THE NEW RINEMANIA
Go here now.
Not like, now-now. Well, I suppose now-now, because why would you wait? You're clearly looking for this if you got this far. But I don't want you to think I'm demanding you go there now.
Just go there now, asshole.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
6/25/08
A BRIGHTER SHADE OF GREEN
So that’s how it ends. Not with a close game. Not with an overtime. Not with free throws making a difference in the end. It ends with a 39-point blowout, fans chanting for Brian Scalabrine, and Gino showing up on the Jumbotron with a quarter left in the game. It was awesome. And it was weird.
This was like getting a call and being told when my first joke would make air—a week in advance. This was like making it to the Broadway T stop in time to see the last 9 bus of the night still waiting at the intersection. This was like finding out I’m going to have sex with the girl of my dreams as she walks around the apartment naked for six hours, pointing at her body, and saying “This will be yours!” Of course, I’m not lucky enough to have any of those things happen in real life. Like the 9 bus would still be waiting at the intersection.
But that’s how it was. In my head, I always pictured the Celtics taking a tight game to win a championship. We’d realize with about four minutes to play it was in the bag, and then the anticipation would climax. People would gradually call their friends and loved ones, light up their cigars, and come to the realization that the great moment was finally in hand.
Instead, I called my parents at halftime, texted my friends in the third, and spent five minutes debating whether or not P.J. Brown should just punch Lamar Odom and call it a career. I even thought about calling my buddy Jake and continuing our long-running Celtics blowout debate: If a hungry bear was set loose down on the court in an empty arena, would it be safe to take a nap in the top row of the balcony? (For the record, I maintain that it would get confused by the escalator.)
And just like that, it was over. The one last trivial, impossible thing I had no direct control over had finally come true. I had agonized and watched helplessly ever since I was in second grade, wanting nothing more than to see the Celtics win another title. My first thought when they thought I had Lupas/Lyme/worse disease was “I never got to see the Celtics win again.” I once said to a girl, “I’d like nothing more than to be with you—except to see the Celtics win a championship.” This was it. And it was as much out of spite as love. The more people said it was stupid for me to care, I cared even more. And it finally happened.
And it did two things: it helped me realize a dream, and it made me grow up. I had no more silly childhood wishes to realize. I’d graduated from college. I got my dad’s jeep. I’d seen Brian Wilson live. Now I’d seen all the sports teams I grew up with win championships. Game over. Childhood over.
And it was time to move on. But I couldn’t get over the premise of something I waited for with such anticipation ending with such definitive success. Could it all wind up being this easy?
Could I finally get fed up with my job, and get a call at that exact moment about a better job I want more? And what’s more, could I go to the interview, and find out the only prerequisite for the position is being able to name every single WWF champion from Bob Backlund through Diesel?
Could I go to the doctor's, and find out the reason for my arthritis is that I had a Skittle lodged in my spine since the age of 13? I was just eating Skittles one day in seventh grade, I laughed really hard at Fresh Prince, and a purple one just went haywire and got lodged in my lumbar. And not only that; they’re able to remove it, clean it, and let me eat it.
What if I got married, had a kid, struggled to secure all the best new-wave educational material to speed up his learning process—then found out the kid was one of those phenom children who can talk at birth? Actually, I’m not sure that would really be such a great thing, because while he could talk, nothing he’d say would make much sense. He’d just say random words without forming legitimate sentences—which would, in fairness, qualify him to work at the North Hampton Mattress Giant. But even if he could form thoughts, all the kid would want to talk about would be my wife’s vagina. Because that’s all he’d know. Actually, the more I think about it, that would probably be a worthwhile discussion to have. Either way, I wouldn’t have to teach my kid anything, and I think that’s what’s important.
But the Celtics finally won, and it may just be the greatest thing ever. Because you can’t argue with that. If I said them losing was the worst thing ever, you could say, “What about the Holocaust, or the time Wings was canceled?” If I said them not winning was the saddest thing ever, you could say, “But what about 9/11, or the Wings when Helen left Joe to go play her cello in New York City?” But if I say it’s the greatest thing ever, all you can do is argue, and ruin my excitement, which makes you a bad person, and all but guarantees that I’ll never, let you know what’s up with my hypothetical wife’s vagina.
WE BEAT LA.
This was like getting a call and being told when my first joke would make air—a week in advance. This was like making it to the Broadway T stop in time to see the last 9 bus of the night still waiting at the intersection. This was like finding out I’m going to have sex with the girl of my dreams as she walks around the apartment naked for six hours, pointing at her body, and saying “This will be yours!” Of course, I’m not lucky enough to have any of those things happen in real life. Like the 9 bus would still be waiting at the intersection.
But that’s how it was. In my head, I always pictured the Celtics taking a tight game to win a championship. We’d realize with about four minutes to play it was in the bag, and then the anticipation would climax. People would gradually call their friends and loved ones, light up their cigars, and come to the realization that the great moment was finally in hand.
Instead, I called my parents at halftime, texted my friends in the third, and spent five minutes debating whether or not P.J. Brown should just punch Lamar Odom and call it a career. I even thought about calling my buddy Jake and continuing our long-running Celtics blowout debate: If a hungry bear was set loose down on the court in an empty arena, would it be safe to take a nap in the top row of the balcony? (For the record, I maintain that it would get confused by the escalator.)
And just like that, it was over. The one last trivial, impossible thing I had no direct control over had finally come true. I had agonized and watched helplessly ever since I was in second grade, wanting nothing more than to see the Celtics win another title. My first thought when they thought I had Lupas/Lyme/worse disease was “I never got to see the Celtics win again.” I once said to a girl, “I’d like nothing more than to be with you—except to see the Celtics win a championship.” This was it. And it was as much out of spite as love. The more people said it was stupid for me to care, I cared even more. And it finally happened.
And it did two things: it helped me realize a dream, and it made me grow up. I had no more silly childhood wishes to realize. I’d graduated from college. I got my dad’s jeep. I’d seen Brian Wilson live. Now I’d seen all the sports teams I grew up with win championships. Game over. Childhood over.
And it was time to move on. But I couldn’t get over the premise of something I waited for with such anticipation ending with such definitive success. Could it all wind up being this easy?
Could I finally get fed up with my job, and get a call at that exact moment about a better job I want more? And what’s more, could I go to the interview, and find out the only prerequisite for the position is being able to name every single WWF champion from Bob Backlund through Diesel?
Could I go to the doctor's, and find out the reason for my arthritis is that I had a Skittle lodged in my spine since the age of 13? I was just eating Skittles one day in seventh grade, I laughed really hard at Fresh Prince, and a purple one just went haywire and got lodged in my lumbar. And not only that; they’re able to remove it, clean it, and let me eat it.
What if I got married, had a kid, struggled to secure all the best new-wave educational material to speed up his learning process—then found out the kid was one of those phenom children who can talk at birth? Actually, I’m not sure that would really be such a great thing, because while he could talk, nothing he’d say would make much sense. He’d just say random words without forming legitimate sentences—which would, in fairness, qualify him to work at the North Hampton Mattress Giant. But even if he could form thoughts, all the kid would want to talk about would be my wife’s vagina. Because that’s all he’d know. Actually, the more I think about it, that would probably be a worthwhile discussion to have. Either way, I wouldn’t have to teach my kid anything, and I think that’s what’s important.
But the Celtics finally won, and it may just be the greatest thing ever. Because you can’t argue with that. If I said them losing was the worst thing ever, you could say, “What about the Holocaust, or the time Wings was canceled?” If I said them not winning was the saddest thing ever, you could say, “But what about 9/11, or the Wings when Helen left Joe to go play her cello in New York City?” But if I say it’s the greatest thing ever, all you can do is argue, and ruin my excitement, which makes you a bad person, and all but guarantees that I’ll never, let you know what’s up with my hypothetical wife’s vagina.
WE BEAT LA.
Alas...this was not the only solomn news to strike Hollywood, which brings us to our next portion...
CAUSE & EFFECT
It was revealed that just months after the Writers Guild of America ended its three-month strike, the Screen Actors Guild is now set to stop work unless their demands are met by the AMPTP. Just how bad could things get? Here now the Cause & Effect breakdown of the SCREEN ACTORS GUILD STRIKE:
CAUSE: Striking actors force talk shows to book animal acts.
EFFECT: Aflac Duck forced to apologize after making Carson Daly cry.
CAUSE: Lack of scripted programming leads to more reality spinoffs.
EFFECT: Farmer Wants a Wife followed by less popular Farmer Wants a Hooker Who’ll Wear a Fake Mustache.
CAUSE: Impending strike causes directors to rush completion of films.
EFFECT: Audiences surprised when new Bond film ends when villain slips and sprains his ankle.
CAUSE: Out of work actors forced to take jobs as busboys and deliverymen.
EFFECT: Dustin Diamond happy to welcome new coworkers.
CAUSE: Soap operas deprived of convincing performers.
EFFECT: None.
CAUSE: With production shut down, actors spend more time watching the Lakers.
EFFECT: Wait, no they won’t, because their asses just got SACKED.
EFFECT: Aflac Duck forced to apologize after making Carson Daly cry.
