The Letter D

If You Happen to Still Be Out There

2009-10-06T12:57:00.001-07:00

Still alive, still doing stand-up. If you're in the Midwest, there's a fairly decent chance that I'll be performing in your state soon. "Friend" me here on Facebook to get more information.

Just In Case You've Wondered What I've Been Up To

2009-07-03T20:15:00.000-07:00

Do You Know What A Dashiki Is?

2008-11-08T10:13:00.000-08:00

Damn, this is funny:

Get the latest news satire and funny videos at 236.com.

Solo

2008-09-23T13:33:00.000-07:00

My gym sells various things such as "power" drinks, t-shirts, earphones, and feather boas.

Yes, feather boas.

I though this was strange and asked the counter clerk what the feather boas were for. It turns out that my gym offers a "cardio strip" class and the boas are used for props. This class reportedly offers a fun way for women to sweat off the pounds. Of course, the women in the class were either north of their 50's or pushing two bills. So the class is full of aged, portly women pretending to be in a burlesque show.

Having seen a bit of this class, words cannot express the disappointment suffered by the men in these women's lives if they apply those moves at home.

Clearly, no one who participates in or runs this class knows anything about strip clubs, at least not those that have been in existence since prohibition was repealed. I've been to my fair share of Gentleman's Clubs, purely for sociological purposes of course, and while I've seen many things in these clubs, feather boas are not one of them.

Whatever you want to call them, these clubs emphasize the "strip" and minimize the "tease." You generally won't see feather boas, peacock fans, or any type of choreographed routine.

The women in the class must think that the stripper experience is exotic. It isn't. They probably think that dancers are beautiful or in good shape. Not always. In fact, the only thing that makes a woman qualified to be a stripper is the willingness to take off her clothes in public.

These are the things that you are far more likely to see on a stripper than a feather boa:

Caesarian scars.
Razor bumps.
Six inch stiletto heels.
Exit wounds.
7 to 12 tattoos.

My college roommate eventually became a police officer. As an undocumented perk, he could get in clubs for free because, while police couldn't moonlight as security, the owners encouraged the presence of off-duty cops. So when we hung out, it was either there or the donut shop. Basically, we went so often that I think I'm only I about four credits short of getting my M.D. in Gynecology

It eventually got old. But I had my "scared straight" moment about seven years ago. I was in Brownsville, TX for work and across the highway was the best gentleman's establishment that I'd ever been to. Beautiful women, not too smoky, nicely decorated, no cover, and inexpensive lap dances.

Everything was going well until one dancer approached for a dance. I agreed. She started the dance and top off her top revealing one breast. I don't mean that she only showed one breast, I mean she only had one breast. On the other side was something that resembled a deployed airbag with scar tissue.

Needless to say, I wasn't expecting this. Her top must have been padded. But what was I to do? I didn't want to offend her, but it was freaking me out. Every time, she leaned in, I flinched. I couldn't look at her. I just wanted the song to be over before I started crying. I blame the Americans with Disabilities Act.

Someone should have warned me. She could have least taken "Solo" as her stage name. Or I should have at least got half of my money back.

I don't ask for much but an even number of breasts should be a given.

Heavy Petting And The City

2008-09-17T12:10:00.000-07:00

Harper-Collins is planning a line of books, aimed at "young adults", based on the teenage lives of the characters in Sex and the City.

Strangely enough, I've already been working on this idea. To throw my hat in the ring, I offer the following:

Carrie, jotting in her diary: Boy, I wish there was some way that I could type my thoughts in a device that I could use while I'm sitting on my bed in my underwear. I tried this with my Apple II but I almost set my Duran Duran comforter on fire.

Anyway, it's not easy being a teen that wants to have it all. Things with Big are going okay. He's pretty busy with being the president of Student Council and of the Future Tycoons of America Club. But whenever we're together, he totally pushes me to a stage in the relationship that I'm not sure that I'm ready for.

Is it okay for me to mind "it", when "it" is the only thing on his mind?

Fortunately, I have my friends to support me:

Fade to lunchroom:

Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda are having their daily lunch in the gym/cafeteria.

Carrie: Big has been pushing me to do "it."

Miranda: (gasps) Are we talking the big "it"?

Carrie: Not the big "it", it's more like a little "it."

Samantha: Big has a little "it"?

Carrie: No, I mean his "it" is fine. I mean, I don't know if it's little or not, it's not like I've seen a lot of them.

Samantha: Well I have. For example, Mr. Derringer has an absolutely enormous "it."

Miranda: You've seen the guidance counselor's "it?"

Samantha: What? I needed a good letter of recommendation for college. So we did the big "it."

Charlotte: Ewww. I'm never going to do the big "it." Well, at least not after I marry Craig, the team quarterback, and we have a big wedding with announcements in the New York Times, and I have a beautiful wedding dress designed by either Camp Beverly Hills or Izod.

Carrie: No, it's not the big "it," it's the other "it."

Samantha: What other "it" are we talking about? There's like a hundred other "its" Believe me, I 've done them all.

Miranda: She's done a hundred "its." I can't find any time to do any "it" with AP Calculus, Debate Club, the Chess Team, the Pre-Law Society and the Curious About My True Sexual Orientation Club. Oh my God, did I just say that last one out loud?

The girls ignore Miranda.

Carrie: No, he wants me to do the "hand it."

Charlotte: Ewwww! (pause) What is the "hand it"?

Carrie: He wants me to touch his (pause) "it" and rub it.

Samantha: Oh, so he wants Handus Strokus?

Miranda: I've never heard of Handus Strokus.

Charlotte: Ewwww!

Carrie: Why does he want me to do that? What if I do it wrong? Will he still respect me if I do it? What if he tells all his friends? I don't want people to go around thinking I'm the type of girl who does Handus Strokus. Uh...no offense, Samantha.

Samantha: None taken. Listen Honey, guys are going to ask for a lot of things. And on the scale of "its," Handus Strokus is like a three out of ten.

Carrie: How do I know if I'm doing it right?

Samantha: Well, if you're doing it right, you'll know. Just bring a lot of Kleenex.

Carrie: For what?

Samantha: You'll see.

Charlotte: Ewwww!

The Persistence of Mammaries

2008-08-19T08:30:00.000-07:00

Why are guys so fascinated by breasts? I'm perplexed by the awesome power that a plunging neckline can have. I'm not even a "breast" guy. I can name several other female body parts that are more worthy of my attention. Even under the ideal situation, breasts are like Scooby-Doo cartoons, they only provide about seven or so minutes of entertainment before it's time to move on to other things.

Nonetheless I, like roughly 90% of my male brethen, have been held in sway by lovely lady lumps.

Case in point. Every year our fantasy football league holds its draft party in a nearby bar or restaurant. Last year, we took over the loft area of a piano bar (that was its "sports bar" section, so shut up).

Our waitress, to put it delicately, had an enormous rack.

She wore a scoop necked blouse. And there we were, about fifteen or so grown-ass men, with wives, girlfriends, inflatable love objects, etc., utterly beguiled by our server and her breasty ways, reduced to the level of twelve year olds who had just stumbled across their first Playboy.

