• The Super Bowl kind of sounds like an emergency appendectomy that’s being performed on Andre the Giant.
• “I wouldn’t make a good gay guy because I can never get it all in the first wipe.” – Anonymous…ok, I just made that shit up.
• “Nin ten dough, Wii go” – An ultimatum given by Chinese terrorists.
• Herpes – Genital Braille
• Plastic or Paper? – Old school dope dealer vs. new school, environmentally conscious dope dealer.
• Politically correct - A show by a guy with a duck-billed platypus-like nose, or a term for not having the guts to say what you really think in a given situation.
• A blow job – What a married guy gets when he is told to clean up the car.
• Bourbon balls – A pair of testicles in a red, wax-covered sack.
• Pill head – The one member of your family who actually enjoys family get togethers.
• MSG – The Chinese equivalent to PMS, but it’s much saltier.
• Mopeds – What a fat kid with a lisp says when his dispenser runs out of candy.
• Sectional sofas – Furniture for those of us who are too lazy to make it all the way around the room without needing to sit down.
• Sean Connery – Has he ever played someone who was actually from Scotland?
• Submarine movies – Can’t we all just get along?  Ain’t nothin angrier than a bunch of motherfuckers under water, in a tube, with a camera following them around.
• Homicide – A pesticide made by a gay guy.
• Sumo wrestlers – Who wouldn’t want to be fat and adored by women, all while wearing a diaper?
• Steven Seagal – The reason I went on a diet and quit slicking my hair back.
• 100 Proof – Evidence that life is only good 50% of the time, which necessitates drinking something at least twice as strong.
• Drug addicts in movies – Always more fashionable, prettier, and less scary than they are in real life.
• Jennifer Tilly – Has got some Tillybitties.  She’s almost as bad as Gene Simmons’ wife Shannon Tweed.  Both of their movies are always on Skinemax late at night, and they both show their tits within the first five minutes of appearing on screen.
• Zoo – “A controversial documentary about bestiality which focuses on a Seattle man who died after having sex with a horse.  Includes interviews and re-enactments of the incident.”  This was apparently the funniest shit I missed on DirecTV’s Sundance East Channel.  I don’t think actual horse fuckin is as bad as re-enacting it.  Plus, a man lost his life.  Have some decency and quit trying to beat off a dead horse for Christ’s sake.

I haven’t had a lot of time to write lately.  However, my Ph.d friend recently challenged me to an Onion-like contest of who could come up with the best headline/story based off of a random picture submitted by our lunch companions Sam and Kevin.  Sam submitted the following picture.  He sent an email explaining why he chose this particular one, but like a David Alan Coe song, I was drunk when I read it and don’t remember what it said.

Giant Dike Won’t Move Fjordward without removal of Beaver Dam

Hopscotch, South Dakota – A huge dike refused to hold back anymore glacial activity being fjordwarded her way by a group of lesbians intent upon impounding as much water as possible.  Experts agree it is very unusual for such nautically-related and homosexually-suggestive metaphors to mix so seamlessly in the natural world.

Tammy Faye Macy Day Float Blows!

New York, New York – In a display of decadence only rivaled by Imelda Marcos’ chocolate cookie dough blizzard fuck-me pumps, a huge float honoring the disgraced Praise The Lord televangelista Tammy Faye Baker hit a fire hydrant today.  This resulted in a minor flood during the pointless, helium filled, pageantry that is Al Roker and Katie Couric’s excuse to avoid seeing and spending time with their family on Thanksgiving.  A spokesman from Whatever Floats Your Boat, which is a group of bisexual parade float engineers, said it is not unusual, nor unheard of, for floats to encounter problems during their appearance in the parade.  “Everyone remembers the year when Ken and G.I. Joe got tangled up around 69th Street.  It’s not like there wasn’t some I-RON-Y going on there.  And I can assure you, unlike the dolls, they both could be blown up,” squeeled a fabulously dressed Rex Sanford.

Holly Mothrafucker!

Okuma, Japan – Almost three months after becoming the first country to experience the vaunted Triple Meltdown Crown, the Japanese people are now living in fear of what the only people brave enough to stay native call The Giant Kiss Kiss Painted Face Lady.  Long known for their willingness to be terrorized by cartoonish monsters like Godzilla, Mothra and to a lesser extent Bruce Lee, it now seems as though the Japs really have something to worry about.

