Straight from the Beak.

The Headlock Bandit.

2007-03-28T23:22:00.000-07:00

I made this with help from Jason and Seth. I think Jason really "brings it," as we say in professional cheerleading. You know, no one thinks male cheerleaders can play funny, but let me tell you something, a good male cheerleader is a renaissance man. He draws from all the disciplines in order to encourage an audience to cheer for the team he loves so well. And, as you can see, in this case Jason's team is the Headlock Bandit and he cheers the audience all the way into a frenzy of rage.

Sir Showers-A-Lot.

2007-03-14T00:14:00.000-07:00

Featuring the off-camera comedic pairing of two of the field's foremost voice talents: Lee Tyler and Leighton Strout. Once unsuccessfully showcased at the Bakersfield comedy club Schlitz N' Giggles as Tyler N' Strout!

"I Have A Basketball Dream."

2007-03-05T00:53:00.001-08:00

Featuring Leighton Strout and Julie Whitesell.
A Lee Tyler Masterwork.

My IMDB Biography

2007-01-16T22:27:00.000-08:00

If you saw me on the street, you’d probably think, “That is one of the most intriguing men of our time.” Or perhaps you’d think, “I didn’t know they still made spandex rollerblading bodysuits.” Well, to address both impressions: Yes, I am. And no, they don’t. I bought this suit when I was 8, and thanks to the magic of spandex, I’ve been wearing it ever since. Spandex may come in and out of style, but it’s always sure to leave an impression. And like my father always said, “Don’t worry if everyone hates you. Make them hate you. Then they’ll know who you are.” Wise words. Or so I thought. Until my father was clubbed to death by a swarm of angry marathon runners, at whom he had honked one too many times.

It was always difficult to know what I should make of life, because I didn’t have much in the way of guidance. As you may have gathered, my father was a complicated man—just when you thought he was a Republican, he’d vote Democrat. Just when you thought he was a Fascist, he’d publish a work urging the workers of the world to unite and overthrow their bourgeois oppressors. Just when you thought he was a woman, he’d take off his wig and underwear, and there were no two ways about it, Pop was one of the boys.

And Mom wasn’t any clearer. As Dad’s personal secretary, she’d pretty much just transcribe whatever speech he was making at any given moment. The few times I heard her talk, she was reading Dad a line he wanted to re-work or remember. And then when Dad met his premature demise, well, Mom fled to Borneo for a miracle teeth-whitening procedure. I have no idea where Mom is now or what she was running from, but I wish her and her teeth all the best. Sometimes teeth miracles really do happen.

Ever since my father was clubbed to death and my mother went on her wild goose chase, I’ve become something of a reactionary. To put it another way, I’ve gone ahead and done the exact opposite of everything my parents have ever advised. Go to college, they advised. I set out for the open road, hitching rides all over the continental U.S., like Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady. Getting to know the real people and places of our great country. Get a respectable job where you will grow to become a pillar of the community, they urged; I opted for a life on the amateur ventriloquism circuit. Meet a nice girl, settle down and have a family or you’ll end up alone, they pleaded; in brave defiance, I wore my spandex bodysuit daily.

Of course, as anyone will tell you, a life in ventriloquism is notoriously difficult and makes one prone to widespread ridicule. So after three years on the childrens’ birthday circuit in Poughkeepsie, I’d had it. When I went literally laughing all the way to the bank one morning only to discover that my manager had ripped me off for every cent I’d ever made, I ended up literally crying all the way from the bank. Of course, I should have known better. Spider was an ex-con with a tattoo of a spider across his entire face. But he was exactly the sort of frothy-mouthed incoherent psychopath my parents would have politely ignored. When I first met him, I knew for sure he was the star to which I should hitch my wagon of dreams. But then my wagon of dreams ended up at the bottom of a very deep cliff, and exploded there. And at the top of the cliff, my star was laughing at me, a Newport dangling off his lower lip.

When my ventriloquism career didn’t work out, I asked myself, “What else do you know?” The answer was television. I watched an episode of Mama’s Family, figured, “Hey, I could write that!” packed all my things in my fanny pack, and rollerbladed for Hollywood to make it big as a television writer. And here I am!

Merry Kwanzaa from the Pollacks!

2007-01-16T22:24:00.000-08:00

Habari Gani!

I realize that those of you who are white, Asian or Latino probably don’t celebrate Kwanzaa, but to be honest, that’s how it should be. Sure, we like you fine—your people have helped make America what it is today and we respect your rich heritage and culture, or whatever. But today we celebrate Umoja, or black unity, by lighting the black candle at the center of the kinara. Not the white candle or the Asian candle. Or the Latino candle. The black candle. To be honest, many of you are getting this note because, to my great embarrassment, I don’t appear to have any all-black e-mail lists lying around. And I would assemble one, but I’ve already commenced my family’s tradition of drinking from the Kikombe cha Umoja, or communal cup, alone in a room by myself. As you read this, I am possibly unconscious.

My Kwanzaa celebration revolves so closely around the Kikombe cha Umoja because Kwanzaa forces me to think of how difficult my own path of blackness has been. As Dr. Karenga reminds us, Kwanzaa is about the “seven-fold path of blackness.” And while I have always walked down the seven-fold path of blackness by “thinking black, talking black, acting black, creating black, buying black, voting black and living black,” as Dr. Karenga urges, I often wonder, “Is this black enough?” It may surprise you to learn this, but as a person who is as much as 1/128 black, I find it a daily struggle to affirm my identity as a black man in America. Despite numerous ads on local television and round-the-clock unsolicited phone calls outlining my path of blackness in exhaustive detail, black people outside my family have never accepted me as one of their own. If I were 1/128 Cherokee, I would be entitled to free healthcare and invited to tribal mixers, yet somehow 1/128 doesn’t “cut it” for black people. Am I bitter? In a word, yes. It is no fun being the black sheep of the black community. (Although as we Polacks like to say, it does make us “black squared." Unfortunately, saying this in public seems only to further alienate us from our black brothers and sisters.)

The worst part of it all is watching my poor mother. She wears a uwole, she sings traditional Swahili lullabies, she owns the Criterion Waiting to Exhale, and yet still, when she drives to Sudbury Farms to buy fresh fruit for our ceremony, she gets the distinct impression that everyone is staring at her. In fact, they make her feel like such a fraud that on her way back, she often pulls the car over to the side of the road and sobs uncontrollably for anywhere from a few minutes to a few weeks. It is truly heartbreaking to think of how many times she’s missed our weeklong celebration altogether, just because she was sobbing in a car somewhere. Of course she is a fraud—my Dad’s the one who’s 1/64 black, not her. But still, can’t we let her pretend? She’s old and she was raised in the country.

“The seven-fold path of blackness” is “think black, talk black, act black, create black, buy black, vote black, and live black.” It doesn’t say anywhere in there that you have to “look black”. So this year, when you take the African Pledge with your family, think of mine.

Happy Kwanzaa!

There Once Was a Man from Nantucket.

2006-12-18T19:35:00.003-08:00

There once was a man from Nantucket--
Who put pennies in his penny loafers. Even in public.
The man was beat down,
By some Mick with a frown
Who then took those pennies back to Pawtucket.

LA Area Carpet King

2006-12-18T19:29:00.000-08:00

The Inspired Observational Humor of Reginald J. Butkus III

2005-12-16T04:29:00.000-08:00

What is it with knives?! Yow. They're sharp!

Does anyone actually eat fruit cake? Or are they like me...and using it for a paperweight!!!

What is it with food on the airplane? In case you were wondering what that barf-bag was for--it's for this stuff!

What is the deal with words like hippopotamus. Hippopotamus? Are you freakin' kiddin' me here?!!!

Why is it that if you eat food when you're hungry, you're no longer hungry?! I mean, does food make you not hungry, or what? Huh?!!! I mean, "faggedaboutit" over here!!!!

What is the deal with this stump I have where my left hand used to be? I mean, did I lose it in a beartrap, or what?!

What's the deal with electricity?! Is it just me, or when you stick your fingers in an electrical socket, do you always just like totally start convulsing and tasting metal?

What is the deal with heroin? Do you always want more and more of it until you black out, or whaaaa-aaaaa-aaatt?!!!!

A Salute to Conventional Wisdom.

2005-09-23T13:16:00.000-07:00

Some people think a peanut is neither a pea nor a nut, but can anyone who is neither Jan, that cockeyed Polack, nor the overly friendly usher at the Burbank movie theater contest the explosion of flavor in each and every crunchity bite of peanut-buttery Butterfinger?!

"An apple a day keeps the doctor away"? Yeah, maybe back in the day when that haircut you're wearing was actually popular. And in Poland. But in the hustle and bustle of the modern world--a.k.a. non-Slavic reality--where those of us who choose to wear the ever popular and always fashionable jerri curl haircut live, the only thing that keeps that Polish doctor away is a fevered kick thrust well into his or her groin.

"Chickens'll come home to roost, you hear? Chickens will come home to roost." It's just one of those expressions my insane next door neighbor in Chicago always used to mutter about my jerri curl haircut. But just like all of the things that contemptible Polish fuckwit used to say, it's complete and utter, 100%, Grade A blood-streaked dogshit! Chickens will never come home to roost if you surround the perimeter of your property with Tyler's Extra Fancy Razor-Wire! It's the Tyler gaurantee.

PSA

2005-08-04T11:09:00.000-07:00

The new management of my apartment building has officially turned it into a shithole. The asbestos warning labels have been torn down, the security cameras have been turned off, and the printer for the communal 1993 PC (available with mind-crushingly slow internet connection from 10 Am - 7 PM, if you're willing to wait a minimum of 20 minutes for the other Hollywood loser in front of you) no longer functions and is now praised as a great dadaist sculpture in the recent issue of the apartment complex's monthly newsletter.

How to Tell If Your Teen Is on Drugs.

2005-06-18T22:51:00.000-07:00

Society. (Sigh.) How did it get so rotten? Sure, when we were kids we'd steal the rivals' mascot, cut loose at the sock hop, and then crack open a frosty root beer and watch Charlie Chan 'til after ten, but it was all in the name of good, clean--and well--decent fun. It was not in the name of "just give me something to break, how about your f-ing face?" to quote the Limp Biscuits.
For a while, you can protect your yearlings from this so-called “infotainment,” but once they grow into teenagers and Satan slips them some of those infernal hormones on their first commute to junior college, why, there’s almost nothing you can do—they discover television; they discover how to escape through your house’s elaborate system of ingeniously locked steel doors, swim across the moat and hop over the razor wire fence. And then they discover pot. And soon thereafter, you get a call from the police and they've discovered them dead at the bottom of a gorge.
Most parents don’t realize their children are on drugs until they get that phone call and find them there. When they find them in a bloodied, mangled heap at the bottom of a gorge. If you don't want your child taking a toot on his magic stick, wandering off somewhere and falling down some gorge, but rather want him to live and someday possibly teach at the junior college, you should ask yourself the following “Yes” or “No” questions:

1. Has your teen ever been suspended from his junior college because a paper he wrote enraged school administrators? Did you then get a cold-call from a lawyer who offered to "take your case" on contingency if you'd let him represent you in a suit against the school board? Was all of that hullabaloo over a history paper written about how American colonialists, including Thomas Jefferson and George Washington, used to grow hemp to make rope, so it can’t be all bad? Did you ultimately lose the suit and a lot of your free time?

