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Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Eye in the Vagina

I love crazy medical emergency room stories. They might seem absolutely unbelievable when in fact they’re absolutely true.

This afternoon I came across a story of an ER doctor from the Detroit Medical Center who, when making her rounds, came a across a patient’s chart that read “Eye in the Vagina.” Eye. In. The. Vagina.

I know what an eye is. I know what a vagina is.

In my wildest imagination I’ve never thought about an eye in the vagina. And in all the porn I’ve watched I've never seen an eye in a vagina.

Questions suddenly arose. If there’s an eye in the vagina does it see what’s coming in and blink? Does the eye in the vagina ever get poked? How does one change contacts in an eye in the vagina? How does an eye in a vagina wear glasses? Would an eye in the vagina ever need to wear sun glasses? Does the eye in the vagina ever get pink eye? What does the eye do when the vagina has an orgasm? Does the intensity of the orgasm make the eye bloodshot, and if so, is there such thing as vagina Visine to get the red out?

My curiosity was piqued so I read on.

It seems the woman whose vagina was the center of attention did have an eye in her vagina. Her prosthetic eye. She placed it there for safety.... oh yes she did.

The woman was expecting to fight one of her neighbors and didn’t want to lose her eye so she took it out and slid it, along with her drivers license, into her vagina for safety. Why she didn’t just leave them in her trailer is anyone’s guess.

The only problem was when she wanted to remove her license and eye from her vagina she couldn’t get them out. Was it because her vagina was too tight? (Something tells me a woman who uses her vagina as a purse doesn’t have a too tight vagina.)

Maybe her eye didn’t want to leave the comfort of the vagina? Maybe the eye got a good look at her driver’s license photo and realized things were much prettier in the vagina than in the eye socket?

One thing’s for certain, I’ll never look at a prosthetic eye the same way again.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Dances With Corpses

Sometimes while strolling the Internet I come across news items that appear to be truly unbelievable which turn out to actually be true.

Just the other day I read about the arrest of a forty-five year old historian in central Russia after police discovered 29 corpses of women, dressed as dolls, in his apartment. Dolls? I would assume they were more Malibu Barbie than Raggedy Ann or Cabbage Patch kid, but then again... maybe they were dolls of famous women through the ages such as Queen Isabella, Catherine II, or Ethel Merman.

I imagine the corpses dressed in beautiful evening gowns, seated around the dining room table with a feast of Russian inspired food served on the historian’s late mother’s finest china. I see candelabras burning scented red candles to keep the flesh stench from overpowering the historian’s nasal cavity. And the wine? Must be red. One never serves white wine when there’s a corpse in the room.

And after dinner I imagine the historian, dressed in the finest suit his meager income could buy, dancing with each of the corpses as the candles burned to their bases.

Moonlight serenade on the balcony.

The music. The romance. The necrophilia.

Aaah... just another night for a forty-five year old historian with nothing else to do on a Saturday night in central Russia.

Maybe someone should teach him how to play Solitaire.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

The Mr. Coffee Coffeepot Dilemma

In the production office where I work we have two Mr. Coffee coffeepots.

The expensive one has all the bells and whistles but it fails to keep the non-flavored coffee really hot. It’s lukewarm at best and I always have to slide my cup into the microwave for thirty seconds to give it the heat it needs. I want brewed coffee, not microwaved coffee, damn it.

In the second Mr. Coffee coffeepot, the cheap one, we brew flavored coffee. This coffeepot has no bells and whistles but it keeps the coffee nice and hot just how I like it.

Some mornings I prefer flavored coffee.

The problem is the second Mr. Coffee coffeepot spills when it pours. If you pour quickly you get a puddle. If you pour more slowly you get a mini-puddle. And if you pour as if you’re pouring honey you still spill drops.

I have poured from that coffeepot at all speeds - briskly, moderately briskly, slowly, extra slowly, and at a snail’s pace and still it spills. Because I have impeccable manners I always grab a napkin or paper towel to wipe up the mess I’ve created. It’s gentlemanly of me to do so, and I expect everyone else to do the same.

Who wants to come into a kitchen for a cup of coffee and see a puddle of coffee on the table with who-knows-what (our office has fleas) swimming the breast stroke or doing the doggie paddle in the brown colored liquid? Not me.

The other day I happened to be in the kitchen when a woman came in and helped herself to the flavored coffee. She pour briskly and created quite the puddle on the table. She calmly put the Mr. Coffee coffeepot back on the burner and sashayed out of the kitchen without wiping.

Oh, oh, oh I saw red. I wanted to grab her by her cheap hair extensions and drag her cottage cheese ass back to the puddle and stick her nose in it like you’d do a dog that’s peed on the floor. Bad woman! Bad woman! Bad woman!

Instead I kept my cool and did the gentlemanly thing. I wiped it up.

I’m not feeling too gentlemanly for this week... I’m feeling revenge.

Tuesday, November 08, 2011

For the Love of Fry Bread

Sunday morning I awoke to the sound of rain against the windowpane. (I hate rain)

Sunday morning I wanted to stay in bed underneath the warmth of my covers. (I hate cold)

Sunday morning I wanted just a few more hours sleep. (I hate being overtired)

But Sunday morning had other plans for me... Fry bread and the Native American Marketplace at the Autry Museum in Los Angeles.

Oh fry bread oh fry bread how I love thee!

So I dragged my weary ass out of bed and put on layers of clothing and ventured into the cold and rainy morning for the love of fry bread.

The marketplace was full of Native American artisans selling their paintings, handmade jewelry, blankets, pottery, and sculptures. I stood in awe at everything that surrounded me. America the beautiful beats in the heart of Native Americans.

I talked with painters about inspiration. I chatted with a woman who creates the more glorious blankets and afghans. I bought myself a beautiful silver feather pendant created by the talented New Mexican silversmith Mark Calladitto.

I could have wandered and talked forever but “it” was in the air. So I followed “it” to Auntie’s Fry Bread truck and ordered myself fry bread topped with shredded beef and cabbage. I was dizzy with desire as I held the precious fry bread in my hand. It was almost too beautiful to eat.

I savored every bite, every morsel of that fry bread. I could’ve eaten more but I knew a second fry bread might fill my tummy too much and I didn’t want that overstuffed feeling where I’d regret having more than one.

One was enough. It keeps me hungry for the next time.

Fry bread and me. The perfect Sunday experience.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Hopscotch Jesus

The other night I was wandering Sunset Boulevard and came across a square of sidewalk that said, “Jesus Loves You.”

Jesus loves me? Was this a prank or was Jesus amongst us with chalk in hand scrawling his love message for all the world to see?

I looked ahead and saw another “Jesus Loves You” square... and then another... and another... it was Hopscotch Jesus!

I suddenly had the urge to follow the Jesus squares to find out, to get a glimpse of this Jesus graffiti person. Would he still be bearded or did he finally shave? Would he be sporting a goatee, a mustache, a jazz patch, or no facial hair at all? Would he wearing the traditional Jesus robe of yore or sporting some Abercrombie & Fitch clothing with a backwards baseball cap?

