Another Deflated Gasbag

So Lou Dobbs quit, eh? Or did he really get pushed out so they could outsource his job to an illegal immigrant who will work for a much lower wage and no healthcare?

Ha ha ha, I totally have Dobbs's number.

I was originally inclined to buy the man a cupcake as my way of saying thank you for shutting the fuck up. But then I found something even more speshul.

Dear Lou Dobbs,

America is a better country with you not on television. On behalf of a grateful nation, please accept this can of Manhattan style fish assholes.

Love and kisses,
Smokey Robinson and the Funky Bunch

Consoration for the Phirries and Their Phans

The Whirled Series is officially over now, everybuzzy, and whether you rooted for the Broad Street Bullies, the Bronx Bombers, or the Minnesota Bullwinkles (not pictured), I think it's pretty safe to say that, in spite of all the time you spent watching, in spite of all the energy you spent cheering, in spite of all the cocaine you let Robinson Cano and Pedro Feliz snort off your delicious ass, chances are that they probably won't call the next day.

And if you're from Frilladelphia, that's not the only ring you won't be getting this year. (Zing!)

Well cheer up there, Phuckaroo! Don't let the Phils' ills be too much for this fan! I know it looks like the entire city of New York is giving you the Phinger and telling you to phuck oph, but that's just the way the skyline is shaped.

But if you still can't bear the 370-day championship drought in the City of Brotherly Lovers (ew!), here's some things you can be gratephul phor while you're waiting around for next year.

1. You already won the 2009 Whirled Series!



At least according to the Philadelphia Inquirer, you did. This ad ran on Monday, just after the Yankees had taken a 3-1 series lead. Perhaps they borrowed phact checkers from Phox News. Or perhaps they were merely taking their cues from Jimmy Rollins's pre-Series prediction that the Phillies would win in phour games - or phive if they were pheeling generous. It's not at all clear which phour or phive games Mr. Rollins's was referring to, but one thing IS clear, and it happens to be the second thing Philly phans can be happy about:

2. No Jimmy Rollins fortune telling business!



With the myth of his psychic skills now debunked, Rollins's entre into the lucrative world of astral projection and Wee-Jee Boards and Professional Mumbo Jumbo-ism can now comfortably fall in the ditch of broken dreams along with Philadelphia's hopes to repeat as Whirled Champions.

He had to see it coming, though, right? Oh, maybe not.

3. Ryan Howard's Birthday is in two weeks!


That's something to be happy about, isn't it?

4. It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia!

Not the show, I'm talking about the actual fact that it is literally ALWAYS SUNNY IN PHILADELPHIA. Scholars maintain that the reason for this is because of a dracula named Twilight. And scholars are never wrong, or else they wouldn't be called that.


5. No more foul territory reports from Ken Rosenthal!


I initially thought Ken Rosenthal's imitation of Steve Carell's character from Anchorman was Fox Sports' attempt to make more hip by bringing in a comedy act - kind of like when ABC brought in Dennis Miller to do Monday Night Foosball, only much, much, much funnier. It turns out, however, that Ken Rosenthal is just a short white dude with a microphone and an IQ approaching 36. And since we already have enough of those guys on the teevee (I'm talking to YOU, Barack Obama), I am very much looking forward to seeing Ken Rosenthal shut the hell up.

Or not seeing it. Or... well, whatever.

6. You're not that phar from New York!

So if you want to come to the parade, or if you'd like to call into WFAN and rant about Yankee steroid usage (because I'm sure nobody in the history of the Phillies ever even HEARD of steroids, and also that the windows in their glass houses are all perfectly streak-free), or if you just want to drive up the Turnpike to remind yourself what a champion city looks like, all it'll cost you is $11 or $12 in tolls, which the grate state of New Jersey will be more than happy to accept.

I really think six things is enough, and if you can't be happy with that, maybe you should start doing yoga or something. Anyways, I don't have time to keep going with this. There's a parade in New York tomorrow, and my victory outfit isn't going to plan itself.

Not Our Year

It saddens me to no end to report that in yesterday's New York City mayoral election, it was Mike Bloomberg, and not the Muppets, who took Manhattan.


In fact, the Muppets didn't even come in second. That honor went to someone called "City Comptroller Bill Thompson," whose haircut led me to believe he was at least half-Muppet himself.