CAUSE: Lack of scripted programming leads to more reality spinoffs.
EFFECT: Farmer Wants a Wife followed by less popular Farmer Wants a Hooker Who’ll Wear a Fake Mustache.
CAUSE: Impending strike causes directors to rush completion of films.
EFFECT: Audiences surprised when new Bond film ends when villain slips and sprains his ankle.
CAUSE: Out of work actors forced to take jobs as busboys and deliverymen.
EFFECT: Dustin Diamond happy to welcome new coworkers.
CAUSE: Soap operas deprived of convincing performers.
EFFECT: None.
CAUSE: With production shut down, actors spend more time watching the Lakers.
EFFECT: Wait, no they won’t, because their asses just got SACKED.
- JONOLOGUE -
After winning the championship, the Celtics had a big parade through the middle of the city. But because gas prices are so high, the Duck Boats were pushed by members of the Bruins.
Nobody could believe the Celtics’ comeback in game 4. In fact, the refs were just shocked when they heard about it before the game.
After the game, Kobe Bryant said he would go get drunk by taking a bunch of bad shots. Apparently, Kobe drinks just like he plays.
I don’t want to say the Lakers shot poorly, but after the series, they got a congratulatory phone call from Dick Cheney.
House and Senate leaders have agreed on legislation making warrantless wiretapping legal. To which the Bush Administration said, “It’s good to hear we can just start doing that now…”
The Obama campaign has apologized after it forced a couple of Muslim women standing near him at a speech to remove their scarves. In addition, they also created a controversy when they asked Al Gore to remove his lobster bib.
John McCain has challenged Barack Obama to a series of moderator-free public forums, much like the legendary Lincoln-Douglas debates. McCain said he got the idea from when he attended several of the Lincoln-Douglas debates.
Libertarian candidate Bob Barr introduced his strategy for winning the election: changing his name to Barack McCain.
Gennifer Flowers and Paula Jones have created a website on which they will share lurid details of sexual encounters they had with then-Governor, and former President Bill Clinton. So far, the site has over a million hits—all from President Clinton.
Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez has renounced a man who is claiming to be his son—to which former President Bush said, “You can do that??”
In Gloucester, MA, a group of high school girls, as young as 16 are pregnant after making a so-called pregnancy pact with one another. And when he heard the news, Roger Clemens got to work preparing his alibis.
There are now allegations that Roger Clemens used Viagra as a performance enhancing drug for baseball! I guess what gave him away was the fact that every time he went up to hit, he never bothered bringing a bat.
Police in Australia have arrested for man for drunk driving, after he was found operating his motorized wheelchair while intoxicated. There are reports the man led police on a chase reaching speeds of four miles per hour.
Scientists believe NASA’s Phoenix Mars lander has found ice on the Martian surface. The bad news: it got all the way there, before it realized it left the bucket back in the hotel room.
A 21-year-old woman is threatening to sue the town of Ashland, Oregon, if she is not allowed to ride topless on her bicycle in this year’s Fourth of July parade. Half the town’s residents say such an act would be inappropriate for a family event; the other half are men, petitioning to make her the parade’s grand marshal.
Muslim women in Europe have begun having a procedure known as a hymenoplasty, which is an operation that lets them reclaim their virginity. Don’t confuse that with Match.com; that’s the method that allows American women to claim their virginity.
In an effort to reduce air pollution, the Minneapolis City Council has ruled that running cars may not idle for more than three minutes. To which Larry Craig said, “Uh, can we still have sex at the airport?”
Newspapers in Philadelphia pulled a bit of a prank on readers, running full-page ads for a sham airline that discriminates against passengers based on their weight—after which they were immediately sued by Southwest for copyright infringement.
In Temecula, California, workers at a McDonald’s finally caught an elusive hen that had taken up residence outside the drive-thru. In related news, FREE MCNUGGETS FOR EVERYONE!!!
In Yugoslavia, the remains of a woman have been found sitting in front of her TV - 42 years after she was reported missing. Even more amazing, the Oscar telecast she had sat down to watch was just wrapping up.
Nine percent of scientists said recently they have personally seen fabrication or falsification in published studies. Meanwhile, the remaining 211% said they hadn’t.
Scientists believe that red wine could significantly slow the process of aging, but that you would have to drink several thousand bottles a day to see any effects. In related news, it was revealed today that Paula Abdul is actually 912 years old.
In an effort to better pinpoint and diagnose injuries, scientists are researching a way to add color to MRI scans. To which President Bush said, “Um, Crayola??”
President Bush has insisted that Osama bin Laden be captured before he leave office. Osama is believed to be living in the tribal region of Pakistan, or running a marathon in Alaska.
Nobody could believe the Celtics’ comeback in game 4. In fact, the refs were just shocked when they heard about it before the game.
After the game, Kobe Bryant said he would go get drunk by taking a bunch of bad shots. Apparently, Kobe drinks just like he plays.
I don’t want to say the Lakers shot poorly, but after the series, they got a congratulatory phone call from Dick Cheney.
House and Senate leaders have agreed on legislation making warrantless wiretapping legal. To which the Bush Administration said, “It’s good to hear we can just start doing that now…”
The Obama campaign has apologized after it forced a couple of Muslim women standing near him at a speech to remove their scarves. In addition, they also created a controversy when they asked Al Gore to remove his lobster bib.
John McCain has challenged Barack Obama to a series of moderator-free public forums, much like the legendary Lincoln-Douglas debates. McCain said he got the idea from when he attended several of the Lincoln-Douglas debates.
Libertarian candidate Bob Barr introduced his strategy for winning the election: changing his name to Barack McCain.
Gennifer Flowers and Paula Jones have created a website on which they will share lurid details of sexual encounters they had with then-Governor, and former President Bill Clinton. So far, the site has over a million hits—all from President Clinton.
Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez has renounced a man who is claiming to be his son—to which former President Bush said, “You can do that??”
In Gloucester, MA, a group of high school girls, as young as 16 are pregnant after making a so-called pregnancy pact with one another. And when he heard the news, Roger Clemens got to work preparing his alibis.
There are now allegations that Roger Clemens used Viagra as a performance enhancing drug for baseball! I guess what gave him away was the fact that every time he went up to hit, he never bothered bringing a bat.
Police in Australia have arrested for man for drunk driving, after he was found operating his motorized wheelchair while intoxicated. There are reports the man led police on a chase reaching speeds of four miles per hour.
Scientists believe NASA’s Phoenix Mars lander has found ice on the Martian surface. The bad news: it got all the way there, before it realized it left the bucket back in the hotel room.
A 21-year-old woman is threatening to sue the town of Ashland, Oregon, if she is not allowed to ride topless on her bicycle in this year’s Fourth of July parade. Half the town’s residents say such an act would be inappropriate for a family event; the other half are men, petitioning to make her the parade’s grand marshal.
Muslim women in Europe have begun having a procedure known as a hymenoplasty, which is an operation that lets them reclaim their virginity. Don’t confuse that with Match.com; that’s the method that allows American women to claim their virginity.
In an effort to reduce air pollution, the Minneapolis City Council has ruled that running cars may not idle for more than three minutes. To which Larry Craig said, “Uh, can we still have sex at the airport?”
Newspapers in Philadelphia pulled a bit of a prank on readers, running full-page ads for a sham airline that discriminates against passengers based on their weight—after which they were immediately sued by Southwest for copyright infringement.
In Temecula, California, workers at a McDonald’s finally caught an elusive hen that had taken up residence outside the drive-thru. In related news, FREE MCNUGGETS FOR EVERYONE!!!
In Yugoslavia, the remains of a woman have been found sitting in front of her TV - 42 years after she was reported missing. Even more amazing, the Oscar telecast she had sat down to watch was just wrapping up.
Nine percent of scientists said recently they have personally seen fabrication or falsification in published studies. Meanwhile, the remaining 211% said they hadn’t.
Scientists believe that red wine could significantly slow the process of aging, but that you would have to drink several thousand bottles a day to see any effects. In related news, it was revealed today that Paula Abdul is actually 912 years old.
In an effort to better pinpoint and diagnose injuries, scientists are researching a way to add color to MRI scans. To which President Bush said, “Um, Crayola??”
President Bush has insisted that Osama bin Laden be captured before he leave office. Osama is believed to be living in the tribal region of Pakistan, or running a marathon in Alaska.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
June 10, 2008
IT'S FINALLY EASY BEING GREEN
In a fit of rage/femininity, a good friend once put up an away message that said if she saw someone with a love for Celtics and Beach Boys, she would rip his balls off. Now, I could have easily said if I saw someone with a love for jam bands and putting up memorable away messages, I would twist her nipples, but I didn’t, and for one simple reason: I just thought of it now.
But I think this lovely anecdote establishes one thing: I do have a love for the Celtics. And as one with a love for Celtics, this is about as exciting as it gets right now. When I moved back to New England from Los Angeles last year, I reasoned that I may be ruining my shot at any kind of career, and I may be throwing away some second and third chances at things in life I’d never get again…but at least I’d have Dunkin Donuts, and maybe the Celtics would win one while I was there to see it. Not alive, just in New England. I’m not dying or anything. I hope. That would really suck, if I died after writing this. How stupid would I look? Here’s hoping I don’t. Knock on wood. *Knock*.