I started to hop from one Jesus square to another. It seemed endless.

While I was hopping a wee little voice in my head kept whispering if I stepped on a crack I’d fall through and go straight to hell, to the flames of eternal heat and damnation. I had visions of horns and pitchforks and Tea Partiers.

I continued hopping.

The wee little voice continued whispering, telling me if I didn’t get to the end of the Jesus squares I’d be destined to purgatory. I had visions of a never ending mall in the middle of nowhere with generic stores and generic people carrying generic shopping bags full of generic merchandise with no exit. I felt a generic shiver.

So I hopped with all my might from one Jesus square to the next. It was exhausting and after what seemed like forever I came to end of the Jesus square.

There was no Jesus. There was no reward. It was a red light.

I said “fuck it” and went to the movies.

(true story)

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

The Not So Friendly Skies

A rock star with his pants hanging low. Was his pee-pee hanging out? Was the crack of his hairy ass on full display?

A Lesbian couple sharing a tender kiss. Were their hands fondling each other’s breasts? Were they grunting that unmistakable “I’m gonna be coming any second” sound?

I asked myself those questions when I read that these people were recently asked to leave their flights. I was under the distinct impression that airline staff were on the lookout for terrorists, but I must be mistaken. Airline personnel now seem to be crowning themselves the moral and fashion police.

How does one equate low riding pants with being a terrorist? Maybe the airline personnel heard his stomach growling as he tried boarding the plane and assumed he’s be shooting killer farts upon takeoff.

How does one equate a tender kiss between consenting adults a threat? Maybe the airline personnel were afraid the kiss was really a killer kiss.

You know what makes me fearful of flying?

The plastic smiles of airline stewards and stewardesses when you ask for extra peanuts or more soda when you know damn well they don’t want to help you. Behind those smiles lurks evil.

The non-natural fabric of airline personnel uniforms. At high altitudes I fear it might self-ignite.

The germs that are nesting in the never washed airline pillows and blankets.

The outrageous prices we have to pay for seats that are abnormally narrow and truly uncomfortable.

The possibility that when I’m peeing in the plane’s bathroom the plane will hit turbulence and I’ll fall, bang my head unconscious, and be found in a puddle of piss with my johnson hanging out of my pants.

But most of all I fear that airline staff is getting away with judging and mistreating passengers all in the name of security.

The friendly skies have sadly become the not so friendly skies.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Do We Really Know Who We’re Playing With?

Do you ever play Words With Friends on your smartphone?

I did once. It scared me.

A simple game of scrabble shouldn’t be scary, but not knowing with whom I was swapping tiles created an anxiety that hindered my wordplay. Instead of spelling clever words I found myself mentally stumbling and arranging tiles to say “soft,” "weak”, and “fear.”

I was paralyzed by anything more than a simple four letter word.

The reason for this mental mishap was I kept thinking about my opponent. Who was it? What did they look like? Were they a terrorist sending me secret messages that would somehow brainwash me into a dangerous international plot?

Was it a Mormon? A tea-party fanatic? A Scientologist?

Were these fanatics sending me subliminal messages through their choice of words? “Heretic.” “Polygamy.” “Born.” “Again.” “Burn.” “Hell.” “Heaven.” “Hate.”

Or maybe my opponent was Sarah Palin? What was she suggesting when her tiles misspelled “cocaine,” “swinger,” “sex,” “black,” “hung,” “slavery,” “whore,” and “mistress”?

Do we REALLY know who we’re playing with?

Those late night scrabble partners hiding behind a fake name could actually be Maury Povich, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Vladimir Putin, Justin Beiber, Charlie Sheen, or even Nancy Grace. It’s all so frightening...

I think I’ll just go back to playing with myself.

Solitaire.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

I've Finally Found the Career for Me

I love art. I love to eat. Put the two together and I’m a captive audience with a wagging tongue...

Today I ventured over to the Forest Lawn Museum in Glendale to see “¡Adelante! Mexican American Artists: 1960s and Beyond,” a collection of paintings, drawings, sculpture, and photography.

As I roamed the exhibit I was impressed with the artists, many who helped shape the Chicano Art Movement and inspire a whole new generation of artists. It was a fascinating history lesson.

And then I saw “it.”

Hanging on the wall right before me was “La Virgen de Guadalupe #12” from artist Joe Bravo. It mesmerized me. I leaned forward to for a closer inspection. My mouth watered. I read the little card beside the painting and was astonished to learn that the canvas for the painting is an actual tortilla.

The artist explained, “ I use the Tortilla as a Canvas because it is an integral part of the Hispanic Culture and my heritage. For the subject matter of my tortilla paintings, I use imagery that is representative of Latinos, conveying their hopes, art, beliefs and history. As the tortilla has given us life, I give it new life by using it as an art medium."

Well... that got me to thinking. I’m part Italian and what better way for me to express my Italian artistic ability than to paint on an actual cannoli. I could paint the “Last Supper” across a cannoli shell. Jesus and the Apostles right there on a cannoli. How appropriate is that?

The last time I was texting with the Pope he told me in Catholic confidence that the dessert served at the real last supper was a tray of cannolis.

On my way home I picked up a dozen cannolis to begin my cannoli-art career.

How am I doing? It’s not as easy as I thought. I keep puncturing the cannoli with the paint brush, and not being one to waste food I eat the broken cannoli.

I’ve already eaten a dozen cannolis, but undaunted I will persevere. I’m know I’m on to something artistically delicious...

Thursday, September 01, 2011

Vulgarity, Boobs, and an Upright Citizen

Every day when I jump on my bike to pedal around the city I never know what I’m going to encounter. Some days are rather adventure-less while others are full of adventure.

Today was a bike pedaling day of adventure.

Whenever I pass other bicyclists I nod hello, say hello, or, if I’m feeling really chipper, blurt out “Hello fellow bicyclist!” The nod gets a nod in return. The hello gets a hello in return. The “Hello fellow bicyclist” gets a laugh and then a nod/hello. I consider it good bicycle behavior.

So I was quite dismayed today when I said hello to a fellow bicyclist and he boldly yelled “fuck you.” Loud. My initial reaction was to yell back “fuck you motherfucker,” but I didn’t. Instead I pedaled faster to get away from this unfriendly bicyclist. Maybe he was suffering from hemorrhoids.

Then about a mile later I turned the corner and saw a woman walking along the sidewalk. She was wearing sandals and jeans and no shirt. Naked from the waist up. Boobs that had seen better days, perky days, non-wrinkled days. What struck me most was not the way they hung like limp water balloons, but that there were no tan lines around her breasts. And she had quite the tan. She seemed totally happy with her naked boobies, so I just smiled and said hello. She quickly turned sidewards to say hello back and her boobs collided like cymbals. It wasn’t symphonic.

But that was not all...