(Hey, psst! Am I the only one who thinks "Bill Thompson" sounds like a made up name? How generic can you get? Bill Thompson? It might as well have been Jack Smith or Bob Mitchell or Bill Thompson or something. Bill Thompson is like the kind of name you used to check into a hotel when you don't want the federales or that nosey wife of yours to find out where you're staying. What are you hiding, Bill Thompson, if that fake-sounding name IS your real name?)

Anyway, Bill Thompson lost, and now he has to go back to the same job he had before, and probably have lunch at the same stupid cafe downstairs in the lobby of the same dumb, boring building, which is almost as frowny face as the Muppets NOT taking Manhattan, as I was led to believe they would.

The New York times says Mayor Bloomberg no longer seems invincible, and I agree that he does look pretty vincible, which is what makes the Muppets' failure to take Manhattan all the more heartbreaking. This is like reliving the failed Oscar the Grouch '08 campaign all over again. Only this time, with 30-35 percent more tears.

Is Athletic Success the New Black?

Fruit workers, particularly those in the various canning divisions of your major fruit conglomerates are a shifty bunch, full of testiness and simmering currents of rich, creamy, bacon-and-cherry-flavored, race-based bias and resentment. And nothing brings that bias and resentment bubbling to the surface like beisbol.

When Jackie Robinson broke the Collar Barrier in 1947, there were riots and looting throughout the fruit canning world, and the entire operation of the Dole Fruit Plant here in midtown Manhattan had to be suspended for almost thirty years before the furor could be calmed. It took a surprise appearance and impromptu concert by a dashing young black man named Kenny Loggins to get things stable.

Those were the days.

Needless to say, my friendship with Alex Rodriguez (the baseball player Alex Rodriguez, not the nuclear physicist Alex Rodriguez, that punk ass) has therefore been somewhat problematic for me at the old Fruit Plant. It's not because he's a widely despised public figure. Dole-mites love widely despised public figures as a general rule. It's because he's black.

Welcome to post-modern America, and thank you very much, Barack Obama.

There used to be a time when men were real men, women were real women, transvestites were neither real men nor real women, and Americans could comfortably use race as a reason to dislike other Americans. Remember the politics of hate and all that? I miss the 80s so much sometimes.

See, because now, it's the opposite of that. The peeple I work with don't dislike I-Can't-Believe-Clay-Aiken-is-Gay-Rod because of his race. They dislike him because of his repeated postseason failures, his admission of steroid usage, and the fact that he loves to pull down his pants and run screaming through midtown Manhattan with fermented wheels of Gouda cheese. And because they dislike him, they therefore assume he must be black. QED, quid pro quo, summa cum laude, lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, Amen.

On the handful of occasions when my pal has stopped by to visit, his reception at the hands of the various members of Canning Operations staff has run the gamut from nasty, sustained peltings with full cans of bacon-wrapped cherries to much more friendly peltings with half-eaten cans of bacon-wrapped cherries with the tops removed, because the edges of those tops could really hurt somebody. (That's how you can tell the C-Ops staff are in a forgiving mood.)

Of course, discerning cultural anthropologists, as well as anyone with a pair of eyes and a rudimentary understanding of Spanish names, would dispute the notion of Tina-Fey-Rod's blackness. Then again, he is dating Kate Hudson, goes the counter-argument. Also not helping matters: all this postseason success and glory and clutch performance, the kind of performance reminiscent of notable black men like Tiger Woods and Michael Jordan and the aforementioned Kenny Loggins, who rushed for a then-record 282 yards and 7 touchdowns in a game between Georgia and LSU in 1982.

It's getting so you can't be good at anything in this country without peeple assuming that you're black and hating you for your success, although not necessarily in that order. Thanks again, Democratic Party.

And thanks also to fine folks in the C-Ops division at Dole, who are throwing those cans of bacon-wrapped cherries at me for no readily discernible reason. They couldn't possibly think ol' Smokey Robinson here is black, could they?

I've-Been-Workin'-On-The-Railroad-All-The-Livelong-Day-Rod, take me away-Rod!