At first, we exchanged elbow digs and knowing glances. I may have ordered dinner in a soft voice just so she'd lean in. One guy, who's probably still over the legal blood alcohol limit a year later, voiced some comments about her endowment.

At first I was mortified for her. Then I thought, "she knew what she looked like when she left the house. She didn't grow those things overnight." I'm all for being respectful, but come on now. It's not like she didn't know what she was packing. She works for tips. Her breasts were like my laptop - a tool of the trade.

That's another thing that I don't get, when are we supposed to notice breasts and when aren't we? I think there may be an acceptable level of glancing or gazing, maybe for a second or two, but after that it just gets creepy.

Women, I know that your "eyes are up here," but sometimes the harder I try not to notice, the harder it is not to look.

Here's what happens:

I'm minding my own business, thinking about work, the meaning of life, or Spider-Man, when I come across a comely young woman wearing one of those Victoria Secret's "push'em up if you've got 'em" bras and a low neckline.

I'm saying to myself, "Don't look down. Don't look down."

Meanwhile, I'm trying hard to listen to the conversation, which sometimes ends up being a story about something cute her dog did or how annoying her boyfriend is, when I hear another voice.

"Psst. D, down here. Check us out."

"I can't do that, that would be rude."

"Come on, don't be a wuss. Look how perky we are."

"I'm not listening to you. I'm listening to her talk about what she saw on the Food Channel last night."

"Seriously, you could bounce a quarter off of us."

"I'm ...trying... to look her...in the...eyes."

"Oh my, looks like it's a little chilly in here, doesn't it?

Before I get taken to task for objectifying women, I want to tell you who the real victims were that evening - the men.

You see, when we have the draft parties, we run a tab for food and alcohol and split it equally once the night is over. Some people abuse this and order things that they wouldn't if they were directly footing the bill, like desserts and drinks that are neither clear nor brown. This is the reason why socialism doesn't work.

Anyway, at the end of the evening, our team commissioner gave Dolly a tip as generous as her bust line. In his inebriated state, however, he failed to notice that because of the size of the group, the establishment had already included a 20% gratuity in our bill. She was more than double tipped (kinda poetic), she was tipped on her original tip. He passed on the lack of savings to the rest of the group.

I won the league last year and came away with less money than she did that evening.

So tell me, who was exploited that night?

I'm Still Back

2008-08-13T07:15:00.000-07:00

I intended to post again earlier, but the J-O-B prohibited it.

Anyway, I'm trying to regain all of your confidences in me, so I'm going to make the effort to get back to a regular posting schedule. For some reason, the firm keeps asking me to go to recruiting conferences and job fairs to trick eager young law students into the rewarding and soul-fulfilling life of law firm practice.

The firm even assigned me a mentee this summer, despite the fact that I'm not good at giving the rah-rah company line speech.

This is an actual quote from a conversation between me and a friend of mine who had just started at the firm, to give you a flavor for my "advice:"

Her: D, you have a lot of involvement in the community, you write freelance, and you practice law. How do you find the time?

Me: The secret is to do everything poorly.

I also told the summer clerks this year the following: "Law school has nothing to do with the practice of law. Look at law school exams. No client is going to call you with a question and expect you to give him or her an answer in three hours, without doing research, without talking to anyone else, and while sober."

Despite my habit of giving abysmal advice and my own career-limiting actions (e.g., writing a blog that obsesses about Jessica Alba's ass), I drove to Chicago last week to interview law students.

The cool thing about the trip was that I got to try out my GPS on my Blackberry. I finally caved in and got one of these horrible torture devices, so now I can't even go to the bathroom in peace without being e-mailed. One big problem is that you can't talk on the phone and hear directions at the same time. So I'm on the phone and I miss a turn and exit the highway, figuring that the GPS would recalculate the route to get me back on track.

Well the GPS ended up sending me through some rather interesting parts of Gary, Indiana. The first place that I see is a "Gentleman's Club," but trying to make good time on my trip and not having enough singles on me, I keep going. Not too far from there I see an adult bookstore, with a huge obnoxious banner that says "Toys. DVDs. Lubes."

Excuse me, lubes? That's not something that you usually see so boldly advertised. But apparently, it's a big impulse buy, so this business highlighted its wares.

Speaking of lube advertisements, have you noticed that companies are starting to advertise "personal lubricants" openly on television and in the newspapers? I'm not a prude by any stretch, but on Sunday mornings, when I'm reading the paper while enjoying my French toast, a full size circular advertising K-Y can be a little jarring. They had a campaign that actually said "Try K-Y and see what happens." Let me tell you from personal experience, that trick only works once.

Anyway, I'm still following the GPS instructions, when I notice a woman standing on the side of the road wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. I think "that's odd" and move on. The next block is another women, dressed provactively, holding up a streetlight and surveying the traffic.

It finally dawns on me. I'm driving down the Gary "ho stroll." Thanks GPS!

I keep driving when I hear instructions that alarm me. Instead of the usual cold, robotic directions my phone says:

"Lock doors in ...fifty feet."

Sure enough, I drive through the Beirut section of Gary. I grew up in the Detroit area, so I'm used to seeing urban desolation, but this was like a Stephen King novel. I saw whole blocks of empty buildings, with no people whatsoever. The GPS chimed in.

"Keep your head ...on a swivel. Crack house in ... point two miles... on the left."

Next weekend, I'm in beautiful downtown Cleveland to do some more interviewing. This time I'll be flying and you know how my luck goes with flying.

Back From The Dead And Looking For A New Love

2008-07-22T07:51:00.000-07:00

Due to the wonders of sunlight, nice weather, and the finest pharmaceutical products, I'm ending my hibernation. The last several months have been a wild ride and it was hard to type from the fetal position, but it's time to get back into the swing of things.

I posted a couple of times in April, before I was fully emotionally ready with a few cryptic posts.

I suppose that I owe you all an explanation. It's been a difficult time, with Jessica Alba entering into her sham of a marriage and bearing the seed of some freaking production assistant, who's currently sponging off of her faltering career ("The Love Guru," really?") He's enjoying a lifestyle that by all rights should be mine. I should be denting her sofa cushions instead of typing this.

Anyway, enough of that. I'm pretty much open to a new love and am taking applications. So far, here are my options:

Kim Kardashian: She really should be the subject of my older posts, "I Hate Myself For Loving You." I didn't even know who she was until her sex tape was "leaked." I use the quotes because it is by far the most calculated celebrity sex tape out there. Seriously, if there was an Academy Award for Celebrity Sex Tapes, this should be the winner. But there is no way that this wasn't intended for wide release (apparently, much like Kim herself). It had professional lighting! There was a sound boom in one of the shots! The thing had credits! I tried to watch her show on VH1, but couldn't last a minute without having the sudden nearly uncontrollable urge to start hitting myself in the face with my shoe. It went away after I pressed "mute" on my remote. Anyway, I must admit that I'm uncontrollably drawn to her and her generously proportioned rear end, despite the fact that she is functionally (and just barely) retarded. I mean she's at the level of those "greeters" that Wal-Marts and the Home Depot hire for good luck.