About four miles later I was pedaling across a street and a pickup truck pulled out without looking and came within milliseconds of crushing me. Thank goodness I had on my helmut, and my jockstrap. I turned to the driver and sneered, and I might have even called him something not-so-nice. He continued his way and I continued my way. Three blocks later I came to a red light and suddenly the pickup truck was beside me.

I was prepared for a rumble. “I’m sorry” he yelled. He had turned around and followed me to apologize for almost hitting me (maybe even killing me). He admitted he wasn’t looking. What could I say? I said to not worry about it; neither of us got hurt. Then the light turned green. He went left and I went right.

All in a day’s bike ride.

Monday, August 29, 2011

Ruby Red

I have wandering eyes. It’s virtually impossible for me to stop looking at everything and everyone around me. Sometimes people think I’m staring too long at them and they get a tad nervous; afraid of what’s lurking behind my look; afraid of what I might do.

If they only knew!

I’m usually creating a funny scenario about them, a character analysis of who I think they are. Sometimes tragic life-stories. Sometimes international adventure life-stories. Sometimes sexual kink stories that may or may not involve me.

The other day I was at a stoplight and my wandering eyes saw something dangling from the telephone wires above me. It was red. It glittered in the sunlight. It made me pull out my camera.

Hanging from the telephone wires above traffic was a pair of Ruby Red high-heeled shoes and a cut-out of a red trophy. I guffawed loudly. I’m sure it sounded like a major fart, but it really was a guffaw from my mouth.

How did they get there... and why?

Could they possibly be the “real” ruby shoes from “The Wizard of Oz”? Maybe Dorothy didn’t go back to Kansas after all? Maybe she lives in my neighborhood?

Maybe the ruby red shoes belong to a drag queen who was so proud she won the Ryan Seacrest hosted Drop-Dead Gorgeous Divinely Drag Gala contest at the Holiday Inn that she strung her shoes and trophy together with her support hose and tossed them over the telephone wire for all the world to see? Would her drag name be Dorothy Gale or Ruby Red or Barbara Bush?

What size could those shoes possibly be? 6? 7? 11 1/2?

I think the owner of the shoes has to be one fun gal who wears too much make up, has hair teased so high it looks like an erection, loves to cha-cha all night long, drinks way too many martinis, has a deep smoky voice and a bosom to match, loves torch songs and alibis, drives a huge red cadillac convertible, and thinks of herself as a D-I-V-A.

I was lost in my reverie and as the stoplight turned green I couldn’t help but thing there’s no place like home... there’s no place like home...

Friday, August 26, 2011

Peaceful Buddhists?

Every day I ride my bike to the gym. Instead using the main streets I zigzag from street to street to avoid major traffic. This way I get to enjoy the scenery and not have to worry about being hit by a car and sent flying through someone’s windshield all because the driver was too busy texting to look where they were going.

So it was to my complete surprise to turn north up New Hampshire Avenue from Franklin Avenue and come across a house with large gold swastikas hung prominently on the many windows. I screeched my bicycle to a quick halt to get a second look.

A chill ran up my spine. I gasped. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I was overcome with a sense of fear. Right before me on a nice little street in my favorite city were golden swastikas.


I then noticed a white sign on the front of the house. I couldn’t make out the writing so I gingerly ventured into the driveway to get a better look.

The sign said that the people who lived there were Buddhists and that the swastika is a Buddhist symbol.

Well Phew.... I was expecting them to be Mormons. Or the Palins.

The sign is tiny in comparison to the swastikas.

I pedaled home and immediately googled to find out the truth. And yes, the swastika was traditionally used in India by Buddhists and Hindus as a good luck sign.

Okay, okay.... I get it, but do the owners of the house really think that anyone driving by and seeing golden swastikas is going to immediately think “peaceful Buddhists”? I don’t think so.

The swastika brings back something dreadful; a horrible time in world history, so why are the homeowners doing this?

Maybe I’ll ring their doorbell next time I’m riding by and ask them.

Or maybe they’ll come to their senses and take them down.

The homeowners might think putting the swastikas up is good luck, but I think it’s gonna bring them lots of bad luck... and a lot of angry neighbors.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

A Bowl of Pork Chops

For the past ten weeks I was swimming in the deep end of the film production pool. It was long, long hours, high calorie fast food, too cold air conditioning, and bad coffee, but for some reason I enjoyed every minute of it. I relished it.

There were days I worked so many hours I was too tired to shift gears in my car and ended up driving all the way home in first gear.

One late, late night (okay, early morning) I took the wrong turn home and ended up in a neighborhood that wasn’t mine, and couldn’t figure out how I got there.

And yet another late, late late night (okay, early morning again) I was so busy answering emails at a stop light (on my iPhone of course) I forgot to move when the light turned green. I didn’t realize it until the car behind me started honking. By then the light had turned red. When the light turned green again the car zoomed passed me honking and cursing and waving its fist. I was too tired to properly respond. All I could do was muster a weak “fuck you” finger. My poor middle finger was too damn tired to flip him off fully erect.

Yawn, yawn, yawn... Sleep deprivation... it doesn’t do the body or mind any good.

During my time of tiredness and stress a friend sent me a postcard that said “Life is just a bowl of pork chops.” It made me laugh because it’s so true...

When it’s bad it can kill you, but when it’s good it’s a party in your mouth. Oh yes.

After a few days of rest and relaxation I’m happy to report I’m ready and roaring to go... and craving pork.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

C’est Magnifique

These days I’m into everything French.

French wine. French food. French’s mustard. French people. French kisses. French music.

And to celebrate my sudden French-ness I’ve rediscovered one of my most favorite videos. It’s from French Singer Julien Dore and the song is called “Les Limites.”

Dore is truly offbeat of the boulevard. I thought I was offbeat of the boulevard but after watching him I need to throw out the GPS and just wander - left turn, right turn, u-turn, any turn.

The punked out woman with the cock in her hand is beyond description. And when the cock gets feisty she strokes it enough to calm it without missing a beat. That’s a pro.

I wanna dance like Dore.

C’est magnifique!

Tuesday, July 05, 2011

He’s An Angel Now

I’m always writing something witty and funny and I honestly believe the world needs a lot of my witty and my funny, but today I cannot be witty and funny.


I was truly saddened to read in the news that Christian Choate of Lake County, Indiana was never loved. In his short life of 13 years he was horrifically abused by his father (the man who gave him life) and his evil stepmother. This little boy was forced to live in a dog cage and was kept naked except for a diaper. He experienced regular beatings, emotional torture, and neglect.

The only thing he was allowed to have in his cage was a pencil and paper, and Christian wrote his feelings... and they are heart wrenching:

Christian often stated he was hungry or thirsty.

Christian wrote of why nobody liked him and how he just wanted to be liked by his family.

Christian stated that he wanted to die because nobody liked the way he "acted."

Christian wrote of how many times he had to steal food or use the bathroom in his place of confinement.

Christian often wondered when someone, anyone, was going to come check on him.

Christian wrote of how everybody else was outside playing but he was not.

What makes this story even sadder is that the Indiana Department of Child Services received complaints that something was wrong, but the reports filed by the case worker said the children in the house “appeared to be doing well.”

