The Bane of My Existence: "Ya Heard?!"

I now know the end is near, for the Antichrist has made himself known. Actually, I bet he is making himself known right now on several Philly-area TV stations, for he does this seemingly every 5 minutes. His name is Chio, and he has made "THE SWITCH" to Wired 96.5. Obviously, there are hidden messages to his evil constituents hidden throughout this omnipresent advertisement. It's gotten to the point that its persistence is, in fact, breaking me down. Like Alex in A Clockwork Orange, I can no longer resist his power. Ya Heard!?

Dream Fragment

I'm joining Pat's band on rhythm guitar to play for an Elsevier marketing conference. Pat comes to visit me to see if I'm ready because the gig's a week away. I'm nervous as hell, and he's trying to give me a pep talk.

Suddenly, we're standing in a forest and Pat tells me to plug my guitar into a large, nearby boulder because he likes the way it resonates. Then, he rubs dirt and mud all over the boulder and tells me that that'll help open up the sound.

New Jersey Wants People To Eat Less Squirrel

Squirrels fight back, with lead contamination!

"A letter sent Tuesday to Ringwood residents advised them that children should not eat squirrel more than once a month; pregnant women should limit their intake to twice a month, and adults should not eat squirrel more than twice a week."

(Photo courtesy of Funnyhub.com; text courtesy of Associated Press.)

Arch Street To Be Renamed!

I saw this on one of the maps in the subway station today. Apparently, Arch Street will be renamed "My Dick Street." It must not be final yet, as the old street name was crossed out with black magic marker, with the new name just written beside it.

What if The Chicago Bears Had Hired the Wrong "Lovey"?

Imagine, if you will, the once-proud Chicago Bears franchise managed to a Super Bowl appearance by an 80-year-old millionaire's wife who was stranded on a desert island for at least 20 years with a morbidly obese, violent "Skipper" tour guide and mentally handicapped first mate, as well as a cast of unlikely 3-hour tour-goers, who also happen to be asexual beings with short-term memories of the first mate foiling all methods of rescue from the island. If she was so dense as to let Gilligan ruin all of their strategies for rescue, how is she going to be able to handle the Colts' blitzing schemes?

(Photo copyright CBS.)

It's in the Way That You Snooze It

Last night's dream:

Some chick was doing a trick pool shot in the gutter of Haddon Avenue. She used the pool cue to gently push a car forward so she could get to the cue ball. The shot included one of the pool balls rolling along an overhanging tree branch about ten feet up and falling into the gutter. Eventually, two of the balls rolled about twenty feet along the curb and dropped into the sewer (although I think only one was supposed to).

The shot wasn't a complete success, but it was impressive nonetheless, and I was the first spectator to applaud.

She was pretty cute. I should've asked for her number.

Great Moments in Idiocy Vol. 1: A Battery of Problems

One afternoon three years ago, I learned a valuable lesson on reasons not to put loose AA batteries in your pocket after changing them in your portable CD player. As I sat down to return to work after lunch, I felt a persistent and ever-increasing burning sensation in my right pocket. Perplexed by this, I stood up immediately to find that the loose batteries had arranged themselves end to end in my pocket, reacting with loose change I had, which was now red hot!

Coffee and Urination

A guy walked into the bathroom today with a coffee mug and set it down on the top of the urinal while he completed his transaction. Afterward, he took a sip as he headed to the sink. How long before someone brings in a Wawa hoagie, or a Japanese steakhouse sets up shop in one of the stalls?

(Image Copyright © 2007 Benihana Inc.)

The Burger King’s Reign of Tyranny Must End: A Declaration of Independence

When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve their fast-food bonds which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Eating and of Value Meals entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We’ve all seen him, creepily leering at us while we sleep, or just outside our window waiting for us open the shade. I am talking, of course, about The Burger King. I would say it’s because he’s gotten a big head, but he’s always had one—a big plastic head of never-changing emotion—and that emotion is... pure evil.