This Week in Balloonery

In the roughly 14 minutes a day when I’m not either bloggerizing, canning peaches, discussing Sartre, or prank-calling the assholes from the Chiquita company volleyball team (just kiddin’, those calls totally weren’t from me! Love you guys!), it’s a pretty safe bet that you can find me trolling the internerds for all things balloon-related. Balloonery is always pretty widely covered by bloggers and the Jew-run media alike, and deservedly so, for what other adventure sport gets the pulse pounding like a balloon ride? This is what has kept balloonism at the forefront of the American imagination for centuries, while things like revolutions, powdered wigs, the Cola Wars, and Bayrock Alabama (or whatever that guy’s name was) have all fallen by the wayside like the passing fads they were.

Needless to say, I was caught entirely by surprise yesterday to see the entire nation hold its collective breath while a child hid in his parents’ garage. It wasn’t until much, much later, when I read the story on pinkthingsandballoons.com (my fave site on the planet! xoxoxo!) that it started to make sense why this story had captured the hearts and medullae oblongatae of everyone you know and I know combined, including the oh-so-lickable Diana Ross: They thought Falcon Heene was in a balloon!

No wonder the story got three hours of airtime on CNN!

Of course, what the Falcon Heene incident highlights (other than the obviously impending grounding of that adorbzable little trickster) is the compelling and urgent need for stringent legislation to protect children from balloons, and perhaps from homebrew aircraft of every stripe. We can’t have the irresponsible amateur aviators of this nation leave their temptingly fun flying contraptions loosely tethered to their backyard fences where children might accidentally not climb into them and thereby transfix an entire nation without some sort of consequence. Or else the next kid not to climb into a Reynolds-Wrap-and-toothpick craft could be YOURS…

The balloonistas in this country are inevitably going to cry foul over such an egregious restriction of their rights. But they only have themselves to blame. I mentioned how popular their chosen pursuit is, didn’t I? This would be totally different if it were, say, a story about a kid getting shot with an Uzi at a gun show. Gun-related mishaps don’t garner nearly the attention that balloon safety non-incidents do, and for very good reason. You can’t even find reliable statistics about gun deaths in this country, because it’s just not that big a deal. Meanwhile, the Falcon Heene Affair very publicly raises the number of balloon-related media frenzies that do not involve fatality or injury throughout recorded history to ONE. And that’s something that we and our elected representatives can simply not afford to ignore.

Also birthday clowns. They cannot afford to ignore this either. And carnival workers. And horses. Pay attention, horses, if you're not already doing so. (It's hard to tell with horses in New York - you get the distinct impression that a lot of them are going through life with blinders on.)

To think, this all could have been avoided if the Heenes were gun enthusiasts. Nothing like a good Second-Amendment-sanctioned child slaying to keep a family below the radar, eh? Chuckle chuckle chuckle bang.

A letter to an Old Friend

Dear Jesus,

Hi!

So I know You and me haven’t really talked since Angelina Jolie took over Your spot as my spiritual adviser and frozen yogurt buddy. I mean, You kind of had it coming after You spent the entire summer on Fox News telling people to bring their guns everywhere and blasting “President Hopey McNobel Prize” (Your words) for trying to horn in on Your healing-the-sick game. Let’s just face it: I needed help, and You were Nowhere to be found. There were no sets of footprints in the sand.

Between You and me (and Your Dad, since He/She knows All), I think frosting me at the ESPYs was a little bit juvenile, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like the stigmata. You certainly know how to cut me, Lord. Angelina and I can’t seem to find our footing as spiritual adviser/advisee and fro-yo enthusiasts either. She always insists on meeting up in LA even though she knows I can’t fly without potentially lethal doses of horse tranquilizer in my system. Also, she likes Pinkberry even though that shit is disgusting. (Nice job fooling the masses on that one, BTDouble-You. That abomination has Jesus written all over it.)

But that’s not what I’m writing to talk about today. I’m writing to talk about Japan, the benighted land that You and Daddy obviously either forgot or gave up on, as evidenced by the country-wide obsessions with sushi, Godzilla, Scooby-Doo, and being teeny tiny. I strongly suspect Your Abandonment is also why the Japans have to keep inventing so many technologies there so they can keep up with your chosen people, the Americas, where Hummers and M&Ms plain chocolate candy and Motorola-brand cellular telephones rain from the sky, and where free syringes full of Your magical healing essence periodically wash up on the shores of Long Island and New Jersey only to be “mistaken” for medical waste (probably to fool the poors into being afraid to eat the syringes themselves, right? Thought so.).