And here we are, June 2008, and the Boston Celtics are facing the Los Angeles Lakers of Hell in the NBA Finals. This is the ultimate. This is getting stuck in an elevator with Mike Love and Brian Wilson. This is going on a weekend to Cambria with the girl that got away. This is finding a broken meter with no one-hour restriction. This is the chance to go back in time, to my childhood, and see the one last thing I as a young sports fan never got to see: Banner 17.
In a way, it’s eerily fitting. Even if the Celtics lose, it’s still a Celtics-Lakers Finals. If fate says, “Hey, let’s fuck with that guy!” and takes me to another city, how could I argue the timing? I finally got to see the Big One. What more is there to relish? I would have experienced the greatest trivial pleasure possible, seeing the Celtics finally go all the way, making all those nights watching Todd Day, Dana Barros, Travis Knight and Mark Blount worth it. It would be the coolest of the cool.
Some people ask me, “Douchebag, how cool would it really be for the Celtics to win a title?” Well, U. Jerkowitz, it’s hard to fathom. It’s pretty much impossible to list six specific examples of trivial and unlikely transpirations that would tickle my so-called fancy similarly. What? You want to hear six specific examples? Oh, come on. I don’t have time for that! The younger people in the audience would probably just be bored!
Okay, by show of genitalia, how many people out there really want to see some examples of things that would rival the Celtics winning a championship? Whoa! That’s a lot of privates going up! Okay, here now, is a list of things that would come close:
A Health Benefit from Soda: Think about it. Everything else has a good one. People say drinking red wine can make you live longer. Smoking pot can be used for medicinal purposes. There’s even a study that says smoking cigarettes lowers the risk of getting Alzheimer’s—probably due to the fact you’d never live long enough to get Alzheimer’s. But why can’t there be anything good about drinking soda? Like, drinking soda makes you hear awesome, or drinking soda is great for your nads. And if you’re a woman, the nads-benefit can be passed over to your husband/boyfriend through bodacious banging. Nothing’s hotter than some Cherry Coke and a romp.
My Piss Can Fuel Cars: How great would this be? With gas prices at an all-time high, we could all benefit from some Jon urine making that car go vroom. The prices would be lower, but only ladies would have a self-serve option/mandate. I’d be making money hand over fist. I’d never jack up the prices. And there’d never be a fuel shortage, on account of the soda-drinking. Hey, a good thing about drinking soda! That’s a two-for, my friends.
Andy Kaufman is Still Alive: This would be pretty cool. Not just because a legendary comedian would essentially be back from the dead, but it would prove something I’ve theorized for a long time: at least one famous person thought dead has to still be alive. With all the money they have, and all the resources available to them, it’s naïve to think at least one of them wouldn’t be able to fake his own death.
Andy Rooney is Still Alive: This would also be pretty cool. Not just because a legendary broadcaster would essentially be back from the dead, but it would prove something I’ve theorized for a long time: at least one 60 Minutes guy has to still be alive. With all the money they have, and all the resources available to them, it’s naïve to think at least one of them wouldn’t be able to fake his own death.
Drew Barrymore Dumps the Mac Guy: Seriously, screw that dude. Why is she dating him? If it’s dorky, skinny guys she’s after, you’d think she could do better. Maybe somebody who hasn’t thrown up in nearly eight years. Perhaps somebody who can name every WWF champion from Bob Backlund all the way to Diesel. Possibly someone who has twice seen a police horse running down the street with no policeman on top. And don’t forget, his dong could make your car go.
The Beach Boys Reunite: Think about it: an album of new material, featuring contemporary artists. Do like Santana, and release a couple singles. Steven Page could take over a lead written for Carl, and Amy Winehouse could snort some coke purchased by Dennis. It would be another impossible becoming a possible, and my balls would never be prouder—on, or ripped off.
But I think this lovely anecdote establishes one thing: I do have a love for the Celtics. And as one with a love for Celtics, this is about as exciting as it gets right now. When I moved back to New England from Los Angeles last year, I reasoned that I may be ruining my shot at any kind of career, and I may be throwing away some second and third chances at things in life I’d never get again…but at least I’d have Dunkin Donuts, and maybe the Celtics would win one while I was there to see it. Not alive, just in New England. I’m not dying or anything. I hope. That would really suck, if I died after writing this. How stupid would I look? Here’s hoping I don’t. Knock on wood. *Knock*.
And here we are, June 2008, and the Boston Celtics are facing the Los Angeles Lakers of Hell in the NBA Finals. This is the ultimate. This is getting stuck in an elevator with Mike Love and Brian Wilson. This is going on a weekend to Cambria with the girl that got away. This is finding a broken meter with no one-hour restriction. This is the chance to go back in time, to my childhood, and see the one last thing I as a young sports fan never got to see: Banner 17.
In a way, it’s eerily fitting. Even if the Celtics lose, it’s still a Celtics-Lakers Finals. If fate says, “Hey, let’s fuck with that guy!” and takes me to another city, how could I argue the timing? I finally got to see the Big One. What more is there to relish? I would have experienced the greatest trivial pleasure possible, seeing the Celtics finally go all the way, making all those nights watching Todd Day, Dana Barros, Travis Knight and Mark Blount worth it. It would be the coolest of the cool.
Some people ask me, “Douchebag, how cool would it really be for the Celtics to win a title?” Well, U. Jerkowitz, it’s hard to fathom. It’s pretty much impossible to list six specific examples of trivial and unlikely transpirations that would tickle my so-called fancy similarly. What? You want to hear six specific examples? Oh, come on. I don’t have time for that! The younger people in the audience would probably just be bored!
Okay, by show of genitalia, how many people out there really want to see some examples of things that would rival the Celtics winning a championship? Whoa! That’s a lot of privates going up! Okay, here now, is a list of things that would come close:
A Health Benefit from Soda: Think about it. Everything else has a good one. People say drinking red wine can make you live longer. Smoking pot can be used for medicinal purposes. There’s even a study that says smoking cigarettes lowers the risk of getting Alzheimer’s—probably due to the fact you’d never live long enough to get Alzheimer’s. But why can’t there be anything good about drinking soda? Like, drinking soda makes you hear awesome, or drinking soda is great for your nads. And if you’re a woman, the nads-benefit can be passed over to your husband/boyfriend through bodacious banging. Nothing’s hotter than some Cherry Coke and a romp.
My Piss Can Fuel Cars: How great would this be? With gas prices at an all-time high, we could all benefit from some Jon urine making that car go vroom. The prices would be lower, but only ladies would have a self-serve option/mandate. I’d be making money hand over fist. I’d never jack up the prices. And there’d never be a fuel shortage, on account of the soda-drinking. Hey, a good thing about drinking soda! That’s a two-for, my friends.
Andy Kaufman is Still Alive: This would be pretty cool. Not just because a legendary comedian would essentially be back from the dead, but it would prove something I’ve theorized for a long time: at least one famous person thought dead has to still be alive. With all the money they have, and all the resources available to them, it’s naïve to think at least one of them wouldn’t be able to fake his own death.
Andy Rooney is Still Alive: This would also be pretty cool. Not just because a legendary broadcaster would essentially be back from the dead, but it would prove something I’ve theorized for a long time: at least one 60 Minutes guy has to still be alive. With all the money they have, and all the resources available to them, it’s naïve to think at least one of them wouldn’t be able to fake his own death.
Drew Barrymore Dumps the Mac Guy: Seriously, screw that dude. Why is she dating him? If it’s dorky, skinny guys she’s after, you’d think she could do better. Maybe somebody who hasn’t thrown up in nearly eight years. Perhaps somebody who can name every WWF champion from Bob Backlund all the way to Diesel. Possibly someone who has twice seen a police horse running down the street with no policeman on top. And don’t forget, his dong could make your car go.
The Beach Boys Reunite: Think about it: an album of new material, featuring contemporary artists. Do like Santana, and release a couple singles. Steven Page could take over a lead written for Carl, and Amy Winehouse could snort some coke purchased by Dennis. It would be another impossible becoming a possible, and my balls would never be prouder—on, or ripped off.
CAUSE & EFFECT
I've spent plenty of time already talking about this Celtics-Lakers Finals, but I know you're probably saying, "Jerkwad, how does this affect me?" Well, here now is a Cause & Effect breakdown of the Celtics-Lakers Final:
CAUSE: BankNorth Garden poised to raise a championship banner.
EFFECT: Arena officials excited about the prospect of boasting an achievement not related to elevator certification.
CAUSE: Kobe Bryant to spend a week in the biggest college town in America.
EFFECT: Bryant’s wife hires Bill Belichick to follow and tape the bastard.
CAUSE: Finals played in state where gambling is prohibited.
EFFECT: Refs forced to place bets at Twin River.
CAUSE: Lakers fan Jack Nicholson razzed by Celtics fans.
EFFECT: Celtics fan Donnie Wahlberg razzed by Lakers and Celtics fans.
CAUSE: Celtics ready Duck Boats for possible victory parade.
EFFECT: Due to high gas prices, boats to be pushed by members of the Bruins.
CAUSE: Pau Gasol poised to team with Kobe for the long-haul.