It began innocently enough, with a children’s birthday party here and there, and perhaps a cardboard crown or two. It was accepted that he would never beat McDonald's and that was alright. They’d do they’re own thing. Sure, the fries weren’t as good. But the pseudo–char-broiling process was enough to keep people coming back, and that was fine. It was normal. But something happened in the early 2000s that changed everything: home invasions. While it’s understood that The King wants to get the word out about his new breakfast sandwiches, breaking into people’s houses and sitting in their beds is not the way to do it. Because of The King’s Burgerarchy, one cannot challenge him without fear of execution. Knowing this, even more heinous creations are coming from him by the day.

Take the Burger King "Quadstacker," for instance. Four burgers stacked on top of one another. FOUR. It is this extreme example of overindulgence and sheer hubris that proves The King MUST be relieved of power. I implore you good people of the world—a revolution is needed. Join me, brothers and sisters, for the first meeting next Wednesday in McDonaldland. Mayor McCheese will be M.C.

(Photo copyright Burger King/Blarg.com.)

A Super Idea

You hear it every season. Does the NFL want certain teams to win and instruct its referees to favor the desired franchise? Troy Polamalu’s overturned interception in last season's AFC divisional playoff game. A very late false-start flag on the Eagles' Scott Young in last week’s NFC divisional playoff. The "facemask" penalty on Bronco Nagurski in the 1934 NFL Championship game, which predated the invention of the face-masked helmet by nearly twenty years.

Perhaps league preference is merely fan paranoia. But if it isn’t and the NFL really does pull the strings, then I urge Commissioner Roger Goodell to finagle a New Orleans–New England Super Bowl.

Why?

Because nothing in the history of professional sports would lend cause to party like a Saints-Pats showdown.

Saint Pats

Should that match-up come to fruition this weekend, Goodell must postpone the big game until March 17. Sure, this would be a dangerously unpopular move and hand everyone a ridiculous six-week wait that would drain every last drop of anticipation and excitement from the event. But the payoff! A Saints-Pats Super Bowl on St. Pat’s Day. Drinking on a scale never before seen. Excessively intoxicated fans everywhere—many of them female and eager to relieve themselves of clothing. New Year’s Eve 1999 in Times Square would be a Women's Christian Temperance Union meeting held on a Sunday in Pennsylvania during Prohibition by comparison.

And when better to celebrate a Super Bowl featuring superlative Irish players named Brady and McAllister than on St. Patrick’s Day?

Commissioner Goodell would do well to take a page from Pete Rozelle, the visionary progressive who brought the National Football League to national television, negotiated the NFL-AFL merger, and ensured that O.J. Simpson would not kill anyone in the stadium by enacting a harsh loss-of-down penalty for homicide.

Let’s hope that Commissioner Goodell has the good sense and the gumption to see this through—and we’ll all share the record for the longest bomb in Super Bowl history.

Erin Go Brees!

Erin Go Brady!

Ring Around the Collar: The Greatest Victory of the 20th Century

In the 20th century, the enemy was clear. There was no speculation on where to look, nor did exotic measures need to be taken to find him. He was a looming adversary capable of completely destroying everything we believed in* and making us indistinguishable clones all falling victim to the same dark circle of conformity...ring around the collar.

Nearly every commercial even remotely having to do with a detergent of some kind mentioned its effects against this silent killer of shirt-collar whiteness. Slowly, the enemy receded through powerful breakthroughs in washing technology. Now, here in the 21st century, there is hardly a whisper of what was once the great plague of our times. Surely these problem-solving geniuses are now tackling AIDS and cancer with the sure-footed confidence that they once stared into the face of a monster (the monster consisting of mostly filthy children and men who never wash their necks) and won!

