December 15, 2006

Virtual S.M.I.C.

In the interest of squeezing every last drop of comedic mileage out of my work, and prolonging as long as possible the hibernation into which I seem to have entered, and which I break from only to void my bowels or pop another enchilada into the microwave, here are all of the sketches I wrote for the S.M.I.C. show that haven't yet been posted. Some we ran, others we didn't, some are funnier than others. But I'll be damned if you won't read it and like it, you ungrateful curs.

It's like you were there, only without any human interaction or performative element!

Closeted Brit Sketch


Sharon- a nice, peacemaker type
Craig- an angry young man
James- A closeted British man

James is standing tensely, Sharon is seated. Craig comes in with a tea service and sets it on a coffee table.

Why don't you sit down, James?

Oh, no thanks, I've got somewhere to be. Listen, guys, what is this all about?

Tea, anyone? Fresh, hot, delicious tea.

None for me thanks.


James sighs and smiles.

Uh—yeah, alright. I mean, why not?

Great, great.

Craig stares at Sharon, who looks back at him. He arches his eyebrows and motions to James. James notices this.

What? Guys, what is it?

Nothing, nothing. Say, did anyone catch Black Adder on BBC America last night? That Rowan Atkinson is something, isn't he James?

Uh—he's all right.

Oh I think he's better than all right, don't you Sharon? I think he's bloody brilliant. Wouldn't you agree James? Wouldn't you say that Rowan Atkinson, Benny Hill, and Monty Python are all bloody brilliant?

Yeah, sure, they're great. Sharon--

James, we just need to know.

Know what? What's gotten into you guys?

Nothing, James. Nothing but a delicious crumpet, love for the monarchy, and a nice stroll down from Weston Super Mare to catch the cricket match.

Craig, I have no idea what you're going on about! Is this about the garage, because if you want, I can park my car on the street.

It's not about that.

It's about football, James. Football. I love it. Don't you? What with its goalies, and red cards, and penalty kicks.

Yeah, yeah, football's great. What are you trying to say?

Aha! Football isn't football James, it's soccer! You wouldn't know football if it sacked you in the endzone, you British son of a bitch!

Guys, this is crazy.

Admit it! Remember that time I asked you to take me to the dentist, and then we had to have that long conversation about what it was he did. You were fascinated, weren't you James? Weren't you?! You with your dry wit and love of cross dressing!

Craig, please. James, we're not upset, we just need to know. I—I found some blood pudding in the fridge yesterday, and, I mean, I know I didn't put it there so...

James looks as if he's in anguish. Finally, he sniffs, straightens, and addresses them in a perfect English accent.

Well, so what if I am?

Craig throws a chair against the wall. Tears of rage stand out in his eyes.

Godamnit!! I trusted you!

Listen here, you bloody wanker!

Hey! Guys--

I should have known! No one can like Shakespeare that much and not be a flaming Brit!

The bard is a foundation of Western culture, you inbred twat!

You limey bastard!

Stop it! Stop it! You're tearing me apart!

CRAIG (Tearing up)
You make me sick.

You think you're so much better than me, do you? Eh? Well, mister, I didn't ask to be born this way, you know? I didn't ask to be...British! I'd love to be normal, like the rest of you, and laugh at Larry the Cable Guy, but I just can't! I can't, I tell you! I love intelligent humor, and I spell things with a “u,” and I hate Indians!

CRAIG (Chanting)
God don't stand for this kind of iniquity! God hates the British! God hates the British! British burn in hell!

Right, well, this is real reasonable innit, you bollocksed arse! You've got the poor bird on a jag! Oi, I need a fag.

James fishes around in his pocket. As he talks, Craig covers his ears, grimacing as if in physical pain.

Shit, I left 'em in the lorry. I'll hafta take the bloody lift. I'm already late for my herbs and aluminum club.

Shut up! Just shut up!

James leaves, offended. Craig runs to a window and watches him. A beat.

Is he getting away?

No, no, he's just sitting in the passenger's seat. Thank God for American cars.

Okay, I'll call the police.

I'll get the bat.

They both exit.

FACT! Interstitial Segments

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I hate waiting in lines. FACT!

That which does not kill you may well leave you in a permanently debilitated or vegetative state. FACT!

In 1953, FBI head J. Edgar Hoover began a study of the effects of then-unknown Reality Television shows on celebrity participants as part of a project dubbed “OPERATION: PENETRATION” whose express intention was to destroy the future relationship of Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey on national television, thereby disillusioning Americans with the institution of marriage in order to prepare mankind for the coming of government-enforced bigamy, the aim of which is to provide our secret, subterranean alien overlords with the nutritious brain stems they so greatly desire.. FACT!

There is no moon. What you think is the moon was destroyed by Russian missiles in the latter half of the Cold War. FACT!

The average human can hold their breath for up to nine minutes underwater, although few have had the tenacity to attempt this. FACT!

Though appearing docile, if given the opportunity, horses would eat you and your family. FACT!

The average sentence spoken by an American youth contains only 4 words, roughly 3 more than are necessary to prove a point. For example: FACT!

The word racecar is spelled the same backwards as forwards. FACT!

All you need is love, four American dollars, a fifth of good scotch, and a friend willing to suck snake venom from any part of your body should the need arise. FACT!

Pie Factory Sketch



An office.

This is usurpation, Daniel, and I won't let you get away with it!

Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, old man, but the rest of the board agrees with me. Your days at this Pie Manufacturing Firm are numbered.

Listen here, you little punk: my grandfather started this company in 1913 with nothing but two graham crackers and a bucket of cream. Hand whipped, mind you! He baked his pies in God's own sunshine, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let this company fall into the hands of some technophile, paper-pushing little nothing!

Mr. Wilson, this company has been headed downhill ever since you took control of it. You've torpedoed idea after idea.

I needed to fund the new pie line!

Your new pie line just made matters worse!

The world wasn't ready!

The world doesn't want beef jerky in their pies! The world doesn't want resealable crusts, and the world doesn't want “mystery fillings.”

Those mystery fillings were brilliant!

You killed a man! Pins, Wilson?! Pins?! The lawsuit cost the firm millions. You're through, Wilson, gone. You've screwed up for the last time.

Long pause. Wilson is sad.

Do I get to keep the office?



I'm afraid not.

The pie then. A pie, anything.

Fine. The boys downstairs will get you a pie on your way out.

No! I want my grandpa's pie, dammit!

Fine. Bring in the pie.

A secretary comes in with an old, half-eaten pie. She hands it to Wilson.

This is it. The first pie to come off the assembly line. The one that started it all.

Wilson, tears in his eyes, takes a bite of the pie.

Alright, you've got the pie, now go.

Come on, Mr. Wilson

As the secretary tries to escort Wilson out, he starts to struggle, hurling the pie at Danny, but it falls short. He is led out, weeping. After a beat, Danny goes to his desk and hits and intercom button.

Hold my calls.

He rips his shirt open, scoops up two handfulls of pie, and smears himself, laughing maniacally.

Reclusive Date Sketch



A restaurant.

This is a nice place.

Oh, thanks. I've never really done this whole internet dating thing before, I thought it might be a good choice. They have a good mix of food, you know.

Yeah, yeah, I'm seeing that. I usually just eat at home, you know, so this is nice.

Oh, where do you live?

I'm not really comfortable sharing that with you.

Oh! Ok.