Christian’s no-good, rotten, evil father and equally rotten and evil stepmother deserve the death penalty for what they did to Christian. But before the death penalty takes place I think they need to spend 13 years each locked in a dog’s cage and treated the same way they treated Christian; beatings, torture and all. I’m certain after a very short time they’d be begging for death.

Let’s celebrate Christian today by thinking of him, waving up to the heavens and saying hello, and letting yourself shed a tear for his pain, and another tear knowing he’s finally safe.

Christian Choate is an angel now.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Verizon Customer Service Sucks

Verizon customer service sucks, especially customer service rep Nicole Simmonds. She’s an idiot and a liar.

Is that harsh? It’s not if you spent over an hour trying to get some customer service from her.

On a whim last week I bought an iPhone and switched my service from Verizon to AT&T. I love my iPhone and in my apartment I get much better service with AT&T than I ever did with Verizon. With Verizon it was two bars or less (usually less), but with AT&T it’s three bars or more.

So the other night I called Verizon to find out my final payment, with all the intention of paying it right then and there. That was mistake #1.

Mistake #2 was getting Nicole Simmonds as my customer service rep. She could not understand anything I was asking and every time I asked her to explain she came up with a ludicrous answer. She kept telling me the bill I received (prior to ending my service) was sent to me after I cancelled my service, which it wasn’t.

It was like “who’s on first” except this wasn’t funny. I should’ve hung up but something snapped in me and I was determined to resolve it then, with her (Mistake #3).

Unfortunately the customer “service” deteriorated like an open wound that’s so infected with gangrene the only thing to do is to amputate. And yet I continued. Was I getting a perverse thrill with our oral interlude?

After over an hour of idiocy she called me a harassing customer. I called her a stupid lying bitch.

It was then I demanded to speak to a supervisor. She kept refusing and I said I wasn’t hanging up until I spoke to one. Lo and behold she finally connected me to supervisor Jose, who said they never divulge their last names when I asked for his.

Nicole Simmonds lied about her last name? Yes, he said. I then reiterated my customer service experience, and he conceded she lied, but defended her saying all she needs is more training. That poor idiot needs more than training...

Did I resolve my Verizon customer service issue? No. Jose defending her pissed me off so I hung up.

Take this as a warning... if you have to call Verizon and a squeaky little voice says “This is Nicole, how may I help you” immediately hang up.

All I can say is good bye Verizon and good riddance. I’m with AT&T now.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Because the Night... and Patti's Boob

There are certain images that leave an indelible imprint in your mind.

Patti Smith grabbing her own boob on the cover of “Because the Night” did that to me. It mesmerized me then and it still mesmerizes me now.

I wanted to photograph myself grabbing my own crotch but was too damn shy to do it. Years later Michael Jackson made millions grabbing his crotch. (If I knew then what I know now...)

At the time I first saw Patti’s boob grabbing photo I was a sheltered kid living in suburbia where the only daring thing we saw was in the pages of National Geographic at the nearby suburban library.

But the nudies in National Geographic didn’t have the power of Patti’s boob. It unleashed my imagination. It tore to shreds my puritanical foundation. It broke free and spurted my creative juices. It made me think there was something more than suburbia.

There was a new world out there beckoning me, and it was all because of Patti’s boob.

Her version of “Because the Night” is pure raw power and lust. It’s truly one of my favorite songs ever which, surprisingly, she wrote with Bruce Springsteen. There have been cover versions but none of them compare to Patti. She is the High Priestess of Rock.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Bang, Bang, Bang

The other day I went to the gym to continue in my quest to tone and tighten body parts that insist on defying gravity. After spending thirty minutes doing intense cardio I needed to go to the bathroom.

So there I was at the urinal whizzing - with my iPod entertaining me with the songs of Adele - when I heard a loud bang follow by another bang, and then immediately after that bang, bang, bang. I shook from head to toe but was steady enough not to miss my urinal aim. Then after a few seconds it happened again faster and louder.

I thought we were under terrorist attack.

I looked around waiting for others to react, but there was only one other person in the area and he was at the urinal beside me. I pulled my iPod from my ears and was just about to yell out when I heard it again.

Bang. Bang, bang. Bang, bang, bang.

Without Adele singing in my ear I was able to follow the trail of the sound and that’s when I realized the guy at the urinal beside me was farting. They were the loudest farts and he was not the least bit embarrassed or fazed by it.

He zipped up and left the locker room... without washing his hands. That man had bad farting habits, and even worse hand washing habits. I’ve made a mental note to remember his face and to avoid any machine he’s using.


And then today I was walking down the street and in front of me, about ten feet, was an older man slowly walking. Just as I was about to pass him he started farting. Not once but fast and furious like a machine gun. My instinct had me jump out of the way and hurry past him. He looked at me and didn’t utter a word, while his chorus of farts continued.

Let’s be real. I fart. You fart. We all fart. But has it become trendy and fashionable to fart loud and proud and without remorse?

A self-deprecating giggle and an “excuse me” seemed appropriate, don’t you think?

Wednesday, June 08, 2011

When the Sun Shines...

The other morning I was outside my apartment building waiting for a friend to come and pick me up. I was sitting on the retaining wall minding my own business when I happened to look to my left. Coming down the street was an older woman walking her dog.

She was carrying a plastic bag with dog poop in it, so I knew she was a conscientious dog owner.

But there was something peculiar as my eyes changed focus from the dangling poop bag... something that made me blink and question what I was seeing.

The sun was shining brightly and as she strolled towards me I could see right through her mid-calf length skirt. The sun’s reflection on the material made is see-through.

She wasn’t wearing any panties. Her sagging little ass was jiggling like Jello as she sashayed along with her dog. She had a happy face. Was she happy because she left her thong at home and was feeling the breeze tickling her nether region? Or was she completely oblivious to her fashion faux?

As she approached she entered a shady area and the see-through skirt was no longer. I wanted to say “Good morning middle-aged lady. Do you know the sun is making your skirt a see-through skirt and I can see your bare bouncing buttocks and your recently groomed temple of love?” but I didn’t.

We exchanged hellos and I commented how I was admiring her pooch. I might have intentionally mumbled cooch, but she petted her pet lovingly and thanked me, oblivious to my wordplay.

As she walked away I watched as she left the shade and entered the sun.

She had no tan line.

Sunday, June 05, 2011

Sarah is Coming! Sarah is Coming!

The Supreme Queen of Idiocy has struck again.

Oh yes, Sarah Palin recently visited the Paul Revere House in Boston and this is what she said when asked who Paul Revere was:

He who warned, uh, the British that they weren’t gonna be takin’ away our arms, uh, by ringing those bells, and um, makin' sure as he’s riding his horse through town to send those warning shots and bells that we were going to be sure and we were going to be free, and we were going to be armed.

In her delusional world she wants to be president. President of what? The Idiots Club?

Still she continues crisscrossing the highways and byways polluting our glorious country with her presence.

