SPOILER ALERT

[Thanks, bits and pieces.]

Boo-Earth!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Besides which. Earth is responsible for giving us this:

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

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

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

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

“I’m a trained killer.”

“A trained killer.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m really a trained killer.”

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

“I’m a trained killer.”

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

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

“And for whom do you kill trains?”

“Cute.”

“Sorry. For whom do you turn tricks?”

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

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

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

“If only I knew one.”

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

“How do you, um, do it?”

“Like, what’s my method?”

“Okay, sure.”

“I poison people.”

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

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

“So do you work for?”

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

“I think you’ve said plenty.”

“Well, I’m having doubts about it.”

“About your…career choice?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“Like, ethics questions?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Huh. Let’s talk.”

This Ex-stinks.

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

Anyway.

Item 1:

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

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

from cryptomundo via boingboing

Item 2:

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

from Yahoo!, also via boingboing

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

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

What's with all that gathering lightning?

Dear Jesus,

Zap.


Marshmallows and lollipops,
The Smoke Monster.

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

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

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

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

Anyway.

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

God damn, was that woman mean.

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

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


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

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

How Cheerios' Heart-Healthiness Was Put to Complete Shame

Looks like Lucky has a new marshmallow buddy:


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

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

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

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

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

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.