Sorry, it's just, online, you know, you have to be careful.

No, no, I understand. Um, well, it said on your profile that you're a teacher?

I don't really want to talk about that.


Long silence. A waiter approaches.

Excuse me, could we get some bread?

Of course.


You like bread?

That's a little personal, quite frankly.

HARRY (Surprised)


How is that personal?

I said, I don't want to talk about it.

Wow. Wow, now I'm just really curious.


No, I mean you don't have to tell me. That's just tantalizing, that's all.

Hm. Well, you didn't list “prying” as one of your hobbies, so I didn't think it would really be an issue.

The waiter comes with bread.

And are you ready to order?

Uh, yeah. I'll have the roast duck l'orange, and the mousse for desert.

Very good sir. For the lady?

Betsy holds her menu up so the waiter can see it but Harry can't and points to what she wants.

And bring it in a paper bag please.

Okay, I'll get those started right away.





I like those pants.

Thank you. Yeah, they make my ass look good, but they make my butt sweat.

Awkward laugh from Harry.

Hah. like,, it's like I'm swimming in my own juices over here.


I like your pants too. What are those? Are those capri pants, or what?

I'm just not comfortable enough with you to talk about that, okay? You're pushing me, and I don't appreciate it.


Long silence. The waiter comes with a plate of food and a paper bag. He sets the bag down in front of Betsy and she grabs it.

I'm going to freshen up.

All right.

Betsy takes her bag and exits. Harry addresses the waiter.

She's going to eat dinner in the bathroom, isn't she?

Yes, sir. Can I get you anything else?

No, thanks, I'm fine.

The waiter exits and Harry takes a bite. He yells off towards the waiter.

Hey this is good! This is really good.

He keeps eating.

Nike Ad Spoof


A GUY plays basketball. He is incredible. He performs a series of amazing moves.

Two KIDS are watching him from the bleachers. One kid is lacing up his shoes, and the other taps him on the shoulder.

Hey, check this guy out.

Kid B looks up.


The Guy performs an even more incredible feat, dunking the ball from halfcourt or something similar. Slo-motion shots, up-angle shots, the whole bit.

Kid B is astonished.


The Guy is wiping his face with a towel as he walks off court, passing the two Kids.

Hey, man, you’re incredible.


What’s your secret?

The Guy smiles slyly.

It’s the shoes.

Pan down to reveal he is wearing the foot-skin of a black man over his own, bare feet.


How did I not notice that before?


A Nike swoosh appears and fills the center of the screen.

Magic Johnson’s Feet. The real choice for a real athlete. Teach your feet to fly.


KID B (Excited)
Where can I get some?

The Guy looks at the Kid like he’s crazy.

You can’t. They’re Magic Johnson’s feet. These are the only pair.

KID B (Disappointed)

Didn’t he have AIDS?

The Guy pauses, then looks panicked.

Oh dear God.

November 6, 2006


Everyone in the San Diego area (or any area for that matter) is officially but not cordially invited to attend my latest attempt at contributing to the dumbing down of popular culture. Details are on the flier.

GH 157 is on UCSD campus in La Jolla, in Galbraith Hall, across from the La Jolla Playhouse. For a satellite image of that, click here.

I believe any other pertinent info is reproduced above, although I will urge you, if you can, to come to one of the late, non-family friendly shows, as they include some of the funnier sketches.

October 31, 2006

24 Deleted Scenes/Outtakes


KIEFER SUTHERLAND and SEAN ASTIN stand center frame on a sound stage. In the background, grips move props and set pieces around. A guy dressed as a terrorist walks by.

Hi. I'm Kiefer Sutherland, and I portray Counter-Terrorist agent Jack Bouer in the Television series 24. This is my friend and fellow cast member, Sean Astin.

I was Sam in Lord of the Rings.

You know, in a dramatic and tightly plotted series like ours, which attempts to show you, in real time, the events unfolding during one very bad day, a lot can get left out. That's why we decided to compile this special edition of 24, highlighting the moments in Jack Bouer's workday that we just didn't have time for.

I was Mikey in The Goonies.


Pause. The actors seem to drop character. Keifer looks at Sean.


A red time code tics seconds away, as dramatic musical stings hit with every increment. Dunn. DUNN. DUNN! On the last beat, the clock disappears, leaving the screen blank again.


A close up of JACK BOUER, revealing only his eyes and brow. His brow is tensed, his eyes flick back and forth intensely.

A wider shot reveals that Jack is reading Time Magazine. The cover story is about a bomb that's going to kill everyone in 24 hours.

A wider shot reveals that Jack is on the toilet. There is a loud knock at the door.

BILL (O.S.):
Jack! Come on!

Just a minute!

Split-screen shots show Jack setting down the magazine. Jack washing his hands. Jack pulling up his pants. Jack staring into space looking intense.


BILL BUCHANAN waits impatiently for Jack, who comes out of the bathroom.

Jack, time is running out!

I know that! I know! Look, I'm a human being for God's sake. I was holding that in all day.

Well get your ass into the briefing room. Chloe's got some intel for us concerning the bomb's whereabouts.

Chloe? Does it have to be Chloe?

Dammit Jack, Chloe is the best intel person this agency has!

I know, but she looks like someone punched her in the face. She's like a poor man's Renee Zelwegger.

Agreed, but there's not time to get anyone else. In case you've forgotten, there's a bomb--

Alright! I'm doing it! God, you don't have to be a jerk about it.


A red time code tics seconds away, as dramatic musical stings hit with every increment.


Jack is yelling at someone. We can't see who.

You may have time to screw around here, but I don't! Lives are at risk, lives that I'm not willing to jeopardize for your sake! So you give me what I want, and you give it to me now!

Wider shot reveals Jack at a drive through window, yelling at a bored-looking TEEN.

Sir, like I said, the fryalator is broken.

Give me the burger then! I'll start now!

Jack grabs a bag of food from the teen, rips it open, and starts messily devouring a hamburger. After a moment, the teen hands him his fries. He starts to eat them.

That's 6.05--

Jack has already started driving off.

I don't have time! National security!

Jack keeps eating his fries, and there's a ringing sound. He hits a button on the dash, and we hear Buchanan's voice over a speaker.

BILL (O.S.):
Jack, how close are you to the weapons depot?

I got held up in traffic, but I'm on my way now.

BILL (O.S.):
Dammit Jack!

There was nothing I could do sir. Terrorists...shot...someone.

BILL (O.S.):
Are you eating?

How dare you question my dedication to this agency! I should turn around right now and--

BILL (O.S.):
Jack! Video phone!


BILL (O.S.):
We installed a video phone.

Jack is silent for a moment, then suddenly pulls over to the side of the road. He starts crying, stuffing the last of the french fries into his mouth.

BILL (O.S.):
Jack? Jack, what are you doing?

Could you just---give me a minute? Please?

BILL (O.S.):

No, shut up! Can I say something? I'm trying really hard, okay? And, I—I just wanted some fries, and I thought that—just forget it. I suck. Everything I do just gets messed up!

BILL (O.S.):
Jack, stop crying, dammit!

I'm a terrible secret agent!

BILL (O.S.):
Jack, listen to me. Jack, that's not true, you're a great agent. Come on...who's my big strong agent? Jackie? Who's gonna stop the bomb?

My wife got killed, you know, and--

BILL (O.S.):
Shh. Shh. I know, I know. Come on. Who's gonna stop the bomb? Who's my big agent? Who's going to save the city, even though he never gets any credit and his loved ones get repeatedly killed?