So please... when you smell her approaching your neighborhoods - it’s a rancid odor - jump on your scooters, pedal your bikes, mount your horses, rev your engines, and hurry through the streets warning everyone that “Sarah is coming! Sarah is coming!”

Saturday, June 04, 2011

Smack the Teacher

It was with a little bit of horror and little bit of envy that I read a headline this week about an eleven year old student who punched his teacher in the face breaking the teacher’s nose.

Without reading any further I sort of paused and reflected on times in my life when I wanted to smack the teacher in the face.

Years ago when I was assigned to substitute teach a high school history class the head of the department warned me one particular student was no good, nothing but trouble, and to send him to the principal’s office. I was shocked, and a little frightened not knowing what to expect.

When class started I zeroed in on the “trouble” student but a wee little voice inside my teacher’s soul said to give him a chance. I then preceded to start a discussion on the New Deal and lo and behold he was the only student actively participating in the discussion. He was a nice kid, a delight. I felt a teacher/student connection.

Not five minutes later the head of the department came in and kicked the kid out of the class. I protested but as a substitute teacher my protest fell on deaf ears.

I wanted to beat the shit of that department head. He was hateful and mean and he humiliated the student.

I often think of that student and wonder what happened to him. Maybe he became a historian.

And then I remembered my tenth grade English teacher - Ms Romano - who loathed me as much as I loathed her. On numerous occasions she told me I was an absolutely horrible writer. I thought she was an absolutely horrible human being in desperate need of a flea dip.

If I had listened to that bitch Ms Romano you wouldn’t be reading my beautiful words of wisdom here today. Instead I’d be frightened of putting pen to paper and not living my dream. Well fuck her wherever she is, and I hope she’s in a place with a lot of heat.

Sometimes teachers need to be smacked.

I didn’t bother reading the rest of the article.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Not Neighborly

I’m a neighbor. I live in a building with 28 apartments. I’m not neighborly.

Don’t get me wrong, if one of my neighbors were in need of help (of the 911 kind) I’d be there in a jiffy to lend a hand, but other than that I have no desire to mingle with the other 27 apartment dwellers in my building.

I only know the names of about four people in my building. The others I just smile when I see them and nod a courteous hello and hurry on my way before they get into a chatty “My name is... what’s yours?” mood.

There are people who love to get overly friendly with their neighbors, to hang out together, to plan their weekends together, to become best buds, to walk in uninvited and help themselves to each other’s food and drink, to watch movies together, to sleep together, and to do whatever else intrusive neighbors do. Maybe they think they’re on an episode of “Friends.”


That’s not me. Not at all.

I always thought Ross, Rachel, Monica, Joey, Chandler, and Phoebe were overbearing neighbors.

Last summer a few of the tenants in my building thought it’d be a swell idea to have a “building barbecue” in the courtyard. The organizers posted pretty computer generated invites on everyone’s door. “It’ll be fun!” “Bring something you’d like to grill!” “From 4 PM to...”

I conveniently scheduled a root canal at 4 PM that day.

And now that it’s Memorial Day, the official beginning of the barbecue season, I dread coming home and finding a cheery building barbecue invite on my door.

Maybe this year I’ll schedule a colonoscopy.

I can’t help it. I’m just not neighborly.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Mother Knows Best

Some mothers are good mothers. Some mothers are not-so-good mothers. And some mothers are complete idiots.

Kerry is an idiot mother.

Who’s Kerry?

She’s the San Francisco mother of eight year old Britney, a cute little girl who participates in beauty pageants. Cute. Little Girl. Not a woman. A little girl.

But little Britney’s pre-pubescent head was full of worries of facial wrinkles, so mother Kerry suggested Botox injections. Yes, a grown woman and “mother” began injecting her eight year old daughter with Botox giving her five shots in three different locations of her face.

Well! Botox is certainly the answer to low self-esteem in children. Why didn’t anyone think of this earlier?

“Honey, you’re not pretty enough to be in a beauty pageant but with me injecting you regularly with miracle drug Botox you’ll suddenly be pretty enough to at least become third runner up, and if we inject you even more I can see first runner up in your future!”

I say hey Kerry why stop at a few Botox injections in the child’s face?

Botox those little girl lips so they’re nice and pouty and sexy for the pre-teen pageant judges. Everyone wants to see a child beauty contestant with lips so full they could french kiss a moose.

And don’t forget about the pre-pubescent ass. It needs more booty so bend your daughter over and inject some ass cheek miracle drug in those undefined ass cheeks so she looks booty-licious.

And what about a little booby action so she can fill out that bikini she wears in the swimsuit competition or the halter top gown she wears in the formalwear competition? Most eight year olds are flat chested, but you Kerry can have an eight year old daughter with a full bosom if you call Dr. Boobman and get your little Britney silicon implants asap. As she grows older and enters more and more pageants you can increase her boobie size to really entice those judges. A 42-D on a ten year old should really make her a winner.

Psychologically Britney is going to be so sane. She’ll be the envy of everyone. And to think self-worth in a syringe is all it took.

Oh Kerry, I think we need to vote you “Mother of the Year.”

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Jelly Beans and Bird Poop

We all love queens. She-queens. He-queens. And everything in between queens.

Oh joyous, crown wearing royalty you take my breath away.

And when a commoner is about to become un-common the whole world takes notice.

Last week I was amused to read that a British man was eating from a bag of jelly beans and as he reached down to grab a bean he noticed the image of Kate Middleton, the soon to be wife of Prince William, staring up at him with her doe-like eyes.
She’s a pretty lass and as an orange jelly bean she’s an even prettier lass. If it ends up on E-bay I might be tempted to place a bid.

Not to be outdone by a Brit with a bag of jelly beans I too have made not one, but two image discoveries this past week.

The other day I was coming out of work and noticed some birds had pooped on my windshield. As I positioned myself in the driver’s seat I was about to turn on the windshield wipers to wipe the poop away when I suddenly gasped. There right before in the middle of the bird poop was the face of J-Lo. Yes, Jenny from the block, the Selena actress, the new American Idol judge.

I quickly drove to the nearest windshield store and had my windshield carefully removed. It’s now up on E-bay waiting for bids to make me rich, rich, rich.

The following day I left work and as I approached my car with its new windshield I noticed that once again birds had pooped all over my windshield. I leaned over my windshield, took a deep breath, and with anticipation raging like a forthcoming orgasm I stared...

And there in the middle of the poop was the face of Sarah Palin. Sarah Palin? What kind of cruel joke was this? I immediately grabbed a hammer and smashed the friggin’ windshield.

Tomorrow I’m taking the bus to work.

Thursday, April 07, 2011

Super Glued at the Superstore

No one wakes up in the morning and thinks, “Gee, maybe today when I head over to Walmart I’ll get the urge for a bowel movement and when I sit on the toilet seat it’ll be covered in glue and my fat hairy ass will get stuck to it.”

Can you even imagine such a thing happening? Well it did happen on April 1st at the Elkton, Maryland Walmart Superstore.