*Laundry-wise

Thursday

Thursday…
the eternal runner-up. You’re not quite there, but so close it’s maddening. It was enough to drive Jack Torrance completely off his rocker (albeit his alcoholism, homely wife interrupting with annoying sandwiches, repeated cleanup of blood-gushing elevators, and, of course, the ghosts telling him to kill were all probably factors). It’s difficult to just get out of bed with the foreboding knowledge that Thursday is the last day any real work is accomplished, as the free pass to slack off on Friday dangles above you.

Even Jack knew he was going to have to crank out 30 or 40 pages of “All work and no play….” to keep from indeed becoming a dull boy a little early on Friday and get ready to party down with Grady and that guy in the bear suit. So, here’s to us…trying to make it through yet another day of purgatory without completely devolving into insanity.

(Photo copyright Warner Bros., 1980.)

An Odd Bathroom Encounter Vol. 34

So I'm at a sink, washing up, and a guy walks in. He approaches the sink, washes his hands, and THEN steps up to the urinal.

Washing BEFORE.

I decided not to hang around to see if he'd wash AFTER as well.

Paradise by the Speed of Light?

Did I just disprove Einstein's Special Theory of Relativity?

My phone rang. A coworker kindly offered me tickets to a Meat Loaf concert. My vehement refusal commenced at some point during the changing of the t sound into the L. Approximating the time elapsed from when her mouth began forming Meat to the time at which I turned down the tickets in an expletive-laden panic the instant the subject of the offer became recognizable as really, really fast, my nerve impulse made a mad dash from brain to larynx at a rate surely rivaling the speed of light.

Certainly, I don’t purport to possess even a fraction of Albert Einstein’s intelligence. However, Einstein died 22 years before Bat Out of Hell made Meat Loaf a radio favorite—thus, he knew nothing of Meat Loaf's music or the human brain’s ability to achieve unthinkable speed in sheltering itself from sickening tripe-rock.

The Jet Propulsion Laboratory cannot confirm my theory...but at least they were listening to Zeppelin when I called.

(Photo of Einstein copyright The Nobel Foundation, 1921.)

Camel Spiders: Setting the Record Straight

There have been a lot of Internet rumors going around related to this picture of the notorious desert "Camel Spider" found in the Middle East, Southwestern U.S., and Mexico (where they are known as "Deer Killers"). Yes, they are huge. Yes, they can be harmful to humans. But rumors such as the ones listed below are false:

Some common Camel Spider Myths

1. Camel spiders can move at speeds over 30 mph, screaming while they
run.

2. Camel spiders can be as large as a frisbee.

3. Camel spiders' venom is an anesthetic that numbs their prey.

4. Camel spiders can jump three feet high.

5. Camel spiders get their name because they eat the stomachs of
camels.

— from Camelspiders.net

They can, however, eat a tank whole.

(Photo copyright Camelspiders.net.)

Apocalypse Now Relax

My interior-design tip of the week:

Redo your walls in soothing pastels, invest in a matching Chenille bedspread (preferably with floral pattern), and adorn the interior with silk window scarves to reenact the opening scene of Apocalypse Now in the comfort and coziness of your newly Victorian-styled bedroom.

Don't forget to set ceiling fan to "medium."

Syosset...I'm still only in Syosset...

(Full-length mirror, khaki Army briefs, and stereo playing "The End" not shown.)

(Photo copyright Morning Dove Inn.)

CHEESE

And.....DISCUSS!

If this doesn't get the conversation going.....I don't know what will!*

*From 1999-2006 no topic of discussion in the group has been more fruitful than "cheese" for reasons mostly unknown.

I never did outgrow them...

Me & Steve, in 4th grade, waiting for the school bus at the bus stop.

Steve: Are you wearing an undershirt?
Me: Yeah.
Steve: You'll outgrow that.

What the hell?