EFFECT: Gasol becomes prime example of foreigner willing to do a job most Americans won’t.
EFFECT: Bryant’s wife hires Bill Belichick to follow and tape the bastard.
CAUSE: Finals played in state where gambling is prohibited.
EFFECT: Refs forced to place bets at Twin River.
CAUSE: Lakers fan Jack Nicholson razzed by Celtics fans.
EFFECT: Celtics fan Donnie Wahlberg razzed by Lakers and Celtics fans.
CAUSE: Celtics ready Duck Boats for possible victory parade.
EFFECT: Due to high gas prices, boats to be pushed by members of the Bruins.
CAUSE: Pau Gasol poised to team with Kobe for the long-haul.
EFFECT: Gasol becomes prime example of foreigner willing to do a job most Americans won’t.
- - - JONOLOGUE - - -
In London, a group of emos held a demonstration, at which they stated that not all emos are suicidal, unfortunately.
I had a brutal weekend. I went to see that movie The Strangers; halfway through, my date stands up and yells, “Where’s Balki?”
A panel of researchers is saying that new drugs and scientific breakthroughs are on the way that could drastically increase human life expectancy. In fact, they say Lindsay Lohan could live to be as old as 26.
Ratings for this year’s Stanley Cup Finals were up 79%. Sadly, the mullet rate has remained the same.
A recent study shows that 70% of British people are cremated. And half of them are then snorted by Amy Winehouse.
A restaurant in Detroit has introduced a new 134-pound hamburger. It’s called the “Absolutely Ridiculous Burger,” which I believe is followed by the “Totally Predictable Coronary.”
The Florida Marlins have introduced a new plus-sized cheerleading squad comprised completely of fat guys. Earlier today, each one of the guys tested positive for Twinkies.
Police were investigating allegations that somebody drugged Britney Spears. The number one suspect: Britney Spears.
A British study has found the number of adults who have trouble with basic arithmetic is one in four—or, 20%.
The value of gold and silver continues to soar to record highs. In fact, the most expensive piece of real estate on the market: Flavor Flav’s mouth.
A new study shows that in the U.S., one in four teenage girls has a sexually transmitted disease. To which R. Kelly said, “You’re welcome!”
A British company has created a security device that sees right through people’s clothes. And because it’s British, it comes with a warning: Do Not Point Directly at Camilla.
-Reuters
In an NBC/Wall Street Journal poll, 45% of voters said they now view former President Bill Clinton in a negative light, while 42% see him in a positive one. In fact, Bill’s popularity is so low, he’s having to settle for skinny chicks.
In Ness City, Kansas, officials discovered a woman who had been sitting on her boyfriend’s toilet for as long as two years. They said this was either a horrible case of abuse, or the result of a misguided trip to the Wienerschnitzel.
According to Paula Abdul, Bob Dylan wore a disguise to sneak into multiple tapings of American Idol. The scary part: Bob Dylan and Sanjaya—have never been seen at the same time.
China has warned that for the Olympics, cabs cannot be driven by anyone with red hair or excessive jewelry, which is really bad news for this cabbie: http://www.sitcomsonline.com/nickatnitetvlandpromos/threescompanyphotogallery/openingcredits/openingcredits-lindley-04.jpg
A former doctor could be sentenced to as much as 50 years in prison after pleading guilty to stealing body parts from corpses. The worst part? His legal feels could cost him an arm and a leg.
I had a brutal weekend. I went to see that movie The Strangers; halfway through, my date stands up and yells, “Where’s Balki?”
A panel of researchers is saying that new drugs and scientific breakthroughs are on the way that could drastically increase human life expectancy. In fact, they say Lindsay Lohan could live to be as old as 26.
Ratings for this year’s Stanley Cup Finals were up 79%. Sadly, the mullet rate has remained the same.
A recent study shows that 70% of British people are cremated. And half of them are then snorted by Amy Winehouse.
A restaurant in Detroit has introduced a new 134-pound hamburger. It’s called the “Absolutely Ridiculous Burger,” which I believe is followed by the “Totally Predictable Coronary.”
The Florida Marlins have introduced a new plus-sized cheerleading squad comprised completely of fat guys. Earlier today, each one of the guys tested positive for Twinkies.
Police were investigating allegations that somebody drugged Britney Spears. The number one suspect: Britney Spears.
A British study has found the number of adults who have trouble with basic arithmetic is one in four—or, 20%.
The value of gold and silver continues to soar to record highs. In fact, the most expensive piece of real estate on the market: Flavor Flav’s mouth.
A new study shows that in the U.S., one in four teenage girls has a sexually transmitted disease. To which R. Kelly said, “You’re welcome!”
A British company has created a security device that sees right through people’s clothes. And because it’s British, it comes with a warning: Do Not Point Directly at Camilla.
-Reuters
In an NBC/Wall Street Journal poll, 45% of voters said they now view former President Bill Clinton in a negative light, while 42% see him in a positive one. In fact, Bill’s popularity is so low, he’s having to settle for skinny chicks.
In Ness City, Kansas, officials discovered a woman who had been sitting on her boyfriend’s toilet for as long as two years. They said this was either a horrible case of abuse, or the result of a misguided trip to the Wienerschnitzel.
According to Paula Abdul, Bob Dylan wore a disguise to sneak into multiple tapings of American Idol. The scary part: Bob Dylan and Sanjaya—have never been seen at the same time.
China has warned that for the Olympics, cabs cannot be driven by anyone with red hair or excessive jewelry, which is really bad news for this cabbie: http://www.sitcomsonline.com/nickatnitetvlandpromos/threescompanyphotogallery/openingcredits/openingcredits-lindley-04.jpg
A former doctor could be sentenced to as much as 50 years in prison after pleading guilty to stealing body parts from corpses. The worst part? His legal feels could cost him an arm and a leg.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
GARGLE ROCK
If you know me, you know one thing: I definitely have a computer. If I didn’t, none of this would be possible.
But if you really know me, you know that I’m a big hygiene guy. I’m not obsessive-compulsive or anything. I’m not like Howie Mandel; I’ll shake people’s hands, sometimes, even their breasts. But I do wash my hands before eating. I always have a stick of deodorant on me. And, I once broke up with a girl because she went a day without showering. And why not? That’s disgusting. At least run through the sprinkler, for my benefit. Actually, just do everything for my benefit.
But I’m an even bigger hygiene freak as it relates to dental wellbeing. Wow, did you know wellbeing was one word? Neither did I.
I take good care of my teeth. I brush them when I wake up, I brush them when I wake down; in the morning, at night—I even have a toothbrush and toothpaste with me at work. And in all my 25 years, I’ve only had one cavity, and I soooooo got screwed. A piece of lettuce—lettuce!—got stuck under one of my teeth. Dentist said it was a million-to-one, and that there was nothing I could do about it. I’m not kidding. And if you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to come by and conduct your own cavity search.
I drink soda. I eat Milk Duds. And I get away with it all, because I take great care of my teeth. And in addition to using the old paste and brush, I never miss a chance to gargle. Until last night…
Yes, last night. With another day of being awesome (or, as some may call it, barely adequate) behind me, I decided it was time to turn in. So, into the bathroom I went to polish the pearly whites. Toothpaste? Check. Toothbrush? Check. Checklist? Check. Everything was going smoothly—until it was gargle time.
It was the mouthwash—specifically, the amount of it. It wasn’t that I was out completely, but there wasn’t a ton left. Probably about 1½ swigs worth. So, I had a choice to make: a half-ass gargle before bed, or a half-ass gargle to start my day.
Now, I know the choice sounds easy. If I was going to gargle, it was going to be more important to do it in the morning. I’d be going out to face the world. What if I met a girl on the bus? I would be kicking myself for not gargling. And, I’d probably pull a hamstring, from kicking myself. And that would just be great. I’d probably yell after pulling my hamstring, and then everyone would smell/hear my shitty, shitty breath. That’s right, it would actually be audible. The only choice would be to water down a drop, take my chances overnight, then right the ship the next morning.
Except for one problem: I had just eaten half a container of pasta salad. Pasta salad with bread and homemade dipping sauce filled with oregano. There was no way I could spoon with my pillow with breath like that.
But still, nobody was in the room. It was just me. If I just blocked it out, closed my eyes, and tried hard to sleep, first thing I knew, it would be morning.
But I’d feel awful, waking up to that terrible aftertaste of a thing that once tasted great. And who cares if I met a girl on the bus? What was I gonna do, hit on her? When’s the last time you saw a guy pick up a girl on a bus? There’s really no non-creepy way to go about that. It’s already the sketchiest place in the world, and on top of that, you’re hitting on someone? All I’m trying to do is be nice and get to work, but there I’d be, Mr. Bad Guy, freaking somebody out. To me, there are only two possible ways to go about this: one, get up and grab the microphone, and say "Attention, ladies: I am attracted to one of you. So, if you’re interested, please see me at Franklin Street at Devonshire Street." Or, I could just make up personal business cards, and just hand them to girls as I get off the bus. But then, they might think I just want to do business. That’s why I’d make sure they’re shaped like penises.