Some prankster/asshole/toilet seat fetish freak went into the men’s room and doused the toilet seat with glue. And then a 48-year-old man went into the stall, dropped his drawers, and put his ass onto the seat.

“Help. I’m stuck and I can’t get up!”

The paramedics were able to remove the man from the stall, but were unable to free his ass from the toilet seat. So the man was brought to the hospital where the seat was successfully detached leaving his cheeks red and raw.

Okay, I want to know why the man, before he dropped his pants and sat, didn’t look at the toilet and see something sticky/wet/shiny on the seat? Wouldn’t you? I mean, public bathrooms can be pretty disgusting. If he placed the toilet seat protector paper on the seat wouldn’t he have seen the paper absorb the stickiness and know not to sit?

Maybe the poor guy was having severe abdominal cramps and didn’t have time to look. He just rushed into the stall, dropped his pants, sat, farted and grunted and let it all out, and only when it was over did he realize the sticky situation he was in.

What a humiliating experience!

That’s why I never go to Wal-Mart, and I never sit on public toilet seats.

And that’s why I always seem to have a constipated look when I’m in public.

Tuesday, April 05, 2011

The Spaghetti Tree

All over the Internet the other day I kept reading about historic April Fool’s Day pranks that actually fooled folks. Some were outrageous and only the insanely gullible would ever believe such dribble. Some made me giggle. One in particular made me hungry.

In 1957 the BBC ran a segment about the coming of spring after a rather mild winter, and questioned what this meant for Swiss farmers. The answer they gave their attentive audience was an unusually large spaghetti crop. Well...

People contacted the BBC wanting to know how they could grow their own spaghetti tree. Oh yes they did! And the BBC promptly responded with “place a sprig of spaghetti in a tin of tomato sauce and hope for the best.”

I would love to harvest spaghetti trees.

During harvest time I’d lay in my hammock underneath my prized spaghetti trees swaying to the rhythm of the breeze holding a large porcelain bowl catching the spaghetti strands as they ripened and fell from the tree.

I’d then wander to my meatball tree... oh yes... I’d admire my prized balls... meat... turkey... soy... then I’d gently reach up and squeeze a branch (insert double cough here) until the balls fell into my porcelain bowl of spaghetti.

Then I’d head over to the marinara plant and pop the marinara blossoms until juicy marina squirted beautifully over my spaghetti and balls.

And as a final touch I’d visit the parmesan bushes that grow wild amongst the marinara plants. Shake, shake, shake the bush until the parmesan sprinkles lightly over the spaghetti, balls, and marinara.

And for dessert I’d sneak over to my neighbor’s house and steal a scrumptious connoli from their treasured connoli tree.

Mmm... mmm.... good.

I just planted a spaghetti spring in a tin of marinara.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

The Barefoot Wish Crusher

Oh Ina Garten oh Ina Garten there’s something rotten in your vegetable garden...

I’m really truly hoping the soft-spoken, soothing celebrity chef Ina Garten - the Barefoot Contessa - did not intentionally snub a sick child’s wish. Her “people” supposedly refused the Make-A-Wish foundation request not once but twice, and then when the news broke about their refusal they gave the “Unfortunately, as much as she would like to it’s absolutely impossible to grant every request she receives” response and suddenly the oil in the frying pan splattered everywhere.

Now I totally understand celebrities not being able to accommodate every request that is hurled upon them, but a sick child? Ooh, that’s bad karma... and bad PR.

Maybe Ina’s people never told her about the request, and she’s innocent? I sure hope so, but why hasn’t Ina shown up on all the talk shows begging for forgiveness?

Please, Ina, prove that you aren’t a burned crepe or moldy cheesecake, and that your compassion is as delicious as your Lamb Kabobs with Couscous.

I’m waiting.... all your fans are waiting... for you to stand on your tippy-toes and explain how this misunderstanding happened. If not, then...

I’m gonna toss my treasured Ina Garten cookbooks into the trash, ban you from my television, and never ever make another Barefoot Contessa recipe again. My dinner parties will suffer but sometimes we’ve got to do what we’ve got to do to do the right thing. Get it?

Do the right thing.

Don’t be the Barefoot Wish Crusher. Be the divine Barefoot Contessa who has a heart as big as an oversized eggplant and do something special for the child, and fire the staff member who refused the first request.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Gotta Get Down on Friday

Sometimes viral videos are truly fun in that totally demented warped sense and were created to be just that. But sometimes they’re meant to be good and end of being so bad they’re deliciously addictive guilty pleasures.

And so it goes with Rebecca Black and her song “Friday.” Oh yes, it’s addictive. After one listen to the cheesy lyrics and simply derivative melody you’ll be bouncing around the house vacuuming and scrubbing the toilet to the rhythm of “It’s Friday, Friday, Gotta get down on Friday, Everybody’s looking forward to the weekend...”

That song gets under your skin like a bedbug. Hey, it won’t kill you though it might cause discomfort and a little rash. But isn’t that what a lot of pop songs do?

Making Love Out of Nothing At All
Tubthumping
I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)
Achy Breaky Heart
Ice Ice Baby
Who Let The Dogs Out
Disco Duck
My Heart Will Go On


And the list goes on and on...

Sure, in public we say these songs are the equivalent of Ex-Lax, but in private we cherish these ditties and sing along full-voice pretending we are the ones who made them famous. Right? Don’t deny it. We all know it’s the truth.

Late at night when the world is fast asleep I like to get cozy with my computer and watch Youtube videos of cheesy pop songs. Some I have secretly added to my ipod to enjoy while pumping iron at the gym.

So I say congratulations to Rebecca Black for getting over 39 million Youtube hits. I might - just might - download it onto my ipod... “We - we - we so excited...”

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

My Secret Desire

Besides being totally hep and happening and witty and charming and a lover of what I see in the mirror I’m also a great cook.

In the secret kitchen of my pumping heart lies a strong desire to be a Television Chef with my own Food Network Show.

I want to call my show EAT THIS!

And eat they will once my audience gets a glimpse of what I have to offer.

Not to push Martha or Ina or Lidia or Marianne or Mario aside, but I want to wedge myself between them and stand as stiff as a rolling pin and show them what I’ve got.

What would make my show stand apart from the others? Besides me, it would include drinking wine - lots of wine - while preparing the food. Yes, wine, to establish a soothing, fun atmosphere while chopping and sauteing and mixing. With a pinch of this, a pinch of that, and a great tasting Malbec it would definitely be unpredictable and unscripted fun. And with special guests like Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan it could only get funner (duh!).

Lots of wine makes me giddy and outrageous. People like that about me, so why not share it with the world? Who knows, maybe I’ll even break into song and dance while the chicken roasts, the spinach wilts, or the lobsters boil.

So send an email to the Food Network and let them know you really want me to show you how to EAT THIS:

Olive Basil Cheese Spread

8 oz. cream cheese, softened
6 oz. feta cheese
3/4 oz. basil leaves, chopped
3 tablespoons olive oil
15 Kalamata olives, pitted and roughly chopped
1/4 tsp. black pepper

Combine the cream cheese, feta cheese, basil, oil and 1/4 teaspoon black
pepper in a bowl and mix until smooth. Fold in the olives and spoon into a serving bowl. Serve with crackers, bread, etc.