If “Yes,” he’s on drugs!

2. Has your teen ever purchased another person’s urine?

If “Yes,” she’s on drugs!

3. Have your once-adorable teen’s armpits suddenly sprouted hair and started to emit a pungent odor, seemingly overnight?

If “Yes,” he’s on drugs!

4. Have you ever accidentally opened the bathroom door on your teen while he was eliminating his stool? As if, perhaps, he meant to leave that door open?

That teen is on drugs!

5. Has your teenage son traded in the smart sailor outfit, knee-high socks and sandals you lovingly made for him for some wrinkled jeans and an Old Navy t-shirt?

He’s on drugs!

6. Has your teen ever attempted to speak with you in an overly informal tone? For example, if you are French, has he ever substituted the tu-form for the vous-form? Or, if you are American, have you ever caught him looking you in the eye during your daily lecture?

If “Yes,” your teen is on drugs!

7. When the Burbank Ladies' League drops in to "Ooh" and "Ahh" over your prize-winning gravy, has your teen ever refused to comb his hair?!

Drugs!

8. And when the gals ask him about school, how is he? Is he affable and generally well at ease?

If yes, he's trying to hide something--drugs!

9. Or, is his seeming politeness perhaps masking something? Something like a smart-alecky, maybe even a little fresh, secret thought?

That teen's probably in his bedroom "getting his load on" right now!

10. Do you ever smell incense burning in your teen’s bedroom?

If you ever smell incense anywhere in your house those alarm bells should start going off in your head. Loud, strident alarm bells. Alarm bells that scream, "That sneaky teen is up to something!" So quickly, quietly creep up to his bedroom, take a deep breath and knock down that locked door with your faithful sledgehammer. If the teen looks startled, like he's "surprised" by your entrance, take a look around. A good look. If you look long enough you might just find that lyin' beatnik’s reefer sticks before it's too late!

If you answered “Yes” to any of these questions, do not hesitate: Run to the telephone and dial the Narcotics Division of your local police station immediately. (To save yourself some time in the event of an emergency, keep that number on speed-dial so that it's always at your fingertips.) A few years of hard time should get your teen straightened out just fine and maybe even teach him a valuable trade, like cleaning up his bedroom for a change! Or public-speaking!

A Concerned Author's Note: Now, based on some of the mail I got about last month's column, I realize that many of you are not exactly Albert Einstein. I don't mean that as an insult; I know how it is--you don't have time to lallygag around on a bicycle, stick out your tongue, smoke a pipe and contemplate the finer points, you've got a pot roast in the oven! Anyway, I just wanted to make sure I was clear that these are examples, they are the main signs of drug use, but--there are many several thousands more. Shaggy hairstyles, bad posture, watching a basketball game when he should be doing his schoolwork, snacking between meals, and so on and so forth.

From the Missionary Joke Book.

2005-05-25T14:20:00.000-07:00

Missionary: Knock, knock.
Maylong: Who's there?
Missionary: God.
Maylong: God who?
Missionary: God, you stupid animist.

I never enjoy gigs in East Africa, but my last mission to Tanzania was especially miserable. In addition to all the problems normally associated with the country--notable absence of adequate plumbing, electricity, roads, and Perrier--I spent nearly an entire year in bed with what, at the time, I assumed was a severe case of sleeping sickness. Later, I realized it wasn't sleeping sickness at all--Tanzania is B-O-R-I-N-G Boring!

Many wise people believe that the world would be a gentler and more peaceful place for our children and our children's children if only each and every one of us would learn to tolerate, respect and celebrate faiths unlike our own. To those wise people, I say: "Go fuck yourselves!"

How many Maylong does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
Lightbulb? The Maylong don't even have electricity!

The Maylong are such a simple people. Get this--they won't let us take pictures of them. Wanna know why? You're gonna think I'm making this up...Okay, check this out: They actually believe that our cameras possess the power to steal their souls! Can you imagine? In this day and age? I mean, if the Maylong had even the most basic understanding of what it says about heathen in the Bible, they'd know that somewhere deep below the Earth's surface, there dwells a big scary red man with horns and a pitchfork who has already stolen their souls.

What do you get when you cross a Maylong with a barber?
A barber who's going to Hell...unless he begins his walk with the children of Christ.

Introducing Kong, Goth Younger Brother of Confucius.

2005-05-15T17:44:00.000-07:00

Quote from my Kong, Goth Younger Brother of Confucius Calendar:

"It is wise to look on the bright side: if things don't work out, there's always suicide." --Kong, Goth Younger Brother of Confucius

Another Norwegian-American Joke.

2005-04-21T17:49:00.000-07:00

Olie sits in his La-Z-Boy, reading the latest Sons of Norway newsletter. In the kitchen, Lena busies herself puréing potatos for a fresh batch of lefse she plans to enter into the Northwoods Lefse Competition at the Itasca County Fair.
“Ufda! Olie, when are you gonna take out da trash?” says Lena, peeking her head out from the kitchen.
“I already did,” says Olie, without glancing up. “Sven Blomquist's days of Sweding it up are over...I shot him right between his beady Swede eyes."
“Ufda!” Lena says, shaking her head.
Then Olie looks Lena square in the eye, and loudly cocks his Norwegian deer rifle.
“You a Swede lover?” he asks.
“No,” Lena stammers.
“Then shut your lutefiske hole.”

Adventures in Pornoland (DIRECTOR'S CUT)

2005-04-16T12:58:00.000-07:00

Middle-aged mistress of the night Dr. Susan Block was your typical pornographer sex therapist shut-in, playing up, as a means to cold existential comfort and with minimal irony, an air of humble nihilism, hermetic hippie tendencies, and her “belief” that thousands of years of accumulated human knowledge, artistic achievement and spirituality pale in comparison to the cock-sparring, gang-banging and genital-licking of the Bonobos. This monkey-see monkey-do sentiment was “legitimated” by the philosophical firepower afforded her by routine surgical enhancement and the nearly impermeable academic/artistic prophylactic of a Yale Degree (she even wore pink Yale panties), was the foundation and, in a sense, justification of “The Dr. Susan Block Show"--a liquored up, amoral mind-fuck with a usually pants-less-and-erect home audience. A mind-fuck that was my order of business for the summer.
In truth, however, her naughty talk-show/porno happy hour was more a self-serving diversion than a revolutionary or humanitarian enterprise. Pop humanistic philosophy, a melange of new age goddess religions, and knee-jerk “liberal” politics were awkwardly plastered onto the show's substrate of good ol' fashioned splooge-drenched smut. For Dr. Block and her infamous pornographer Prince-of-Prague husband Max, it was also a means of having a “swingin’” social life without ever leaving their real home, the show's internet broadcast studio in LA's downtown fashion (i.e. Crack-and-Prada) district.
The night I first noticed that the mark of “pornographer” had been indelibly burned into my curriculum vitae started as per unusual: Dr. Block sprawled out on her lovebed/guest couch in her trademark sunhat and harem girl outfit, a giant Yale banner hung behind her over an assortment of bondage devices and marital aids. She played with her pet corn snake, letting it writhe around her like Emily Dickinson's favorite metaphor for penile activity and cooed insistently to the audience in nine-hundred-number cadences and spank-bank patois, breaking only to bark orders to her crew.
My orders were this: I would be taking soft-to-hardcore pornographic photographs of the doctor and her guests later, but for now I was on video camera. Dr. Block delivered her opening monologue, something about the war in Iraq and how Bonobos just fuck a lot instead of killing each other for oil or whatever. Meanwhile, her husband Max yelled about “The Revolution” and how a picture of two people shitting on each other he had seen was “beautiful, like art,” how it was going to change the world. The first lesson of smut is that pornographers will never call anything “art,” but merely refer to something as being “like art” as a matter of habit and as legal recourse, what with that nasty old Miller test for obscenity. Socially and “artistically” redeeming values guarantee sanctuary from prosecution. Ditto on the allegedly “educational” aspect of the show. The second thing I learned is that they don't really believe any of that crap. Earlier, Max had offered us a hit from a fattie of a jay. “You Yale Boys want to smoke some dope?” he said, the implication being that this would be some great, revolutionary blow against the empire. He was taken aback when we presented him with a quarter sack of high grade OG Kush chronic. “Jesus, I thought I could corrupt you boys...but someone beat me to it.”
In keeping with said aesthetic, Dr. Block performed a short, X-rated political Punch and Judy show, featuring dildo-puppets of Osama Bin Laden, George Bush and Dick Cheney while I got drunker and higher in anticipation of coping. Then she announced the guests. The week before, we had pornstars from Jill Kelly Productions on the show, including Jill Kelly herself. The show was later entitled “The Jill Kelly Jackoff Hour,” as it was devoted almost entirely to horny guys calling in to have Jenna Haze or Cindy Crawford (the pornstar, not the model) talk dirty to them while they spanked it. Maybe this week would be less traumatic. Or not.
The first guest, Avy Lee Roth, was the illegitimate porn-star daughter of David Lee Roth, former front man of Van Halen, the sort of music the Dutch exported before discovering E and ambient-trance clusterfucking. Avy herself had been exported—her mother was a Spanish senorita and Van Halen groupie, and she had a heavy accent and a gaudy flamenco rose tattoo on her right shoulder. As far as the veracity of Avy's claims that Diamond Dave was her deadbeat dad, her schnoz and singin' abilities seemed to confirm that Mr. Roth had indeed bip-dop-dip-a-dip-dopped half her DNA.
I was convinced when I put on Van Halen's eponymous debut album. Dr. Block was confused. “Who is this?” “This is My Dad!” chirped Avy. “Girl, you really got me now, you got me so I can’t sleep at night! You really got me!” She flailed wildly, slurring her words tectonically, flipping over a couch in the process, a maelstrom of professional booze-assisted carnality. Soon she began to howl and strip, or, rather, “rhythmically disrobe.” At the end of her dance, for some still unknown reason, she began complaining about “really having to go.” A steel bowl gofered by Kim, amateur porn-star and curator for Dr. Block's Erotic Museum (again, the studio), was brought in from the kitchen for just that purpose. Before I knew it, Avy had answered nature's call in Kim's makeshift Bauhaus chamber pot and was offering her leavings to Max. “Thank you my dear...Hmm.” Max, known to his friends as the most prosecuted pornographer in American history and a world-class pervert, took a sip. “Tastes like candy...it's the Revolution, people!”
After that, more hell broke loose. The next guests were a Scottish BDSM artist and Shayna Knight, a German porn starlet who I recognized from the “Virgin Surgeon” series. First, the Scottish gentleman hog-tied Ms. Knight with a number of elaborate Celtic knots, which I must admit were quite pretty. He then demonstrated the proper way to whip somebody—hold two lashes in either hand and make under-hand twirling motions, an action somewhat reminiscent of pitching a softball of leathery pain/pleasure dichotomy into someone's ass. Shayna's response to this was not unexpected—she began twitching and begging for somebody, anybody, to fuck her. Dr. Block suggested Max. “He can always get it up! And his cock is legendary!” But Max was too drunk on Jim Beam and stoned on my good weed to be any good himself, and Theron, our A.V. Guy and sometime go-to-penis, was in a shy mood.
Finally, the day was “saved” by Dr. Axel Braun, also known as the G-man, son of infamous Italian pornographer Lasse Braun, and a Princeton graduate and Doctor of Film (via a Ph.D. from NYU). His claim to fame, however, is his ability to make any woman squirt (female ejaculate). No joke, watch his tapes—he’s about 9-for-10 overall, and that evening he batted a thousand. “What's wrong with you? Don't you want to fuck this girl?” he asked the audience, staring at me and Tauxe in particular, our faces frozen in stoned fear. Nothing and no. Luckily, Dr. Braun was accompanied by two professionals named, simply, Phil and Brother Love, each betting the other fifty bucks that he could juice Ms. Knight first.
Brother Love was first “on dick” and not much to look at, a bespectacled Pledge Flounder type with a hard-on for being kicked or swatted in the testicles by middle-aged women. Somehow, there was a volunteer to perform such an act in the audience, a rotund, school-marmish 45-year-old accompanied by her husband, who in turn evoked shades of Captain Kangaroo and Robert Farris Thompson. “I'm wearing high heels with tips...should I take them off before I kick you?” “No...Leave them. They make your legs look longer.” “Okay....How hard then?” “As hard as you want. Or can.” Her husband took a seat in a plush-vagina chair, bathed in the light of framed hardcore pornography that also passed off as “art” (due to the film stock, I imagine), and watched his bride's repeated attempts to transform poor Brother Love's gonads into mush, like an Italian farm-girl making wine.
Much to my surprise, Brother Love's little friend stirred from its slumber as his balls received her field-goal attempts, but it was still only at half-mast. “Thanks, but I could really use a golden shower. Shayna?” Oh, fuck. More pissing. “I've never done that before.” Oh, fuck. Things a German porn star hasn't done. Kim brought in a blue plastic tarp from the kitchen and Brother Love prostrated himself upon it. No, no, no! “Ok...I'm ready, whenever you want to go.” Shayna, in spite of being a walking ropes course, managed to hop onto Love's chest (in high heels, mind you) and pop an inelegant squat. An unmistakable look crossed her face and she let loose with a stream that wouldn't have spared Noah. Piss sprayed in all directions, I ran for cover, and Love grew more erect as he frolicked in her micturition, slurping at le fonte de Shayna like a perverted puppy and rubbing whatever he couldn't drink into his hair. Thank goodness for all the Jim Beam and reefer coursing through my veins.
Taking advantage of this situation, a still-roped Ms. Knight started in on a vigorous bout of fellatio, bobbing up and down on his member like one of those little plastic dippy birds that alleviate the soul-crushing boredom of corporate America. In spite of all the hoopla and Shayna's impressive oral efforts, however, Love's lingam began to deflate, and when the time came to do the deed, he couldn't manage more than a couple thrusts before stopping and cursing profusely. It seemed as though he would not win the $50.
Balding and modestly endowed as he was, Phil, on the other hand, had no such problems. Shayna's bobbing worked almost instantaneously, and suddenly, as he took her entangled form from behind on the lovebed, I was videotaping what was, technically, illegal pornography. According to the Cambria Code (think the Hayes code for porn), penetration combined with bondage is a community standards no-no and an obscenity prosecution waiting to happen. But I wasn't worried about the legalities as the couple made their way through the Kama Sutra, switching deftly from vaginal to anal and back like lane changes. “Look how much pleasure he's giving her....Hmm,’ said Kim, ever the romantic.
I wasn't pleased. Fuck—I didn't want to be here. I wanted to cuddle my girlfriend and smoke pot and watch cartoons. Besides, after ten minutes, we were more bored than shocked. By the one and a half hour mark, we were out of tape and out of our minds—Phil, after years of careful prick-desensitization in the name of feature film-length shag sessions, was having trouble completing the act in the traditional XXX manner, i.e. the pop or money shot, and much to the chagrin of an increasingly impatient crew and audience, had to spend quite a bit of time “helping himself out.” Finally, after another fifteen minutes of switching between fucking-and-sucking and frenzied autoerotic manipulation, Phil bust a nut on Shayna's face and I took a couple of pictures.
Shayna toweled off, Phil picked up his fifty dollars from a snarling Brother Love, and the show was over. After we were cut off by the in-house bartender, Tauxe and I fell asleep with all our clothes on, and woke up at 6 A.M, hungover and covered in mosquito bites, to the sound of our bosses fucking. Thanks, Yale-in-Hollywood.