Tila Tequila. Ok, this is one of those phenomenons that make me feel old. I really don't understand why she's on my television. Is it me or does she look like an alien visitor? But the kids (male and female) seem to dig her, so I guess I should give her some consideration. Plus, with her I'd never forget to take my medications, especially the antibiotics.

Dania Ramirez: An obscure choice perhaps. She played AJ's girlfriend Bianca on the Sopranos and one of the slayers on "Buffy." I started watching "Heroes" just because she was on it. Her character had the superhuman ability to suddenly make my pants fit uncomfortably.

Rachel Maddow: This is an unorthodox choice. But I keep seeing her on MSNBC and I think she's really clever, and I love clever women. She's a Rhodes Scholar, and you know what they say about women who are Rhodes Scholars (they are like Scorpios). Sure, she may not be "hot," or traditionally "attractive," or "heterosexual." Yes, she's a lesbian and that means that she probably hates men. Ok, maybe that's a stereotype. Just because she's a lesbian doesn't mean that she hates men or has a golden retriever, but I'm just playing the odds here. Even if she does hate men, most of my relationships have been with women who hated me. The good thing is that there would be a pretty good chance that she'd be open to introducing another women in the relationship.

I'm Going To Hell For This

2008-01-09T11:19:00.000-08:00

I'm not a religious person. Spiritually, my major is still "undeclared."

My three year old daughter, the Cub, however, goes to a "Christian" preschool, though I made sure that it was predominately a preschool with just a little Jesus sauce on the side, rather than a full blown indoctrination center where they don't teach any science (i.e., the Devil's subject).

Now all I hear about is how great Jesus is. She was singing some song, which I think was "Jesus Loves Me" even though my rule after the holidays is that I don't want to hear any songs with Santa, Frosty, Rudolph, or Jesus until at least Thanksgiving.

She sang a verse about Jesus being strong and I interrupted her asking:

"Who's stronger, Daddy or Jesus?"

I'm used to being the only superhero in her life. She thinks I'm the strongest man in the world. When I ask her who's stronger, Daddy or Spider-Man, or Daddy or the circus strongman, she always says that I am.

But this time she said "Jesus."

I know I shouldn't have been offended but I couldn't let it go. Granted, my biblical knowledge is limited, but I can't think of any instance where Jesus displayed superhuman strength. Transmutation, yes. Levitation, sure. Resurrection, check. But no superhuman strength. In fact, I can think of at least one instance where having superhuman strength would have come in handy for him.

I don't want to squelch her faith, so I tried to leave it alone, although I did tell her that night to finish her vegetables so that she could grow up to be big and strong like Jesus.

There's nothing like a three year old asking you if you've gotten right with the Lord.

Anyway, her mother took her to church this weekend and she was excited because she thought that Jesus was going to be there. She was disappointed when she was told that it was pretty unlikely that he'd appear.

I understand her expectation. Chuck E. Cheese is there when she goes to Chuck E. Cheese's. Mickey Mouse is at Disneyland. So why wouldn't Jesus show up at church?

I think churches are missing a golden opportunity. If you want to increase membership, you've got to get kids when they're young and less prone to asking critical questions. Why not have a Jesus mascot at the church for the kids?

He could come down the aisle during the service and hug or give hi-fives to the kids. Maybe the kids could sit on his lap and talk to him:

Jesus: Hey there, kid. What's your name?

Billy: Billy.

Jesus: Great, Billy. So have you been a good boy?

Billy: Yes, Jesus.

Jesus: You haven't been sinning have you?

Billy: I don't think so.

Jesus: Good, because that makes me sad. So what can I do for you?

Billy: Can you make my mom and dad get back together?

Jesus: Umm... (whispering) Listen kid. I'm not the real Jesus.

Billy: You're not?

Jesus: No, I'm just ... one of Jesus' helpers.

Billy: I wondered why you weren't the same Jesus as the one at my Grandma's church.

Jesus: That's another helper. I can't get your parents back together. But how about this nice coloring book?

Billy: Uh...OK. Thanks, Jesus. Or Jesus' friend, I mean.

This is the way to get asses in the pews. I can't believe no one has thought of this.

Smoke 'Em If You've Got 'Em (Or My Dad Loved Cigarettes More Than He Loved Me)

2008-01-08T11:34:00.000-08:00

My father has a great memory. His recall is so great that he remembers things that never actually happened. Sometimes I listen to him recount events from my childhood that I'm sure he must have seen on television because they never took place.

His more amusing imaginary anecdotes concern the sports life that he and I allegedly shared together. He has expressed his dismay in the past that I never played any sports in school, which is not completely true because I spent two (non-consecutive) days on the high school wrestling team.

He remembers throwing the football to me, which is odd because I never had a football growing up. The only piece of sporting equipment that I remember having was an under-inflated basketball that he brought home from the gym of the school where he taught. Flat ball + no air pump + no hoop = seconds of entertainment.

My father spent most of my childhood in his (aptly) La-Z-Boy recliner. If he ever tossed a football to me, it would have gone down like this:

Daddy D (holding football) "Hey, D. Go long."

Me (running) "How's this?"

Daddy D: "Further."

Me (running further): "Now?"

Daddy D (now yelling): "A little more."

Me: "Is this good?"

Daddy: "Yes. Hey, while you're down there, can you get me a pack of cigarettes at the store?"

My father loves smoking more than anything in the world. He's smoked at least two packs a day every day over the past 50 years. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if he threw a golden anniversary party to himself and his Benson & Hedges.

I've never even tried a cigarette. My father is my role model by opposition. I've rebelled against him by becoming a productive member of society. Yet, I probably inhaled more cigarette smoke in my life than you're average professional bowler.

When I was growing up, I constantly worried about him dying of lung cancer. So when I was like 11 or 12, I started making a simple request: Every year on my birthday, I asked him not to smoke. Just for that day. For me. And each year, he'd promise not to smoke.

But he would anyway.

It was a simple request, particularly for someone who claimed that he wasn't addicted. But every year, I'd catch him smoking or smell the smoke on him.

All I wanted was for him not to die. All he wanted was the next drag. So I learned at an early age that my dad cared more about nicotine than me, which has done wonders for my self-esteem.

I don't worry about him smoking anymore. It really is the closest thing that he's ever had to a hobby. At most, I worry about him having a long lingering death, but that's partially because medical care is expensive.

But his smoking has been a pain in the ass for me. What is it about smokers that the first thing to go is their ability to smell smoke? When he'd borrow my car, when I'd make him promise not to smoke only to return it so smoked up that I couldn't even sit in it. Even when I'd ask him not to smoke with me in the car, he'd make the concession of cracking his window, believing that the smoke would magically be removed from the vehicle.