"1st and 9.144": The Chaos of the NFL Switching to the Metric System

Watching the Philadelphia Eagles battle the New York Giants yesterday, it occurred to me that if the metric system of measurement is ever officially mandated in the United States and enforced, the American game of football will only be able to be enjoyed by those proficient in mathematics. 1 yard = .9144 meters, which seems simple enough as long as you are dealing with 1 or 10 "old yards"—but what about when it's 2nd down and 4.557 meters? Beer-swilling, overweight men, with painted faces will be replaced by frail, conservatively dressed men, with horn-rimmed glasses and pocket protectors. Cheerleaders will, consequently, act less enthusiastic and wear baggy clothes. Hot dog vendors, too, will suffer after these new football-going nerds run a full analysis on a hot dog specimen and highlight the number of rodent hairs and bug parts contained in them.

The players may change as well. When it's 4th and 109.728, you have to be able to make a quick decision as to whether that's a manageable distance or whether it's even humanly possible to travel that far on one play. Athleticism will be replaced by book smarts, and thus, games will become more like comedies of utter ineptitude rather than "sporting events." Progress, my friends, is destroying our game. Enjoy it while it lasts.

(Photo copyright Jeff Victor.)

E = AFC²

Tony Dungy and Herm Edwards, head coaches of the Indianapolis Colts and Kansas City Chiefs, respectively, have been the best of friends for more than thirty years, when they played against each other in several college bowl games. After their NFL playing careers, Edwards served for five years as Dungy's assistant head coach with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Each man's lengthy football career is well documented in the record books, the media, and the public eye.

Or is it?

Am I the only person on Earth who's realized that Tony Dungy and Herm Edwards...are the same guy? I mean...look:















Quantum mechanics predicts that subatomic particles can be in two places at once. Although neither Tony Dungy nor Herm Edwards qualify under current NFL regulations as subatomic particles, scientists understand so little about this bizarre possibility that they cannot rule out Dungy and Edwards possessing the ability to act like photons.

If all of this scientific jargon is too confusing, look again at the bewildering similarity of these "two" men:

They even point the same.

I realize my assertion is hard to fathom in the wake of Dungy's Colts and Edwards' Chiefs squaring off in yesterday afternoon's AFC Wild Card game, during which each man was clearly visible on his own sideline (and can even be seen before yesterday's opening kickoff, above, possibly forming with their arms an Einstein-Rosen bridge—what we generally know as a "wormhole" in the space-time continuum—which would explain a lot). Certainly, much more work needs to be done in the field of theoretical physics if we ever hope to understand the phenomenon of a single NFL coach piloting two different teams at the same time.

Some say the NFL should keep its nose out of the atom—and maybe they're right. So if the strange potential of quantum mechanics isn't the culprit, then this Dungy-Edwards matter is being done with mirrors, and we're all victims of the greatest illusionist since Houdini.

Why have Terry, Howie, Jimmy, and J.B. not uttered a word about this during the halftime report?

(All photos copyright Associated Press.)

The Twilight Zone: Surprise You're On Earth, From Earth, Or Heading Towards Earth!

On New Year's Day, The Sci-Fi Channel had its annual The Twilight Zone marathon. So, my girlfriend and I got to watching it. The classics were all there: Shatner flipping out about a gremlin on the wing of his plane, Burgess Meredith learning to accept being the last man on Earth.

But there were some lesser-known episodes interspersed throughout that had a very peculiar pattern to which my feeble brain eventually caught on. If it involves aliens or spaceships, the "twist ending" always involves Earth in some proto–Planet of The Apes way.

Escaping a planet on a new military flying saucer–like craft because of impending nuclear war? Yep, it was another planet—they are heading to EARTH for salvation. Wait until they find out about OUR nuclear problems in 1961! Really makes you think. Then there is the classic "The Invaders," with the mean mother-in-law from Bewitched. Miniature spacemen (pictured, top left) land in her farm house and begin attacking her. Yep, you guessed it, they are U.S. Air Force men exploring a planet of GIANTS! The pattern continues again and again. I'm thinking M. Night Shyamalan must have been a fan of these endings.

(Photo copyright CBS.)

A Promoter Without A Promotion

Colonel Sanders brought finger-lickin’-good chicken to millions of hungry Americans. But the secret recipe wasn’t his only secret. The “Colonel” served a mere four months in the United States Army...never rising above the rank of private.