Funiye Tamanabe, who lived about three miles down the rice patty from Super Fukushima Reactor No. I, first reported seeing The Giant Kiss Kiss Painted Face Lady after the initial super happy fun time nuclear meltdown hour on March 12, 2011.  “Ohhh, eye rember reeing ree Riant Riss Riss Rainted Race Rady roming rowards me ras eye rode rike ru rerk.  Eye rus rate recause reltdown rocked rout power.  Rit ras rark rand eye rall rost ran rover rat bitch,” Tamanabe said.

A government official who spoke on the condition of anonymity because he was affiliated with a different government and knew nothing about the situation, stated The Giant Kiss Kiss Painted Face Lady was the direct result of a “gamma-ray-Hulk-like-thing” that occurred after a mannequin from Old Navy was washed into the core by the tsunami.

We found The Giant Kiss Kiss Painted Face Lady at Big Woman Time Spa and Relax, at the former site of Fukushima Reactor No. II.  She appeared to be getting a facial.  When asked, she refused to comment.  For the record, she also refused to breathe fire, derail trains and crush buildings in the downtown area.

Blow Job From Amazon Nearly Kills Cairo’s Only White Man

Cairo, IL – One man’s load nearly blew it for everyone in a small Illinois town when a willing Amazon employed enough suction to blow the Bird’s Point Levee down.  “Blow jobs from morally suspect Amazonians are not something you can prepare for when trying to prevent floods from destroying towns,” Gen. Jason Gurgens, Army US Corps of Engineers said while surveying the damage.  The President of Racial Equality in Meteorology, Jeffrey Thomas, said he believes race was behind the blow job that blew the levee.  “Come on man.  How many times has a flood been forecast for Cairo?  Much less happened?  On top of that, what is this honkey doing running around trying to get his willy wonka’d?  There ain’t been a white woman that size around here since Delta Burke’s car broke down.  That damn Jim Cantori must have tipped him off.”

After watching Hulk (The Edward Norton Edition) for the 50th or so time the other night, I began to question why the Green Meanie was never nude? I know this has been discussed many times before, and it’s not like I want to see the Green Weenie; it’s just that they go out of their way to depict his hugeness and clothing-blow-out-ability.  Yet they never explain how Bruce Banner’s pants can fit the Hulk’s big ass.  Bruce ain’t parlayin’ around in spandex, but every time he gets his green on, his pants magically expand to the required waste size.  Mind you they are more capri than cool, but what the hell?  I’ll buy into believing in a huge, roided-out green dude any day of the week; but I’m not buyin’ into pants more expendable and expandable than biker shorts on a polka player.  What is Bruce Banner’s wardrobe budget?  He’s blowin’ out pants and shirts left and right, it’s like he’s got C4 in his jock.  You have to think this guy would split more fabric than Paul Bunyon chopped wood.

How freakin’ addictive are dried pineapples?  I can quit drinking for hours at a time, but I can’t stay away from these little pieces of dehydrated heaven.  I don’t know if there is anything else this good that comes from Hawai’i – other than Don Ho, of course - but I’d come Ho happy every day of the week if that was all I had to eat.  Speaking of home, I don’t think there is any free time better than when everyone in the house is asleep but you.  You can watch all the dumb movies you like, drink beer without being cross-eyed at, eat octogenarian scrotum-like fruit, and contemplate the ignorance that you are currently wasting your time on.  This is the time that made Picasso great - and Kansas suck.

What in the hell is Velveeta, and where does it come from?  Why does it melt so easily?  Why does it come in that geometrical turd-like box, and what’s the deal with that wimpie puss aluminium wrapper it’s in?  Can you grow it in your back yard?  Does it come from some place called Velveet?  Was Eddie Murphy really trying to tell us that “I Wanna Be A Ho” was written by a processed cheese-like substance loving pimp?  The potentialities are seamless.

