Two Tickets to Paradise Lost

So I'm at home last night, trying to prove my theory that Pink Floyd's Animals syncs up perfectly with The Apple Dumpling Gang, when the phone rings. Caller ID displays "Florida," so I figure it's my folks. But the 850 area code is not theirs -- it's strange and foreign. I pick up the phone and find myself trading Hellos with a gravelly voiced woman dripping cigarette-smoked drawl. Her area code is the Florida panhandle, hundreds of miles from my folks or anyone else I know in the Sunshine State.

"Ah'm callin' 'bout the two FSU season tickets fuh sale..."

Whoah, wait a minute, sister. Whoever ran the ad misprinted the area code as 856 instead of 850. This is New Jersey. No one's got FSU season tickets here.

According to the Florida State Seminoles Web site, a pair of season tickets runs $430. Why didn't I tell her to wire me the cash and then send her those unused passes to the Gordon Lightfoot laser show?

Because I'm too honest about area codes. Always have been. I get an inordinate amount of wrong numbers, yet I decline to take these rubes for all they're worth. I could've had 430 easy smackers.

But what price my soul?

Why not a drinking reality show?

They've done just about everything else. I propose Leaving Las Vegas: The Reality Show.

Host: "Jim-Bob, you've been voted off; please leave Las Vegas."

Jim-Bob: *stumbles* "Fuck you!" *breaks bottle in half and chases
host*

'73 Super Bowl + '77 Topps = 4-Year Hangover

Billy Kilmer was an All-Pro quarterback who threw 152 touchdowns, stands fifth on the Redskins list for career passing yardage, and led Washington to an appearance in Super Bowl VII.

But this is how I like to remember him:

Ruling With an Ironic Hand

If Title 7, Chapter 54, Section 2156(a)(1) of the United States Code has taught us anything, it's that every dog-killer has his day...in court.

If Michael Vick is found guilty of—or plea bargains to—the dog-fighting charges on which he’s been indicted, I say he should be suffocated in a vat of Vicks VapoRub.

There’s no justice like ironic justice…

(Photo copyright Reuters.)

Hearing Is Believing

I watched on live television Carlton Fisk's 12th-inning "body english" home run that ended Game 6 of the 1975 World Series. Likewise, Reggie Jackson's three home runs on three consecutive pitches in the 1978 Fall Classic. Ditto Cal Ripken's breaking of Lou Gehrig's "Iron Man" record. As well as many other wildly celebratory sports moments that have become landmarks in public memory.

I was not in front of the television last night, when Barry Bonds hit his 756th home run, surpassing Henry Aaron and claiming the most hallowed record in all of sport. In fact, I didn't even learn of Bonds' achievement until this morning, during my commute to work.

And lemme tell ya—the three seconds of indistinct cheering supplied by NPR indelibly brought home the moment. If anyone ever asks me where I was when Barry Bonds became the all-time home-run king, thanks to National Public Radio, I'll be able to reminisce, "I was in my car...twelve hours later."

(Photo on left copyright Reuters.)

Why Did the Owl Cross the Road?

So I'm driving into work this morning when traffic comes to a dead stop near I-95's Academy Road interchange. But I'm driving north—there's rarely major congestion driving away from the city during morning rush hour. An accident must lay ahead. As cars inch along in their maddening dance and the minutes tick toward a late arrival at work, I see that the southbound lanes are also at a standstill. In the distance are parked police cars in the left-hand emergency lanes straddling the median. Though their red lights are flashing, there's no apparent disturbance—no disabled or wrecked car, no apprehended violator, no sign of distress whatsoever. What's going on?

Two policemen are standing on the other side of the median, in the emergency lane, seemingly doing nothing. For a second, I thought they might actually be conducting a really-ill-conceived seatbelt check. But as I slowly approach the police cars, I see that the two officers on the other side of the median are positioned about six feet from an owl standing on the side of the road. They're safeguarding it...and presumably awaiting the arrival of animal-protection personnel.