By now, an hour had gone by, and I had been contemplating all of this to no end. I wasn’t getting any sleep, and I wasn’t making any progress in this great case of Listerine contemplation. There was just one thing to do: sit down and make a list. A list of the pros and cons of going through the motions with my mouthwash, either at night or in the day. So, I sat down at my desk, cleared a spot, and put my notepad down right next to a bottle—a bottle of new Listerine I forgot I bought the day before.
Christ, I hate myself.
But if you really know me, you know that I’m a big hygiene guy. I’m not obsessive-compulsive or anything. I’m not like Howie Mandel; I’ll shake people’s hands, sometimes, even their breasts. But I do wash my hands before eating. I always have a stick of deodorant on me. And, I once broke up with a girl because she went a day without showering. And why not? That’s disgusting. At least run through the sprinkler, for my benefit. Actually, just do everything for my benefit.
But I’m an even bigger hygiene freak as it relates to dental wellbeing. Wow, did you know wellbeing was one word? Neither did I.
I take good care of my teeth. I brush them when I wake up, I brush them when I wake down; in the morning, at night—I even have a toothbrush and toothpaste with me at work. And in all my 25 years, I’ve only had one cavity, and I soooooo got screwed. A piece of lettuce—lettuce!—got stuck under one of my teeth. Dentist said it was a million-to-one, and that there was nothing I could do about it. I’m not kidding. And if you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to come by and conduct your own cavity search.
I drink soda. I eat Milk Duds. And I get away with it all, because I take great care of my teeth. And in addition to using the old paste and brush, I never miss a chance to gargle. Until last night…
Yes, last night. With another day of being awesome (or, as some may call it, barely adequate) behind me, I decided it was time to turn in. So, into the bathroom I went to polish the pearly whites. Toothpaste? Check. Toothbrush? Check. Checklist? Check. Everything was going smoothly—until it was gargle time.
It was the mouthwash—specifically, the amount of it. It wasn’t that I was out completely, but there wasn’t a ton left. Probably about 1½ swigs worth. So, I had a choice to make: a half-ass gargle before bed, or a half-ass gargle to start my day.
Now, I know the choice sounds easy. If I was going to gargle, it was going to be more important to do it in the morning. I’d be going out to face the world. What if I met a girl on the bus? I would be kicking myself for not gargling. And, I’d probably pull a hamstring, from kicking myself. And that would just be great. I’d probably yell after pulling my hamstring, and then everyone would smell/hear my shitty, shitty breath. That’s right, it would actually be audible. The only choice would be to water down a drop, take my chances overnight, then right the ship the next morning.
Except for one problem: I had just eaten half a container of pasta salad. Pasta salad with bread and homemade dipping sauce filled with oregano. There was no way I could spoon with my pillow with breath like that.
But still, nobody was in the room. It was just me. If I just blocked it out, closed my eyes, and tried hard to sleep, first thing I knew, it would be morning.
But I’d feel awful, waking up to that terrible aftertaste of a thing that once tasted great. And who cares if I met a girl on the bus? What was I gonna do, hit on her? When’s the last time you saw a guy pick up a girl on a bus? There’s really no non-creepy way to go about that. It’s already the sketchiest place in the world, and on top of that, you’re hitting on someone? All I’m trying to do is be nice and get to work, but there I’d be, Mr. Bad Guy, freaking somebody out. To me, there are only two possible ways to go about this: one, get up and grab the microphone, and say "Attention, ladies: I am attracted to one of you. So, if you’re interested, please see me at Franklin Street at Devonshire Street." Or, I could just make up personal business cards, and just hand them to girls as I get off the bus. But then, they might think I just want to do business. That’s why I’d make sure they’re shaped like penises.
By now, an hour had gone by, and I had been contemplating all of this to no end. I wasn’t getting any sleep, and I wasn’t making any progress in this great case of Listerine contemplation. There was just one thing to do: sit down and make a list. A list of the pros and cons of going through the motions with my mouthwash, either at night or in the day. So, I sat down at my desk, cleared a spot, and put my notepad down right next to a bottle—a bottle of new Listerine I forgot I bought the day before.
Christ, I hate myself.
CAUSE & EFFECT
The other day, I was thrown for a loop when I paid $59 to fill up my car. I knew prices were expensive, but still couldn't believe I'd just spent what would amount to half a weeks' pay as a high school kid for the right to not have to walk or ride my bike. Gas prices are hovering around $4 a gallon, and everybody is hurting. But here now, the Cause & Effect reaction of $4 a gallon gas:
Cause: Fewer people driving their cars to baseball games.
Effect: To cut drivers a deal, Fenway Park lots lower prices to just three-thousand dollars.
Effect: To cut drivers a deal, Fenway Park lots lower prices to just three-thousand dollars.
Cause: Relations between gas stations and consumers continue to deteriorate.
Effect: Instead of "Thank You For Shopping at Hess," now "Fuck You For Shopping at Hess.
Cause: Extreme rates force California residents to share rides.
Effect: Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears forced to carpool into a lamppost.
Cause: Fuel prices lead to cutbacks in car-based motion pictures.
Effect: Disney forced to euthanize Herbie.
Cause: Gas prices combined with poor economy leads many to sell cars.
Effect: In lieu of car trunks, mafia forced to store dead bodies in elephant trunks! What?! That’s crazy!!
Cause: Diesel costs make trucking financially unfeasible.
Effect: Goodbye ice cream truck; hello ice cream wheelbarrow.
--JONOLOGUE--
Former White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan has released a "tell-all" book in which he slams the Bush Administration. Dick Cheney is furious at McClellan's betrayal of trust; Donald Rumsfeld is fuming over his personal portrayal; and President Bush is irate at the lack of pictures.
CNN is reporting that Hillary Clinton’s campaign is in formal talks with the Obama campaign about the vice presidential spot. And today Hillary said, "Hey, it’s still his if he wants it!"
Today, Hillary Clinton visited Mount Rushmore. Mount Rushmore pays tribute to George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson and Theodore Roosevelt--each of whom has a better shot of being elected than Hillary.
At a speech in Montana, Hillary Clinton said she leads in every poll--every poll that starts with the question, "Which candidate should drop the F out?"
At a speech in Montana, Hillary Clinton said she leads in every poll--every poll that starts with the question, "Which candidate should drop the F out?"
Osama bin Laden released a new message in which he accused Arab leaders of sacrificing the Palestinians, called on Muslim militants in Egypt to help break the blockade of Gaza, and reminded viewers that starting next February, his broadcasts will be switching to digital.
In Wisconsin, a young man was arrested for posting naked pictures of his 16-year-old ex-girlfriend on his Myspace. How creepy is that? Roger Clemens has a Myspace??
At Rockefeller Center in New York, a woman driving her car went into labor, jumped the curb and hit a pedestrian; I believe that’s known as the Britney Spears Tri-Fecta.
Eight former AOL executives were sued by the SEC for helping overstate internet advertising revenue. Actually, this is probably the first the AOL executives have heard about the lawsuit—since the subpoenas were sent via AOL.
A Vancouver couple recently put their 7-day-old baby up for sale on Craigslist. Today, they received a call from Angelina Jolie, asking if they accept PayPal.
Health researchers are saying that energy drinks such as Red Bull, Full Throttle and Amp can lead to risky behavior. I guess what gave it away is the fact the drinks are called Red Bull, Full Throttle and Amp.
NASA sent its Phoenix Mars lander up to space to search for signs of life on Mars. After that, it will return to Boston, where it will search for signs of life from Ray Allen.
After admitting to betting on games, former NBA referee Tim Donaghy is claiming the gambling problem among NBA officials runs much deeper than is believed. This could explain why last night's Lakers-Spurs game was officiated by Charles Barkley, Pete Rose, and Wayne Gretzky's wife.
After their plane broke down on the tarmac, the San Antonio Spurs were stranded in New Orleans for 11 hours, to which FEMA said, "Our bad?"
Philippine police officers have been ordered to smile and act friendlier while on duty. Philippine cops acting friendlier? How about focusing on Philadelphia cops acting a bit friendlier?
The other day in Massachusetts, a portable house fell off a trailer and onto the highway. Fortunately, the portable bank being transported behind it jumped in and immediately foreclosed on it.
Boy band mogul Lou Pearlman has been sentenced to 25 years in prison for scamming investors out of $300 million. He’s gone from NSYNC to in-clink.
A pair of Belgian software developers has invented a video game where players try to kill each other by peeing. I believe it’s called Grand Theft Potty.
The R. Kelly trial got underway, and jurors were forced to watch a videotape of a man alleged to be Kelly having sex with an underage girl. Today, Roger Clemens called it the "feel-good movie of the year."
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
May 15, 2008
gloveactually
It was a cold evening, and I decided to do something I hadn’t done in a long time: just take a walk around Boston. The great thing about walking around Boston is that at any time, something can happen—and just then, on this cold, winter’s evening, something did.
It came in the form of a small, but unmistakable sound on the sidewalk in front of me. A slight splat, mixed with a gentle thud—a light material, colliding with a much harder surface. The man in front of me had dropped a glove, and didn’t appear to notice. I called out to him, twice, and still he kept walking. As I stood over his handless glove, a feeling of helplessness came over me. I had just witnessed another person drop his glove, and there wasn’t a thing I could do.