And going out with him is the worst. When asked, I always request the non-smoking section out of habit. He'll correct me and we'd be seated in the dirtiest, dingiest part of the restaurant, where they hide the smokers. I'm just glad they don't have more options in restaurants or else he'd take them too. ("Sirs, would you like farting or non-farting?")

He's long reached the point that you can't even say anything about his smoking without him taking it personally. It's no longer something he does, but rather who he is. Before they divorced, my mom asked him not to smoke around him. He said that she knew he smoked when they walked down the aisle (and, knowing, my father, he literally smoked while he walked down the aisle) so he saw no reason to change.

I can't imagine why those crazy kids couldn't work things out.

The only good thing about his sedentary and unhealthy "lifestyle" is that it's apparently rendered his body so inhospitable that even cancer can't take hold.

D's Voters Guide

2008-01-03T10:11:00.000-08:00

As a public service, I'm weighing in on the stable of presidential candidates. The sad thing is that one of them is going to win. Whatever you may think of the current resident on Pennsylvania Avenue, really, is this the best that we can do? I'm seriously considering sitting this one out. Usually, I end up voting against someone rather than voting for someone, but this time out I'm really depressed.

Why can't we find better choices? I mean look at the perqs:

1. You get your own plane.

2. You can "legally" torture people (well, I'm not sure that you personally get to torture them. I think you have to assign the task to other people. But I'm sure if you really wanted to, they'd let you at least hook up the jumper cables).

3. You only get a performance evaluation once every four years.

4. Instant revenge on old girlfriends. "What does your husband do, again? Oh, he's that's right, he's an accountant. That's cool. Oh, me? Leader of the free world. Yep. I have the entire armed forces at my command. Stressful? Yeah. But I hear tax season is bad too, huh? Tell Greg I said 'hello.' "

5. Interns, baby, interns.

It's like being a rock star, but being able to send people to secret prisons.

But you'd think we'd posted the position on Monster.com with this crowd. In no particular order, here are our choices:

Mitt Romney: I don't see what the big deal is about him being a Mormon. In fact, I think he should play this up as much as possible, with the slogan "We've tried morons. Isn't it time we tried a Mormon?" Yes, the Latter Day Saints have some unusual beliefs, but name a religion that doesn't.

Yes, it's silly to believe that your prophet received a communication from God that came through his hat because everyone knows that the real God communicates through flaming shruberry. My point is that everyone who has deeply held religious beliefs, necessarily believes in something that to an outsider seems patently absurd.

Besides, who doesn't want to rule their own planet in the afterlife?

Which leads me to...

Mike Huckabee: The only thing that keeps Huckabee's beliefs from seeming as strange as Romney's is that more people just happen to share them. Huckabee has locked up the crucial Chuck Norris endorsement (No word yet on The Rock or Vin Diesel, so I'm still on the fence). If nothing else, wouldn't it be funny to hear someone say "President Huckabee" for at least four years?

Barack Obama: I was pretty amused at first when he was battling (and losing) to Hilary on who was "blacker." As much as I'd like to vote for him, the more he says about foreign policy, the more I think his bread is not quite baked yet. I'd be more partial to an Obama presidency if I wasn't sure that I could beat him at a game of Risk.

Dennis Kucinich: The question is not whether this nation is ready for its first black, female, Hispanic, or Mormon president, but rather are we ready for our first magical pixie president?

Fred Thompson: There was a groundswell to get this guy to run? Are you kidding me? What is it about being a bad actor makes people think that someone is qualified one to run for elected office? Do we really think that all a President does is read lines written by someone else? Wait, don't answer that.

Under this logic, Jackie Chan would make a great president. He's a man of action, always plays a good guy, and most importantly, does his own stunts. Thompson's faltering campaign is probably due to the writers' strike. If he gets the nomination, the Democrats will be forced to draft Joe Pesci.

John Edwards: I think he's gotten a bad rep for being overly feminine just because he may occasionally spend more than the GDP of Guatemela on his grooming. Why doesn't Mitt Romney get the same amount of flack? They have about 3,000 pearly teeth between them. On the other hand, he was voted as the candidate that Americans would most like to share a Mojito with.

Rudy Giuliani: Only he can save us from another 9/11. But how tough can he really be if he let his wife (I can't remember which one, maybe his seventh or eighth one) kick him out of Gracie Mansion when they split? I would have been all like, "You lissen here, woman. This here is the mansion for the Mayor of New York City. You're just a squirrel trying to get a nut. How many people were sodomized or slain in a hail of gunfire by police officers under your command? Yeah, that's what I thought. I'm not moving anywhere."

Ron Paul: In recent Presidental elections there has been a candidate who upsets the mainstream but captures the attention of those who have felt politically disenfranchised. Invariably, this person will be insane (see e.g., Ross Perot and Ralph Nader). Ron Paul, come on down.

You would think he's a real conservative's wet dream. I'm not saying that I agree with him but he appears to actually have a good command of the Constitution and guides his policies based on those parameters. So, in other words, there's no way he could ever win. Then again, what other candidate can attract both stoners and neo-nazi's? That's what they mean by being a uniter not a divider.

Hillary Clinton: How, other than mass hypnosis, did she pretty much begin this race as a front runner? I mean, half of the country thinks that she's the anti-Christ. There is hate and then there is hate. We'd have to quadruple the Secret Service budget. Then again, how can someone who gave their husband a Get Out of Jail Free Card after he got the most publicly dissected BJ from a twenty-something lose the Joe Six-Pack vote? Shannon Tweed has the same policy, and nobody hates her.

John McCain: A decorated war veteran and POW in the Spanish-American War (note to self: fact check this later.) One of the things about McCain is he's reached crazy old age. You know how when people get to be a certain age, they just don't give a damn about what anybody thinks and say the most blunt and insulting things and think nothing of it. It would be like my grandmother running the country, although I don't think he believes a lion lives in his bedroom closet. Plus, it will be funny when he finds out that he can't appoint Matlock to the Supreme Court.

Joe Biden, Christopher Dodd, Bill Richardson, Duncan Hunter, Mike Gravel: I'm not even sure if these guys are still in the race.

Happy New Year!

2007-12-31T07:20:00.000-08:00

I'm not dead.

I won the case that I discussed in my last two (very old)" posts.

I'm ready to get back to regularly scheduled programming. To prove this look for the following posts in the near future:

The Persistence of Mammaries: An Unscientific Study of the Power of Cleavage
My Dad Loved Cigarettes More Than He Loved Me
My Mom: Serial Dog Killer
Replacing Jessica Alba
D's Voter's Guide.

I'm serious about all of the above.

See you soon.

The Destination, Part II

2007-11-05T12:13:00.000-08:00

When we last left our hero, Northwest Airlines lost his suit the night before he was scheduled to be in court.

Northwest assured me that it would deliver my suitcase to the hotel at around midnight. I was up until about 12:45am preparing for my oral argument (man that sounds dirty when writing for a lay audience). I decided to go to bed once I started wondering if I could get away with working the word "freakstacy" in during my argument.

My bag still hadn't arrived.