The Japans have none of that, except the cellular telephones. But their cars are much more smaller, and M&Ms there have a distinct octopus flavor. (Okay, I don’t know for certain that it’s Octopus, but it’s definitely the flavor of some kind of underwater cephalopod.) And according to this miraculously preserved piece of video evidence from YouTube, the Japans are also evidently forced to walk around at a fraction of normal human speed.

Wasn’t Your Mother Jewish? How do You not feel just the teensiest, Japan-sized amount of guilt for this?

You disgust me, Jesus. That is the opposite how Renee Zellweger made Tom Cruise feel in the hit ABC sitcom Jerry Maguire. But since I need some delicious fro-yo STAT, and since we don’t really take breaks from canning during the pre-holiday rush, can You possibly pick me up some? And please don’t forsake me with the atrocity that is Pinkberry.

Yours in David Schwimmer (he played Ross on the hit ABC sitcom "Friends", in case You forgot who he was or thought he was a Japan or something),
Smokey

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!

Farewell, Jorge Montenero, we hardly knew ye.

On the way to the Fruit Plant this morning, I walked past a Verizon truck blaring "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" while the driver screamed along at the top of his very out-of-key lungs, and a line of people on 46th Street waiting to see LeBron James sign books at the 5th Avenue Barnes & Noble, proving that not having ever spent a day in college is no obstacle to getting a book deal in the 21st-century US of A.

What more fitting expression of grief could there be, I thought, for the late Patrick Swayze, who sailed off to the Grey Havens to be with Gandalf and Frodo and Tupac and the gang yesterday?

He may never have had the musical chops of Dan Fogelberg or the hair styling chops of Bob Barker or the dancing chops of Tom DeLay, but there is virtually no way to reasonably deny that the Swayz would have been at least as good as, if not marginally better than that shitbag Peter Horton in the hit 1990 volleyball flick Side Out, a role that would have landed him back where he belonged, opposite his The Outsiders co-star C. Thomas Howell.

Now that is a reunion I would maybe have watched on HBO if there were nothing better on at the same time.

And who can forget the pottery love scene in Ghost when P to the "atrick Swayze" wrapped his oiled, muscular arms around that short-haired raspy-voiced dude and ruined a bunch of clay while "Unchained Melody" played from a boom box hidden in the open kiln behind them? Poetry on film, everybuzzy. Although it does make a person wonder what ever happened to the other guy in that scene...

Of course, P-Swayz was most famous for uttering the line "nobody puts Baby in a corner" in a pivotal scene in the movie Point Break, a line which has been relegated to meme status in the past 18 hours by every two-bit hack with a Twitter account. I have news for you twits: nobody puts "nobody puts Baby in a corner" in a corner. Whatever that means.

For me, the death of "the House Swayze and Means Committee" is eckspecially hard-hitting, since, like most American boys, I once longed to grow up to become Jerry Orbach so I could appear opposite The Swerz onscreen and admit how wrong I was for assuming he knocked up Penny, and then tacitly give him permission to go screw my daughter in his stylishly messy Catskill dance instructor bungalow. Who among us DIDN'T have that dream? Here's hoping Swayze and Orbach reprise that scene for God and Jesus and Santa Claus and the deceased cultural relevance of Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen and all the angels and saints and demons in heaven.

Although the low-hanging fruit here would be a Kanye West joke, I can think of no more fitting or appropriate farewell for Patrick Swayze than this Surge Wakefield remix of "Bacon is Good For Me." Feast your eyes, and your grief, on this, America.

9/9/09 9pm

OH MY FUCKING GOD, IS BARACK OBAMA ON GLEE??!?!?!!!?!!

<3

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I LOVE Him!! Like more than Jesus and Bob Barker and Len Cariou and Dan Fogelberg and the World Wildlife Fund and Tacos and Diana Ross put together! This is better than the Justice League!

Wait...

It's 8:45.

Fuck. I'm early.

And yes, I suppose I could just NOT PUBLISH this piece, but you could also simply not have read it.