I believe this to be the first owl-related traffic jam in the history of the Pennsylvania highway system. (Unofficial confirmation has come from PENNDOT...if you consider their response of "You're an idiot." as verification.) Although this lazy bird of prey added fifteen minutes to my commute, I suppose I should feel a part of history...not to mention a bit of kinship—as a Temple Owl, I once interrupted traffic by lying down on Broad Street to show my solidarity for Switzerland's struggling longshoremen.

And as owls are not normally indigenous to interstate roadways, I suggest this to be a new species of owl, whose name and taxonomy I submit as the "speckled commuter owl" (Ninox commuterii).

(Photos courtesy of PDPhoto.org)

Of God and Teeth

With Dave appearing in his local Salvation Army chapter's production of Goodfellas, Pat's engrossing difficulties unwrapping a remarkably stubborn CD, Rich's recent pilgrimage to Nunavut for the annual "Shit, It's Cold! Festival," and my crippling Oodles of Noodles habit, discussion atop Mount Drinkmore has slowed in recent weeks. So it's time to pull another 14-karat zirconia out of the vault while we gear up to post a slew of new material. The thread below started with a quote from Terrell Owens, then of the Philadelphia Eagles, and dates to the late summer of 2005.

"Like I have said all along, I have the best doctor of all, and that is God. You can't argue with a guy like that." —— Terrell Owens to reporters before Super Bowl XXXIX


PAT: I wonder if God accepts Keystone?


RANDY: Yeah, but if God tells you that you're going to die, where the hell do you go for a second opinion?


DAVE: "You can't argue with a guy like that."

God is one heckuva guy! A Philadelphia Guy?


PAT: I bet the waiting room at his office is pretty boring. G-rated magazines and such.


DAVE: My dentist has the same Golf Magazine from March 2004 in his office. That's the ONLY magazine he has. Gab [Dave's wife] had to have a cavity filled, and I wound up going along and waiting for her. I read every article in that damned thing. I even read the advertisements. The disclaimers in the advertisements. I read the masthead. What a nightmare.


RANDY: My dentist's office has a huge, framed movie poster of Marathon Man. It really freaked me out the first few visits, but hey, it was a great film...


RICH: I used to get my hair cut at "Frank's" in Chestnut Hill. [The only magazines] he had were Leatherneck and Soldier of Fortune.


RANDY: You go all the way out to Chestnut Hill for a haircut? Seems easier for you to just take a run at the single-season home-run record and have your hair fall out in clumps as the media drives you insane with their round-the-clock hounding.


RICH: Is there bald-head grease for bald people? I'd want my head to be extra shiny.


RANDY: You could get work as a lighthouse in the daytime. Your nights would be your own....


RANDY: God: "Now what seems to be the trouble?"

Patient: "Uhh, shouldn't you already know?"


DAVE: God: "Erm. I just want to hear it in your... own... words."


RANDY: God: "Hmm, your blood pressure's a little high."

Patient: "Whaddya expect? I'm sitting here naked, talking to God."


DAVE: My blood pressure's always high when they check it. I can't take the performance anxiety.


RANDY: The secret is to pretend the doctor is a bear -- then play dead. Not only does that give you a good blood-pressure reading, but you get rushed to the hospital and receive a premium check-up instead of the assembly-line office visit.


PAT: God: "Let me write you a prescription."

Patient: "Uh, can't you just cure me?"


RANDY: "...and don't look directly at the prescription. My Word will turn you to salt."


DAVE: Speaking of premium check-ups, I went for a cleaning last week, and after the hygienist is finished, the dentist walks in, chucks me on the shoulder, asks if there are any problems, looks at my chart, asks if I have any questions, then WALKS OUT.

The guy didn't look at my teeth. I was speechless. I had no speech.


RICH: They should give you a partial refund for that.


RANDY: They should give you a partial denture for that.

"Sorry about that. Here you go."

"But I'm not missing any teeth. I can't wear this."

Dentist starts shoving it in your mouth


RICH: "OW! OW! OW!"

"FOR YOUR OWN GOOD! FOR YOUR OWN GOOD! FOR YOUR...."


PAT: "You will do what I say.......enDENTURED servant! hhahahahah."