JACK (Sullenly):
I am.


A red time code tics seconds away, as dramatic musical stings hit with every increment.

Jack and Chloe are interrogating a subject. The man is tied to a chair. Chloe looks like Renee Zelwegger. Jack is sweaty and exhausted from beating the man. He hits him across the face, and yells.

Tell me who you work for!

The man spits in Jack's face, then says something in arabic. Jack pulls out a gun and puts it to his head.

Jack, this isn't working! We've tried everything, he's not going to talk.

Jack puts the gun back in his belt, and marches off with a purpose.

Wait here, I've got an idea.

Chloe looks at the terrorist and smirks, making her face look bizarre and uncomfortable.

If I were you, I'd start talking. Jack isn't known for his compassion.

The terrorist grimaces at her expression.

You are the reason we invented burkhas.


Jack is asleep on the floor. He's napping in the fetal position. Various split screen shots show him from different angles.

Chloe is standing over Jack.


Wuzzuh! Wah! Uh--

What are you doing?!

JACK (Groggily springing to his feet):
I'm on it! I'm on it! Where's the bomb?!

Jack, we're supposed to be interrogating someone!

JACK (Rubbing sleep out of his eyes):
I was—power napping...for power.


Kiefer and Sean.

Finally, as a special bonus, we'd like to share with you a never-before-seen alternate ending to season 2. Because of some differences of opinion between the writers and producers, the following scene was shot and edited, but ultimately scrapped in favor of a different, much better one. Enjoy.

I was Rudy, in Rudy. That was a good one.


A red time code tics seconds away, as dramatic musical stings hit with every increment.


Jack is on the phone with Buchanan. Dead bodies litter the ground. Jack is heaving with exertion.

I've done it. I've killed the terrorists and recovered the bomb. The world is safe.

BILL (O.S.):
The world owes you a debt of gratitude, Jack. Unfortunately, because of the political climate, we're not going to be able to let the public know of your involvement.

That's fine, sir. I don't do it for the fame.

Also, we're going to have to fake your death--


And fly you, in a packing crate, to Indonesia.


Where you will live undercover--


As a sewer treatment specialist--

Come on!


What? Why is that even necessary?!

Goodbye Jack. I'll call you again if we need anything.

You guys suck!

Buchanan hangs up. Jack is exasperated.



KIEFER SUTHERLAND and SEAN ASTIN stand center frame on a sound stage. In the background, grips move props and set pieces around.

There you have it. The exciting, uncut world of 24.

I was also the voice of Kodi in Balto 3: Wings of Courage.

Sean, I swear to God, I will ruin you.


October 24, 2006

The Lost Lord Bellingham Letters

Historians recently uncovered a chest dating from the mid-16th century, containing the complete lifetime of correspondence of an English noble, Lord Bellingham III. Reprinted here are three of the manuscripts, which I hope will give modern readers some insight into the world of Elizabethan England.

A Letter Addressed to William Shakespeare

O, you perfidious and cocksome baldpate!

In my flowered youth, I was stricken with the odious French Disease, contracted when I didst lay with a young boy in sin. For well nigh a fortnight I lay prostrate in my chambers, my innards twisted and bowels freely and liberally expressing themselves upon my carpeted floor.
Such discomfit was naught when compared to the pain inflicted by the bumbling exhibited on the unworthy scaffold of The Globe this Saturday last.

Thy rank performance, which thou hadst the balls to monicker “As You Like It,” made one want rather to masturbate with a fistful of tenpenny nails. In sooth, the cavorting and warbling of thy cast onstage reminded me of nothing so much as my recent visit to Ye Olde Woodehouse School For Retards.

I beseech thee, return the ha’penny I paid for admission to thy play, or risk the browning of my boot tip in thy capacious arse.

Tis true a ha’penny is naught to me, a Lord so wealthy that I couldst on a whim purchase your petty theatre for conversion into a bearbaiting pit or other wholesome entertainment, but tis a matter of principle. I did not gain my wealth by frittering it away upon amateur theatricals akin to the flatulence I can enjoy for free in the presence of my colossal and gaseous wife.

Master Shakespeare, your plays are excrement, your acting still worse, and if the world holds any justice thy name shall be forgotten ten minutes past thy death.

Lord Bellingham III

PS Enclosed, please find an artistic rendering of myself engaged in forcible homosexual intercourse with your person.

On Lord Wriothesley’s Newest Fife and Tabor Composition

Thy notes did pour forth from the page and fly
Into mine ear where they didst find a nook,
And nestled there, then urging me to cry
“I’m reminded of a dump that I once took!”
Security at thy estate was bold
In carting hence my vainly flailing form,
But no amount of beating couldst withhold
My shrieks that thou wert “sucking up a storm!”
Yes, bloodied be my nose by your swift thugs,
And drunk I was when I decried thy work,
Yet no amount of ale or other drugs
Can e’er make me deny thou art a jerk.
In short, though thou be made into a saint,
Thy fife and tabor piece can eat my taint.

A Short Story Submitted to “The Ripping Bodice,” an Erotic Magazine

Dear Ripping Bodice Magazine,

In sooth, I never thought it could happen to me. Yet there I stood, in the luminous presence of her most divine majesty, the virgin queen, Regina Dentata, Elizabeth I.

“Come, Bellingham,” purred she, face painted a pure white, and rose lips a-quiver. She wast clad in a dress most cumbersome, regal and expansive about its whalebone underframe. I strode to the throne whereon she sat and began the laborious process of removing that royal garment.

Panting with impatience, the Queen eyed my fumbling hands with contempt, and in a single move swept the hem of her dress over my head. Once within the close embrace of her naked and moon-pale thighs, I wast greeted with a sight and smell most scintillating.

The royal venus mons, tempered with the maturity of sixty winters and untouched by the hand of man. The Elizabethan love muffin smelled and looked akin to an ancient and wizened cheese, musky and inviting.

I can tell thee with no shame, I soon felt a stirring in my codpiece most insistent. My rod of rule strained fitfully ‘gainst its stays, as blood flooded it like a wineskin full to bursting.

“I command thee,” came the Queen’s illustrious voice from above, “engage orally with my virgin O, and bring thy Lady to a climax befitting the head and heart of the vast English empire.”

“I am at your service,” I replied, bringing the moistened tip of my tongue to th’ entrance of her long-sealed and secret cave. The taste, much like to a delectable blood pudding…

[The rest of the manuscript is soiled and unreadable]

October 19, 2006

Two Young Gentlemen Attend a Dance at Their High School

Brett and Ryan are standing at the borders of a High School Dance, watching everyone else on the dance floor with contempt.

BRETT: Look at all of them. Losers. Dancing to music and crap.

RYAN: Yeah.

They stand there for a long moment, feeling superior to the kids dancing.

BRETT: Where were you this morning? I couldn't get a hold of you. A bunch of us went out to the empty field behind the middle school and threw rocks at this big scorpion's nest.

RYAN: Oh, I can't believe I missed that.

BRETT: You shoulda been there. Jeremy got stung real bad on his foot. It was pretty cool. I think he had to go to the hospital later.

RYAN: Wow. I was helping my Mom out, with some chores.

BRETT: Nerd.

RYAN: Shut up!

BRETT: Whatever. When my Dad gets back from the army, he said he's going to take me out to the dunes on his dune buggies.