Jesus, teh Obama, do I always have to do ALL YOUR WORK FOR YOU?

Oh, teh Obama. Teh Obama, teh Obama, teh Obama. If I've told you one thing over and over again since you started running to teh president, it's that you can't get anything done in American politics without getting help from celebrities. I tried to warn you after jigg razzlefrazzle the blah (the artist sometimes referred to as Judge Reinhold, but not on this here blog here since his refusal to endorse Oscar the Grouch for President) endorsed someone else other than you for president, but you didn't listen. You didn't listen then, and you don't listen now, and it's surprising that a man with ears the size of satellite dishes would not listen that much, because you would think that ALL you would do is listen, which is not true. It's like you have to wrongfully arrest a high-profile black Harvard professor just to get five minutes alone with you these days, teh Obama!

This is not the change we can believe in. Again.

And just look at the state of your Heathcliff Healthcare Reform-Time Play Pal, or whatever clever and catchy thing your marketing experts are failing to call it. Nobody wants it! Nobody was actually interviewed for the writing of this piece. Nobody very clearly went on record in support to teh Obama or to his Heathcliff Healthcare. I HAS QUOTABLE SOURCES. I AM JOURNALIST.

But this is not about me. This is about you, teh Obama, and how I can help you win back public support for Heathcliff Healthcare from more people than Nobody. All you need is two celebrities and a little bit o' hope.

Here's whatchagottadoo:

1. Get the Jesus Endorsement

Show a picture of Jesus and Heathcliff Healthcare (seriously, how is there not a man, woman, or post-op transsexual dressed up in furry mascot suit yet?) with their arms over each other's shoulders, all smiles and birthday cake and Skittles. And a banner that says, "Jesus endorses the Obama healthcare plan and the public option!"

Then you get Jesus to write a statement on his facebag page like Sarah Palin did. For instance:

I support the Obama healthcare plan because there are like 300 million Americans and I am totally fucking exhausted from having to answer prayers from people without insurance. Come on, mankind. Do you have any idea how many wide wide receivers there are that need My help to catch touchdown passes? Go Steelers! JK! LOL! My point is that I am a Busy Dude. I don't have time for that AND sick people. What am I, Superman? LOL.

Also, from what I hear up in Heaven, Obama's a pretty great guy. Then again, We really don't get that that many Republican voters visiting the Great Death Panel in the Sky.

See? Piece o' cake, teh Obama!

And then you can stand there at your town halls and be like, "who's gonna fuck with Jesus? You gonna fuck with Jesus?" Then you throw down the microphone, walk off stage, and write me a thank-you card.

2. Get Harry Potter to Bounce at Your Town Hall Meetings

People wanna show up with guns, I have a real simple fix. It's called magic. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History.

Psych! That is totally not where I read about it.

But cereal, teh Obama, this is Problem Solving 101. If you have a leaky pipe, you call a plumber. If you have people calling you a Nazi and carrying rifles and handguns to your rallies, you get Harry Potter out there to run your crowd control operation. Dude handled a fully-grown cave troll when he was 11! (SPOILER ALERT.) AND he beat freaking Voldemort! (SPOILER ALERT x2.) Some whacked-out muggle with a big metal stick isn't gonna be much of a threat.

Of course, those same asshole protesters who are out there with signs calling you a Nazi will probably show up with new signs that say "you can expelliarmus our guns, but you can't expelliarmus our ridiculous overblown partisan rancor!" But the joke's on them because yes, we can.

Look, ABC, We Need to Get Something Straight. And that Something is Tom DeLay.

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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.

Thanks for pooping in my ice cream AGAIN, internets

Here. This is from the internets. Please has some.

According to the New York Observer, Dustin Diamond's deal to write a tell-all memoir for Gotham Books fell through a few months back. According to a source, Gotham Books dropped the project after they deemed the ghostwritten manuscript to be unpublishable, largely because "it contained many assertions about cast members from Saved by the Bell that Gotham felt were unverifiable."

-New York Magazine

This is heartbreaking news. Screech's tale deserves to be told, not airbrushed out of the cover of Peep-hole Magazine and also at the same time retroactively airbrushed out of the official cast photo from 1989 like he was some fourth-rate child actor on a third-rate TV show whose career never amounted to anything.