by Jon Carlo Bruttomesso

A Funny Thing Happened on The Way To A Job Interview.

2005-04-15T00:11:00.000-07:00

As I was driving down the Sunset Strip today, I saw a man defecating on the sidewalk, right in front of the House of Blues. While you might find this thought gives you the dry-heaves, you will no doubt appreciate the cosmic irony inherent in it. That an area where you'll see more Bentleys in one day than Fords, Chevys and Toyotas combined, is still considered by some to be the place where they go to the bathroom. (I wonder if only some places are considered the toilet, or if everything's toilet, or whether he has any conception of what a toilet is.)
Anyway, back to our homeless friend--I'm sure that shortly thereafter he was beaten senseless by an entire precinct; but for that moment, he believed himself to be the immortal, flaming spear-throwing, elephant-headed King of the Universe. Or not. Yeah, probably not. Probably just thought he was Jesus.

"Exeter, hotbed of comedy."

2005-04-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

So Lew Morton, comedy writer for such shows as Futurama and NewsRadio, once sarcastically referred to our alma mater. I don't really know Lew, but he did buy me lunch once. I remember it like it was yesterday.

So it was with delight that I learned something this morning, something I should have known all along--Robert Benchley, the famous New Yorker humorist and inventor of the modern-day parody, is a fellow Exonian! Now we Exonians actually have a cheer we like to sing when we realize some famous person went to our school, so I guess I'll write it down, and then you'll be able to sing along with us sometime:

"Too-rah! Too-la-rooh!!! Exeter! Exeter! We love you!!!" (REPEAT 126 TIMES, OR UNTIL SOMEONE STEALS YOUR WOOLEN KNICKERBOCKERS)

I admit that his work isn't terribly accessible anymore; like most humor, it has not aged well (no humor improves with age, but some seems to at least retain some value). Every normal human being I've shown it doesn't find it funny at all; I'm not even convinced that many of his fans like it for any good reasons. Benchley was a member of the famed Algonquin Round Table and is a posterchild for the drunk, urbane wit...the kind of personality that drunk people who believe themselves to be urbane and witty flock to like moths at a cabin window.

But that said, there's something about Benchley's structure and levity that is supremely unique--you won't find another humorist who pulls off an aside quite the way he does. And did I mention that his pieces are a goldmine of comic ideas just waiting to be mined by the gigantic Minnesota Mining Company, based in Chisholm, Minnesota?

Pop Songs Actually About Heroin.

2005-04-08T10:08:00.000-07:00

“Brown Sugar” by the Rolling Stones
"Runaway Train" by Soul Asylum
“You Mean The World To Me” by Toni Braxton
“Twist and Shout” by the Beatles
“I’m A Slave 4 U” by Britney Spears
“I Will Always Love You” by Whitney
Houston
“The White Stuff” by Weird Al Yankovic
(Parody of “The Right Stuff” by the New
Kids On the Block)
“The Right Stuff” by the New Kids On The
Block
“Heroin” by the Velvet Underground
“Lucy in The Sky With Diamonds” by the
Beatles
“Gettin’ Jiggy With It” by Will
Smith

Norwegian-American Office Banter.

2005-04-02T23:15:00.000-08:00

"So what do you think of the new secretary?" says Nels.
"Valborg?" says Olie. "Whenever I see her, I start foaming at the mouth."
"She is pretty attractive," says Nels.
"That too," says Olie. "But I think it has more to do with this feral cow bite."
"Ufda."

R.I.P. Mitch Hedberg.

2005-03-31T21:37:00.000-08:00

A quality stand-up comedian died today. If you haven't heard his material, I'd suggest checking it out. What are we down to now? Like three or four good stand-ups?

Proof That I Am Not A Fascist Dictator.

2005-03-29T22:12:00.000-08:00

Not me!

1. I have no interest whatsoever in the occult.
2. I did not gain absolute power by pretending to be a communist.
3. I do not have a mustache.
4. While my tolerance for dissidents is low, I am willing to hear all sides of an issue.
5. I do not yell when I give my public addresses. Well, sometimes I do, but only when I am intoxicated, and I feel bad about it later.
6. I am not blindly patriotic, and I’m not afraid to make examples of those who are.
7. My wardrobe is not limited to military fatigues; sometimes when I’m chilling at my palace, I’ll throw on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.
8. I believe in a free press. No one has ever paid a cent for a copy of the Daily Lee Tyler.
9. I cried when I watched Mr. Holland’s Opus. (If you make fun of me for this, my secret police will get you.)
10. I did not shoot the intellectuals; they are all living happily ever after on a heavily guarded island.

Handsome Dan.

2005-03-29T12:43:00.000-08:00

Last night, I saw Handsome Boy Modeling School's first show. Ever. It was also my first foray into the Los Angeles hip-hop scene, and I have to say, it was pretty impressive.
For those that don't know, Handsome Boy Modeling School is a collaboration between super-producers Dan the Automator (Gorillaz, Dr. Octagon, Deltron) and Prince Paul (De La Soul, Stetsasonic). Their set was pretty good--a lot of kind of funny talking about being handsome, and occasionally some tight songs--but the real highlights were the opening acts and guest appearances.
First up was k-Os, a vegetarian Rastafarian MC from Toronto. His was a surprise appearance, and it was quite pleasant. I have no idea if anyone besides Canadians and me knows about him, but I find him a deep breath of fresh air, given the pathetic staleness of current main-stream rap radio. A lot of his stuff is heavily influenced by reggae, and his band was probably the funkiest I've seen apart from the originators themselves, P-Funk.
Then came Opio of Souls of Mischief, off the Oakland-based Hieroglyphics label. In a word, flawless. (I find it hard to write a music review without sounding cheezy.) Those guys are tremendously underrated, and the material from his new album sounds ill. I wish he had performed a full set. I mean, he has a unique, complex flow and pulls it off live. A rarity.
The cool guest appearances were Casual, from the Hieroglyphics label, and Dres, of Black Sheep. Dres rocked with a couple songs, notably Black Sheep's only semi-hit, "The Choice is Yours." Black Sheep, by the way, was one of the Native Tongues groups from the early nineties, though they were never as big as A Tribe Called Quest, Brand Nubian, De La Soul or the Jungle Brothers. It was great to see 1,000 people amped for an insanely underrated song from 1991. A lot of people even knew the words. I felt a little veklempt...
Anyway, Handsome Boy Modeling School's on tour now, and I suggest checking them out in your city if you want to see a fairly inexpensive and interesting hip-hop concert. They seemed a bit disorganized last night, but it was their first show. I'm sure the set will get tighter, but even if it doesn't, the ticket's worth it just for the opening acts. The vibe was nothing but peace, love and fun, and I have to give the crowd props for its good taste.

Practice Chicago Fire Department Entrance Exam.

2005-03-28T09:34:00.000-08:00

“The entrance exam given to applicants for the Chicago Fire Department in 1995 discriminated against blacks, a federal judge has ruled after a seven-year legal battle.”-AP Wire, March 23, 2005

The following ten questions are multiple choice. For each question, please circle the best answer. You have sixty minutes to complete the test.