Private.

The man who founded KFC couldn’t even land a promotion to PFC. And yet the world knows him as a colonel.

Under Article 134 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, impersonating a commissioned officer is a court-martial offense, punishable by dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay and allowances, and imprisonment from six months to three years.

Apparently, Colonel Sanders took the Army’s slogan “Be all you can be” a bit too literally. Luckily for him, all official files were inadvertently destroyed during a botched quarterback draw in the 1994 Army-Navy Game. (Photo copyright corbinkentucky.us)

11/20/2042

I was looking at my retirement profile and I will make over 100k a year in accumulated retirement funds (with the little bit left of Social Security before it expires in 2052) after this date. Sure, it won't be what it is now, but, hey, I think it calls for a round of beers on me. So, November 20, 2042, at McGillan's around 5 PM? See you there.

Residual Childhood Anxiety

Lady just asked me for the time while I was in line at Dunkin Donuts. I looked at my watch and felt a wave of terror wash over me. It's as if there's a little part of me that still remembers how it felt to NOT know how to tell time (on an analog watch with hour/minute hands). Whenever someone asks for the time, or for directions somewhere I get this momentary stage fright. I once had a girl ask me for directions to a professor's office after class and after she walked away I realized I'd sent her not just to the wrong office, but to the wrong building... like three blocks away. And this was only last Fall.

But this time I settled myself down and calmly said "Twenty after two." The lady thanked me, and I exited stage left with my coffee and my dignity.

Philadelphia Eagles vs.........Grendel???

So this morning, I again subjected myself to the perennial exercise in futility-- trying to get Philadelphia Eagles playoff tickets. At exactly 10:00 AM and zero seconds, I refreshed my browser on the Philadelphia Eagles 2006 NFC Playoffs page (see left image) and was taken to the updated ordering page. I quickly select "2 tickets" and am off! BUT upon further inspection, something was gravely wrong. I was purchasing tickets for Benjamin Bagby's Beowulf (below right) on Ticketmaster Canada. Okay, I had just inadvertently clicked on something I shouldn't have, right? So, back to the Philadelphia Eagles page. I click on "get tickets" and AGAIN I am taken to the Beowulf ticket area! Only thoust vile fiend Grendel could conjure such an act of evil and trickery.

(Images from Ticketmaster.com.)

Okay, I Think Advertising People Are Officially Out of Ideas:

(Copyright Flingweb.com)

Something tells me I am not going to want to hear this ringtone.

Vlad The Impaler: Just A Misunderstood Barbecue Chef?

The 15th-century Romanian prince, Vlad Dracula (a/k/a Vlad Tepes [meaning "the impaler"]), has been forever immortalized as a vampire, albeit in literature form, thanks to Bram Stoker. As the novel Dracula gained in popularity, so did the back story of the man from whom its inspiration came, and tales of his infamous savagery in war came to light. But recent evidence (see 15th-century woodcut at upper left) suggests it may in fact have been Vlad's love of great barbecue that gave him the nickname "Tepes" after all.

Shish kebab skewers were not yet the streamlined modern marvels they are today back in the 1400s, but they did the job—a job young Vlad Dracul came to love. Impaling succulent beef, tomatoes, onions, and potatoes became a dark obsession. Sure, being the Prince of Wallachia had its drawbacks—the especially hairy women, the Ottoman Empire constantly getting up in your face—but there was definitely some down time for a happenin' prince to cook up some great kebabs with Transylvania's finest ingredients. I hear his secret ingredient was wolfsbane. I mean, if you could have a delicious meal AND keep werewolves away, wouldn't you?

It's that kind of multitasking that made Vlad effective whether he was fighting hunger pangs or Turks. It may be quite a while for him to be fully recognized for his seminal barbecue work, but once this whole 800-year worldwide interest in vampires fad eventually fades, perhaps we can get back to reality and cook up some Transylvanian tasties!