Bon appetite!

Tuesday, March 08, 2011

All Sorts of Crazy

Instead of focusing on important stuff like rising gas prices, revolutions, plague, hatred, and war the media is obsessed with every bit of “wisdom” spewing forth from volcano mouth Charlie Sheen. And the shit he’s spewing is all sorts of crazy.

I was bangin' seven-gram rocks and finishing them because that's how I roll, because I have one speed, one gear.

I'm different. I have a different constitution, I have a different brain, I have a different heart. I got tiger blood, man. Dying's for fools, dying's for amateurs.

I'm tired of pretending I'm not special. I'm tired of pretending I'm not a total freaking rock star from Mars.

Uhh... Winning!

Why is the media so obsessed with a drug and alcohol and sex addict who obviously is in desperate need of mental help, and why do we sit glued to our televisions and our computer monitors watching him self-destruct before our very eyes?

We seem to get a perverse joy watching someone succeed and then slowly crumble and disintegrate. It makes great fodder for water cooler conversations, gossip rags, the news media, and blogging (oops!). It helps us feel better about ourselves, and our non-celebrity lives.

I don’t know Charlie, though I have known a few Charlies in my day and what they don’t need is the media encouraging them to speak out, act out, and totally freak out. They need an intervention, hospitalization, and recovery.

In less than a year, after the crazy has subsided, we’ll most likely be asking “Where’s Charlie?” and hopefully it’s not gonna be a R.I.P. kind of answer.

Brittany seems to have recovered (thank goodness), Lindsay’s still out of control, and Charlie’s well... uhh.... losing.

Thursday, March 03, 2011

Bus Stop Banter

Today I wasn’t in the mood to ride my bike to the gym (too chilly), nor was I in the mood to drive my car to the gym. I wanted an adventure so I decided to take the Hollywood Dash Bus to the gym and enjoy a journey through the side streets of Hollywood. It had been a long while since I took the Dash Bus and an even longer while since I ventured some of streets of the bus route.

Dressed in my best gym attire with baseball cap strategically placed to smooth my pillow hair I threw my gym bag over my shoulder and headed to the bus stop.

So far so good...

As the bus was approaching I reached into my pocket for the exact change. I asked the only other person waiting for the bus if the fare was still twenty-five cents. The frumpy middle-aged woman said it was thirty-five cents. Oh, I innocently said, it went up.

With that she stared me down and in a surly voice she growled, “Well do the math, it didn’t go down.”

Oh no she didn’t... oh yes she did.

At that moment the bus stopped in front of us and the doors flung open. My impulse was to trip that flat footed platypus of a woman and knock her to the ground and slap the shit out of her, but in a split second of clarity and restraint (and fear of prison) I didn’t.

Instead I put on my most cheery fake Hollywood voice and wished her a beautiful day.

Bitch.

Monday, February 28, 2011

A Frozen Foods Rumble

The other day I went to the grocery store to use the bank machine. There seemed to be a rush on cash with a line of people waiting patiently to slide their bank cards into the machine and punch in their secret passwords for the monetary reward. I stood amongst them grasping my bank card anticipating pulling five twenty dollar bills from the tight slit of the machine.

I glanced to my right and noticed an older man (mid 60s), athletic and muscular, come in and reach for a shopping basket. As he leaned towards the basket a younger man (30s) came into the store walking quite fast (he wasn’t breaking any speed limit, but he appeared to be in a hurry) and he bumped into the older man. The older man wasn’t knocked to the floor. He was tapped, and certainly not hard enough to bruise his precious body.

The younger man instinctively reached out to hold the man to make sure he wasn’t gonna fall and apologized. The older man stood upright, erect, puffed up his chest, and yelled at the top of his lungs DON’T TOUCH ME and NO he wouldn’t accept the apology.

The young man flinched. Confused and not knowing what to do he apologized again and continued towards the frozen foods aisle. The older man dropped his basket and started to chase after the young man challenging him to a fight.

A fist fight amongst frozen vegetables was about to happen... and I was gonna have a bird’s eye view...

The young man sensed danger and quickly ran down another aisle leaving the older man with his fists up in the air with no one to punch. With all eyes on him the older man slowly dropped his fists but continued yelling profanities until no one cared to listen anymore.

Anti-climatic.

I was hoping too see a frozen foods rumble. Instead I entered my password into the bank machine, grabbed the cash, and left.

The next movies in my netflix queue are now Rocky, Rocky II, Rocky III, and Rocky IV.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Hello Hello Is Josie There?

Over the past couple of days my serene world has been interrupted by wrong number calls to my cell phone. Each time the woman on the other end of the wireless connect is saying hello hello is Josie there? When I tell her she has the wrong number she apologizes and hangs up. But then she calls again hours later and we have the exact same conversation.

So who is this Josie gal and why does that Woman-caller want to talk to her?

All kinds of scenarios have invaded my imagination and have kept me thoroughly entertained.

I imagine Josie could be a drug dealer and the Woman-caller is looking to score some Acapulco gold, 4:20, purple haze, meth, vicodin, or some waffle dust. In a drugged daze the Woman-caller copied Josie’s number incorrectly from the bathroom stall wall.

I imagine this Josie gal could be a madam. The Woman-caller has fallen on economic hard times after losing her job at the local Walmart and has decided to join the world’s oldest profession. Men have always admired her double jointed hips, so why let the hips get old and rusty when they can earn some cash and help pay the mortgage. Unfortunately the Woman-caller lost Josie’s ad from the back of the porn magazine and is trying desperately to remember the number.

I imagine the Woman caller could be a potential stalker. Josie gave her a fake phone number after a one-night-stand of lesbian experimentation that wasn’t all that good. Luckily for Josie the tryst was at the Woman-caller’s apartment and not at Josie’s rent controlled apartment overlooking the ocean.

Could Josie be a dog owner whose ill mannered German Shepherd dog bit the Woman-caller when the Woman-caller was hiking in Griffith Park? The dog was illegally off the leash. There were wounds. There was blood. Aaah but Josie’s a selfish naughty dog owner and doesn’t want to take responsibility; hence, the wrong contact number.

As I travel through my day I find myself staring at the faces of woman who pass me by wondering if she’s Josie or she’s the Woman-caller. Sometimes I snarl at them all caught up in one of my scenarios. They look at me puzzled, and a couple times have flashed me the finger spewing a few choice words. I don’t care.

Imagination is fun.

Friday, February 04, 2011

I Went To The Post Office...

This week I had a customer service experience that didn’t rile me enough to get my anger pumping and my voice a hollering, but it did reinforce the belief that customer service is dying and in desperate need of oxygen for its shriveled brain cells. So sad.