1. In one week the fire department received a total of 25 calls, five of which were false alarms. What percentage of the calls were false alarms?
a) 15%
b) 20%
c) 50%
d) 100%

2. Given the scenario described in (1), the false alarms were made by people from which of the following ethnic groups:
a) Not enough information provided
b) Creole
c) Ethnic Albanian
d) Aborigine
e) Black

3. In pictures (i) and (ii) above, the arrow represents the force exerted by the firefighter on the lever, in an attempt to move the large block. If Jermaine says that (i) gives the most mechanical advantage, and Rory says that (ii) gives the most mechanical advantage, who is correct?
a) There are no pictures above
b) Jermaine
c) Rory

4. A fire truck traveling at 50 miles per hour takes 10 minutes to reach the emergency scene. What is the name of Hall & Oates’ debut album?
a) Live At The Apollo
b) Whole Oats
c) Daryl Hall and John Oates
d) Private Eyes

5. A pumper takes fifteen minutes to reach the scene of a fire located ten city blocks away. If there are four city blocks in a mile, what year did Hall & Oates release their debut album?
a) 1927
b) 1792
c) 1982
d) 1972

6. Ted Koppel : black::
a) You: black
b) You: not black

7. Jim, Dave and Tom are playing cards at the station. Jim and Dave are white, while Tom is African-American. Jim tells a joke poking fun at black people. Tom says that he doesn’t appreciate “racist jokes.” Tom is:
a) Not a team player
b) A reverse racist
c) Not a real person, because the Chicago Fire Department does not hire black people

8. You, Daryl Hall and John Oates are sailing off the coast of Maine, when all of a sudden, you hit a rock. The impact destroys the vessel and throws the three of you into the chilly waters of the Atlantic. Miraculously, you wash ashore on the same deserted island as the pop duo. Who do you sleep with first?
a) Daryl Hall
b) John Oates
c) Neither, I use my cell phone to call for help

9. You arrive at the scene of a fire. Daryl Hall and John Oates are both trapped inside, but you only have time to save one of them. What do you do?
a) Save Daryl Hall. His sweet and expressive tenor voice is the key to the duo’s success.
b) Save Daryl Hall, because he has a really cool first name; you wish you were named Daryl
c) Throw yourself into the flames. Life without both members of the hit-making duo is too grim a prospect.

10. Which of the following best describes your personality:
a) Black
b) Not black

Correct Answers: 1, b; 2,e; 3,c; 4,b; 5,d; 6,a; 7,c; 8,a; 9,c; 10,b

Mining the depths of the human psyche.

2005-03-23T23:34:00.000-08:00

Today, René Magritte is largely remembered as a Belgian surrealist, but at one time, he was also the owner of a trendy disco that did a multi-million dollar, mostly cash business. For the painting above, he drew on his extreme fear of waking up one morning to find a mob of IRS auditors outside his bedroom window. For that reason, he called it, "I am such an idiot! Why did I brag to the tabloids about the comically large amount of unreported income stashed underneath my mattress?!!! Aaargh!!!"
Eventually, his fears were realized, and he spent the rest of his life in prison.

Fresh.

2005-03-23T16:26:00.000-08:00

I consider the early 90's the golden age of hip-hop. At the fore of the artists of this period were the Wu-Tang Clan. Last week, Terry Gross interviewed the RZA, producer genius behind the group. He is the king of minimilist production, and if you haven't heard it, I suggest buying Enter the Wu-Tang and really trying to understand why it's good. It might be hard for you if you don't like hip-hop, but in the long run, it will probably change your life. If I had never listened to it, I would be either an investment banker or a PhD candidate right now. Both of which would have sucked.

Hell.

2005-03-22T18:54:00.000-08:00

Hieronymous Bosch, c. 1504-1510
If there is a Hell, it'd be pretty cool if it looked like that. Sadly, I have a feeling it'd look more like this:

Actually, you know what would be really funny? If heaven looked like this:

I guess it would be really great for some people, but I think most people would think it was a pretty shitty reward for a lifetime of waking up early on Sunday.

Monday's Norwegian-American Office Banter.

2005-03-21T02:52:00.000-08:00

"Ufda, this coffee tastes pretty darn bad..." says Nels.
"That's because that Swede Blomquist made it," says Olie.
"Ufda!" says Nels, and launches his coffee mug into Blomquist's cubicle.

An Ancient Philosophical Question Considered.

2005-03-20T23:30:00.000-08:00

If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

Nope. Or maybe, Yes.

First Clarinet.

2005-03-19T12:23:00.000-08:00

I did not paint this, and this blog is supposed to be about my creative efforts, but this painting by Rodger Roundy is really funny and really accurate:

When I Was in the Order of the Beard...

2005-03-18T14:01:00.000-08:00

I had a beard.

And, interestingly, I also wrote a surprisingly large number of humor pieces about bearded characters:

HUMS 310a

The Beard in Western Civilization

Instructor: Ralph Larson

Professor Larson is an iconoclast with a single goal: setting the record straight about the significance of the beard in the history of humankind. His crusading has stirred up some controversy among colleagues in the History Department, as evidenced by a statement made by Prof. Doreen Jameson in a Nov. 2001 YDN article: “Ralph Larson’s theories about the beard are totally self-serving and preposterous.” Larson is undaunted by such criticism: “It is interesting to note that none of my critics have beards,” he says, twirling feverishly at the hairs on the chin of his beard. “My biggest critic, Professor Jameson, couldn’t grow a beard if she wanted to. Coincidence? I think not.”
Despite all the controversy, the class couldn’t come more highly recommended. Most of those enrolled in Larson’s lecture seemed to agree with his views regarding the importance of facial hair. “I particularly enjoyed Prof. Larson’s lecture, ‘The Beard at the Signing of the Magna Carta,’” a typical student wrote. “As I sit here, stroking my medium-bodied strawberry blonde beard and meditating fondly on Professor Larson’s excellent class, I must say I have no regrets.”

taken from "The Coarse Critique," published by the Yale Record in 2002

Do I Need Electroshock Therapy?

2005-03-17T19:27:00.000-08:00

Well, these protesters seem to think it would be a bad idea. They're probably right. But, still, I wonder...
My car has been experiencing technical difficulties since yesterday. For a 20-something American male, I know a pathetically small amount about car repair, but suffice it to say the car does not sound well--with my limited car knowledge, it sounds to me like it is going to self-destruct at any minute. So, of course, I get violently anxious at intersections, assuming the self-destruction will occur as I'm trying to beat a yellow light, and then I start in with the screaming of profanities, behavior learned from watching my father do same. The larger the intersection, the greater the stream of profanities.
And now that I am in Los Angeles, I actually believe that this car trouble could ruin me. If you haven't heard, there's absolutely no way to do anything here without a car. So here's the thought that keeps popping up over and over: "I am fucked. I'm going to have to pay like a bazillion dollars to fix a cylinder misfire, and I do not have a bazillion dollars. Nor do I know what a cylinder misfire is."
Then I say, "Fuck it," and decide that, heck, if my life is already ruined, I might as well eat pizza for every meal of the day and get drunk while watching mindless sitcoms (I only get the networks; man, I had no idea TV was this bad).
Sorry friends, today was a bad day. I have no guage of whether this post is funny, and I've tried to limit my posts to the more light-hearted, or comic, side of my persona, but you know what? Fuck you, fuck your mother. What do I give a fuck if you laugh or not at this stupid fucking post. Fucking Fuck. Fuck!!!!!!!!!

My Swank New Los Angeles Address.

2005-03-16T19:20:00.000-08:00

Hi Everyone,

Well, I’ve done it; I’ve finally decided to move to
Los Angeles. I wasn’t planning on it, but see, I found
this sweet arrangement whereby I live on this rich
fella’s land, in a little house that he owns, in
exchange for manual labor and a large percentage of
the crop yield. It’s gonna be amazing. And then when I die,
my son gets to take over my duties, and then when he
dies, his son gets to…and...uh...to...uh, too...Oh, man! Am I a serf again?!!!!!!
Well, I guess you'll find me working the land at:

[CLASSIFIED]

If you'd like to buy me, my feudal lord may be
willing to negotiate, but I’m legally attached to the
property.

Yours,
Lee
(Actually, not really—I belong to the
landowner),

Ivan and I harvesting the wheat crop.

Norwegian-American Office Banter.

2005-03-08T23:58:00.000-08:00

"Where have you been for the last three days, Olie?"
"Grandma Lena died, Nels."
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Olie. I didn't know..."
"Yeah, I was so happy, I had an aneurysm. I had to be hospitalized."
"Ufda."

Birth Announcement.

2005-03-08T16:26:00.000-08:00

I don’t talk about it much, but I grew up in Appalachia. For those who don’t know, that’s in the American Southwest, just east of Florida. You’ve probably never heard of it because it’s very rural. I mean, I grew up surrounded by high-rise apartments, street vendors, and public transportation, if you can believe it.
Yes, it was a sleepy island town, and Voodoo was the way of life. For those unfamiliar with our Japanese form of Judaism, we believe that our desert surroundings are populated with animal spirits. Blog is a powerful Voodoo spirit representing the struggle between the moon and the sun. He sat with Jesus Christ at the Last Supper, and is described in the Dialogues of the Buddha as a short fat man with an elephant’s head. He is always fornicating with mortals, and Hera is always finding out and yelling at him.
As an offering to Blog, I have created a new web log entitled Lee Tyler’s Carpet Warehouse (All Fire-Damaged Carpets 50% Off! All Carpets Still on Fire Free!!!).

Blog smiles; the offering pleases him. Hopefully that means he won't send locusts this year.

The Dream Analyst's Last Stand.