RYAN: That's so unbelievably awesome.

BRETT: Yeah, so, maybe you can come. I mean, if you're not too busy with chores.

RYAN: Shut up!

Pause. Brett sneers at the dancers.

BRETT: Heh. Look at them. Losers.

RYAN: Yeah.

BRETT: See that girl?

RYAN: Which?

BRETT: With the boobs.

RYAN: Oh. Oh! Yeah, totally.

BRETT: You know what I heard? I heard she's so slutty, this one time, at a party, she opened a beer bottle with her cervix.

RYAN: Yow. That is hot.

BRETT: I know, right? (Yells) Hey, Brittany! Hey! I got a bottle of bud right here with you name on it! Oh, that's right! You dance away! Just dance away! Skank. You know Joey, that stoner kid?

RYAN: Which?

BRETT: With the boobs.

RYAN: Oh, yeah, totally.

BRETT: At my cousin's birthday party last year, he totally got it on with a bong.

RYAN: What?

BRETT: No, I'm serious. We had to throw it away. That kid's crazy. And thick, like a PVC pipe.

RYAN: You want punch?

BRETT: Sure.

Amanda comes up and approaches Brett.

AMANDA: Hey, Brett.


AMANDA: Kerri told me you weren't coming tonight.

BRETT: Kerri doesn't know me. No one does.

Amanda giggles.

AMANDA: Do you want to dance?

BRETT: Do you want to do it in the back of my Hyundai?


Brett shrugs. Amanda leaves. Ryan comes back.

RYAN: What were you guys talking about?

BRETT: She was hitting on me, but you scared her off.

RYAN: Oh. Sorry.

BRETT: No biggie. She wasn't my type anyway. I like dangerous chicks. When I yank it, sometimes I go get my Dad's old pistol out of the garage and play Russian Roulette, otherwise I can't finish.

Long, uncomfortable silence.

BRETT: Where's the punch?

RYAN: They're out.

BRETT: Hey, you know what's cool to do sometime?

RYAN: Huh?

BRETT: When a girl is going down on you, play air guitar on the back of her head. I totally did that one time. They love it.

Long pause.

BRETT: Hey! Kerri! Shake it, baby! Yeah! No one's watching, sweetheart! You're all alone! You rub all up on Jim's leg! You like that Jimmy, huh?! Go on Ry, try it.

RYAN: What?

BRETT: Heckling the girls. They like that.

RYAN: Really?

BRETT: Dude, I'm telling you, girls like guys that are jerks. You think I do this because I'm mean? No, I'm a great guy. I do this because that's how it gets done. Go for it.

Ryan hesitantly shouts to the crowd. As he does, Brett scoffs cynically.

RYAN: Hey! Hey, uh—Carol! You—you look really nice tonight! That's a very nice skirt! (Pause.) Yeah, I like it! (Pause) No, no, yeah I saw it there, and I—that's funny I actually thought, you know, hey, that's like something Carol would wear, and then--(Pause). What? Oh, ok! Yeah, I'll, um, I'll get a car, and—just a second-- (To Brett) Can I borrow your Hyundai?

BRETT: Can I get in the trunk and listen?

Ryan grudgingly nods, and Brett gives Ryan the keys. Exuent.

October 3, 2006

So You Knocked Her Up

Howdy again! Every one of you faithful readers should go check out my article, So You Knocked Her Up: a Child Rearing Guide, on the CRACKED website. It's my first time in, and boy howdy does it feel good. Damn good. In fact, I would reccomend the experience to friends.

Go! Read!

An Open Letter to the Middle East

So I’m sitting on the John, sipping from my highball of Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi in between bites of chicken parmegian, when my girlfriend yells at me to close the door. “No,” I mutter, “it locks the fumes in,” and continue reading Frank Zappa’s autobiography. That’s when it hits me. “Ow,” I say.

“It” is a magazine, and not a flimsy one either. It’s a National Geographic, and the spines on those things can do some damage, let me tell you. It was hurled by my girlfriend, obviously, and as I grudgingly shut the door, already plotting an elaborate revenge involving fake birth control pills, a night of passionate lovemaking, and a well-placed Planned Parenthood pamphlet, I happen to glance at the cover.

A man I mistakenly recognize as Abraham Lincoln wearing a turban stares back at me, with the caption “Understanding Osama,” emblazoned beneath him. So, as the Frank Zappa book has by this point vanished somehow (I haven’t found it to this day; don’t ask me how), I finish up my visit to Destination Defecation by parusing the article and, folks, let me tell you something: there is some shit going down in the Middle East.

Did you know about this? I mean, this is nominally a humor blog, but I finally figured it was my duty to inform people of the problems being faced out there. As if the heat and whiny Middle Eastern music weren’t suffering enough, the people of this region are being forced to deal with one anothers’ conflicting cultural and religious beliefs.

It’s not like America, where everyone—be it Catholic, Jew, Hindu, Buddhist, or Muslim—has the God-given freedom to accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Saviour. No, these people have other, different religious beliefs. One’s without a cross even. No church picnics, no Easter, No Jesus Christ Superstar, no nothing.

And they can’t just not hire jews, or keep the black man down, like we do. Their God, who is apparently some sort of invisible lobster, commands that they make unceasing war on them! To make matters worse, they all look alike, so you can imagine the confusion their soldiers are facing on the battlefield.

This is what I gathered from the pictures in the article, anyway. I don’t like reading National Geographic copy; they’re always so snooty.

But one thing I am sure of: if anyone can bring peace to this hotbed of conflict, it’s The Specious. If my calculations are correct, nearly 98% of my readership are Middle Eastern. I gather this from the fact that I constantly get flooded with article comments such as “Nice Site!” “Good Design!” and “Click here for x98&v.,W,w3%^m” originating from ip addresses in the Mideast and North African region. Clearly, I have the ear of the Middle East. And, apparently, they have good taste in site design.

So, my message to you Mideasterners out there: seriously, hey, chill out, huh? Be more like the Midwesterners: friendly, but inconsequential to world affairs. If you won’t do it for economic stability, or to put an end to the endless parade of meaningless deaths, then do it for my sake. For your old buddy at The Specious. Can I get a “loolooloolooloolooloo?”

I hope that clears things up a bit. In any case, I’m finished in the John, so I’m gonna shut down the ‘ol laptop and get wiping. Go in peace, gentle sand apes. And may Jesus rain His Love down upon you like an unceasing barrage of US Missiles. Love Missiles.

September 27, 2006

Oh Dear God, They’re Coming Back!

As fads come and go, each one leaves its indelible mark on our culture. From Skip-it to the PT Cruiser to autoerotic asphyxiation, fads breed fond memories of a simpler, more idyllic existence.

Somewhere in the last twenty years, however, trendomotrists began to notice a new pattern in fads. The ancient Mayans viewed time as cyclical, and their fads—rock juggling, gold hoarding, and a primitive game where you get slaughtered by invading Spaniards—tended to recur.

Similarly, our own nostalgic infatuations are beginning to get a second life as so-called “retro trends.” As evidenced by the grossly distended tattoo of Alfred E. Newman on your upper arm, some fads do not age well, but in our ever-expanding appetite for the newest, latest trends, Americans have nevertheless taken to that most creative of all endeavors: taking something that already exists and making it cool again. Maybe with a flame decal or something.