I called the front desk to see if the bag came. The desk clerk told me that it hadn't but that sometimes bags come in as late (or early) as 2-3:00am.

Despite my cynical exterior, I'm an optimist at heart. I wanted to believe that nothing as horrible as having to appear in court wearing a sweater and khaki's would ever happen to me. The good people at Northwest wouldn't let that happen, right? My bag would arrive something while I slept and I would arrive in court impeccably groomed and with clean underwear.

Wrong.

I looked at the clock at about a quarter to three, called the desk and was told that my bag hadn't arrived and that there probably wouldn't be any deliveries until the morning.

I had to be in court at 9:00am.

A lesser man would have panicked. I considered my options. I could turn the events to my advantage by just showing up in court in my "street" clothes, and use that to demonstrate my faith in my argument.

Your honors (three judges in an appeal panel), I stand before you today in khakis and a sweater because that's how sure I am in my client's position. I'd be a fool to appear without proper attire if I thought in any way that my position was unsound. In fact, I am so confident that I'm actually freeballing right now! That's how I roll.

Well, that was Plan B. Plan A was to try to find some suitable attire in Covington, Kentucky at 4:00 in the morning. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Enter Wal-Mart.

I hopped in a cab. I never thought that I'd be grateful for Wal-Mart. I must confess that I'm a little shallow. I'm brand conscious and a little snobbish about clothes. My rule, up to this point, was "Never buy clothes at the same place where you can buy tools." But hey, that's what happens at four in the morning. You eat at Denny's, you shop at Wal-Mart. Both are establishments that thrive because they operate when there are no other options.

I ended up buying a $50 suit jacket, $12 shirt and $8 tie, because those were the nicest things they had. I looked at myself, under the harsh flourescent light. I thought that my skin would blister under these synthetic fabrics. It burned, I tell you, it burned. I bought underwear, t-shirts, and all the various products that I needed. For the first time in my life, I put my business attire on a conveyer belt and checked out.

The cab driver waited for me, but asked me when I got back in the cab why I had to go to court. I guess it did look weird, buying clothes at 4:00am for a court appearance. I just told him that is was all a big misunderstand and that I had no idea how those severed heads got in my trunk.

I got dressed back at the hotel, dazed from lack of sleep.

But I made it to court and gave what I thought was a pretty good argument, considering that I was dressed like the world's worst insurance agent.

By the time I left to catch my return flight, my bag still hadn't arrived. When I checked in, Northwest told me that my bag was coming in from Detroit about 40 minutes before my flight, but that they would tag it and it would immediately make it to my new flight.

I was skeptical. I argued that there was no way that it would make it. The clerk assured me that it had an "expedited" tag on it and that it would make it.

I knew he was lying. But I didn't care. I wanted to be lied to. I wanted him to tell me that everything was going to be ok. I wanted to believe that Northwest would be able to accomplish this relatively complicated task, despite the fact that they had been utterly incompetent in every other step of the way. I was Tina Turner in the second act of "What's Love Got To Do With It?" and Northwest was Ike.

Needless to say, my bag didn't make it. It somehow ended up in Minneapolis. I got the bag Saturday night, two days after I originally left.

No apology, no explanation, nothing.

I'll let you know how the judges ruled. This story would really suck if I lost.

It's Not The Journey, It's The Destination.

2007-11-01T15:42:00.000-07:00

Well, as we learned in the last post, an unhappy D is a writin’ D.

Right now, I’m making my way to Cincinnati for a hearing. It’s about a five and a half hour drive, so I had to decide whether I should fly or drive. I mistakenly thought that it would be more convenient to fly and have been paying for it since.

Something always goes wrong when I fly. The airline once lost my bag when I took a direct flight to Cleveland (which was less than an hour flight), though I flew at 6:00 am and there was no one else in the check-in or security line. So they really had to work extra hard at losing that bag.

Because I can’t afford to have the airline play Criss Angel with my luggage this time around, I FedExed my files to the hotel and planned to take my suit in a carry-on bag. Well, everything was fine until I got stopped in security because of the new guidelines regarding carrying “liquids” on the plane. I couldn’t keep my toiletries in its usual case. I had to place them all in a clear one-quart sized plastic bag. This was very important to the airline, because my otherwise explosive toothpaste would be rendered harmless by the miraculous healing properties of a Ziploc bag.

But I didn’t have such a bag and no place there sold them. You can buy everything short of a handjob in an airport these days, but I couldn’t find a simple plastic bag. When I get back, I’m going to get a kiosk, where I’ll sell these bags for $10 each. I would have been ecstatic to pay this amount.

Not wanting to part with my stuff, I decided checked my bag, which is probably somewhere over the Great Plains as I write this.

I know this is a security measure designed to keep me safe. But I also know that there is absolutely no risk of terrorism on my flight.

I know this because I fly Northwest.

No self-respecting terrorist would ever fly Northwest. It lacks the professionalism and commitment to quality service demanded by the modern-day evildoer.

Phone conversation transcripts (obtained courtesy of FISA)

Ahmad: Dear Leader, it is I, your servant Ahmad.

OBL: Where are you, Ahmad? You were scheduled for martyrdom two hours ago!

Ahmad: I’m sorry Benevolent One, but my flight is delayed. Northwest says that there is "weather" in Chicago.

OBL: They always say there is “weather” in Chicago! What does that mean anyway?

Ahmad: I have no idea. They also said that they are changing crews. And I believe a lightbulb in out in one of the flight instruments. They said to check back in a couple of hours.

OBL: Next time we attack the Great Satan, we fly Delta!

Another transcript:

Ahmad: What do you mean that you lost my bag? How can you lose my bag? I had a direct flight!

Customer Service Rep: I’m sorry, sir. Can you please describe it?

Ahmad: Yes, it was a black suitcase. And…uh… it might glow in the dark.

I took a connecting flight to Detroit, which was so small and so packed that I sincerely hope that none of the women on it were ovulating, because they would probably end up impregnated from the sheer proximity to the other passengers.

I have the worst luck with seatmates when I travel. I never get the twenty-one year old wanna-be spokesmodel, who’s traveling from the Midwest to the big city with nothing but perky breasts and a dream. No, like on my recent trip to California, I get the guy who farted his way through two time-zones. I spent the flight hoping for a sudden loss of cabin pressure so that the oxygen masks would drop.

Airplanes are disgusting places. I can’t imagine ever being horny enough to join the Mile High Club. First off, the bathrooms are not even big enough for me to have sex with myself, much less with someone else. Plus, I’d hate to come in contact with the particulates that coat everything in there after repeated explosive flushings.

I figured out why airlines are so bad during the flight attendant’s pre-flight instructions. How can they have any respect for their customers when they think that we are so dumb that they have to show us how to fasten our seatbelt?

Update: Ok, I made it to the airport, and guess whose bag didn’t make it? I’m completely serious. I went to the customer service rep. She looked on the computer and tells me that my bag is still in Detroit. She can’t explain why my bag decided not to join me. Perhaps it is visiting friends.