2005-03-06T20:38:00.000-08:00

Dear Dr. Dream,
Last night—and I have dreams like this all the time—I dreamt that paratroopers broke into my little art studio and forced me to paint harder at gunpoint. It’s getting so that I’m scared to even try to go to sleep! Help!
Confused in Columbus

Dear Confused:
In this dream the paratroopers represent your boss and you represent yourself. The guns represent your boss’s passive aggression. I suggest ignoring all your boss’s “constructive criticism.” It might be hard at first, but in my experience, it’s the only way to get rid of the paratroopers. Unless you are prepared to fight them. But that could take years and years of dreaming about going through special forces training.
Dr. Dream

Dear Dr. Dream:
Last night, I had this dream where I was chased by an elephant and then all of a sudden I was falling from a cliff. That’s when I woke up. What could it mean?
The Elephant’s Quarry

Dear Quarry:
Were you ever chased by elephants in your childhood? If so, the dream might be symbolic of your childhood. If not, perhaps you were chased by someone who claimed to be an elephant? Or—and this would be most interesting given my current research—you are an elephant and were chased by another, larger elephant. In any case, get over it! You are a grown-up now and all the elephants have been stalked and killed by poachers! And it’s all your fault! That was a metaphor, in case there was any confusion..
Dr. Dream

Dear Dr. Dream:
Thanks for your great column! It truly is an inspiration! Now, normally I don’t dream, but when I do, it’s always the same thing: I’m at the wheel of a zamboni, smoothing the ice before a Toronto Maple Leafs game, and I keep going around and around in this big, endless circle. And “We Will Rock You” is playing on repeat. What gives?!
Tony Zamboni

Dear Mr. Zamboni:
I’m glad you find my column so un-superfluously important! You know, I’ve been doing this column for twelve years, so it’s always great to be reminded of how non-expendable it really is. After all, I’m certainly not doing it for the pay- if I were, I’d be Dr. Dumb instead of Dr. Dream. Because they barely pay me a cent! LOL! As for the zamboni, I have no idea. Have you tried jogging or changing your diet?
Fondly,
Dr. Dream

Dear Dr. Dream:
When I was a teenager, I used to have wet dreams all the time. I miss those dreams. How do I get them back?
Dry Dreams in Fergus Falls

Dear Dry Dreams:
Have you ever tried drinking until you’re convinced that you are Teddy Roosevelt? It’s really fun! Plus, it will take your mind off the wet dreams and make you feel really good about creating the national park system. And if your boss asks you if something’s wrong—why you’re always slurring your speech and breaking his coffee mugs—tell him your grandma died. If that doesn’t work, say you’re an alcoholic. Alcoholism is a disease, and I’ve found people are usually pretty understanding when they’re scared of what you might do if they fire you.
Dr. Dream

Dear Dr. Dream:
Last week, I wrote you about my dream where I’m sledding down Mt. Vesuvius in a toboggan that is disintegrating because of the lava. Remember? You told me it was probably a reflection of the problems you assumed I was having at home. Well, I left my girlfriend and moved into an extended stay motel, just to see if it would help. Nothing! What else could it be?
Vexed on Vesuvius

Dear Vexed:
You know, I could lie to you and say I had all the answers or that there’s a straight-forward “system” to my interpretations. But there’s not, because it’s an art. I’ve found that if I just sit in my cubical, drink vodka, and free-associate, the column seems to write itself. So, I don’t know what to say. But if it’s not your wife, maybe it’s you? Can you think of any way that you are significantly deficient as a human being? If so, try starting with that.
Dr. Dream

Dear Dr. Dream:
Is my obsession with dreams shallow? I mean, there’s all kinds of stuff, really horrible stuff, going on in Africa and the Middle East, let alone right here at home.
Wondering in Wichita

Dear Wondering:
I guess you’re asking if I think dream analysis is worth a damn. Ironic you should ask that, given popular sentiment amongst the staff at the very newspaper you now hold in your hands. Well, we medical professionals don’t know, and we may never know, but that doesn’t mean dreams aren’t worth a damn. What if dreams are our window into some kind of extra-dimension, Wondering? Well, for one thing that would sure show my boss! And my parents. It would show a lot of people. I would be a prophet. Maybe even a God.

Dear Dr. Dream:
Love the column! You totally deserve to keep it, since you are so insightful and professional. It takes a big man to realize when he is wrong, and I really wish your editor would understand that you need drinking to feel creative. Plus, he doesn’t seem to get how much losing you will hurt the paper’s circulation.
Anonymous
P.S. I love you, son. Even if your mother doesn't.

Don't ever write me again, Anonymous. I hate you and your whole fucking WASP morality!!!!
Dr. Dream
P.S. I am more of a success than you could ever be!!!

DR. DREAM'S DAILY FORECAST:
The current forecast for my future employment is based entirely on rumors circulating throughout the office. Unfortunately, what can I do? Van Gogh died without having sold a single painting! Emily Dickinson died an unknown spinster! The true visionaries are always persecuted! By the way, if you know any producers interested in a screenplay about how, in the future, scientists will learn about our hidden super-powers through dream analysis, contact me at once. There’s also an energy cell angle, like in the Matrix. The script—when I write it—will be way better than this column ever was, even though this column was an intellectual watershed. But, what if the last twelve years have been a dream and I’m about to wake up? Hey, I just had a new idea for a script! Dream on, Dreamers, Dr. Dream!

Some "Ethnic" Humor.

2005-02-18T13:30:00.000-08:00

It's hard to tell from the picture above, but my ancestors' gravestones next to some fjord somewhere are hilarious in person!

My Norwegian Uncle Nels Told Me A Funny Norwegian Joke

Olie says to Lena: “Hey, did I tell you that Sven Blomquist stopped by to borrow some lard while you were at the Luther League meeting last night?”
“No,” says Lena. “Did you let him in?”
“Of course I didn’t let him in our happy Norwegian homestead,” Olie says. "Sven Blomquist's a Swede!"
“Ufda!" Lena exclaims, hands on her hips. "Olie, we're not in Norway anymore: just because Sven’s a Swede does not mean he’s dumb, ugly or a bad man...”
“Well, he didn't seem so nice to me," replies Olie. "He called me a swear word."
"He did? When?"
"Well, after that lingonberry-eating son-of-a-bitch knocked on our door, I was pretty darn annoyed. So I tracked him down all the way to his Swede neighborhood and beat the crap out of him with a piece of lutefiske. And that's when he called me a 'motherfucker.'"

My Swedish Uncle Alberik Told Me A Funny Swedish Joke

"Ufda!" Anna exclaims, as she scrapes the uneaten lingonberries into the garbage. "This pantry stinks to high heaven!!!"
"It's that dead animal," says Sven. "I'll take care of it after I finish watching the Abba Behind-The-Music program..."
"Sven Blomquist," Anna interrupts. "I can barely breathe in that kitchen..."
"Alright, alright," Sven harrumphs.
Anna puts down her scrubbing brush to watch Sven lumber toward the pantry.
"Yuk, it smells like rotting lutefiske in here!" Sven hollers, as he opens the pantry door.
Anna peaks over Sven's shoulder and does a double-take: "Sven...why is Olie Olsen's body hidden in our pantry?"
"I told ya already," says Sven, annoyed. "After I stalked and killed him for hitting me over the head with that disgusting fish, I had to hide his body somewhere. We're not in Sveden anymore, Anna: Killing Norwegians is illegal in Minnesota!"

My Black Uncle Alfred Told Me A Funny Black Joke

"Cracka, get the hell on," yells Uncle Alfred. "I don't know you."
I've got him talking to me now, I think to myself jubilantly, as I walk up the block. I've got an actual, genuine, bona fide black man responding to "Uncle Alfred"!!! Yes! Yes! YESSSS!!!!!
Note: Now that I've got the black man responding to "Uncle Alfred," I've started calling him up and leaving casual messages in which I nonchalantly ask if he can tell me some good black jokes. I don't want to get my hopes up, but I think it's only a matter of time before he tells me some sort of black joke that I can post here...I wonder if his name really is Uncle Alfred? Well, only time will tell, I guess.

Oscar Wilde, Updated for Our Craazy Modern Age.

2005-02-17T22:50:00.000-08:00

Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember that most people will resent you for it.

A man can be happy with any woman as long as she is physically perfect.

Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, unless it is nervous laughter.

The books that the world calls immoral are perfectly legal in Germany.

Anyone who lives within his means obviously doesn’t have a credit card.

Arguments are to be avoided; especially with Puerto Rican women.

There are two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is thinking about why one wanted what one got.

Nowadays all the married men behave like bachelors, and all the bachelors like Ponce de Leon, but rather than looking for what ¾ of the British populace calls a fountain of youth and the seven literate Britons call Morality, they look instead for their pointy Helmets, which they mislaid at a Boxing Day party.

Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is living on my couch without paying any of the fucking rent.

There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is zombies.

The pure and simple Truth is rarely pure, and never makes for a good A story.

After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even my stepfather. And I assure you, he was pretty overbearing.

As for the virtuous poor, one can pity them, but can one possibly be expected to give them one’s change?

It is better to have a permanent income than to be a freelance writer.

Anyone can make history; only the nerds will study it in any depth.

If one could teach the English how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, one would still have the North Korean atomic bomb to worry about.

To do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world. At least that is what the stars on E! want us to believe.

Democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people, by the people, so that they can get an IMF loan.

Most modern calendars mar the sweet simplicity of our lives by reminding us that each day that passes is the anniversary of our watching of a shitty television sitcom.

An inordinate passion for pleasure leads to Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Nothing makes one so vain as being told one is a sinner. Especially if one has a barbed wire tattoo acquired at Spring Break ‘96.

To love one’s self is something that should not be done on public transportation.

We are all in the gutter, but we are not all Courtney Love.

A man who moralizes is usually a hypocrite, a woman who moralizes is sent to a land far, far away.

Some cause happiness wherever they go; others do an Austin Powers impression.

Lee Tyler's Exclusive College Rankings.

2005-02-17T22:48:00.000-08:00

The author engaged in research at his office.

Believe me, it’s difficult to come up with new exclusive college rankings these days. U.S. News and World Report has its exclusive rankings, the folks at Time have theirs—so many people have exclusive rankings, in fact, that one might expect there isn’t much room left to rank colleges based on exclusive criteria. But if one were to expect that, one would be a fool. In fact, I’ve found that with a little imagination the number of things one can be exclusive about is practically infinite. So without further ado, here is an excerpt from my upcoming college admissions handbook, So You’re Entering the Rat Race. As you can see, I rate the things people really care about.

Largest Number of Closeted Homosexuals
1. West Virginia University
“There are no homosexuals at WVU,” one male administrator at WVU vehemently argues (on pastel stationary). “Fine, no one really dates that seriously and everyone’s a little high-strung, but in no way does that imply that everyone is a closeted homosexual.” Town residents have a different take: “They’re gay alright, they’re about as gay as it comes…Of course, they’ll never admit it, but I know what gay is and trust me that’s about as gay as it gets.” “Pamela Anderson is such a bitch. I love her!…I mean, Pamela Anderson is so beautiful. Her breasts are so large,” commented one student, a little too zealously to be believed.

Most Fair and Balanced Alumni Magazine
1. Washington and Lee
Students come to Washington and Lee because they know that when they graduate, they will receive a life subscription to the “most fair and balanced alumni magazine around." “I have a friend, a Yale man,” says Dick Cheroot ’35. “He was reading the Yale Alumni Magazine one day, when he saw his freshman roommate’s name in the obituary column. So he called his friend’s family to offer his condolences. Long story short, his friend answers the phone and asks him over for a weekend of quail baiting. I am overjoyed to say that that sort of thing would never happen to me because the Washington and Lee Alumni Magazine never invents sensational stories about anyone’s death.” One senior put it this way: “Washington and Lee itself sucks—I’ve hated every minute of it, everyone hates it—but I’m pretty sure that the Washington and Lee Alumni Magazine subscription will be very meaningful and fun. They’re pretty good about getting all points of view on an issue, be it a reunion or a lambasting of soup kitchen liberals.”

Most Sarcastic Students
1. University of Pennsylvania
“Oh, I love it here,” one Pennie says of the University of Pennsylvania. “It’s so great. I mean, everyone is so nice to everyone else, and the teachers really seem to care about you, and there’s no horrible sewer leaks at all. I’m so glad that a university with a billion dollar endowment knows how important it is to get rid of the sewage leaks. It smells like a million buck out here. Yeah, the UPenn sewage leak problem is really under control.”

Cleanest Rooftops
1. Smith College
Though Smith’s academic environment “leaves something to be desired” and the social scene is “practically non-existent,” nearly everyone on campus agrees that “the rooftops of the buildings are the cleanest of any college campus.” “I don’t see what the big deal is,” admits one freshman. “They don’t even seem that clean to me, not that you would ever want to spend any time up there, considering the rooftops are precipitously steep.” But a majority of Smithies disagree: “Trust me, the rooftops are all that and a bag of chips, and I don’t even know what that means. They’re incredible. I’ve never been up there myself, but you always hear the most amazing stories about their cleanliness.”