Sometimes writing stuff seems kind of fun, until it doesn’t.  But like trying to make coffee in a hostil, there needs to be an outlet for such nuttiness.  However, if it starts and then stops, you’ve got to quit. Especially if you’re not too legit to do so.  Speaking of parachute pants, why didn’t a person from one of those fashion channels perform an intervention when Hammer first put on those pants with the sling crotches?  You could catapault yourself into Troy if you had a pair of those things.  You’d have to have an elephantitis-like sack to need a crotch like that.

What’s the theory behind theories?  Can’t you just think up stuff?  Why does it have to be all theorized?  Nothing is something, relatively speaking.  Just because nothing is something, that doesn’t mean nothing from nothing leaves nothing – and I don’t care what the hell Billy Preston says.  You can’t trust a man who plays the piano anyway.  Billy Joel, Mozart, and Ray Charles are all known liars.  Google it.  I’m tellin’ you like it isn’t, and you better believe it.

Derek Jeter didn’t show up for the All-Star Game.  If you watched ESPN or listened to sports radio, you were made very aware of this fact.  If you’re the average person, you have no fucking clue because you didn’t watch the fucking All-Star Game.  The All-Star Game is phonier than neuticles.  Sure, the game allegedly “mattered.”  By mattering, I mean Bud Selig has put some emphasis on this otherwise pointless game by giving the team from the winning league home field advantage in the World Series.  So, basically, a team picked by a bunch of lunatics who vote based on prejudice, bias and how tight a guy’s ass looks control who makes the team that controls who gets home field advantage in the World Series.  It’s like letting the kids in Special Ed pick the valedictorian.  Just cause Bobby’s helmet has cool stickers and he can flick a booger farther than the double jointed kid in the wheelchair, doesn’t mean his scholastic aptitude should control how much grant money the school gets.

Back to Derek Jeter.  Obviously, I’m a militant Yankee fan and my position is less surprising than a Mormon doing it missionary style.  However, before I point out how fucking ignorant the whole controversy was, I’d like to make it clear, I think Jeter should consider a position change so the Yankees could go after Jose Reyes.  I do not think his defense sucks like everyone who prescribes to cybertronics or whatever the fuck that mythical amalgamation of worthless numbers are; but Reyes would be an upgrade offensively.  Maybe ARod could move somewhere else?  In mechanic terms, when it comes to hitting for power, he’s clearly thrown A Rod.

Back to what I went back to then got back off of again.  Jeter declined to appear at the All-Star game because he was physically and emotionally exhausted from his chase for 3,000 hits.  Sure, it sounds gay.  Any time I hear of an athlete being exhausted, I think they should get online, look at their bank balance and get the fuck over it.  That being thought, I ain’t never professionally athleteted anything in my life.  I have no idea what it is like to play 162 games a year.  Hell, I’m sure it’s exhausting porking his hot fi-ants.

Since he said he only wanted to star in all games left in the regular season, their has been a lot of controversy and shit talking by pundits far and wide.  The general consenus from those in the think they know was that Jeter owed it to the fans to show up and “share” his 3,000th hit with the fans.  Someone close to baseball management, who didn’t have the guts to allow the press to use their name, said Jeter had done everything right in his career, but this was wrong.  The majority who believe they are moral compass in terms of baseball philosophy have even stated that, at the very least, Jeter should have appeared, been introduced and then left.

No shit.  The same people who were jetering their meat over his not playing in the All-Star Game would’ve been content with his merely showing up, being introduced and leaving immediately like Fat Elvis trying to catch the Stardust buffet before Wayne Newton or that asshole Donny Osmond ate all the crab legs after the last slurred note of C.C. Rider.  Basically, these assholes didn’t even want him to do what the fans wanted him to do.  They wanted him to do what THEY thought he should do, which is be paraded out there like a dog at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

Derek Jeter is an all-time great.  There is no need to go over his credentials.  If he doesn’t want to show up to his 12th fucking All Star game, who cares?  How many proms did you go to in high school?  If you went to more than four you were either being molested, or were molesting someone.  Jeter isn’t the only star out there.  There was a field full of deserving players and a handful of “what the fuck were they thinking” players who were able to keep the pomp and circumstance afloat.

You know what though?  Anyone who gets selected or voted into the All-Star Game can take a pass on it.  No one is obligated to play in the All-Star Game even if they get in based on a hanging chad.  It’s an exhibition.  There is no such thing as forced exhibitionism.  These players are getting paid millions of bucks to play for ONE TEAM.  They don’t owe anyone other than their organization and their fans anything.