My suit is in the bag. I’d hate to appear in court without a suit. I’d hate even more to go commando. She tells me that my bag is will be at the airport at 10:30 and that they’ll deliver it to the hotel about midnight.

I’m starting to think that Northwest has something against me. It may have something to do with a nasty series of letters that I wrote them when trying to help a friend with her own lost bag dispute. I closed the last letter with “Blow me” instead of “Sincerely,” although I sincerely meant it. I wrote it in Latin because that seemed more lawyerly.

Plagiarism Is The Sincerest Form Of Flattery

2007-10-16T13:04:00.000-07:00

See, I was going to write a nice little post today, but now I'm all pissed off.

Things today started fine. About a month ago, someone wrote me to ask if he could read D's True Halloween Story on his podcast, The Halloween Haunt. I agreed and listened to the podcast today. I thought he did an excellent job. It's weird hearing my words read by someone else butI appreciated the time and production that went into the piece. Very well done, thank you.

That is how you go about things. I'm flattered if someone likes my stuff and wants to link me to their site or re-posts something while giving me credit.

My friend J-Jo, found this shameless ripoff of my post, which some guy passed off as his own "true story" on his site last year. This is what you do not do:

Here he is by the way, from his blog, Gallagher's love child:

Let's compare and contrast, shall we?

Me (Originally posted on October 28, 2005):

I'm generally a skeptic. I don't believe in things that I can't prove exist like alien abduction, ghosts, or the female orgasm.

Pale imitation of Yours Truly:

I'm generally a skeptic. I don't believe in things that I can't prove exist like alien abductions, free Nokia ringtones, "straight" Metallica fans, intelligence in the "White House", escape from Spammers or the female orgasm. Okay, enough said.

So he steals my joke, but thinks his embellishment made it better. Asshole.

That's just the first paragraph, he goes on to steal my post, yet going through the motions of changing the names and adding his own stupid stuff, because he's so freaking creative.

Let's move along.

The genius that is me:

My roommate Charles and I called BS. We were sure that they were just trying to mess with us. You can't communicate with the dead, especially with something that's sold in the same aisle as Monopoly and Hungry Hungry Hippos.

They invited us to watch them use it on Halloween. Charles and I decided that the only way we'd believe the story is if he and I used the board ourselves. We only trusted each other not to move the pointer.

The Douche:

My roommate (I'll call him Wayne for reasons of anonymity) and I called all this BS. We were sure they were just trying to mess with us. You can't communicate with the dead, especially with something that's sold in the same aisle as Monopoly and Hungry Hungry Hippos, right?

Come Halloween Night they invited us to watch them use it. But, Wayne and I had decided the only way we'd believe the story was if we could make our own board and use it ourselves. We'd heard home made boards worked just as well and we only trusted each other not to move the planchette. The picture shown above is the actual photo of the Ouija Board we had made.

I really hate him. He decided the story would be better if he and "Wayne" made their own Ouija board? What is wrong with this guy? So he and his imaginary friend made a freaking imaginary Ouija board, no doubt gazing lovingly in each other's eyes. Yep, I knew my story was missing something. Arts and crafts.

Let's compare again.

Someone who is actually interesting:

Eventually, the reaction from the pointer got more furious. Even though we both had only our fingertips lightly on the board, I felt the a strong pulling force coming from below the board itself practically pulling it away. Without a question, the pointer raced across the board, quicker than we could follow.

The message stated:"H-E-I-S-H-E-R-E"

It took us a second before it registered.

He is here.

Game over. Charles and I, along with the entire group, ran outside the room. I've never been that freaked out before in my life.

Someone who is a sad pathetic person:

At that very instant I felt a coldness overtake me, and something I don't know what, or even if it was real, touched my shoulder. I glanced upwards and saw everyone staring, with frightened faces, past my head at what should have been empty space behind me in the room.
That was all we could take.

Game over. Wayne and I, along with the entire group, ran outdown the satirs and out of the attic. I've never been that freaked out before in my life.

When we got home, I was so frightened that I begged Wayne to hold me. I'd thought of Wayne as a friend yet hoped we could be more. Something about his masculinity comforted me at this time. I could tell from the pressure against my leg as he held me, that he felt the same longing that I had.

Hysterical from the experience, I begged him to take me then and there.

And he did strongly, repeatedly and vigorously. I fondly recall the remnants of his love on my ridiculous moustache.

We were joined in a civil ceremony late last spring.

If you can't think of your own stuff and have to steal from others, then you shouldn't post. I'd read more of your stuff to see what else you've stolen but I can't make it through your weak narcolepsy inducing posts.

Asshole.

The Belly Of The Beast

2007-09-14T10:43:00.000-07:00

Today, the most powerful man in the free world, V.P. Dick Cheney, came to Grand Rapids to speak about Iraq and the War on Terror to an invitation-only group of politicians, friends, donors, VIPs, and others. Due to a glitch in the Matrix, I received an invitation.

The event took place at the Gerald Ford Presidential Museum. President Ford was Grand Rapids' favorite son, who rose to the Presidency in an unlikely turn of events similar to when Abin Sur passed on the mantle of the Green Lantern to Hal Jordan.

Those who have read this blog can probably sense my political bend. I'm a radical moderate. My general philosophy is that people should be left alone to do what they want as long as it doesn't hurt others and I don't have to pay for it. That kind of sounds like I'm a libertarian, but I don't think I am, if for no other reason that I don't still live with my parents.

Although I'm not a Cheney fan, I wasn't going to turn down such a rare invitation. I sat in front of a couple of blue hairs, who must have alternatively thought they were either at church or a Tom Jones' concert. They couldn't agree enough with everything that he said, literally saying "Amen" to every other statement. I was ready for them to start throwing hotel keys or their giant panties up on the podium.

So there I was, like an aneurysm in the Hive Mind. You see, when you talk about the conservative Midwest, when you're wondering who makes up the 25% or so people who think everything is going swimmingly, you're probably talking about Grand Rapids.

I resisted the urge to get my 15 minutes of national prominence by yelling out "Howard Stern!" or "Make my funk the P-Funk!" If I hadn't controlled myself, you all could be watching clips of me being pummeled by the Secret Service on YouTube right now.

Cheney's opening act was a patriotic a capella group called (seriously) Voices of Freedom. They performed all the hits like "God Bless America," "I'm Proud to Be An American," and "Sexual Healing". Ok, maybe not the last one, but it would've brought down the house.

I'm an open-minded person. I appreciate good, persuasive arguments even if I don't agree with them. And in fairness, Cheney delivered the best justification that I've ever heard for keeping a significant military presence in Iraq. Although he made numerous conclusory statements on things that I think are arguable at best, he gave an excellent clear-minded, logical, forceful argument for the necessity of the war.

And then he turned into a bat and flew away.

The Revolution Will Be Airbrushed

2007-08-03T07:17:00.000-07:00

Lindsay, I know things have been crazy for you lately. I appreciate that you've taken time to talk to me.