Largest Percentage of Students Who Use Latin Phrases To Sound Smarter Than They Actually Are
1. Yale
“Yale is the ne plus ultra of schools. Ipso facto, latin is the lingua franca. Note bene, res ipsa loquitur.” Sound like a quote by a markedly senile William F. Buckley? Well, it is! And it's just one Yalie's explanation of why Latin-dropping is so popular amongst Yalies. While many Yalies find that all this Latin makes them sound smarter than they actually are, it’s not magnum bonum for for everyone all the time: “The major quid pro quo of going to school with all these people who, like myself, use Latin phrases ad nauseum, is that I go to school with a lot of people, who like me, are extremely obnoxious...uhh...et cetera.”

Largest Collection of Human Remains
1. University of Mississippi
Most people can’t brag that their college “has the most human remains of any college in the world,” but students at Ole Miss have that distinct privilege. Sound strange? Students admit that their school isn’t for everyone, but for those who feel that enormous piles of lightly concealed human remains add atmosphere, there’s no better place to call home. And students assure us that if you’re looking for human remains, you don’t have to look very far because they are stuffed away in every nook and cranny! “Ole Miss is the best seven years of your life, if you like the idea of grounds chock full of people! Otherwise, it’s probably hell!”

Best Penmanship
1. Swarthmore College
I was impressed, and that sort of thing doesn’t normally impress me.

Largest Number of People Who Refused to Fill Out A Survey For My Exclusive College Rankings List
1. Providence College
Though no one was available for comment, and I’m lost without quotations, Providence College certainly has a right to boast that it has the “largest number of people who refused to fill out a survey for my exclusive college rankings list.” To be exact, no one responded. Congratulations to Providence College! Keep up the good work!

The Answering Machine of Phil Blount, BA.

2005-02-17T19:45:00.000-08:00

(beep)
Phil, it’s Jason McDermott. Listen, I don’t know what all those bitches…I mean, “friends” you live with told you, but it’s time for you to start thinking about who’s gonna take you to the top. And it’s not gonna be your big-time, college-graduate friends or that advertising guy that made you his personal slave…I mean, “assistant.” Look, your week of taking his shit is over; you’re a college graduate, buddy, and a college graduate is just what I need. Leave those losers in the dust, and join up with Team McDermott. Are you ready to hike up your skirt and kick off your high heels? Are you ready to make yourself some fuckin’ money? I told you about the company already. I’ve got five professionals going to every frat house in America. You saw my gold Tauruses on campus last year, right? Of course you did, they’re all over the fuckin’ place. I’m already a millionaire many times over. goldbookmarkinternational.com. And I know I told you about the patent already. Yeah, that’s right. Gold ink, motherfucker. I patented that shit. But that was only a first step, Phil. You know, someone once said, “Success is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration.” That’s why I need you. I don’t expect big ideas. I just need someone with a good credit rating to help me take my message to the world. Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes? Sir Arthur Hoyle, millions of copies in print. Well, Holmes had this sidekick named Watson. Holmes was the genius, but without Watson, Holmes couldn’t have solved the crimes. You see where I’m going with this? Here’s a hint: I’m like Holmes. You’re gonna be my fuckin’ Watson, buddy.
(beep)
Phil, Jason. Look, I already patented the gold ink and now I’m on my way to patenting the silver ink. That’s right. We’re doing silver bookmarks now, baby. I can’t even fathom the millions I’m gonna make from this shit. Are you ready to make yourself some fuckin’ money? You better be, ‘cause there’s hundreds of applicants waiting for that position I offered you. I’m only gonna ask you once.
(beep)
Phil, me. Look- gold bookmarks. It’s the future. I’m telling you. Wall Street’s all over this shit. And now with the silver bookmarks and the bronze ink I’m waiting on the patent for, I’m planning to increase my fleet of Tauruses—you know, the gold ones at every college campus in America—to include silver Tauruses, and eventually, assuming the bronze ink patent goes through, bronze Tauruses. I need people to drive the fuckin’ silver Tauruses. You drive, right?
(beep)
Hey Phil. It’s me again. Jason McDermott. You know, when I first met you in line at that Burger King, I knew it was destiny. I don’t know if you believe in a higher power or in fate, but if that wasn’t fate I don’t know what is. We were both wearing black sneakers—remember?—and we had both just ordered a chicken sandwich meal. The only difference was you ordered a Diet Coke and I got a Dr. Pepper. Large. Someday, two or three years from now at the most, my biographer’s going to write about that moment. It’s just one of those feelings I get. Kinda like when I first got the idea for gold ink. Hey, I gotta run to an investors’ meeting, but I’ll talk to you soon, okay?
(beep)
Phil, Jason. We are on the verge of success. You know it. I know it. All I need from you is a thousand dollars. Sure, it might seem like a lot, but if you want to be the vice president of goldbookmarkinternational.com and buy a mansion in Beverly Hills and drive a gold Ferrari and have all the bitches in the rap videos, you gotta make some sacrifices. In case you haven’t heard, “Money doesn’t grow on trees.” I forget who it was that said that. Sherlock Holmes, I think. Anyway, I’m a very busy man, so get back to me ASAP.
(beep)
I really don’t appreciate your not returning my messages, Phil. I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime here! “If you don’t believe, you won’t achieve.” Just remember that. This is Jason McDermott by the way.
(beep)
Phil, you little bitch. Here’s a fuckin’ reality check: college grads are a dime a dozen, asshole. Guess what. I offered you the vice presidency because of how pathetic you looked at that Burger King. Period. Black sneakers? Chicken sandwich? You call that a life? When I’m on a hydrofoil with Fat Joe in Miami and you’re still sitting on your ass in that fancy-schmancy ad agency with all of those broke people with their fancy-schmancy fuckin’ college degrees, you’re gonna be sorry. I could have gone to college too, you know, but I was too busy achieving personal fuckin’ excellence in the fuckin’ real world. What the fuck is your problem?!
(beep)
Phil, it’s Jason McDermott again. Disregard my last message—I had a really bad headache and couldn’t find my aspirin. Look, I know how all this probably looks. And you know what? I’m not gonna lie to you. Okay, so I don’t have a workshop in England where Englishmen produce the bookmarks by hand. You’re right if you thought that wasn’t true. Can’t put anything past you, huh? That’s why you’d make a perfect vice president. Anyway, you remember that printer you saw me holding in that Burger King—the one I salvaged from a pile of garbage on a street corner earlier that morning? Well, all the printing capabilities we need are right there on that sweet, little InkJet. Of course, I’ve outfitted it with a specially modified gold ink cartridge and everything with some parts I got from a buddy of mine at NASA. The National Air—you know, the space ship place. You’ve probably heard about it on TV? Look, I’m sorry I made that stuff up about the Englishmen, but it was a rough day. I wasn’t myself. See right before we met, I got into this argument with Bill Gates, the president of Microsoft. I was talking to him on my cellular phone—don’t worry, you’ll get one of those soon. Anyway, he borrowed my butler, Fonsworth, and hasn’t returned him yet. It’s been almost two weeks and my estate’s gone to pieces! Well, I just thought you deserved to know the truth. But the other stuff, the stuff about me being nominated for the Nobel Prize for business? I've got a Bible out here and I'm putting my hand on it, I'm swearing to you, on my mother's fresh grave, that is true.
(beep)

Lt. Bush's Letters Home.

2005-02-17T02:28:00.000-08:00

October 21, 2004
Today, in response to criticism of President Bush’s service during the Vietnam War, the Bush campaign released the following war-time letters the President wrote while on active duty. The letters are intended to “further illustrate the President’s record of unbridled enthusiasm, service, and hard work during the Vietnam War effort.”

January 2, 1970

Dear Mom and Dad,
I hope you are all fine, and living life like you always did. Tell Jeb to go easy on the girls for me.
I know you worry about me, but don’t. I’ll be safe, and anyway, if anything ever happened to me, you will know that I died protecting our great nation from the axis of evil. Communism is a plague, and it is my responsibility to help stop it.
Weekends on the base are tense because we never know when the Mexicans and Cubans might attack. The Mexicans and Cubans, who as you know are in cahoots with the Soviets and Viet Cong, hate America’s freedom (I think they’re also jealous of our baseball and good beer), and we in the 111th are committed to bringing them to justice. If that means preemptive strike, so be it. I’ll leave that up to the general, since he’s the boss. But if they try anything in the Gulf, we’re gonna get ‘em.
You know, when I first got my assignment, I was real excited—I’d never been to the Gulf of Mexico before; it’s so far from Midland, it’s like a different planet! But now I know how bad war is. Sometimes I wish I’d taken the easy way out—gone to Canada or cut off my trigger arm—but then I think of Bill, one of my buddies in the Guard. He has this boil on his leg that really hurts. I owe it to him and America to stand up to the enemies of democracy.
Love,
George
P.S. I’ll be home soon (this week).

April 9, 1970

Dear Mom and Dad,
In case you forgot, I’m protecting the country. That’s why I’ve been so scarce. It’s a hard job. It’s a really hard job. But I’m a good person and I’m working hard to get the job done.
No sign of the Mexican bombers yet. See, they’re waiting for us to turn the other way, then bam! But we won’t turn the other way, because we are committed 110% to waiting for their move. When they attack, they’re gonna pay.
That goes for the Cubans, too.
Love,
George
P.S. Thanks for the cookies. Please send more!
P.P.S. I’m coming home this week, as usual.

November 21, 1970

Dear Mom and Dad,
The Mexicans still haven’t attacked yet. Neither have the Cubans. I wish we could just go ahead and attack them to get it over with. Then we wouldn’t have to worry so much, but the hippies think that would be bad. This must be how Dad felt when he was waiting for his missions in WWII. It’s part of being in a war, I guess.
Love,
George
P.S. Please send more cookies. Also, will be home this week. From now on, you should probably just assume you’ll see me every week, unless I say otherwise.

March 15, 1971

Dear Mom and Dad,
I had the scare of my life last night. I was sound asleep in the barracks, when I heard this creaking alongside the window. Then there were some more sounds that sounded like Mexican-talk. I woke Tom and he heard it too. We were scared, but our training kicked in like clockwork. We took out our truncheons (we can’t have guns), and snuck to the window to see who was out there. Well, believe me I nearly had a heart attack when I peaked over that windowsill. Standing there was the meanest-looking raccoon I ever saw. He stared at me for what must have been 7 minutes, then walked off. Talk about a close call! What if he had been a Mexican with a bigger truncheon than me? But that’s war—a surprise at every turn
Love,
George
P.S. More cookies, please.

June 28, 1971

Dear Mom and Dad,
You know, I think the Cubans and Mexicans are too chicken to attack us. See, they’re scared of us, because the Guard is a force to be reckoned with. Otherwise, you’d probably be dead now and America would be a province of Cuba or Mexico. Or Vietnam (or Russia). See the commie murderers know that if they try anything, we’ll kill ‘em faster than they can say, “We surrender!”
Love,
George
P.S. The cookies were great. That Betty Crocker sure makes a mean oatmeal raisin cookie.