Apparently, all these fuckers who want to make being selected to an All-Star Game a scarlet letter that only can only be removed by playing an inning, pitching to a couple batters or stepping up to the plate once don’t realize you can get injured in an All-Star Game, too.  I ain’t sayin’ the odds are high.  But I ain’t saying the odds are lower than any other game, which means at an All-Star Game you’re risking injury for the sake of a bunch of fools who don’t pay your salary.

“Paging Ray Fosse.  Ray Fosse All-Star Game injury ruined your career.  White courtesy phone.”  Charlie Hustle played the 1970 All-Star Game like the voters were holding a gun to his mullet.  In what is considered one of the more memorable plays in All-Star Game history, Parlay Pete Rose crushed Ray Fosse at home plate.  Fosse’s shoulder stove up like a fossil for the rest of his career.  He never got over it.  His career was ruined because Pete Pointspread played a pointless game the way a meaningful game should be played.  If Fosse’s career had been fossilized while playing in a regular season game for his team, that would have been terrible, but also acceptable and understandable.  It’s part of the job.  However, his career was ended while he was exhibiting his skills for a game that did not count in the standings.

This just in.  See the second inning of the 2011 All-Star Game “That Jeter Did Not Appear At”, or 2011 A.S.G.T.J.D.N.A.A. as it will forever be known as in the anals of gay historians and unknown swill head support groups.  Josh Beckett of Boston Red Sox fame was going to come into pitch the second inning last night.  While attempting to get his warm on, he “felt something” in one of his knees.  His attempt to exhibit his pitching prowess quickly turned into an exhibition of limping like a dead legged troll going back underneath its bridge.  Clearly, you can’t say his knee would not have been injured if he was going through his normal off day routine or taking the mound. No matter what you believe, his knee started to hurt as he warmed up to pitch in a game that was not going to help his team in the standings or improve his stats.  I wonder if Josh Beckett will catch hell for not pitching through his injury?  I mean, he owes to the fans who voted for him, right?

This whole controversy was so ridiculous because the discussion always started with how whoever respects Jeter, thinks he’s always done the right thing, is a great ambassador for the game and a great player.  After fawning over him, they then launched into the aforementioned diatribe about how he owed it to the fans.  Then, as if on cue like Charlie Sheen snorting coke during a game of 8-ball, the anecdotes about other all time greats and contemporary All-Stars saying they would never miss a game were thrown out as if it was a piece of evidence which proved that Jeter is a total asshole.

In terms of Willie Mays, Carl Yestremski, Lou Brock or Joe Morgan and all the other all time greats, they undoubtedly felt a desire to play in however many All-Star Games they played in.  That’s cool.  I’m happy for them.  Thing is, the game was completely different back then.  It was taken serious without having to hold out the carrot of World Series home field advantage.  Those cats didn’t make as much dough as modern day players make.  Baseball was not as big of a business as it is today. Make no snow cones about it, baseball is most certainly a business.

Today, these guys are coddled like race horses.  And they should be.  Sure, they make heavy dough. They make an unbelievable living playing a game they love.  More importantly, however, they make a whole bunch of the richest motherfuckers richer.  Performance in the regular season and playoffs are what make a player a star, and everything he touches more suitable for purchasing by fans.  I have never heard anyone say they wanted to buy a bobble head of some guy because he was the All-Star Game MVP.  The All-Star Game is the baseball equivalent to the county fair. It comes around once a year.  It costs a lot to go.  There is a bunch of cheap shit for sale that costs a lot of money.  Food and drink costs enough to sponsor a whole village in one of those countries on the commercials.  There are a bunch of freaks and animals to take pictures of.  You’ll undoubtedly have fun, but at the end of your life, the fucking All-Star Game you attended is not going to be mentioned in your obituary or take up any space on your tombstone.

This nontroversy was only a controversy because Jeter is non-controversial.  This is the first time the media and anyone connected with baseball has had a chance to take a shot a Jeter for anything other than a mistake or poor play on the field.  They’ve ran with it enough that it became the focus of their coverage. With all the negative media coverage, you’d think Jeter had just been acquitted of killing someone.  Jeter, nor anyone voted or selected to an All-Star Game, owes anyone a fucking thing.  Their loyalty should be with their team and its fans first.  If that means taking care of yourself by not playing for whatever reason you deem significant, then you’ve done the right thing.