It’s a lot like digesting food, draining it of all nutrients, crapping it out in a steaming pile, letting it ripen for a couple decades in a chest of old Tiger Beat magazines and Meatloaf cassette tapes, then devouring it whole once again. Our high-speed, low-fi, high-tech, broadband generation is so desperate for new trends that we will gladly ravage our own cultural past, like huddled vagrants picking through a pile of corpses, or a kid going into Hot Topic.

Using sophisticated cultural predictors, a DVD Box Set of every episode of Saved by The Bell: The College Years, and one huge bag of weed, we were able to predict which of the fads from our own youth are likely to come back…to the extreme. Hang on to your Ring-Pops, kids, as we explore the Oroboros-like future/past amalgam that passes for our lives.


Ah, the pog. That loveliest of small paper discs, spangled with an action-packed artist’s depiction of a surfer “carving” waves, or perhaps an iconic and popularity-inducing eight ball. What better way to pass the time than wrest No Fear pogs from the greasy clutches of your greedy, hoarding “friends?” And when it comes to stopping a bottle of Pineapple Orange Guava juice, nothing else will do. They’re stackable, tradeable, and technically edible. That, and I heard that the thin laminate coating can be scraped off and smoked. I’m not saying to do it or anything, I’m just saying that’s what I heard.

Although the game was originally meant as a holy recreation of God’s righteous destruction of the Tower of Babel, Pogs quickly devolved into a schoolyard competition of seeing who can more efficiently whale the shit out of a stack of paper with a giant metal coin, or “slammer.” The boy with the biggest slammer often has the competitive edge (and yes, it is a boy, because no girl has the destructive urge, the sheer will for meaningless violence necessary to becoming a true pog champion). And if that slammer happens to have a hologram-style flaming skull decal, well, you can bet that lucky boy is going to be receiving some congratulatory blowjobs after the match.

Slap Bracelets

These little gems combined the haut couture of neon eighties prints with the excitement of light bondage. In terms of articles that are as fun to put on as they are to wear, the slap bracelet is rivaled only by the flavored dental dam. They had an extremely broad appeal. Boys enjoyed their dynamic snapping action and ability to be thrown at any vaguely cylindrical object, while girls reveled in using rhinestones, glitter, sequins and the like to decorate their bracelets with words and designs. Young boys later adopted this method, chasing girls down and slapping "branding" bracelets on a chosen female, thereby claiming her future ovum.

However, slap bracelets began to lose popularity in the late nineties, when the first batches started to age, shedding their protective nylon coatings and becoming little more than coiled hoops of rusted, serrated metal designed to be violently and repeatedly wrapped around the wrist. While the resulting minor cuts helped spawn the LiveJournal emo trend, they meant the death knell for slap bracelets. With the recent advent of superior synthetic fibers, it is hoped that the improved slap bracelet designs currently being tested by NASA scientists will undergo a Renaissance in the near future.

That Beer Commercial Where the Guys Say “Wasssssuuuuup!”

It started a revolution. It became a national obsession. And it’s still as funny today as ever. That commercial where the guys say “Wasssssuuuuup!” will forever stand beside comedy legends like Chaplin’s “Little Tramp” character, Abbot and Costello’s “Who’s on First?” routine, and Farrell’s “Glass Case of Emotion” monologue. The freshness and staying power of the sketch spoke to the freshness and incoherence engendered by that particular beer. Guys who scream “Wasssssuuuuup,” we salute thee, and eagerly await your predicted return in the guise of a commercial where you say “Whaaaaaaat? Okaaaaaay!”

That Bud Commercial Where the Frogs Say “Bud. Weis. Er.”

As transcendent as the beer commercial where the guys say “Wasssssuuuuup!” is, it does not represent the pinnacle of beer-related humor. No, that spot is reserved for a trio of amphibious Budweiser enthusiasts with the audacity and farsightedness to have uttered the syllables that comprise the name of said beer brand. All I can say is, I’ve got the Budweiser frog poster, bed sheets, and beer cozy, and I’m well on my way to a crippling alcohol dependency. Thank you, Budweiser frogs. With any luck, you and your cousins, the guys who say “Whasssssuuuuup!” will soon be on top once again.

Beanie Babies

Remember when you laughed at morons paying thousands of dollars for misshapen sacks of beans? Good times, right? The Beanie Baby Empire is due for a Second Coming, and when Ally the Alligator descends to cleanse us of our sins, none shall be spared…from cuddles! From Hairy the spider to American Blessing, the American Flag bear who prays for those killed in the 9/11 attacks, Beanie Babies are nothing if not adorable, jingoistic, and vaguely disquieting.

In the trend to come, however, the market for Beanie Babies will no longer be limited to abandoned grandmothers trying to fill their lives with something other than loneliness. Instead, they will come to represent the ideal product for a quickly emerging cross section of society: the furry pedophile. Furries, of course, being that sect of freakish sexual deviants who get their depraved kicks by making love in oversized mascot suits or rubbing one out at the sneak preview of Over the Hedge, and pedophiles being those individuals who are tragically unable to stifle the urges all healthy adults have for the luscious, flirting little boys and girls who toddle about so suggestively in front of my tortured eyes. Take these two objects of lust—children and animals—throw them into a Venn diagram, and viola! You’ve got a stack of Beanie Babies done over Bukkake-style!

Feminine Hygiene

Did you know there was a time when women didn't walk around with their vaginas clogged by a plug of caked menstrual blood from the previous month's period? When soiled and distended panties were the exception, and not the norm? Yes, for a brief period in the mid eighties, it was fashionable for young women to exercise, bathe regularly, wear attractive clothing, and even shave their normally brackish underarms and groin areas. Unfortunately, we can only pray that this trend returns.

Be it A.L.F., Razor Scooters, or the Democratic Party, obsolete fads will always have an undeniable, if hokey appeal. Hopefully this guide will gird you for the future landscape of Trend County, and give you a few good investment strategies to boot (two words: buy Koosh). So enjoy the time you have, because soon we'll all be drowning in Tomogatchis and the spicy sounds of Macarena '07.

September 20, 2006

Channel 101 Attempt 4: Monster Law

As they say at the end of some of the best movies ever, here we go again! Monster Law was born after years of in-depth study and method acting research. I actually lived as a Dracula for a period of three months, draining vagrants of their blood and, while I didn't actually drink any, I must say I learned a lot. Like, how much blood is in a body. Actually, that's about it. Here's the damn movie.

Also, check out Weird Al's new song. You'll be glad you did.

September 15, 2006

The Griffin Rowell Random Fact Generator

My friend Griffin is epic. Those who know him are aware of this, and you should be too. Because of said epicry, and because we liked those other random fact generators until they choked on their own bile (get it? Bile is a bodily humor! Okay, there wasn't really a joke there) and started getting quoted on The View, Dan Zembrosky and I whipped up this one. He designed the page and made some jokes, and I made some more jokes. Now you can make jokes as well!


September 11, 2006

The Student Travel Association’s Guide to France, Part Trois

In this last portion of our informative and edifying guide to the French, we will be examining common French etiquette and some specific customs. Though French behavior may seem “backwards,” or “unspeakably immoral” to you, remember: you are a guest in their country, and they can and will murder you if you fail to blend in. As they say, when in Rome, do as the Romans do! Though this axiom was not meant to specifically refer to pederasty, if you’re visiting France, it’s probably a good time to get comfortable with the idea. Finally, we will provide a handy guide of places to visit and things to do which no traveler should be without. From the Eiffel Tower to the Louvre Museum, we provide you with the little-known and near-secret destinations that only French locals know about!