Or wasn’t there?
In another town, it would be perfectly acceptable to let it be, while a fellow citizen’s hand grew cold. In Hollywood, they’d probably just laugh and spit cappuccino on it! But damn it, not in Boston. In Boston, people are straight with one another. We may yell, we may curse…but I’ll be damned if we don’t pick up each others’ gloves. I decided I was going to return this one to its owner.
As I continued to call out, the man continued to trudge ahead. At least, I was pretty sure it was a man. Now that would explain things. After all, what woman is going to respond to a guy calling her “Sir?” Marion Jones aside, not many. Just in case, I tried a different approach: “Ma’am! Lady!” All that did was make me feel like a crazy person soliciting an invisible hooker.
It came in the form of a small, but unmistakable sound on the sidewalk in front of me. A slight splat, mixed with a gentle thud—a light material, colliding with a much harder surface. The man in front of me had dropped a glove, and didn’t appear to notice. I called out to him, twice, and still he kept walking. As I stood over his handless glove, a feeling of helplessness came over me. I had just witnessed another person drop his glove, and there wasn’t a thing I could do.
Or wasn’t there?
In another town, it would be perfectly acceptable to let it be, while a fellow citizen’s hand grew cold. In Hollywood, they’d probably just laugh and spit cappuccino on it! But damn it, not in Boston. In Boston, people are straight with one another. We may yell, we may curse…but I’ll be damned if we don’t pick up each others’ gloves. I decided I was going to return this one to its owner.
As I continued to call out, the man continued to trudge ahead. At least, I was pretty sure it was a man. Now that would explain things. After all, what woman is going to respond to a guy calling her “Sir?” Marion Jones aside, not many. Just in case, I tried a different approach: “Ma’am! Lady!” All that did was make me feel like a crazy person soliciting an invisible hooker.
As I continued to call out, the thought crossed my mind that maybe I was wasting my time.
As the wind picked up, I tried to rationalize the reasons this guy wasn’t stopping. Maybe he was talking on a Bluetooth. Maybe he was listening to an iPod. Maybe he didn’t speak English. What’s the German word for “Hey, glove guy!”
Maybe he had dropped the glove on purpose. Maybe it was some kind of timed-release device filled with poison gas, designed to kill thousands. What if he was in Al-Qaeda? I mean, we’d already had a shoe-bomber, why not a mitten-bomber?
What if this was all part of some elaborate prank? Part of some silly show hosted by Ernie Bach, Jr., where they spend an hour seeing how long somebody follows someone around, to the point of going into a full sprint—only to find out later the guy was in fact a planted Steve Prefontane, who had faked his death as part of a much bigger plan to meet Ernie Bach Jr.? Wouldn’t that be a good enough prank? Why did they need to involve me??
Maybe he was just a murderer. Minutes earlier he murdered 11 people, using that very glove to hold the poison-filled hairdryer (because he’d be creative), and now I was handling it, getting my stupid prints all over it. God forbid they find another Johnnie Cochran to try the case and tear me apart using rhymes. “If the glove’s on the ground, just let it stay down.” “If the mitten’s not yours, what you touchin’ it for?” All I wanted to do was help someone out, but nope, I’m Mr. Bad Guy, tampering with evidence, when some other loser could have come along and done it later while I laughed and drank wine with my girlfriend.
What was I thinking? I didn’t have a girlfriend. And I don’t drink. But the wind really was getting ridiculous, and I wasn’t about to break a sweat returning some dude’s glove. And so, as my target grew smaller still in the distance, I slowed my pace and caught my breath. It was over. I had tried.
Then, something caught the corner of my eye.
A girl was breaking down a souvenir stand. She had hats, pins, pennants and t-shirts, featuring each of Boston’s four major teams—the Red Sox, Celtics, Patriots, and Cheers. But it was one in particular that stood out: a green shirt with white print and a shamrock, and one simple message: Believe in Boston. And at that moment, it was my turn to believe. I believed in good karma; I believed in being a good person. I believed that if I really gave it my all, I could catch this glove-loser and make his week. Or his month. No—I would surely make his year.
So I took off. A hundred yards and countless burned calories later, I got within feet of him. I wiped the sweat from my brow, and in the proudest voice possible, yelled, “Sir!” Slowly, the man turned around.
Before me was an elderly gentleman, with wrinkled skin and bushy, gray eyebrows. 80, if he was a day. He had on a Red Sox knit cap, and looked to be the quintessential Bostonian. He wasn’t self-involved—he was just old! That’s why couldn’t hear me! As I walked up to him, I couldn’t help but imagine how happy this man was going to be. Walking along, all alone, and here I was, about to make his day—his month—no, his year.
I stepped forward, extended my arm, and presented him with the glove. “Sir, I believe this belongs to you.”
He looked down at the glove, and I detected a twinkle of recognition. He looked around, to gage his whereabouts. And, he took a deep breath, to assess the situation. Then, he looked me right in the eyes, and, in the thickest of Boston accents, exclaimed, “Keep it, ya queeah!” and trudged on.
As the wind picked up, I tried to rationalize the reasons this guy wasn’t stopping. Maybe he was talking on a Bluetooth. Maybe he was listening to an iPod. Maybe he didn’t speak English. What’s the German word for “Hey, glove guy!”
Maybe he had dropped the glove on purpose. Maybe it was some kind of timed-release device filled with poison gas, designed to kill thousands. What if he was in Al-Qaeda? I mean, we’d already had a shoe-bomber, why not a mitten-bomber?
What if this was all part of some elaborate prank? Part of some silly show hosted by Ernie Bach, Jr., where they spend an hour seeing how long somebody follows someone around, to the point of going into a full sprint—only to find out later the guy was in fact a planted Steve Prefontane, who had faked his death as part of a much bigger plan to meet Ernie Bach Jr.? Wouldn’t that be a good enough prank? Why did they need to involve me??
Maybe he was just a murderer. Minutes earlier he murdered 11 people, using that very glove to hold the poison-filled hairdryer (because he’d be creative), and now I was handling it, getting my stupid prints all over it. God forbid they find another Johnnie Cochran to try the case and tear me apart using rhymes. “If the glove’s on the ground, just let it stay down.” “If the mitten’s not yours, what you touchin’ it for?” All I wanted to do was help someone out, but nope, I’m Mr. Bad Guy, tampering with evidence, when some other loser could have come along and done it later while I laughed and drank wine with my girlfriend.
What was I thinking? I didn’t have a girlfriend. And I don’t drink. But the wind really was getting ridiculous, and I wasn’t about to break a sweat returning some dude’s glove. And so, as my target grew smaller still in the distance, I slowed my pace and caught my breath. It was over. I had tried.
Then, something caught the corner of my eye.
A girl was breaking down a souvenir stand. She had hats, pins, pennants and t-shirts, featuring each of Boston’s four major teams—the Red Sox, Celtics, Patriots, and Cheers. But it was one in particular that stood out: a green shirt with white print and a shamrock, and one simple message: Believe in Boston. And at that moment, it was my turn to believe. I believed in good karma; I believed in being a good person. I believed that if I really gave it my all, I could catch this glove-loser and make his week. Or his month. No—I would surely make his year.
So I took off. A hundred yards and countless burned calories later, I got within feet of him. I wiped the sweat from my brow, and in the proudest voice possible, yelled, “Sir!” Slowly, the man turned around.
Before me was an elderly gentleman, with wrinkled skin and bushy, gray eyebrows. 80, if he was a day. He had on a Red Sox knit cap, and looked to be the quintessential Bostonian. He wasn’t self-involved—he was just old! That’s why couldn’t hear me! As I walked up to him, I couldn’t help but imagine how happy this man was going to be. Walking along, all alone, and here I was, about to make his day—his month—no, his year.
I stepped forward, extended my arm, and presented him with the glove. “Sir, I believe this belongs to you.”
He looked down at the glove, and I detected a twinkle of recognition. He looked around, to gage his whereabouts. And, he took a deep breath, to assess the situation. Then, he looked me right in the eyes, and, in the thickest of Boston accents, exclaimed, “Keep it, ya queeah!” and trudged on.
I was all by myself. Freezing, flustered, out of breath, holding some idiot old guy’s glove like I was waiting to challenge that invisible hooker to a duel. And, apparently, I was a queeah. Damn, if it wasn’t great to be back in Boston.
CAUSE & EFFECT
England recently released its long-awaited UFO files, detailing numerous encounters with "alien" spacecraft. In the events the reports are true, and aliens are targeting our neighbors across the pond, here is what you could expect:
Cause: Aliens greeted at ship by Royal Family.
Effect: Aliens stunned to meet beings with bigger ears than theirs.
Cause: Aliens rename famous landmarks in their own honor.
Effect: Goodbye Big Ben; Hello Large Alf.
Cause: Aliens take over British international relations with the U.S.
Effect: A confused President Bush asks if because they’re British, aliens fly on the other side of the air.
Cause: Aliens conduct experiments on corpse of Keith Richards.
Effect: Corpse bids them farewell, smokes joint; resumes touring with Rolling Stones.
Cause: British excited after learning aliens can be defeated with toothpaste.