To paraphrase the sage Allen Iverson, “We’re talking bout an exhibition.  Not a game…not a game.  We’re talking bout an exhibition, man.”

JIS
(I take full responsibility for all grammatical and spelling errors contained in the preceding, including this statement of exceptance of responsibility, due to my lack of memmory, desire to refresh myself with grammatical basics and an overall carelessness)

Eating sushi with a majority of people who don’t partake in it is a somewhat weird experience.  Not that they are giving you sushi or anything, it is just weird to hear people discuss their distaste for the type of food you’re ingesting right there in front of your face.  I mean normally, most people have the decency or respect for the decorum of the moment – which I think decorum means “of the corum” in Espanol – but when you ingest somewhat raw fish, distastes of people around you come out of the wood work like a casting call for termites in a gangbang movie.  Is gangbang one or two words?  I bet that is definitely not something you studied “officially” anywhere.  You may have contracted tennis elbow in an attempt to figure it out, but you sure as hell didn’t tell anybody that you were silkin’ the corn for purely diagnostic purposes.

Playing bingo with someone who has Alzheimer’s can’t be all that bad.  You’ve only got to buy one card, and then the Alzheimer’s inductee can go to town on that bad boy.  If they ask you if a number was called, whether you heard it or not, just say “yes”.  Who really gives a damn?  Either way, they’re still going to blot the same dot enough times to make you think a fucking chicken with a red Sharpie on its beak was peckin’ corn; but you’d have to let it go due to their cruel situation, and because your conscience wouldn’t let you take them back to that geezer prison so soon.

What do you do when a guy you know has decided to get his hair cut like Telly Savalas?  At first you don’t even recognize him – even though he is a mere two feet away - but then you get a text message from another friend within viewing distance of this unknown encounter who wants to know if you see any Aryan Nation tattoos?  Do you speak and act like you’re not aware of the distinct feeling that you’re in a re-run of The Shield?  Do you offer him a Dum Dum pop and say, “Who loves ya baby?”  Do you shield your eyes from the glare and ask, “Hair’s it hanging?”  What about asking if the curtains are made from the same material as the drapes?  Why a straight dude would ask another straight dude that question, I have no idea.  I just couldn’t resist the play on whatever type of thing fancified linguistical types refer to it as.

Truvia is some product that is apparently the grass juice drinker’s answer to sugar.  It has zero calories, and it looks like very good crystal meth in the commercial – or what I imagine good crystal meth would look like.  They show what seemed to be sky tears rolling off a big Mean Joe Green leaf and then the crystals on blueberries.  I’d say it looks Splendad.  I wonder if there is a strain of non-sugar, chemical based sweetener call Newtra Sweet?  Do you think it would be made out of bodily secretions from tiny lizards?  Neuter Sweet could be a faux sugar made for those who no longer worship the Greek god Testicles (Test-ti-clees).  I mean after all, Sweet’n Low sounds like some sort of bizarre sexual act you would perform on a midget/dwarf.  Why in the hell fake sugars have to have these ignorant, innuendo-type monikers I haven’t a calorie.

Actor Russell Crowe made headlines a little while ago after going on a Twitter tirade about circumcision, proclaiming the practice of shavin’ a little off the top as being needless and barbaric.  Crowe is not alone, however, as many others have become active in leading the charge to end the ritual, with some even going so far as to propose legislation that would protect unsuspecting babies against this “mutilation.”  The basis for their claim is that the procedure “inflicts needless pain and suffering, and leads to psychological suffering and decreases sexual pleasure.”  Now, since I can only speak from experience, I’m sure it didn’t feel good when the actual dick dissection took place.  But the good thing is I don’t remember how it felt, ya know, on account of me being a newborn infant at the time.  I also don’t suffer from flashbacks or break into a cold sweat whenever I see someone cutting into a banana, cucumber, hot dog, or anything else of a phallic nature.  And as far as the decreased sexual pleasure goes, I don’t even know what that means.  Penis and sex and and pleasure all go hand in hand (literally in my case lately).  It may very well decrease without the presence of foreskin, but sex is still in the realm of pleasure as opposed to pain — in most cases.