Customs and Etiquette

The French can smell an American traveler like dogs smell fear. Their highly sensitive and oversized noses will pick you out of a crowd in no time flat unless you are able to “mask your scent” by adopting some of these uniquely French habits.


Much like a Federal Prison, most French trade is accomplished through the barter of cigarettes. Make sure you have a spare carton or eight on you at all times, as well as a lighter, if you want to blend in. If you really want to “party like the locals,” be prepared to smoke many cigarettes at once, sometimes from several orifices. Try to practice smoking between bites of food, before and during sex, and occasionally while swimming. Those unused to inhaling great amounts of nicotine may want to begin a smoking regimen prior to their trip, so as to build up the proper tolerance and develop an authentic phlegmy, hacking cough. And remember: the obscuring cloud of nicotine smoke that surrounds most French is a natural defense mechanism, so don’t be surprised if a startled local puffs smoke at you and sprints off, trailing ash behind him.

Expose Your Breasts

Unfettered by our own stifling cultural taboos, the French expect their women to have breasts exposed at all times. A failure to do so can lead to suspicion and doubt, as most French consider a woman who covers her breasts to be “hiding something.” This national paranoia probably dates back to the 1800’s, when it was common practice for a French woman to smuggle deadly vipers in her bosom, for hygienic purposes. If you are too modest or uptight to let the girls out, make sure to emphatically warn anyone near your breasts that there are no deadly vipers nestled between them.

Use a Bidet

Bidet toilettes were invented in France and, despite several bidet-related hemorrhages each year, are still popular there. These devices clean the user with powerful jets of water, rather than the US-traditional method of simply not cleaning at all. A little uncomfortable at first, most Americans ultimately find that the bidet is a rewarding and refreshing experience, akin to having your droppings whisked away by gently caressing clouds, or, depending on the caliber of the particular toilet, to being anally searched by a prison guard. However pleasant you find the bidet experience, however, be careful not to overuse them, or you risk being outed as a tourist due to the tell-tale splotch of wetness on the back of your pants. If confronted, merely remark that you have wet yourself, which in France is a common and completely acceptable occurrence.

Linger on a Rain-Drenched Street Corner, Mourning for a Lost Love and Peering Blackly From Beneath a Wide-Brimmed Hat, the Smoldering Remains of a Cigarette Held Loosely in One Hand, Dying, Dying in the Wetness of the Parisian Twilight

Fairly self-explanatory. Weeping is encouraged, but only if it can be done bitterly, and not in a way that makes you look like a pussy. The French hate pussies.

Things to do in France Traveler’s Checklist

Give yourself a point for each activity on this list you are able to accomplish while abroad. Snag those bonuses to finally prove that you are inherently superior to those around you!

__Marvel at memorabilia from the live-action Flintstones movie at Planet Hollywood, Paris
Bonus: Stare up at the nude model of Sylvester Stallone from The Demolition Man, compare your package to Sly’s

__Purchase a genuine French baguette at a Patisserie
Bonus: See how far you can fit it down your throat without gagging

__Confront your own mortality at the Paris catacombs, an enormous underground labyrinth of unsecured human skeletons
Bonus: Defile something

__Locate and get the autograph of French film legend Gerard Depardieu
Bonus: Locate all eight of the robotic Depardieu that the French government have built to wander the streets of Paris and entertain tourists

__Grab a bite to eat at the Louvre Museum Cafeteria, home of the all-you-can-eat salad and cheese bar
Bonus: Visit the world’s largest museum gift shop, directly adjacent to the cafeteria

__Get fleeced by a filthy gypsy
Bonus: Demand your money back and receive a terrifying curse in return

__Enjoy a bottle of French wine
Bonus: Enjoy six

__Experience the thrill of the Lion King stage show at EuroDisneyland
Bonus: Enjoy a Frosted Lemonade, one of France’s most exotic iced beverages

__See the Mona Lisa, world’s most famous painting, and the Venus De Milo, world’s most famous sculpture
Bonus: Act like you’re not disappointed

__Ride the Paris Metro all night, meeting interesting people and getting into adventures
Bonus: Survive

__Try the Europe-only KFC Chicken Tower, a chicken sandwich with a deep-fried potato patty on top
Bonus: Smuggle a dozen of them back into the US, and contact the webmaster of this site for shipping information


September 6, 2006

The Student Travel Association's Guide to France, Part Deux

French Culture and Customs

Though they may appear to be little more than slimmer, better-dressed Americans, the French have their own rich history and culture. Between surrenders, they have cultivated a unique cuisine, pioneered new political systems, and wholly embraced public drunkenness/urination. France is stuffed to the brim with fresh, cosmopolitan experiences for the student traveler. For example, did you know that France is home to more than four hundred McDonald's restaurants? France also boasts monuments like the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and, legend has it, a place where naked ladies dance! Take the time to learn a little about France and its people, and before you know it you’ll be sipping escargot at a street café with the Sultan!

Some Useful French Phrases

The French, like the rest of the civilized world, have been forced to learn impeccable English in order to better serve their superiors. But try making them feel special by memorizing and tossing off a few of these useful French phrases. (Translations courtesy of Alta Vista’s Babel Fish translation tool!)

-Non, merci. Six crepes est ma limite.
-No, thank you. Six crepes is my limit.

-Vous ne fumez pas. Êtes-vous se sentant bien?
-You’re not smoking. Are you feeling all right?

-Je suis un Américain. Quels escomptes pouvez-vous m'offrir?
-I am an American. What discounts can you offer me?

-Celui qu'on est la plupart d'alcoolique, svp.
-Whichever one is the most alcoholic, please.

-Vraiment. Je suis très bien, merci. Crepes étaient délicieux.
-Really. I’m fine, thanks. The crepes were delicious.

-Ce lit a-t-il été deloused récemment?
-Has this bed been deloused recently?

-Est-ce que - cela vous dérangerait de s'asseoir là-bas ? Le parfum mélangé de votre odeur de corps et de Cologne qui ne le masque pas commence à brouiller ma vision.
-Would you mind sitting over there? The mixed scent of your body odor and the cologne that fails to mask it is beginning to blur my vision.

-Est qu'une baguette dans votre poche, ou vous ont contracté "la maladie de gonflement?"
-Is that a baguette in your pocket, or have you contracted “the swelling disease?”

-Que le train va à Amsterdam?
-Which train goes to Amsterdam?

-Regardez, quand je veux un autre sacré crepe, je l'ordre foutu un de volonté!
-Look, when I want another goddamned crepe, I’ll fucking order one!

Important Events in French History

French History is a rich tapestry, woven of nobility, legend, revolution, empire, and the films of Gerard Depardieu. Feel free to scan through this loose timeline, which barely touches on major events while compressing the span of thousands of years into a few brief paragraphs. Congratulations! You are more knowledgeable in French history than ninety-four percent of adult Americans!

Prehistory: Cro-Magnon man creates this sculpture in Dordogne, France. It is the only one of its kind in the world, believed to have been either a complicated time-telling device or a private area for young French Cro-Magnons to experiment with homosexuality. Some historians posit that it was, in fact, both of these. In any case, it is tragically demolished by flood in 3500 B.C., shortly after this photograph is taken.