September 21, 1971

Dear Mom and Dad,
I know how vital my service is to our great country is, but I still have an itching to shoot down a Mexican plane. Just to see the look on their faces. But I hear they’ve got this amazing air force, better even than Poland’s, so let’s hope that doesn’t happen. But if it did, it’d be fun to see what my F-102 can really do!
Love,
George

October 10, 1971

Dear Mom and Dad,
I am SO excited. I finally flew a big mission. I can’t talk about it now—secrecy and everything (Dad knows about this). It wasn’t officially classified—in fact, our CO encouraged us to tell our families about it—but I just want to make sure. Maybe they got it wrong, and it really was classified. I could get promoted for something like that. Anyway, suffice to say, no Mexicans invaded America on my watch. If you catch my drift.
Love,
George

August 12, 1973

Dear Mom and Dad,
I hope you weren’t worried about me, since I was missing from the base for the past few months. Everything is fine, there was just a little misunderstanding. I was actually on this top secret mission the armed forces will probably never admit existed. Needless to say, I was not AWOL. I was doing vital and important work in service of this great nation.
I hope you are all doing fine. And God bless you.
Love,
George
P.S. Because of my secret mission, the Mexican and Cuban threat is completely under control. For now.
P.P.S. I’ve got a hankering for some cookies…

No, this has nothing to do with the topic...But doesn't he look engaged in the discussion?

Chicken Soup for the Baby's Soul: Tollhouse Cookies.

2005-02-17T01:58:00.000-08:00

My brother Jimmy and I have always been close, ever since we were babies. I guess you could say we were close even before that. You see, Jimmy and I are identical twins, and, since Dad worked on the offshore rig and Mom died giving birth to Jimmy and me, we were left alone in our playpen for most of our infancy. Neither of us learned to talk until after kindergarten, if you can believe it! That’s because Jimmy and I had little use for English—we communicated exclusively through telepathy.
Most of our time in the playpen was spent either crying in vain for our missing parents, or trying to get our little fingers into the giant cookie jar on the other side of our one-room shack. There wasn’t anything Jimmy wanted more in the whole wide world than to teethe on one of those stale Tollhouse cookies. Looking back on it, now that I can eat as many Tollhouse cookies as I please, the whole mess seems foolish. But, at the time, that jar presented the Swanson twins with a dilly of a pickle!
The first step, I figured, was to learn how to walk. After all, we couldn’t get to the other side of our one-room shack by magic (telepathy is one thing; telekinesis is another). “Slow down,” Jimmy thought to me. “We need to learn how to crawl first, Willy!” Jimmy made a good point and we started off practicing our crawl. Even though Jimmy learned how to crawl quickly, I laid silently in the corner for several days before finally figuring out how to pull my wriggling, undernourished, naked body across the dirt floor.
Once we learned to crawl, we couldn’t get enough of it- I guess you could say we were “hooked” on crawling. We would race to see who could crawl faster- Jimmy always won, unless he collapsed from hunger pangs. In said scenario, and, believe me, it wasn’t uncommon, we’d call it a draw. But I was a focused little guy, so I suggested we try our hands at walking. Jimmy was a little reluctant at first, but I reminded him of the cookie jar on the other side of our one-room shack and immediately his big blue eyes lit up.
It was easy for me; I was able to walk with the best of them the first time I tried. But it wasn’t so easy for Jimmy. After falling on his face a few hundred times one day, Jimmy gave up. He just laid down and started crawling frantically around the playpen. I grew dizzy watching him from my perch beside the cookie jar. “This walking stuff is too hard,” he thought to me. “I don’t need to know how to walk. Crawling is good enough for this baby.” I tried to convince him that he might get to the cookie jar on the other side of our one-room shack, but that there would be other cookie jars in other one-room shacks that he would never be able to get to. He refused to listen and became enamored--dare I say obsessed--with crawling.
Those years were hard on our relationship- I would come home from my evening stroll each night to find Jimmy crying in the corner with a distended stomach and a vacant look in his eye. I was often on time for school and excelled academically, while Jimmy would crawl in huffing and puffing well after the pleasant ringing of the recess bell rang. Eventually, Principal Stern eventually asked him to leave school because he was creeping everybody out, while I went on to found and captain my high school’s competitive walking team.
School went by lickety-split and, before I knew it, it was all over. Dad took some time off from the rig and came to my high school graduation. Jimmy came as well, although to get there in time, he had to leave our shack well before I returned from prom the night before. When I got my diploma, Dad was busy photographing another boy he mistook for me, but Jimmy wasn’t. Jimmy knew who Hank was and he knew who I was, and what's more, he knew that we were not the same person. There are a lot of things Dad could probably have learned from Jimmy on that day, if only he knew who he was.
I will remember that moment for the rest of my days. Jimmy crawled up to me, with those big tears welling up in his soft blue eyes, and took my hand. “I’m proud of you, brother,” Jimmy thought to me. “You’re gonna get to go work on the rig, while I’m stuck here in Thomas Ferry, Alaska. You’re going places, Will. Sure, I can crawl better than you. But where did crawling ever get me? No where, that's where. Just think of all the Tollhouse cookies that are just waiting for you in those cookie jars.” A single tear ran down his quivering cheek. I was touched so deeply by what Jimmy thought, that I handed him the cookie jar I always kept in my hip pocket-my lucky cookie jar, the very same cookie jar we had groped for as babes. Jimmy was speechless (as usual). He looked at the jar, hesitated and then he just looked up at me with those shining blue eyes of his and smiled. “I’m not gonna need that on the rig, Jimmy; there are probably lots of cookie jars on the rig," I said. "Go on--you take it.”
Jimmy screwed up his face, like he does when he's thinking to himself. Then he gave the cookie jar back to me. “I don’t deserve that jar, Will,” he thought. “I’m a quitter. But I do have a favor to ask you: I want you to share my story with all babies, lest they ever think of quitting. No one ever got nowhere from quitting.” “I’ll do my best, Jimmy,” I said as I looked off wistfully into the bleak Alaskan distance, opened my lucky cookie jar and ate a delicious Tollhouse cookie. “I’ll do my best.”

from the Yale Record

New History Channel Programming Debuting This Spring.

2005-02-17T00:24:00.000-08:00

“Most Awesomely Bad Dictators…Ever.”

Join Drew Lee, Rob Levine and friends as they riff on all those dictators that were so bad they were really kinda good. About Pol Pot, Levine smirks, “I have a bad day, I go to sleep early; Pol Pot has a bad day, he executes 1,000 dissidents.” And when it comes to Stalin, Andy Pemberton sets his snark phaser on high: “The Great Purge we can forgive him for; the mustache, not so much.” And if the laugh-out-loud commentary wasn’t enough, we throw in a hot chick for the interstitials!

“Addicted to Painkillers: The Alfonse D’Amato Story.”

We all know the story of how a young Italian immigrant named Alfonse D’Amato stepped off a leaking barge onto the soil of Ellis Island, looked at the Statue of Liberty with a tear in his eye, and exclaimed, “Someday, I will be the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs!” But the really juicy stuff about D’Amato comes during his “Lost Period,” the seven years following his ousting from the Senate and preceding his comeback as an after-dinner speaker for the exclusive Harry Walker Agency. During this time, D’Amato was addicted to painkillers and made a pledge to watch every episode of Star Search ever produced. He accomplished his goal, but it cost him his marriage, his good name, and his mind!

“Blowin’ Shit Up.”

Shit getting blown up.

In 2005, we take programming about how bombs are made and used in military operations, which typically airs from 6 PM - 2 AM every night, to a whole new level. “Blowin’ Shit Up” is simply about blowin’ shit up. Literally. That’s it—all we do is show stalk footage of explosions. More often than not, these explosions are culled from the public archive of northern Nevada bomb testing footage as well as Arnold Schwarzenegger movies in which the actor plays a bionic man obsessed with blowin’ shit up. Leonard Nimoy narrates with a score by Kiss.

“Places Vaguely Connected with George Washington.”

When we first aired our hard-hitting series, “George Washington Slept Here,” critics were skeptical. “Who would watch a 10-part exposé on the places Washington slept?” Bill Braynard of the Baltimore Sun asked. “Next thing you know they’re going to do a show about the public toilets he used.” But viewer response was so overwhelmingly positive that we created a follow-up program dedicated entirely to other places vaguely connected with the great American president. Leonard Nimoy narrates this fascinating survey that takes the viewer on a magical journey from a street where Washington once had a flat tire to an abandoned lot where Washington once threw some gum when no one was looking.
The first installment focuses on Ernie’s Gas and Food, and the struggle its owner Ernie is having convincing the government that his store is a historical landmark. Ernie's Gas and Food is a convenience store located just outside of Trenton where Ernie claims the wooden-toothed one once bought an iPod mini.

“Great Hemingway Scholars of the 20th Century.”

In one of Gerald Robinson's wet dreams, he is this lion.

This series examines the lives of Hemingway scholars Johnson Wilcox and Gerald Robinson. An early season highlight is Wilcox’s harrowing, and seemingly endless, pontification about his sex-life. “If it weren’t for all the vicarious sex I was having through Hemingway, I…Oh, man,” Wilcox explains, suddenly realizing the futility of his own existence. Robinson touches on similar themes: “Even though I spent my 20s and 30s subsisting on lentils and rice in a hovel outside of North Adams, Massachusetts, it was all okay, because, you see, in my mind I was on the safari. With Hemingway.” The first show focuses on a tour of the suburban home where Wilcox continues to live in his parents’ basement. He is 48, and is waiting for them to pass away so that he can have the place all to himself.

“The First Annual History Channel Awards”

This plane is up for the History Channel Award for Best Male Lead.

Awards are given for such popular categories as best actor in a documentary about World War II planes, best director of a documentary about World War II planes, and greatest achievement in narration (usually a toss-up between Leonard Nimoy and Alec Baldwin). Held annually (starting now) at the Skokie VFW, until we can afford a bigger deposit.

Top Ten Signs Your Gym Teacher is Nuts.

2005-02-17T00:21:00.000-08:00

10. Calls you by your first name
9. Confuses the whistle around his neck with “the whistle inside his neck”
8. When you complain of leg spasms, he laughs dismissively and quotes Darwin
7. Instead of “Shirts vs. Skins,” “Skins vs. Unstoppable Skinning Machine”
6. When you start climbing the rope, he sets fire to the bottom of you
5. Instead of just standing off to the side holding a ham sandwich, stands off to the side holding an imaginary door open for an imaginary queen
4. Entertains insane delusion that he’s a real teacher
3. Is a straight woman
2. Wears a Hawaiian shirt
1. Instead of making you build a human pyramid, forces you to join his pyramid scheme

Missed Connections

2005-02-16T23:40:00.000-08:00

MATCHBOX EXPIRATION DATES: Telephone Matchboxes run in three consecutive issues. A Matchbox is removed from the system at 9am on the Wednesday “exp” date printed at the end of an ad.