Like every good (or bad) cause, the opponents of circumcision need a recognizable face to embody the tenets in which they believe.  Animal lovers have Sarah McLachlan, fat, lazy people have Jared Fogle, and old people with diabetes and fiber deficiencies have Wilford Brimley.  Since Russell Crowe is already the face of anger management and Australian stereotypes, one particular anti-circumcision supporter decided to create his own scripted spokesperson.  Enter Foreskin Man, a comic book superhero known for being a protector of puerile penasia across the world.  Foreskin Man was created by the president of MGMBill.org Matthew Hess, whose goal is to enact legislation that would protect boys from forced circumcision.  The comic book follows the story of a protagonist named Miles Hastwick, who is described as:

“A former corporate scientist who now heads the Museum of Genital Integrity on a small island surrounded by San Diego’s famous beaches…Unbeknownst to the public, Miles is also Foreskin Man, an intactivist (clever!) superhero who rescues innocent boys from the clutches of the world’s cleverest and most dangerous circumcisers.”

Everyone knows that all books, movies, and comic books have to have diabolical villains who are hell bent on destroying the world (or foreskin in this case) in order to keep things interesting.  In the first and only three issues of Foreskin Man, he does battle with the likes of an evil physician named Dr. Mutilator, a Jewish rabbi known as Monster Mohel, and an evil African duo called Githinji and Ghinjo.  And like every good superhero, there are times when Foreskin Man can’t handle all the evil doers on his own.  That’s where fellow superheroes like Vulva Girl step in.  Aided by her Siri Amulet, Vulva Girl uses her “supernatural powers of flight and psychokinesis to battle female genital mutilation.”  The comic is also filled with ancillary characters, with a few of them having questionable names like Amanda Pagan and Tia Kumming.

I could go on and on about what is now my new favorite superhero, but instead I’m going to post some random frames from the first three issue that I found to be of interest – by which I mean funny and/or pretty disturbing (All of the following photos are the property of the creators of Foreskin Man):

The maniacal “Monster Mohel”:

“Foreskin Man Goes to Africa”:

Fore more snippets, visit ForeskinMan.com

Now, I’m not tryin’ to go all Da Vinci Code’ish on anybody out there – even though it may appear that way after my investigative report on the McRib – but it seems to me (said with a Bill Cosby from Himself-type inflection) that Catholics in the area where I live have some type of monopoly on mutton.  Around these parts, mutton only emerges when the local politicos descend upon one of the many various church functions/picnics that take place during the summer months.  In case you didn’t know, mutton is the meat of domestic sheep.  It is also known as – that’s a/k/a to you and all those in law enforcement, kids (…look Big Ben, Parliament) – lamb or hogget.  Lamb is a young sheep under 12 months of age that does not have any permanent incisor teeth “in wear” - Lamb Chop is that annoying sock puppet with that chic’s hand up its ass.  There is quite a difference, namely one tastes good with a little BBQ sauce, while the other is all moral and wants you to do the right thing.

I’ll be honest, I never knew that teeth had anything to do with what diagnosis you laid on sheep meat.  I guess there is a whole field of sheepistry that goes around telling sheep herders when the sheep have magically turned into mutton.  There may also be other ways to size up their teeth…I mean, who hasn’t heard a sheep herder-beastiality joke? Hell, Brokeback Mountain appealed to a large, happy market for that very reason.  Contrary to popular belief, a hogget is not a large woman riding a Harley Davidson.  Hogget is a young male sheep, or maiden ewe, having no more than two permanent incisors in wear…decisons, decisions.  What should a hogget wear?  Seemingly, they run with incisors if they choose to live and grow old.  Again, who would have thought teeth played such a big role in determing whether or not to eat something?  I could see that if you lived off of carp maybe, but sheep?  I would have thought that you’d just eat them young, so they wouldn’t have a chance to go baaaahhhhd.