768: Charlemagne is crowned “best king ever” after publicly wrestling a wildcat which he then mounts, eats, and subsequently gives birth to. The mystery of this elaborate and confusing feat has long been debated by historical scholars, although Charlemagne’s testicles, unearthed by archaeologists in 1964 and each the size of a mature hedgehog, seem to support the legend.

1337: A French farm girl named Joan of Arc sees visions in which God tells her to lead the French against the English, ending the Hundred Years’ War. After talking the French King into making her a General, it is found that she has no military experience and is likely suffering from acute Schizophrenia. She is immediately and rightly burned at the stake. This marks the last time in history that anyone who claims to talk to God is ever granted military authority.

November, 1337 to February, 1338: All French cathedrals built. The massive construction frenzy, which begins as a government plan designed to create jobs, ends when builders finally ran out of stone, colored glass shards, and paintings of bored-looking saints. The abrupt end to cathedral building results in the famous “Half-Built” cathedral of Avignon, whose flying buttresses are fashioned out of the bones of those who died during its construction, and whose ceiling went unpainted until 1981, when Spanish artist Salvador Dali was hired to provide a mural he entitled “Jesus With Ants.

1519: Leonardo Da Vinci dies in the arms of French King Francois I after failing to perfect his “Whirligig Lifemotron,” a wood-and-paper device designed to grant the user immortality. The contraption, which does nothing more than accomplish the world’s first manned flight, goes down in history as one of Da Vinci’s many great failures, alongside his “Car That Drives *You*” and a picture of a man who clearly has too many limbs.

1682: Louis XIV moves the royal court from Paris to Versailles, in an effort to keep his notorious three-day, foie gras-fueled, king-only sex orgies out of the public eye. Unfortunately, due to a freak coincidence, the Hall of Mirrors is in the perfect configuration to project the image of Louis jacking off onto the face of the King of Prussia onto a thirty-foot high topiary hedge in the royal gardens adjacent to the palace. A group of scandal-hungry peasants gather with easels and quickly paint the images that appear, distributing these paintings in Paris and becoming the first Paparazzi. They are all later beheaded. The paintings however, which show Louis in various sexual positions with other nobles, become the most valuable set of works on Earth, and are later owned by American John D. Rockefeller until they are destroyed during a three-day, filet mignon-fueled, oil baron-only sex orgy.

1789: Thirteen years after the American Revolution, the French stage an elaborate recreation as a flattering gesture. Thousands die. We later build the Statue of Liberty as our way of saying “thanks, that was cute.”

1804-1815: Napoleon rules France, and expands the nation’s dominion into a RISK-worthy empire. Unfortunately, the seven bonus men he gains from ruling Asia are not enough to counterbalance the losses he incurs while trying to hold it, and English troops, who took Australia on the first turn, are able to overpower him at the battle of Waterloo. Napoleon angrily knocks the board aside, scattering pieces everywhere.

1871: The Third Republic is born, marking the end of the Monarchy in France. Without any viable form of government to succeed it, French people revert to a prehistoric tribal barter system for a three-month period, later dubbed “one crazy summer.” Finally, Americans lend the French Democracy and Freedom out of pity, because we’ve got so much to spare anyway. We only ask that they become non-threatening caricatures of themselves who wear mime costumes and laugh like a car engine trying to turn over. They agree.

1890: Impressionism becomes the premiere art movement of France, prompting eight-year olds everywhere to claim “I could have painted that.” The artists themselves laugh all the way to the bank, becoming obscenely wealthy and serving as the model for the expression “gluttonous artist.” People officially stop caring whether art successfully depicts anything, and worry only about whether it evokes a feeling. Bazille’s performance piece, “I punch you in the crotch,” is named greatest work of the decade.

December 27th, 1948: Gerard Depardieu is born, marking the single most important event in French history. Scientists later determine that for four seconds following his emergence from his mother’s womb, time literally stands still. The era of Depardieu is begun.

Next: Jesus Christ, More Shit About France?!

August 28, 2006

The Student Travel Association’s Guide to France, Part Un

So, you’ve decided to visit France, the crown jewel of North Central Western Europe! Congratulations! You are joining in a proud tradition of travel abroad by lazy, affluent, college-aged Americans. Hopefully, this journey will expand your horizons, show you new possibilities, and teach you to effectively mask your disdain for the customs of other peoples. This helpful pamphlet will provide all the information you need to make your trip to the land of second-hand smoke and unpasteurized cheese all the more bearable!

Some Items to Pack

Before setting off on your trip, it’s important to pack the proper items. Here are some must-haves that you will find useful while visiting France.

A Money Pouch

Let’s be honest with ourselves: whether from a lack of hygiene or some natural oil only they exude, the French have sticky fingers. They are notoriously adept at separating a tourist and his money, be it through slight of hand, clever scam, or a rusty knife to the gut. A money belt, worn around the waist, solves this problem nicely, providing a more difficult target for would-be pickpockets as well as a way to cushion the force of a blade jammed into your soft, quivering belly. Keeping paper money in the pouch also provides an acceptable staunch for the blood that will invariably gush from said knife-wound, giving you the precious time you need to crawl to one of France’s eight serviceable hospitals.

A Camera

It’s happened time and time again: after being stabbed in the gut by a street person, a student will, in the course of dragging themselves down the filthy sidewalk with their forearms, chance upon one of France’s many impressive monuments or tourist spots, only to find themselves without a camera. A camera is an absolute must-have for any trip overseas. Your own capacity to form memories will likely be failing due to blood loss, while mechanical ones will survive for years to come. If you can afford one, a digital camera is a nice luxury, allowing you to review your photos on the spot. If that’s out of your price range, try simply staring at people and things that you want to remember for long periods without blinking. If it helps, put your hands to your head and chant “Remember!” to yourself through grit teeth.

A French-English Dictionary

While you would expect most foreigners to applaud an American’s sincere attempts at communication, many are actually offended when faced with a tourist slowly and emphatically asking “WHERE...IS...THE…CRAPPER?” The French will appreciate nothing more than your effort to converse with them on their own level. Rather than screeching or hurling feces however, try translating what you want to say from a handy pocket dictionary. Your stammering, page-turning, and prolonged pauses will only prove to them how hard you are really trying. Luckily, the French language is especially forgiving to tourists, in that a word’s meaning is affected by neither pronunciation nor proper conjugation.

Non-Carbonated Water

As many tourists find out the hard way, it is a literal impossibility to acquire non-carbonated water in France. The reason is a poorly-understood subterranean phenomenon that causes all ground water in the area to become infused with Carbon Dioxide gas. To avoid subsisting entirely on what scientists have dubbed “Nature’s shitty soda,” we recommend you check one or two bags filled with water bottles at the airport. If possible, fill a carry-on bag with water for the flight as well. And remember: if airport security tries to take away your precious, life-giving water, run like hell and never stop screaming.

That Rapier American Wit

The French love Jerry Lewis, who was a well-known American comedian. As you might assume, they will also appreciate your “in-your-face” brand of American street humor. Before leaving, be sure to brush up on your best barbs and one liners regarding American stereotypes concerning the French. By focusing your comedy on them and their habits, you will let those you encounter know that you are deeply knowledgeable about their country and people. Be sure to mention:

--Their eating of frogs
--Their similarity to frogs
--Their ridiculous striped shirts and berets
--Their love of Jerry Lewis
--Their impotence in war
--Their pervasive stink
--Their inexplicable hostility towards Americans

Next: A Tasteful and Useful Guide to French Culture, Customs, and Cuisine!

