: Free Lost Promo!

If my geese theory isn't entirely satisfying, I have two things to say to you:

1. What kind of an idiot are you to not accept the reality that is so obviously staring you in the face? Geese did it! It's as plain as the plane in the water!

2. You are absolutely right.

Not to worry, though, because once again, without even stepping out of my subterranean working quarters, I have managed to assemble the pieces of a theory based on the evidence that is staring us all in the face.

Did anyone else happen to notice that WABC, the New York affiliate of ABC, was the first network to cover the story? And did any of those people who noticed that also happen to glance ahead in the television listings to next Wednesday, when a CERTAIN ABC DRAMA about a PLANE CRASH is having its SEASON PREMIERE?

It's a PROMO! For LOST!

I has solved it again! I am genuis!

Plane Crash Theory #1: The Lazy iPhone Geese Theory

Everyone at the Fruit Plant is abuzz with speculation about this plane that just crashed into the Hudson. It seems there's a healthy amount of skepticism about the whole "flock of geese" alibi, and understandably so. I mean, when you boil it down, I know geese are basically bloated bags of green shit with feathers and wings and brain power equivalent to that of a piece of moldy fruit, but even moldy fruit has the sense to get out of the way of an airplane. Have you ever heard of a piece of moldy fruit getting hit by a plane?

I rest my case.

Still, the whole incident does raise a lot of questions. For instance, what the hell are migratory birds doing in New York City in January? Is this part of some new, super-lazy but highly technologically savvy generation of geese that heard all about global warming and thought they'd be off the hook about the whole "flying south" thing, but then they caught a look at the forecast on the weather.com app on their iPhones and decided maybe they should head south before this weekend, and being that they were both lazy and equipped with iPhones, they decided to hitch a ride on the next flight heading to Greensboro?

Makes perfect sense. I have solved the mystery, as I always do. YOU'RE WELCOME, US AIRWAYS AND THE FAA. My bill will be in the mail.

The Consequences of Seeking Flame-Broiled Perfection

Feast your eyes on this:
Yes, it's a bag of Kingsford charcoal, sitting in phone booth on the corner of 46th Street and 5th Avenue in New York City. If you guessed it, you are a winner. Contact the prize hotline to find out what you've won.

But if you're like me, it isn't good enough just to know that there was a bag of Kingsford charcoal sitting in a phone booth on the corner of 46th Street and 5th Avenue in New York City. There needs to be a punchline too. Well, I tried, everybuzzy. I racked my brain the entire way home, and for the three subsequent hours, and I have come up with zip. Zilch. Nada. Fuck all.

I did, however, remember that there was an empty bag of charcoal sitting in a garbage can in Grand Central Station one morning last week as I made my way up from the 7 train toward the Dole plant (not pictured). Which leads me to two possible conclusions, neither of which I find very satisfying: (1) someone is grilling in midtown and not offering me any, or (2) Alex Rodriguez is trying to send me some sort of weird, non-literal, possibly vaguely threatening message.

Look, Old Bay-Rod, for the last time, I'M SORRY I DROPPED YOU AS MY FRIEND ON FACEBOOK, BUT I REALLY WANTED THAT WHOPPER. Besides, you never SuperPoke me back anymore, and you refuse to play me at WordTwist because you're too busy running around with Madonna and eating fish with Kate Hudson to spend time with your real friends anymore. You've changed, Haunted Hay-Rod. You've changed. And not the good kind of change either, where you start sending notes and chocolates at unexpected times. Leaving crumpled bags of Kingsford charcoal where I'll just happen to see them... [SMOKEY shakes his head reproachfully]... not cool, man. Not cool at all.

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

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

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

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

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

That is impressive, sir.

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

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