Effect: British disappointed after remembering they too can be defeated with toothpaste.
Cause: Aliens use high-powered gas in an effort to sedate the British.
Effect: Amy Winehouse not affected.
Effect: Aliens stunned to meet beings with bigger ears than theirs.
Cause: Aliens rename famous landmarks in their own honor.
Effect: Goodbye Big Ben; Hello Large Alf.
Cause: Aliens take over British international relations with the U.S.
Effect: A confused President Bush asks if because they’re British, aliens fly on the other side of the air.
Cause: Aliens conduct experiments on corpse of Keith Richards.
Effect: Corpse bids them farewell, smokes joint; resumes touring with Rolling Stones.
Cause: British excited after learning aliens can be defeated with toothpaste.
Effect: British disappointed after remembering they too can be defeated with toothpaste.
Cause: Aliens use high-powered gas in an effort to sedate the British.
Effect: Amy Winehouse not affected.
--JONOLOGUE--
The price of gas continues to soar. Gas is so expensive, today I saw Roger Clemens and R. Kelly carpooling to Chuck E. Cheese’s to hit on chicks.
According to the Boston Globe, more and more drivers have begun driving smaller cars--but it's believed most men only do so to compensate for a giant penis.
According to Variety, Comedy Central is bringing back The Gong Show. The first contestant hearing the gong: Hillary Clinton.
Jenna Bush selected “You Are So Beautiful” for her dance with her father. And for her dance with Dick Cheney, Jenna selected “Runnin’ With the Devil.”
In a new “tell-all” book, a memorabilia dealer is alleging that O.J. Simpson confessed to murdering his wife while he was high on marijuana. Today, Simpson denied the man’s claims, and promised not to rest until he finds the real stoners.
Entertainment Weekly has published pictures of Josh Brolin made up to look like George W. Bush in Oliver Stone’s upcoming presidential biopic. The President said he didn’t mind Brolin playing him, but still would have preferred his first choice for the part—Spongebob SquarePants.
The founder of Monster.com has created a website that will house online memorials to the deceased; the site is essentially a Myspace for the dead. In fact, I understand Keith Richards already has over one million friends.
Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winning author Toni Morrison gave Time Magazine the reason she called President Clinton the first black president: cataracts.
In an incredibly disturbing story, it was reported a 10-year-old girl in Idaho gave birth to a baby last month. And today, Roger Clemens spent the afternoon preparing his alibi.
Until whenever...
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008.
phone femme fatalle...
When I moved back to Boston, I decided I’d take my car with me. I needed it to drive places on the weekends, and didn’t feel like transporting all my guns in taxis. Unfortunately, it wasn’t so easy when it came to going to work.
I work (for now) in Government Center, where there are two options: play the meter game and risk getting a ticket—or, gonorrhea from the meter maid you screw to get out of it—or, pay well over $100 a month to park in the garage. And still probably get gonorrhea from the meter maid.
I was thinking about doing the latter, minus the maid-boning part, but when I broke it down, I’d only have to pay half that amount if I got myself a T pass. Not just any old T pass.
And for the most part, that’s been a great decision. Granted, it takes me twice as long to get home sometimes, and I have to ride with people, which is tough since I hate them; but, it has given me time to do two things: just laugh at folks I don’t know, and make calls on my phone to show them all I know people and have their numbers.
Laughing at people is just great, because none of them have any idea you’re laughing at them. And if you get caught, you can just say you were just having a chuckle about a piece of crap you saw in a urinal, or Jack Ruby. But I wasn’t laughing the day my cell phone wouldn’t work. So, I took it to the phone store.
Now off the bat, I’ll state that my phone is a piece of crap. It’s literally the cheapest Verizon phone they make, and I think before it was a phone it was some little girl’s makeup mirror. I bought it over a year ago when I lost my new (free) razor phone within minutes of getting off the plane in Los Angeles. I didn’t have much money at the time, and needed a phone ASAP. Calling and checking my messages just doesn’t do it for me; I’m always afraid that one day, I’m going to call and me in another time will answer it. (And at that point, what would I do? I wouldn’t want to scare other-time-me, so I’d probably have to lie and say I’m someone else, and do a funny voice. The last thing I want to do is freak me out.) So, I rushed to the Verizon store on Hollywood Boulevard, bought the cheapest phone they had, and that’s how I wound up at a store in Boston just over a year later, talking to a rather attractive blonde.
She was about my age, and appeared to be one of the store’s managers. She had on a pinstripe blazer and skirt, with a pink blouse and a gold necklace. She had two eyes, and a waist between her torso and midsection; legs perfect for walking.
She walked up to me at that moment and asked if she could help. I told her that my phone had died, and she looked up my account. It was explained that because my warranty was up, I would have to purchase a new phone. This beautiful blonde with the eyes and legs said she just needed to pull up my billing information. She asked if she could have my number. I said sure. Then, I asked if I could have hers.
Except I didn’t. I actually thought of it about five minutes later.
Anyway, this blonde-haired mystery woman brought me over to the service center and explained to a guy named Dwayne or Carlos or Gene that I had a busted crappy phone, and needed to have my information transferred. She told me I’d have to pay $59.99 for the new “unit,” and I told her she’d have to pay nothing for my unit.
No, I didn’t say that either. I just thought of that now, actually.
As this blonde beauty sauntered across the sales floor to tantalize another cell owner, Dwayne or Carlos or Jeb began to transfer my data.
“So your phone just died, huh?”
“Yeah, it won’t work unless it’s plugged in.”
“You tried taking the battery out?”
What?
“What?”
“Well, sometimes if you take the battery out, then just pop it back in tighter, the phone will work again.”
It was then I had an odd feeling. Not as bad as the one you get when you realize your girlfriend and that other guy aren’t just painting each other naked, but not as good as the one you get when you realize your girlfriend and that other girl aren’t just painting each other naked. As I confused even myself with that analogy, Dwayne or Carlos or Zeke removed the battery, wiped it with a cloth, and popped it back in. And hello,cell phone.
I was stunned. All I had to do was take the battery out, pop it back in, and I was good to go. I didn’t have to spend $59.99 for a “new unit”; all I had to do was pull and pop. Somebody had to have known that; someone like—the blonde-haired bitch who tried to screw me out of $60! With that, I thanked Dwayne or Carlos or Dwayne-Carlos, and turned to face my target—but she was gone.
Vanished. Vamoose. Nowhere to be found. This girl had used her authority, poise and breasts to trick me into spending $59.99, all for the benefit of them. And I wanted to give her a piece of my mind. This was surely part of her plan: screw the guy, close the sale, hide and laugh. She was the Heather Mills of phone stores, and I was a brokenhearted Beatle. But that’s how it goes sometimes. People lie and they cheat, and you never get to call them a jerkface. At least I’d saved 60 bucks.
About a week later, I walked along another block in the Financial District. A lot had happened. The day was different. My pants were different. I had shaved at least four or five times. But the weather was the same. And the time was the same. And the blonde haired girl who stood in a crowd of about four waiting for the bus was the same. The same girl from the phone store, that is.
Same girl from the phone store???
You know it, Pappy. Standing there in the very same dress, and the very same shoes—showing off the very same smugness. It was as though fate had brought us together, as though God wanted me to call this girl a crapstick and avenge whatever!
But then I got to thinking, this phone femme fatale was probably bitchy to everybody at that store. Me going up to her and saying she had treated me crappy would be like going up to Christopher Walken and saying he’d been in my movie. There are too many to remember, and thus, I would be long forgotten.
But still, if I said something to her now, she’d never forget it. A guy going up to her on the street, calling her out for crap she pulled, and putting her back in her place.
But then, I’d look like a jerk to everyone else on the corner. They wouldn’t know the back story, the history between me and phone girl. She’d mace me, they’d applaud, steal my quarters, and that would be that.
But maybe there was a way around it. Maybe I could go over and stand by her, and talk loudly on my phone. I’d call up everyone I could, and say “Yeah, I’m here talking on my cell phone! My cell phone, that wasn’t really broken enough for me to buy a new one for $59.99! Why am I talking so loud?! Why are you so fat?!”
But the odds of that working seemed slim and none. These were my choices: confront the girl, look like I was crazy, or be incredibly rude. I was the one who nearly got taken, but sure enough there I was, Mr. Bad Guy, while she smugly escaped all scrutiny. And that was okay. I was fine with that. I would be the bigger person, and keep my mouth shut. I didn’t need to let her in on my annoyance; in fact, I would take pride in my ability to abstain from confrontation. It would be my silence that would defeat her pettiness.
But things don’t always go as we plan in this nifty little life. Sometimes, our strategy fizzles; our ambition evaporates. For it was at that moment a large gentleman talking loudly on his cell phone rounded the corner, and said loudly, “Ha! I just walked by that c--- from the phone store!!”
And then, I laughed. Out loud. And hard. It wasn't so much what the guy said, but more the irony of my comprehending it. Okay, it was also what he said. And not only did the phone girl hear the guy—she also heard me laughing. And she didn’t think it was all that funny.