That's ok, D. I knew that I could count on you to get my message out unfiltered. But I have to ask that you not call me by my government name. I am now Afeni Amaru X.

Uh, Ok. Why did you change your name?

It's part of my journey to truth. I have defined myself and rejected the classification that the oppressors have laid on me.

Who are the oppressors?

Isn't it obvious? There is a network of corporate, government, and media conspirators that is pulling the strings not only to bring me down, but also my sisters in the struggle, Paris, Nicole, and Britney.

Why do you believe that you are being targeted?

The Man does not want to see thin attractive young women of economic means succeed. They want to bring us down and incarcerate us. It's political, isn't it obvious?

Frankly, no.

Surely you can't think that so many of us being jailed and vilified in the media all at the same time is mere coincidence. The proof of the conspiracy is staggering. Do you know that right now, there are more debutantes and actresses in jail than in college? Why is that?

Most seem to be jailed for alcohol related offenses.

Alcohol. That's how the Man dealt with the Native Americans, isn't it?

I still don't understand why you believe that the government would conspire to bring you down.

We inspire youth. They know that we could one day rise up and start the revolution.

It would be the only revolution that has to stop after every meal to purge.

Don't make light of this. I am part of the SLF, the Starlet Liberation Front, a revolutionary group designed to cast off the Tiffany chains of our oppressors.

How long has the SLF been in operation?

We've been operating in secret over the past several years, usually meeting in the VIP sections of nightclubs. You've seen our signs in your media rags and internet sites, but you've been blind to them.

I don't understand.

The black power movement used the powerful sign of the black fist to show solidarity. We've adopted our own. Surely, you don't think all those pictures of us getting out of limousines without underwear were accidental. That's our sign. Instead of the black fist, we use the pink...

Um, this is a family site.

I'm sorry. But can you think of any more powerful sign? What prompts more anxiety in our society than female sexuality? Originally, we were going to use the nipple slip but it wasn't as empowering.

So what we are seeing now in the media is evidence that your organization is under attack?

Yes. Although we managed to operate in secret for awhile, the FBI started putting infiltrators in our midst. When the revolution occurs, that traitorous snitch Hilary Duff while be the first up against the wall!

Why are you telling me this?

Just in case something happens to me. Look at Sister Britney. She's being made an example. And Sister Nicole, going to jail while she carries a child of the revolution. It won't be long until one of us is assassinated.

Is there anything that you want to tell today's young women?

Stay strong, my sisters. Wake up. And don't let them hate you because you're beautiful.

It's Business Time!

2007-07-17T15:57:00.001-07:00

Damn, I love this.

Screw You, Neal Schweiber!

2007-07-11T11:11:00.000-07:00

Last month, I attended Robert McKee's Story Seminar in San Francisco. For those that are unfamiliar, McKee is considered the "guru" for aspiring (and working) screenwriters and has created a cult-like following. I've read his book "Story" and decided to treat myself to travelling across the country on Northwest Airlines (whose motto is a tie between "Bags? What bags?" and "We've cancelled your flight, isn't that funny?") for his 36-hour, three day seminar.

I can't even make a joke about it. It was an amazing, profound experience. I unsuccessly tried to explain how great this weekend was to a friend, but he kept asking me "Are you sure that you didn't get laid out there?"

Anyway, Pixar reportedly sends a bunch of people to the seminar when it's in SF. It's not unusual for well known screenwriters, directors, producers, etc. to attend along side wanna-be's like yours truly. I saw a couple of people that looked familiar and I thought were in the industry, but there was one that I had no doubt about.

On the first day, I noticed a guy in the class that looked very familar. I leaned over to a guy sitting next to me:

"Wait a minute, is that...?"

"Yeah, it's the guy from Freaks and Geeks."

It was Samm Levine, who played Neal Schweiber on the late lamented Freaks and Geeks, a cult favorite show. Ok, not exactly A-list, but there is something weird about seeing someone "famous" in an intimate setting (no really, I didn't get laid on the trip).

So for the rest of the weekend, I tortured myself about whether I should introduce myself to him. My internal dialogue was like this:

Wow, I should say 'hello'. But what do I say? That I liked Freaks and Geeks. I could say that I enjoyed his work. No, that's too trite. I bet everyone says that. Besides, it wasn't like he was my favorite character or anything. That would be Bill Haverchuck. What if I said that I thought he was good on that episode of Entourage. Maybe even "That's so Raven," I bet no one has ever said that. He doesn't seem to be interacting with anyone. Maybe he doesn't want to be bothered.

Later that day:

Screw Samm Levine! Thinks he's too good to say hello? It's not like he's ridden to a high level of success after the show tanked. Not Another Teen Movie? Please. Freaking child star. Who does he think he is, anyway? Look at him sitting there, all aloof.

The next day:

You know, he's probably a decent guy. No one is approaching him, maybe they don't know who he is. Not that many people watched Freaks and Geeks. But wait, would I even talk to him if he wasn't on a television show? Probably not. So I'm supposed to drop everything to kiss his ass? Forget that! Well, I guess I could pretend like I don't know who he is, and let him tell me. And then I could play it off, like "yeah, I watched Freaks and Geeks, you were on that? Really, who did you play? No, I don't remember you." You know, put him on the defensive and make him do the work.

Sunday afternoon:

Hey, a couple of people are talking to him. He's making conversation. He's telling them a story. Boy, he's really getting into it. He's really animated. A little too much if you ask me. That's so sad, he's like relieved that someone recognized him. Maybe I've got him all wrong.

I'm embarrassed to say that I tried to make eye contact with him during breaks. You know, then smoothly open up with a line. Who knows, maybe we'd hit it off, you never know, right? But nothing. I think by the end of the seminar, he was starting to get a little scared of me.

So yeah, in addition to attending an incredible seminar, I spent the weekend unsuccessfully trying to "hit on" a guy. Then again, I was in San Francisco. When in Rome, I guess.

The Rumors Of My Demise

2007-05-30T10:12:00.000-07:00

... have only been slightly exaggerated.

I won't bore you all with the details of my absence (cough...rehab... cough, cough). I will share with you another career limiting opportunity that I've been offered. To add to attorney, freelance writer, stand-up comedian, and failed blogger, I know will be a beauty pageant judge...um...for Miss Teen Michigan.

Man, that last sentence would have been a lot more impressive if not for the "teen" part. I mean, we're not talking about the Jon Benet Ramsey types of pageant, which I think are only legal in Thailand. No, this is affiliated with Miss Michigan which feeds into Miss America. So see, it's totally respectable, right?

My friends' reactions have been divided among gender lines. The word "creepy" isn't used in everyday conversation, but just about every single woman that I've shared this news with has uttered it. One even accused me of being a tool of patriarchal oppression, as if the pageant is kidnapping girls off the street and forcing them to come up with a five minute talent routine (If only...)

My male friends just want to know who I paid off.

The weird thing is that someone recommended me saying that I would be "perfect" as a judge.
I'm a little concerned why someone thought that I would be perfect for this. I hope it's because of my sense of humor and not because I'm not a registered sex offender.