August 7, 2006

Gordon Ramsay Has a Quiet Family Dinner at Home

Excuse me. ExCUSE ME! This roast, it’s shit, yeah? Look at this. You, with the breasts and the overpriced wedding band, come over here and jam this in your fucking gob.

Chew it. Chew! Taste that? Do you? What is it? It’s NOTHING, yeah? This is a bland, soggy, greasy roast! It’s bland, you donkey! BLAND! Where are the spices? Where’s the bloody SAVOR?! I feel like I’m eating fucking shoe leather roasted in fucking bat guano!

Look at this! See how it’s pink there, in the middle? It’s fucking RAW! You could make someone sick, Susan! It’s called a fucking ROAST, you need to fucking ROAST it, yeah?! Do you want to make me sick?

I think…yeah, yeah, I think I’m going to vomit. I’m going to vomit a veal parmesan with truffle garnishes and a saffron-prawn reduction sauce all over the tablecloth, yeah? The blue fucking tablecloth with the fucking DAISIES that I TOLD you only goes with chicken? Yeah? Look, fuck off back to the kitchen and redo everything.

Oh no. No. No no no, come ON! You’re not going to stand here and talk back, are you? Are you, you fat mouth piece of shit?! You’re WASTING TIME! Your son and your husband are fucking HUNGRY, and you’re standing here debating! It’s fucking BLAND, Susan!

I wouldn’t serve this to fucking HITLER! ADOLF HITLER doesn’t deserve this kind of shabby, vomitous, mucousy roast! Are you telling me I’m worse than Hitler, Susan? ARE YOU?

If you think I’m going to let this roast be served, you’re out of your fucking mind! I LOVE our son, Susan. I’m not going to let him die gagging on bits of cartilage and soggy carrots after his stomach rejects this car wreck of a dinner! So stop taking the piss and go FIX IT! You’ve only got four and a half minutes! GO GO GO!

So, James, how was school today? Oh, yeah? Yeah, that’s a laugh. You know, I had him when I was your age. It’s funny he’s still teaching, yeah. Does he still do that lecture about—hold on, here comes mum with dinner.

Okay, put it here, Susan. Alright, color is better. Sloppy presentation. First thing you look at is presentation, Susan. This is boring, it’s flat. Looks like you just whipped it up at home, yeah? Okay, let’s see here. Some flavor. There’s an odd taste, like…salt. A little too much salt and…despair, I think. Yeah, definitely utter despair.

Susan, don’t tell me you’ve been crying in the fucking food AGAIN?!




No, nevermind! Fuck it! No, service is over! Give me the roast! There, see? Now I've peed on it. No one's eating the damned thing!

I hope you're happy, Susan. You have failed in every way imaginable.

No, James, I don’t care, you’re not eating it! Look, if you’re hungry, blame your mother, yeah? Maybe if she could cook worth a goddamned COCK, you would have had a full meal this bloody MONTH!


Susan, you have failed to complete the service. I will be going to the carnival ALONE, and when I come back, I want to see this whole place STOCKED, FUMIGATED, and bloody SPOTLESS, yeah? James can help.

And I’ll tell you something, Susan: if sex tonight is this amateurish, don’t be surprised if you’re the next one eliminated from this family. I’ve done it to Gordon, Jr., I can sure as hell do it to you.

August 4, 2006

Things Not to Do and Then Tell Me It's Something Else

Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining

Don’t jizz in my smoothie and call it a protein boost

Don’t cite Plessy v. Ferguson and tell me it’s Roe v. Wade

Don’t fart on my head and tell me it’s raining

Don’t put on a helmet and tell me you’re a racecar driver competing in the Gran Prix

Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow

Don’t rape me and tell me it’s “surprise sex”

Don’t canonize predominantly male-authored works of literature and tell me that it’s an entirely merit-based system

Don’t snort cocaine off my podium and tell me it’s Pixie Stix

Don’t commit genocide on an indigenous peoples and tell me
you’re discovering America

Don’t give me a summer squash and tell me it’s a zucchini

Don’t give me I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and tell me it’s butter, because I really have a hard time telling the difference. That stuff is amazing!

Don't read me Cattalus and tell me it's Ovid

Don't molest my kids and tell me you're a "groining tutor"

Don’t drive on the wrong side of the street and tell me it’s England

Don’t shit on my head and call it an Easter bonnet

Don’t put hot sauce on my hamburger and tell me it’s a fiesta salad

Don’t spit in my shirt pocket and tell me I’m lactating

Don’t look under my robes and tell me you’re spelunking

Don’t play post-Roger Waters Floyd and tell me it’s pre-Roger Waters Floyd

Don’t serve me expired mayonnaise and tell me it’s applebutter

Don’t make a Hollywood sequel of your underground Indie classic and tell me you’re not a sellout

Don’t put your dick in my hand and tell me it’s a crude balloon animal

Don’t squeeze lemons in my eye and tell me they’re contacts

Don’t put a Dracula in my bed and tell me it’s a puppy

Don’t put snakes on a plane and call it Pacific Flight 121

Don’t put a hat on a dog and tell me it’s comedy

Don’t put an old man alone on a park bench and tell me it’s art

Don’t punch me in the face and tell me you thought my head was a glove

Don’t bring me to orgasm and sing “*Here Comes the Judge*”

Don’t turn your shirt inside-out and tell me it’s a new shirt

Don't put Ben Stiller in a movie and tell me he's not playing the same role as every movie he's ever been in

Don't play me rap and call it "urban beat poetry"

Don't give me a filing hasp and tell me it's a tampon

Don’t come in here with a case against Lorenzo’s Qwik-Stop Likker Shoppe and tell me he refused to pay his rent after you borrowed his sister’s bike and put it in hock to pay for a phone bill your ex-girlfriend ran up while she lived with you and tell me you deserve my respect

July 24, 2006

Channel 101 Attempt 3: The Miner Chronicles

Come, be the first to witness the third installment in our never-ending quest to get into the Channel 101 screening! This time out, it's The Miner Chronicles, an epic tale of grim perseverance in the face of a world gone mad. Zombies too.

Back soon with a real update (as in, words).

July 19, 2006

Hiatus Due to Comic-Con

In case you hadn't guessed, I'm an inveterate nerd. Case in point:

That's my brother on the right, trying to act like he doesn't know me. The fool. Clearly his yellow gloves and shirt mark him as a mere pawn of...THE MONARCH! I'm not sure who that other guy is supposed to be, probably an ironic statement on youth culture.

Anyway, nerd that I am, I will be attending the San Diego Comic Convention all week. It's an orgy of Magic: The Gathering cards, overpriced pizza by the slice, and guys who look like Jack Black from across a crowd of people so you go and ask for their autograph and then they act like dicks about it so later when you actually do see Jack Black you're too timid to ask him and have to sneak a peek at his presenter's badge in the men's restroom.

Bottom line: Mom, Dan, and the one or two people who stumble here by accident while looking for midget porn, you will have to do without updates for about a week (maybe longer, as my much-anticipated New York trip immediately follows the Con). If all goes as planned, I should have one or two posts during that time, and maybe even another movie fer y'all.

July 16, 2006

2009 Those Aren't Muskets!