The other afternoon I went to the Post Office to mail two oversized envelopes. The total cost for both was a whopping $2.10. I handed the Postal Clerk $20.10 anticipating $18.00 in return. Simple transaction.

I foolishly expected a quick customer service experience, and bidding a fond farewell to my two oversized letters as they begin their journey to their final destination.

But there was a glitch. The Postal Clerk frowned when I handed him the money and asked me if I had anything smaller than a twenty dollar bill. I didn’t. He then told me to put it on a credit card. I told him no. He then repeated himself. Again I said no. He then huffed and puffed and once again said to put it on a credit card. I simply shook my head. He then whined about having to go in the back area to get change for the twenty. He stood on the other side of the bullet proof glass window not moving. I wasn’t going to change my mind, and he didn’t want to budge. Then after a huge sigh he disappeared mumbling how it would be easier for him if I put it on a credit card.

Such a whiny pissy postal person.

And then I waited and waited and waited some more and the line of customers behind me grew longer and longer. He finally moseyed from the back room and handed me $15.00. I explained the change was actually $18.00 and after he scrunched his pea brain Postal Clerk head and looked like he was lost in the world of simple mathematics he surrendered to his stupidity and gave me the correct change.

I wished him a good day and fled.

I’m now hoping my oversized envelopes don’t get “lost” in the postal system and never make it to where they need to be.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Splish Splash

There’s something about someone slipping on a banana peel that makes us laugh uproariously. But these days the banana peel has been upstaged by the smartphone and the idiots who are so wrapped up texting they don’t watch where they’re going.

Cathy Cruz Marrero from Reading, Pennsylvania is a texting idiot. A recent viral video shows Marrero so wrapped up in typing a text that she fell face first into a fountain. Splish splash!



As millions of viewers watched the viral video I’m certain no one said, “Hey wait, isn’t that Cathy Cruz Marrero from Reading, Pennsylvania?” Aah, but a chance at fifteen minutes of fame brought Cathy Cruz Marrero into the spotlight on national television proclaiming how embarrassed she was at the incident. If she was so embarrassed why did she identify herself as the texting idiot?

But it gets better. Today she and her uber-smart lawyer James Polyak announced they want to hold the person(s) who shot the video and put it on the Internet responsible. They’re considering a lawsuit. This definitely has the makings for a movie of the week starring Tori Spelling and Edward James Olmos.

Marrero also had the audacity to tearfully complain that no one from the mall called to see if she was okay. Who cares?!?

And it gets even better. Marrero is currently facing charges for credit card fraud.

Hmmm, something smells fishy and I don’t mean the dead goldfish in the fountain. Maybe Marrero deliberately set the whole thing up so she could have the international attention she so desperately craves, sue the mall, and then retire with her winnings? Now that sounds probable.

What was she texting? She was texting someone from her church. Aah, the church connection. She wants us to believe she’s a God fearing woman... but in truth a soon to be God fearing felon. Praise Jesus!

Marrero should hook up with Balloon Boy’s father. They’d be a perfect pair made in fraud heaven. Amen.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

My Middle Finger Wounded

My middle finger on my left hand, my flipping the bird finger, is wounded. Yes, wounded and I really don’t understand how it happened.

I got on my bike to ride to the gym and noticed that my tires were a bit deflated. I immediately worried that the connoli weight I gained over the holidays was more serious than I thought, but then I checked the elastic waistband of my gym shorts and laughed at the absurdity of the thought. The pants fit me fine. (Yes they did, damn it.)

So off I ride and at the first gas station I see I pull in to inflate my tires. As a prepared bicyclist I always carry a tire pressure gauge gadget with me so I won’t blow too much air in the tires, sit on the bike and have the tires explode like a major fart beneath me.

As I let go of the air hose I glance at my left hand and notice something very strange. The top portion of my middle finger on my left was bent in an abnormal direction. It wasn’t painful, but painful to look at. My beautiful left hand was deformed. That friggin’ air hose hurt me and I didn’t even feel it.

I slowly pushed the tip to the left to straighten the finger but it immediately returned to the right. Because I felt no inner pain I decided it was a minor finger malfunction and continued to the gym where I sweated on the treadmill and pumped up the pecs. Through it all my finger bent abnormally, but I carefully kept it hidden from any inquiring eyes.

Once home I carefully washed my deformed finger and taped a wooden splint to it to return it to its middle finger glory. Until I’m healed...

Typing is now difficult.

Doing handstands is not possible.


Intimate moments will now require my right hand to be the dominant hand.

Piano playing and violin playing will have to wait.

And worst of all... If I don’t heal properly my hand modeling career might be over.

Friday, January 07, 2011

Jesus In Cake

Yesterday was January 6th, Dia des Reyes (“Kings Day”), and to celebrate I took a journey to East Los Angeles to mingle with my Latino brothers and sisters and enjoy some Rosca des Reyes (Kings Day cake). I wasn’t going to let Epiphany pass me by without partaking in a slice (or two or three) of cake with a nice cup of coffee. I love cake and any excuse to eat it is reason enough.

One of the traditions of Dia des Reyes is to place a baby Jesus in the Rosca des Reyes. The person who finds Jesus in their piece of cake is blessed.

Well glory hallelujah I found Jesus. Yes I did. I found a mohawk Jesus with a black eye in my piece of cake.

Of course I wasn’t paying attention to what I was putting in my mouth and I almost washed little Jesus down my esophagus with a gulp of coffee. What would’ve happen if baby Jesus got stuck in my throat? Would my friends have performed the Heimlich Maneuver so I could spit up Jesus and not choke to death?

Luckily that didn’t happened, but it could have happened. And if it did, do you think the sin of swallowing Jesus would’ve banned me from ever entering heaven? Would my name appear on a list of people tacked to the pearly gates with the headline “Do Not Admit these Jesus Swallowers!”?

Oh, oh, oh... A potential hellish crises was averted.

I’m so glad I didn’t choke on Jesus.

I am truly blessed.

Wednesday, January 05, 2011

For 2011 I’d Like...

At midnight December 31st I was more than happy to kick 2010 in the ass and welcome with open arms 2011. And like everyone else I’ve made a wish list for the coming year:

I’d like to be able to pedal my bike to the very top of Griffith Park without dying of a massive heart attack.

I’d like to never have to read about or see another picture of that idiot Sarah Palin.

I’d like this to be the last year of that worn out, insignificant American Idol.

I’d like to cook Indian food and cook it well.

I’d like to find a phenomenal pizza joint in Los Angeles.

I’d like to play tennis more.

I’d like to participate in a live painting re-enactment (preferably one with a Roman theme where I get to wear a toga).

I’d like to have the courage to go up, up, and away in an air balloon.

I’d like to receive a message from my mother in a dream.

I’d like to have coffee and conversation with Melissa Manchester.

I’d like to feast on a big ‘ole plate of deep fried clams (with the bellies), and a side of deep fried onion rings at least once a month.

I’d like to look great in a Speedo again.

And most of all...

I’d like to spend one night as a go-go dancer in a cage suspended above a crowded dance floor swinging to 80s music.