Now don’t go confusin’ mutton with goat meat either - Goat meat is for pikers.  Those who like goat meat usually turn their snoots in the air when asked about the palatability of mutton - they prefer to use the French-derived word chevon (from chèvre) – instead of the more common El meato de goato.  I guess someone looked into it, and came up with some market research from the United States showing that “chevon eater” is more appealing to consumers than “goat eater”.  The latter kinda sounds like that Hall & Oats tune from the 80′s, while the former sounds like someone who consumes oil-based foods.

Being called a “goat eater” is actually a serious accusation in furry, woolen meat eating circles.  So if you’re a consumer of this type of carne, you have to know what you’re doing and take it seriously; because, damn it, if you just start indiscriminantly eating lambs one day and goats the next, the whole ovine meat economy is going to collapse - the price of sweaters and goat milk will increase threeeeeeee fold.  And just for future reference, hilljacks living in trailers with all their junk fenced in don’t like to be labeled goat eaters because it connotates that they don’t fully appreciate the bounty they are afforded by these four legged lawn mowers.  Sadly though, this nutritional divide will probably never be closed.  You see, goats and sheep have been a feudin’ over whose the tastier of the two species longer than the Hatfields and McCoys have been bumpin’ shine jugs over who’s more ignurnt – so there seems to be no end in sight.  However I recently heard that Bono was taking up the cause, so there’s hope yet.

It’s been well over a month now, and I am still trying to adjust to living in a new area that I didn’t want to move to in the first place.  One of the minor challenges I’ve faced involves my new cable service, and trying to remember the numbers that correspond with my favorite channels.  This means I have been flipping through channels a lot more, and watching more TV while simultaneously watching less.  But this isn’t always necessarily a bad thing, as I found out yesterday after stumbling across an “award-winning” PBS series called Sit and Be Fit.  The show has been on the air for over twenty years now, and stars a registered nurse in the fields of geriatrics and post-polio rehabilitation named Mary Ann Wilson.  Ms. Wilson essentially has designed a workout routine to make oldies sweat by utilizing simple exercises that, at first glance, kind of resemble warning signs for early-onset dementia.  And even though it’s aimed at the elderly, I’m sure Sit and Be Fit has also been a boon for scores of fat, lazy Americans of all ages who want to get in shape, yet still have their 44 oz. Diet Coke and two-pound bag of Doritos within arm’s reach when they need it.  The show also represents pretty much everything that I love about non-profit public broadcasting services like PBS: 1) New episodes of shows still look like they were made in the 80′s, 2) The music that accompanies the shows sounds like it was pulled from a CD titled Muzak’s Greatest Hits, 3) they’re intended to be serious, but can rarely be taken that way, and 4) they’re usually the funniest thing on TV when you’re baked as an albino who’s been lost in the Sahara Desert.

To prove my point, here’s a couple of clips from Sit and Be Fit for your viewing pleasure.  The first video was recorded on my phone from the couch before discovering there were already a bunch of YouTube videos uploaded from the show. And if you can make it through them without thinking disgustingly dirty, depraved thoughts about what Mary Ann Wilson looks like under those enormous legwarmers, then you’re a better man/woman than I:

Mary Ann shows off a wide range of expressions, including one that probably closely resembles her “O Face“:

The other night there was some cheezy 80′s flick on Skinemax called “Private Lessons”.  I didn’t see anyone learning anything about someone else’s privates during the part that I watched, but what did catch my eye was all the 80′s dancing being displayed during one of the party scenes.  There were all these people beboppin’ up and down, swinging their arms in the air back and forth while spinning around incessantly.  If you’ve ever watched an 80′s movie with any kind of celebratory or “my parents are out of town” party scene, you know what I’m speaking of.  What I can’t figure out is how the majority of dancers in the 80′s didn’t suffer from severe bouts of vertigo.  You couldn’t have one of these parties in your yard, because after a couple of songs people would have dug up holes, possibly become trapped in them, and might have busted a couple water or sewer lines in the process. It’s like that movie Twister, but without all the tornadoes and Hellen “Where the hell did she go?” Hunt?  I’d ask Paul Reiser, but he is probably on the back of a few milk cartons himself.  In all actuality, I believe your picture goes on the back of grande Starbucks’ coffees if you’re famous, because being on the back of a milk carton could imply that you believe in Darwin’s Theory of Evolution – don’t ask me how.