As a writer, I think this is worth doing for the experience alone. And let me tell you, I need new experiences. The only things you all have missed from me in the last month are deconstructions of "Dora the Explorer" and "Wonderpets."

Something In The Water (Does Not Compute)

2007-04-18T10:49:00.000-07:00

As if I'm not already fully stocked up on crazy, I recently read that testing of our local water supply revealed traces of prescription medications such as birth control hormones, Codeine, and Prozac.

I'm not sure how I feel about this. I'm not an alarmist. I'd put this on my list of worries down somewhere between spontaneous human combustion and goblins.

I'm not even sure I'm opposed to intentionally putting drugs in the water supply. In fact, they should probably pump anti-depressants into the water like they do Flouride. I do find it interesting, however, that given the area's prevailing moral values, it is easier to get birth control medication from the water here than in our pharmacies.

I found some of the comments in the article interesting:

Perbeck is most concerned about the effect of birth-control hormones on fish. In some parts of the country, scientists have found male fish with female ovarian tissues.

"The fish are constantly exposed to hormones," Perbeck said.

So as if high mercury levels aren't enough, now we have to worry about transsexual fish. And if they mate with the snakehead fish, they'll be able to walk on land. Giving fish uncontrolled access birth control would no doubt lead to increased aquatic promiscuity and the spread of STD's.

I don't suggest that our water is any worse that in any other place. If drugs are in our water, they're probably in yours, too. So from now on, no more flushing your drugs down the toilet.

Unless, of course, the police are banging on your door.

Sam-I-Am: An Intimate Portrait

2007-04-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

It's evening on a rundown corner of Whoville. Few would suspect that the shaggy haired man standing next to me was once one of the most notorious drug pushers in the land.

He says those days are behind him. Just recently paroled, he says he's fortunate to get out of what he calls "The Game" still a relatively young man. So many others meet their ends in prison or in a body bag.

He returns home seeking a new life and stopping others from following in his footsteps.

Tell me what it was like growing up here.

It was rough. Unfortunately, things haven't gotten much better. My earliest childhood memory was peeking out of the window one night after hearing some shouting in front of our house. See back then, the Star-Bellied Boys ran this block. That night, a crew got caught on the wrong side of Whoville without stars upon thars, you know what I'm sayin'. Things got a little heated. I remember a stray bullet crashing in through my window, just missing my head.

Say, that's a story I bet no one can beat.

Yeah. And to think that I saw it on Mulberry Street.

When did you start pushing drugs?

Well, I was brought up in The Game. My pops ran a Star-On/Star-Off Machine Scam down on the beach, so it was in my blood. It seemed like everybody had a hustle in that day. I used to run with a home invasion crew led by the Cat in the Hat and Thing One and Thing Two.

When I was about fifteen I got hooked up with a crew that found a green eggs and ham supplier from Colombia. I'll never forget my first sale. There was this old cranky Who from down the block who didn't like me. I was like "Never mind liking me, I'm about to hook you up with some green eggs and ham. You've got to hit this stuff. It'll blow your mind." He was all on this "just say no" shit, so he wasn't trying to hear it. But I was persistent. I wouldn't take "no" for an answer. I was like, "just try it."

And what happened when he did?

You can guess. That's some addictive shit. Crack has nothing on green eggs and ham. The next thing you know, he was a green eggs and ham fiend. He was eating it in the rain, on the train, in a house, with a mouse. He would eat it here and there. He would eat it anywhere.

But only the first hit was free, you know.

So I was making lots of money, having fun that's funny, all that stuff. Eventually, I got too big and I got brought down. I ended up getting sent upstate for 10 years.

What was prison like?

There is nothing good about prison, don't let anyone fool you. My cellie Horton was cool though.

Horton? Why was he in prison?

He was in for assault.

Assault? Horton seems like a gentle soul.

Well they say Horton hurt a ho.

So what are you going to do now that you're out?

I'm trying to reach out to the youngsters. See that kid over there?

Sam-I-Am points to a teenaged yellow furred Who wearing a "Stop Sneetchin'" t-shirt.

That's the type of young Who that I'm trying to reach. He reminds me of myself at that age. Tryin' to be hard. You know, acting like his heart is two sizes too small. He probably grew up without a pop to hop on.

I tell kids like him that they don't have to end up like me. He's got a head full of brains and shoes full of feet. If he could just stay away from the Game...Oh, the places he'll go!

ADHD

2007-04-11T10:14:00.000-07:00

Idle thought in an attempt to get the motor running again:

Snoop Dogg, being charged with gun and marijuana possession? Are you serious? How can this be?

Talk about picking the low-hanging fruit. He's been picked up several times over the last few months for having marijuana and weapons. It's almost too easy for the police. Police departments should use him to train their cadets on drug searches. Anyone who can't find weed on him should flunk out of the academy.

Usually police officers have to have probable cause to search someone. Here, the probable cause is that he's freaking Snoop Dogg.

I would imagine that the prosecution is going to have a relatively easy time with this one:

Prosecutor: Can you please tell the Jury what Mr. Dogg was doing before you searched him?

Police Officer: Well, he was rolling down the street smoking endo and I believe he was sipping on a substance that turned out to be gin and juice.

Prosecutor: What was his demeanor?

Police Officer: Laid back.

Prosecutor: Laid back?

Police Officer: Yes. You know, like he had his mind on his money and his money on his mind.

I wonder if it's too late to market and sell some "Free Snoop" t-shirts.

Stay Tuned

2007-04-09T13:28:00.000-07:00

I've had Britney chained to a radiator in my house over the past few weeks. It's taking a little longer than I expected to get the Devil out of her. Will post soon.

Cookie Monster

2007-03-15T07:46:00.000-07:00

My co-workers have received their annual delivery of Girl Scout Cookies. For some reason, and despite the fact that there were at least 90 people selling them, I've missed the ordering time. I feel like a Hindu on Christmas.

I'm not happy about this. I think the Girl Scouts are very savvy by limiting the sales period and narrowing the distrubition channels, thereby artificially increasing demand. So now I'm cookieless when people are practically making forts in their offices out of the dozens of boxes they ordered. Sure I've thought about entering the Girl Scout Cookie gray market, and pay a premium to get some of their surplus cookies, but people are pretty reluctant to part with their cookies, knowing that they won't be able to get more until next year.

And Girl Scout Cookies are like crack. Actually, I take that back. Besides that being an overused cliche, I've never actually tried crack, so I'm unqualified to compare its addictive quality to these cookies. So I guess what I mean to say is that Girl Scout Cookies are like heroin.

I managed to score a box of Shortbread cookies from a generous co-worker. Well, actually they fell out of her tote bag after I pushed her down a stairway.

Anyway, Girl Scout Cookies have to be the greatest fundraising device. Nothing against the Girl Scouts, but they aren't that high on my list of charitable organizations. The highest, by the way, would be the Society for the Prevention of BDD. But it doesn't matter, if Al-Qaeda sold Cartwheels, I'd probably buy them.