ME: BLUSHING BRUNETTE in glasses and sweater staring out the window of speeding MTA bus. Saw you scouring the ground for loose change on Madison Avenue sidewalk. We did not share a glance, only a brief, blurred moment. Want to share another? Or two? I’ll be one waving.
4329833 (exp 10/11)

YOU: ATHLETIC-LOOKING librarian at Goodnow Library. Me: happy-go-lucky, middle-aged guy with big appetite for John Grisham. He’s the best! Just finished with messy separation. Sigh. Now looking for new lease on life! How about coffee? My treat! Have a hunch we’ll hit it off really well. Just make sure you don't ask me about my personal life. EVER.
4329829 (exp 10/11)

53RD AND 5TH, 11:21:33-11:21:42, 10/3. You were Pamela Anderson. I was the guy who asked for your autograph and commented, “You look even hotter in real life.” You wrote: “XOXO, Pam” on my “F.B.I.: Female Body Inspector” t-shirt. Can’t get those words out of my mind, think you might feel same. Coffee?
4329828 (exp 10/11)

PALE, WIRY GUY in living room, October 5th. You were watching football on our TV. Had no idea we were still roommates. Where have you been for the past three months? Did you beat WarCraft III yet? Wanna meet up sometime in the living room?
4596376 (exp 10/11)

YOU: MOIST, TENDER, scrumptious-looking, pink-frosted chocolate cupcake in window of Frizzoli’s Bakery on Mulberry Street, 10/1, AM. Me: Salt-and-Pepper Hair, stone-washed jeans, casually window-shopping. Just finished 164-step recovery program for baked-goods addiction, am so ready for relapse…
4329831 (exp 10/11)

MAN BROWSING AT the newsstand on 86th and Lexington last Wednesday, eightish. You: deep voice, facial hair, wide shoulders, narrow hips, prominent musculature. I am female, 100% genuine XX with full compliment of sexual characteristics (primary and secondary). I’ve got the 100% non-counterfeit papers to prove it. Testimonials from 100% medical professionals upon request.
4329837 (exp 10/11)

I AM BOTH blind and deaf, so have had to develop a keenly sensitive sense of smell. You were the lady wearing Chanel Number 5, a gingham dress made in a pungent Malaysian sweatshop, and Kiwi-polished leather penny-loafers, near a hotdog cart, Chinese restaurant, and pool of human urine on October 2nd.. You definitely smell like a winner. Let’s just say I reek of prosperity and brill cream…but aren’t they really one and the same? Well, I guess you’ll have to find out, the hard way…or we could just get coffee.
4329840 (exp 10/11)

ME: RALPH HARRISON. You: Cheryl, my ex-wife. Caught several sweet glimpses of you at your new home in the desolate Icelandic tundra. Just passing through. It's been so long since you filed that restraining order. By the way, did you know the Icelandic police are trained in judo? Me neither. On a related note, please forward bail.
4329835 (exp 10/11)

ME: COFFEE PLANTATION worker. You: blue-eyed blonde loitering outside Café Buzz. Wanna get coffee sometime? I’ve never tried coffee before, which is kinda weird, huh? I’ve spent my entire life harvesting coffee. If you can imagine, it's given me some pretty bad associations. Have been waiting for the right person to take the plunge with. Are you the one?
4871757 (exp 10/11)

YOU: FAT MAN always hanging around Frizzoli’s Bakery. Me: Scarlata Frizzoli, owner of Frizzoli’s Bakery. You: scaring me. If you want to buy something, fine, but don’t lurk at the corner of the window. I can tell it’s you, even if you’re wearing the scuba gear.
4329838 (exp 10/11)

So...what was Yale like?

2005-02-16T23:24:00.000-08:00

Well, take a look at the Yale Record.

It distills the Yale experience into one funny and easy to read magazine. Just so you can skip all the dross, the numbers you want to read (the ones I worked on) are as follows: Fun-In-The-Sun, Baby, Deep, Yale Handbook, The Game, Residential College, Black and White, Coarse Critique, Wrong, and Power. I also worked on the Mystery Number, the Evil Number, and the Thomas Pershing Baker Number, but the first two aren't on the site and the last was scrapped close to completion (not enough dough).

10 Signs Your Guy's Gotta Go.

2005-02-16T21:17:00.000-08:00

I wrote this for McSweeney's. It's classic post-college-pre-life Lee.

Tips for Tots

2005-02-16T19:07:00.000-08:00

Life is more or less the same now as it was 180 million years ago: it’s still a primordial power struggle, even if colored by modern euphemism. The life of a child is still wonderful for a few years after birth and still unravels slowly, more and more unendurable as annoyances pelt it from all sides. It’s just an ineluctable fact of life, as true in my time as it will be in yours. The only difference is that the annoyances in my time were usually perpetrated by anal-retentive morganucodons and painfully-slow sauropods, whereas today human beings and fax machines tend to be the culprits. Ever since Sir Ebenezer Fonsworth thawed me from my glacial sleep two years ago, and subsequently gave me my own pseudonym and advice column, I’ve received bushels of letters from young readers wanting to know how to properly deal with all the annoying people that will pop up throughout their lives. In the interest of sharing the benefit of my ancient wisdom, I offer the following guidelines.

If your parents are as sports-obsessed as most people in the United States, chances are when you’re about five at the latest you’ll be in some kind of high-pressure, competitive league athletic event, screamed at to “hustle” by a teammate’s dad moonlighting as your coach, as well as by all other teammates’ dads. Show them the meaning of hustle by running them down at thirty miles per hour and then clawing their eyes out.

After you have a few tournaments under your belt, your parents will probably enroll you in school since it’s required by law. In some senses school is just another place where dads yell “hustle” while you’re already working your ass off, but it’s also a place where you learn skills necessary to earn money to buy home electronics equipment in the future. Teachers will teach you these skills. Some of these teachers will be selfless, caring individuals who honestly hope to give you the tools you’ll need to build a fruitful life, while the other 99.9% will be in it for the job security; the contrived, self-gratifying authority scenario; and the chance to convince people who enjoy life that they’re failures. When you encounter one of these teachers, show him he’s a failure by whipping him into submission with your ten-foot tail.

If you’ve ever watched one of those movies that targets the youth demographic, you’ll agree that the three things teenagers desire most are a driver’s license, a bitching house party while their folks are visiting a dying relative, and rivers of beer. Actually, the thing they want most is sex, but they can’t have that until they have one of the first three, so the latter short-term proxy goals are usually emphasized. The goal that requires the most sacrifice is the obtaining-a-license one, because you’ve got to take driving instruction with a guy who tells you ridiculously unbelievable stories about how he used to make straight-As, and convinces you to run into the sandwich shop to get him steak and cheese grinders in exchange for less driving time (which paradoxically means he gets both an errand boy and less work for the same money). Believe me, a corned driving instructor hoagie with extra Swiss goes really well with Sun Chips and a large Dr. Pepper.

After high school, and if you found high school difficult you might as well rip yourself to shreds right now, you’ll go to college along with 50% of the people your age. The first person you’ll encounter at college will probably be your R.A. There are all types of R.A.s- poets, athletes, scientists, debaters- but they all have the same defining trait: worthlessness. When I was young and had to deal with this type, whom I called a “Rarrrrr," I would generally tear his head off with my powerful jaws. I urge you to do the same.

The second person you meet at college will probably try to recruit you for a scary Jesus cult. Besides the facts that the people in these Jesus cults tend to dress alike, quote the bible, and frown when you swear, they more importantly do not drink (which leads one to wonder how they take communion three times a day). And even more importantly, if you do drink, as most beings since the Triassic period have done, they’ll think you’re semi-retarded, even if you possess the ability to school them on the more arcane differences between cycade- and conifer-eating prey. When you meet these persons, show them who’s semi-retarded by hunting them down like they were Lusitanosauruses feeding on seed fern fronds.

By graduation or attrition, you’ll make it out of college, and then you’ll probably move into a neighborhood where people give birth on streets that smell like cancer. This is where, if you haven’t done so already, you will learn an unbelievably large amount about unimagined aspects of sociology. The apartment you rent will most likely be owned by someone who realizes you couldn’t possibly afford an attorney to sue for neglect. He’ll be right, but what he won’t realize is that you can afford to slap his head off his shoulders with your clawed hand.

As you begin work, get lines of credit, and acquire grocery store discount cards, you will become part of a target market that’s easily fooled by unoriginal advertising gimmicks. In practical terms, this means telemarketers will start calling you, and while other people you know will come and go, the telemarketers will be in touch for the rest of your life. Three words: stalk and devour.

Up until this point, you’ve probably had a few insane girlfriends (assuming you’re a heterosexual male like me), so why not shack up with an insane wife? After all, all your friends are doing it. Once you’ve resigned yourself to this path, it’ll be time to project wonderful characteristics onto the next person you meet in a line somewhere. Once you’re married, you’ll realize that this virtual stranger is even more insane than you thought, like she has a nervous breakdown if you wear a shirt twice or open the window! And guess what else! Once you’ve gnawed her face off, she’ll be a lot less annoying!

After a few years of urban hell, it’ll be time to move out to the suburbs where you can finally own your own trees and spend Sundays in solitary bliss on your riding mower. More than likely this means you’ll have to deal with a real-estate agent. Like all salespeople, real estate agents are the smarmiest people you’ll ever meet in your God-blessed life. And like all cardiodons, salespeople don’t have the powerful jaws or claws you do, so they’re practically asking to be ripped to shreds.

Once you’re married and living in a house with more than one bedroom, for all intents and purposes you’ll be contractually bound to have children. If you choose not to, your friends with children will think you have something against them and will stop calling you to join them at T.G.I. Friday’s for the three-tiered appetizer towers. However, once you give in, you’ll realize you were better off comatose in the middle of a glacier. At this juncture, you should remind yourself that there’s no law of the subtropical forest that says you can’t crush your kids’ skulls under your mighty reptilian tread.

When you reach middle age, it’ll be time for your mid-life crisis, which if you’re not a hill dweller, you know is the time when you either have an affair with a glamorous secretary who represents freedom and goodness, or buy a BMW. If you opt for the latter, you’ll have to deal with a car salesman. See my previous advice on salespeople.

After your kid’s gone to college, she’ll probably marry someone. And that someone will be related to people you loathe but are required to keep on your Christmas card list. Don’t worry- you only have to see these people once every couple of years; so be calm, and if you get angry with them, count slowly to a thousand in your head. If you're stilly angry, bite off their appendages; they deserve it.

When you get so that you can no longer take care of yourself, your children will have you placed in a nursing home because they live too far away to care for you. After all, they chose to move to a remote, hard-to-reach-by-normal-transport foreign country or Alaskan/Montanan wasteland, curiously the farthest distance from you financially and physically feasible. Some nights you’ll rouse from a deep sleep to find yourself twirling magnificently in the Swiss meadow from a long-forgotten moving picture. Other nights you’ll wake with a start, positive there’s an ogre creeping about that’s trying to steal your pills. In said scenario, you should jump on the ogre, pin him under a ton of megalosaurus muscle, and drink his delicious brain through his gouged-out eye socket.

After a few years in this wretched place, you’ll wake up one night to find the now familiar ogre clothed in a black cloak and carrying a giant sickle. And then you’ll recognize him from those Ingmar Bergman movies you used to take girls to so that they’d think you had ideas. And what’s weird is that instead of the somber chess-player you’d always imagined, Death will be a Borscht belt comedian reciting several iterations of a spiel involving a farmer and his daughter, stuff you’d thought was old maybe eighty years ago. When his bit begins winding down, interrupt him and ask if he’s ever heard the one about the quick-tempered carnivorous dinosaur. Wait until his bony brow is furrowed in puzzlement, and then floss your teeth with the whole of his meatless body.