Speaking of missing children being on the back of milk cartons - do all pedophiles and/or kidnappers religiously get their recommended daily allowance of calcium?  Is the theory that they’ll be lifting the carton up to swill from it so much that someone will notice the picture, and pick up on the fact that the kid on a leash with the ball gag in his mouth sitting next to this lactose tolerant individual has been kidnapped?  Are people who drink a lot of milk more “in tuned” to the potentially kidnapped look they get from any kid due to their excessive cow juice intake?  Do people who see other people drink milk have a higher percentage of spotting missing people than orange juice drinkers?

I would like to actually see the statistics on milk related returns of missing children.  I would imagine it would be pretty easy to figure out if the child was returned because someone saw the picture on the back of the milk carton – all you have to do is look at the date they were found.  If the date on the carton says 7/28/09 and they find the kid on or before 8/5/09, that milk was still good and it helped get the kid found.  In the words of milk afficianado Jimmy Walker, Flav-o-Rite!  If the kid was found anytime after 8/10/09, forget it.  That milk was bad, so whoever neglected to pull it out enough for anyone to see it and – once the owner of said milk curdled up to it for a glass – they threw it out.  That is unless they like their cereal chunky style.  I guess a Maytag repair man, a garbage man with a keen eye for detail and the peripherial vision of an Asian could also crack the case; but other than that, said milk didn’t find anything other than Count Chocula a week or so ago - wasn’t that also the name of one of those 70′s movies about Black Dracula?

The Internet has been inundated with stories covering every angle of the killing of Osama bin Laden, from the secret Seal Team Six to the terrorist’s sprawling, and in no way conspicuous “mansion” in Pakistan.  I wanted to briefly discuss one of the most interesting stories I read on Yahoo! this morning, which revolves around Osama’s code name for this mission.  From the Associated Press:

The top staffer for the Senate Indian Affairs Committee is objecting to the U.S. military’s use of the code name “Geronimo” for Osama bin Laden during the raid that killed the al-Qaida leader…Loretta Tuell, staff director and chief counsel for the Senate Indian Affairs Committee, said Tuesday it was inappropriate to link Geronimo, whom she called “one of the greatest Native American heroes,” with one of the most hated enemies of the United States.

My first thought after reading these couple of paragraphs was, “Who knew there was such a thing as the ‘Senate Indian Affairs Committee’?”  I didn’t even know there were enough Indians left in the United States to constitute something that could be called a committee once white eyes was done with them.  After doing a little bit of research I found out the Senate Committee on Indian Affairs was first established in 1820.  And the U.S. government has abolished, re-established, amended and re-aligned the committee on several occasions since its inception, because our government felt like almost completely annihilating their entire population wasn’t enough already.  It wasn’t until 1984 that the group finally received status as a permanent committee of the US Senate, a mere 164 years after it started.  One more fun fact, John McCain has served as the committee’s chairman on two separate occasions, even though his ancestors were slave owners, and he’s about as Indian as the guy from Short Circuit.

Now I agree that there were no shortage of other code names that the military could have came up with before settling on a famous Apache leader.  They just as easily could have called him “Bin” or “OBL”; and if they weren’t dead set on using a historical figure, names like Hitler or Stalin would have definitely been more logical choices.  On the other hand, I would like to think the only Senate committee that represents the 2 million or so Indians left in the United States would have more pressing issues they would want to bring to people’s attention.  Instead of taking offense to a code name created by a group of people who are not known for possessing attributes like sensitivity or social awareness, they should be complaining about living on the shittiest, most barren pieces of property in the country.  The fact that their people have the highest rates of poverty, unemployment, and disease of any ethnic group in America also seems like an issue of more importance.  I just don’t understand how Indians could be so offended by a simple word when one considers everything they’ve had to endure.  I understand feeling disrespected and wanting to speak out about it, but it’s obvious they have not learned anything at all about the white man over time.  A man by the name of Jefferson Keel, who is the president of the National Congress of American Indians, said, “Osama bin Laden was a shared enemy.”  So now that he’s out of the picture, I guess the committee will have more time to focus their efforts on other evil individuals.  Hmmmmm, I wonder who they could consider to be the next worst enemy on their list? (Full Story)