"Uh mahn, dat wa bad!"


RANDY: Dentists aren't naturally funny people. That's why they had to invent the chattering teeth. Then people realized that even that wasn't very funny...


DAVE: Has that ever happened to anyone else? Nobody I know has had that happen to them. This guy was, like, "Alright buddy, take it easy!" And that's it!


RANDY: No, but when I was about 14 or so, I was waiting in the examination room for a doc I'd never seen before, and he comes out of his office smoking a cig and hacking so hard I thought he'd die before the examination ended. I was tempted to ask him what I should do if he keels over.


RICH: I wonder what he would have said if you asked for a smoke?


RANDY: Probably: "You're too young to smoke cigarettes........Here's an El Producto."


RICH: "Thanks doc, I was getting tired of Phillies Sweets."


RANDY: Me, leaning back in big leather chair: "You know, doc, there really are masters at Dutch Masters."

Doc, drawing a puff: "There sure are, kid. There sure are..."


RICH: My dentist once stood outside chatting with a patient about rugs for ten minutes. This was while he was waiting for me to get numb. I was drooling all over the wacky napkin thingy.


RANDY: Dentists' tastes and interests are very varied. Sometimes they stand outside the exam room and chat with patients about Senegalese wood carvings or Yo La Tengo's latest album.


DAVE: "Yeah, rugs are great."

"Yeah, I like a good rug."

"Yeah."


RANDY: The new "Wacky Napkin" by OrthoMed -- for the dentist who likes to keep his office light and fun."


PAT: That saliva sucker always pinches my mouth. I just want to rip it out and smash the lamp with it.


RANDY: I just start singing the middle part of Joe Walsh's "Rocky Mountain Way" when that thing's in my mouth.

"bah-ooh-bah-bowww.....ba-ooh-bah-bowww....bah-ooh-bah-bowwww-bah-ooooohh..."


DAVE: A few thoughts I had while my teeth were being scraped by the hygienist:

* Wouldn't it be funny if the choices for the polishing paste are mint, cherry, and beef stew?

* Why not have posters of bikini models in the room? I mean, at least offer some kind of distraction!

* I feel like livestock. Why is this woman digging her knuckle into my lower jaw?


RANDY: Beef-stew polishing paste. Bernaise-sauce dental floss.

Sounds like an opportunity for a whole line of Denty Moore orthodontic supplies.


RICH: I would love to go to the dentist after eating a rack of ribs.


RANDY: What does a dentist do when he needs his teeth cleaned? Does he sit in the chair and work on himself?


RICH: Or how about speed-metal instead of elevator music?


RANDY: I hear Lemmy is gonna go for his DDS when Motorhead finally splits.


PAT: The polishing paste always makes me gag. I hate that stuff.


RANDY: Maybe it's just that gag order imposed on you by the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals. Your attorney told you it wasn't gonna be a picnic...


RICH: Do any of your dentists use the hypersonic thing? It makes a screeching sound as it does whatever it does to your teeth.


RANDY: Not the actual device. My dentist uses his own voice to make a hypersonic sound. It's pretty unnerving.


RICH: "I will now clean your teeth with the power of thought."

Widens eyes, furrows brow, and stares at you


RANDY: My dentist's chair is hydraulically souped-up so it goes up and down ultra-quickly. He tries to shake the tartar out of you. Saves him a lot of effort.


DAVE: An entire box of Oreos.

"I'se ready to have my teef cleaned!"


RICH: I think he would break out a hose and shove it in your mouth.


RANDY: I agree. Most dentists are frustrated firemen anyway...


RANDY: Dentist: "Double-Stuffs?"

Patient: "Muh-huh."

Dentist: "Jesus, we're gonna be here all night..."


RICH: That and some crackers and gum beforehand.


PAT: We should make real ones. "Our animal crackers are only made from the finest animals."


RANDY: Why don't the makers of Animal Crackers stop with the animals and model each piece after the four Marx Brothers in the film? Then they can get the animal-rights people off their back and celebrate the anarchic brilliance of Captain Spaulding, Ravelli, The Professor, and Jamison.