SCREECH'S TALE OF WOE AND HOT, BUT STILL HEARTBREAKING "SAVED BY THE BELL" INCEST DESERVES TO BE TOLD, GODDAMMIT! YOU HAVE PISSED ME OFF AGAIN, INTERNETS!

And to those of you who would say, "um, dude, chill, it's just Screech," I have this to say to you, right up in your face, or "grill" as they say in the parlance of our times:

Wait a tick. JUST Screech? Was the blonde sister from "Family Ties" JUST the blonde sister from Family Ties"? Was Jonathan Bauer (the weirdo freaky gay little brother from "Who's the Boss?") JUST Jonathan Bauer (the weirdo freaky gay little brother from "Who's the Boss?")? Was Buddy from "Charles in Charge" JUST Buddy from "Charles in Charge?" Was Vinnie from "Doogie Howser, MD" JUST Vinnie from "Doogie Howser, MD?"

Okay, okay, Buddy did go on to become a fundamentalist Christian and make movies with Kirk Cameron or something, I think, and the freaky gay kid from "Who's the Boss?" went on to become an even freakier and gayer adult. And Vinnie might be a bad example too, since he actually had some success after changing his name to Jude Law and impregnating a bunch of women. But how many of them landed another TV series? These losers weren't even compelling enough to get an E! True Hollywood Story, right? I mean, come on! Even the Coreys got a freaking E! True Hollywood Story.

Jennifer Keaton, I'm pretty sure, is dead*. Rest in peace, Tina Yothers.

I'd like to read what Styles from the Teen Wolf movies has to say about the behind-the-scenes on those joints. Where's that book at? Oh, is it being SILENCED by the internets too? These "actors" are "people" too, and THEIR HEARTBREAKING TALES OF INCEST AND LOVE AND HEARTBREAKING INCEST DESERVE TO BE TOLD! Just like those little dudes who played the mismatched twins on "The Hogan Family." That's the juicy tell-all America is clamoring for!

You went too far this time, internets, if that IS your real name. In the words of Jack Nicholson, you have fucked with the wrong marine. Not me, of course. I'm not marine material, what with the pacifism and the poor eyesight and the tracheotomy and all. But Dustin Diamond - he is the wrong marine, and you have fucked with him, internets. Nice work.

*our fact-checking department assures me this is false.

The Power of Leprechauns

Well, good morning, America! (HEY, that's catchy...) Have a YouTube link, on the house!

I am completely beside myself by the power of teh cute and teh adorbz. Which is why the video player is pink, because of teh power of teh cute and teh adorbz. I would have preferred little heartbursts, or choruses of angels, but YouTube - stingy bastard that he is - doesn't offer little heartbursts or choruses of angels as a choices of customization. So it's pink. Kiss my ass. (Also pink, relatively speaking.)

Where was I?

Right. The boy.

Can you believe this teeny tiny miracle child is only five years old? And he wrote that song? And played it? And (more or less) sang it? On a stage? In Seattle? On Earth? In front of "people" from Seattle, Earth? And did I mention he's only five?!!

He sings about murder so capably for a five-year-old, doesn't he? I remember when I was a five-year-old, all we did was watch Barney and eat Jujyfruit and crap our diapers and occasionally - occasionally - get in really vicious bar fights where brass knuckles may or may not have been involved, I'm not telling.

But actually killing a man...

And then writing a song about it...

This little five-year-old motherfucker is cold, yo. In addition to teh cute and teh adorbz. But I suspect teh cute and teh adorbz are probably just cuz of special effects and leprechauns.

To Whom It May Concern:

Dear Diana Ross (aka Sandy Arugula, for purposes of remaining anonymous on this here blog which you are the only person not reading),

I believe I have gone on record as to how I feel about them apples.

Your pal in Jolie,

Smokey

Really, amazon.com? If that IS your real name?

So the fucking "Yo Quiero Taco Bell" dog dies, and all amazon.com can think about is buying a billion dollars worth of shoes? That's sick, amazon.com. Sick.

I wish it was the 1990s again. Nothing bad ever happened then, and everyone had morals. Like Newt Gangrich, whoever he was. Also, there was Pearl Jam. I mean, when they were good.

Accio the '90s!