The bus came, we both got on, and sat awkwardly across the aisle from one another. I thought about making small talk. I thought about apologizing. I thought about explaining to the girl who I was after all, so that she understood the context of my laughing at the other gentleman’s c-bomb. But at this point, I found it best not to say anything. Besides, I had to answer my phone.
I work (for now) in Government Center, where there are two options: play the meter game and risk getting a ticket—or, gonorrhea from the meter maid you screw to get out of it—or, pay well over $100 a month to park in the garage. And still probably get gonorrhea from the meter maid.
I was thinking about doing the latter, minus the maid-boning part, but when I broke it down, I’d only have to pay half that amount if I got myself a T pass. Not just any old T pass.
And for the most part, that’s been a great decision. Granted, it takes me twice as long to get home sometimes, and I have to ride with people, which is tough since I hate them; but, it has given me time to do two things: just laugh at folks I don’t know, and make calls on my phone to show them all I know people and have their numbers.
Laughing at people is just great, because none of them have any idea you’re laughing at them. And if you get caught, you can just say you were just having a chuckle about a piece of crap you saw in a urinal, or Jack Ruby. But I wasn’t laughing the day my cell phone wouldn’t work. So, I took it to the phone store.
Now off the bat, I’ll state that my phone is a piece of crap. It’s literally the cheapest Verizon phone they make, and I think before it was a phone it was some little girl’s makeup mirror. I bought it over a year ago when I lost my new (free) razor phone within minutes of getting off the plane in Los Angeles. I didn’t have much money at the time, and needed a phone ASAP. Calling and checking my messages just doesn’t do it for me; I’m always afraid that one day, I’m going to call and me in another time will answer it. (And at that point, what would I do? I wouldn’t want to scare other-time-me, so I’d probably have to lie and say I’m someone else, and do a funny voice. The last thing I want to do is freak me out.) So, I rushed to the Verizon store on Hollywood Boulevard, bought the cheapest phone they had, and that’s how I wound up at a store in Boston just over a year later, talking to a rather attractive blonde.
She was about my age, and appeared to be one of the store’s managers. She had on a pinstripe blazer and skirt, with a pink blouse and a gold necklace. She had two eyes, and a waist between her torso and midsection; legs perfect for walking.
She walked up to me at that moment and asked if she could help. I told her that my phone had died, and she looked up my account. It was explained that because my warranty was up, I would have to purchase a new phone. This beautiful blonde with the eyes and legs said she just needed to pull up my billing information. She asked if she could have my number. I said sure. Then, I asked if I could have hers.
Except I didn’t. I actually thought of it about five minutes later.
Anyway, this blonde-haired mystery woman brought me over to the service center and explained to a guy named Dwayne or Carlos or Gene that I had a busted crappy phone, and needed to have my information transferred. She told me I’d have to pay $59.99 for the new “unit,” and I told her she’d have to pay nothing for my unit.
No, I didn’t say that either. I just thought of that now, actually.
As this blonde beauty sauntered across the sales floor to tantalize another cell owner, Dwayne or Carlos or Jeb began to transfer my data.
“So your phone just died, huh?”
“Yeah, it won’t work unless it’s plugged in.”
“You tried taking the battery out?”
What?
“What?”
“Well, sometimes if you take the battery out, then just pop it back in tighter, the phone will work again.”
It was then I had an odd feeling. Not as bad as the one you get when you realize your girlfriend and that other guy aren’t just painting each other naked, but not as good as the one you get when you realize your girlfriend and that other girl aren’t just painting each other naked. As I confused even myself with that analogy, Dwayne or Carlos or Zeke removed the battery, wiped it with a cloth, and popped it back in. And hello,cell phone.
I was stunned. All I had to do was take the battery out, pop it back in, and I was good to go. I didn’t have to spend $59.99 for a “new unit”; all I had to do was pull and pop. Somebody had to have known that; someone like—the blonde-haired bitch who tried to screw me out of $60! With that, I thanked Dwayne or Carlos or Dwayne-Carlos, and turned to face my target—but she was gone.
Vanished. Vamoose. Nowhere to be found. This girl had used her authority, poise and breasts to trick me into spending $59.99, all for the benefit of them. And I wanted to give her a piece of my mind. This was surely part of her plan: screw the guy, close the sale, hide and laugh. She was the Heather Mills of phone stores, and I was a brokenhearted Beatle. But that’s how it goes sometimes. People lie and they cheat, and you never get to call them a jerkface. At least I’d saved 60 bucks.
About a week later, I walked along another block in the Financial District. A lot had happened. The day was different. My pants were different. I had shaved at least four or five times. But the weather was the same. And the time was the same. And the blonde haired girl who stood in a crowd of about four waiting for the bus was the same. The same girl from the phone store, that is.
Same girl from the phone store???
You know it, Pappy. Standing there in the very same dress, and the very same shoes—showing off the very same smugness. It was as though fate had brought us together, as though God wanted me to call this girl a crapstick and avenge whatever!
But then I got to thinking, this phone femme fatale was probably bitchy to everybody at that store. Me going up to her and saying she had treated me crappy would be like going up to Christopher Walken and saying he’d been in my movie. There are too many to remember, and thus, I would be long forgotten.
But still, if I said something to her now, she’d never forget it. A guy going up to her on the street, calling her out for crap she pulled, and putting her back in her place.
But then, I’d look like a jerk to everyone else on the corner. They wouldn’t know the back story, the history between me and phone girl. She’d mace me, they’d applaud, steal my quarters, and that would be that.
But maybe there was a way around it. Maybe I could go over and stand by her, and talk loudly on my phone. I’d call up everyone I could, and say “Yeah, I’m here talking on my cell phone! My cell phone, that wasn’t really broken enough for me to buy a new one for $59.99! Why am I talking so loud?! Why are you so fat?!”
But the odds of that working seemed slim and none. These were my choices: confront the girl, look like I was crazy, or be incredibly rude. I was the one who nearly got taken, but sure enough there I was, Mr. Bad Guy, while she smugly escaped all scrutiny. And that was okay. I was fine with that. I would be the bigger person, and keep my mouth shut. I didn’t need to let her in on my annoyance; in fact, I would take pride in my ability to abstain from confrontation. It would be my silence that would defeat her pettiness.
But things don’t always go as we plan in this nifty little life. Sometimes, our strategy fizzles; our ambition evaporates. For it was at that moment a large gentleman talking loudly on his cell phone rounded the corner, and said loudly, “Ha! I just walked by that c--- from the phone store!!”
And then, I laughed. Out loud. And hard. It wasn't so much what the guy said, but more the irony of my comprehending it. Okay, it was also what he said. And not only did the phone girl hear the guy—she also heard me laughing. And she didn’t think it was all that funny.
The bus came, we both got on, and sat awkwardly across the aisle from one another. I thought about making small talk. I thought about apologizing. I thought about explaining to the girl who I was after all, so that she understood the context of my laughing at the other gentleman’s c-bomb. But at this point, I found it best not to say anything. Besides, I had to answer my phone.
CAUSE & EFFECT
When protesting the controversial verdict in the Sean Bell shooting trial, Rev. Al Sharpton vowed he would shut down New York City in protest. It remains to be seen if Sharpton can shut the city down completely, but if he did, here is a breakdown of what you could expect should New York City shut down:
Cause: Subways cease operation.
Effect: Usage of actual urinals quadruples.
Effect: Usage of actual urinals quadruples.
Cause: Saturday Night Live unable to shoot at 30 Rock.
Effect: “Live from—Hoboken?”
Cause: Empire State Building blocked off.
Effect: King Kong forced to scale a White Castle.
Cause: Knick season ticket holders unable to make it to Madison Square Garden.
Effect: Knick season ticket holders relieved when reminded it’s the playoffs.
Cause: Markets are boarded up, as food becomes scarce.
Effect: View ladies forced to eat Elisabeth.
Cause: City professionals forced to cancel appointments with clients.
Effect: Eliot Spitzer forced to settle for his wife.
Cause: FAO Schwartz unable to stay open.
Effect: Roger Clemens searches for another place to take his date.
Cause: Madness and rioting results in destruction of Statue of Liberty.
Effect: Statue replaced by Jimmy Fallon.
--JONOLOGUE--
Yesterday, the White House admitted it made a mistake with the now-infamous Mission: Accomplished banner. Apparently, it was supposed to end with a question mark.
Pope Benedict said mass at Yankee Stadium. There was one awkward moment when on his way out of the dugout, the Pope was approached by Roger Clemens’ trainer, asking if he needed anything…
Over the weekend, John McCain questioned Barack Obama’s radical ties. Obama responded by questioning McCain’s bitchin’ sports coats.
Police in Topsfield, MA are on the lookout for a daytime burglar posing as a cable man. I guess people realized the guy wasn’t really with the cable company when he kept showing up to the houses on time.
The Washington Times had an article talking about John McCain being superstitious. With him, McCain carries a lucky penny, nickel, and quarter, as well as a lucky feather—or as Ralph Nader would call them, “campaign funds.”
In a recent survey, 98% of historians said “yes,” the Bush Presidency has been a failure. The other 2% couldn’t answer, because they were still laughing at the question.
There is now speculation that if she leaves her job at CBS, Katie Couric could replace Larry King at CNN. In fact today, Katie was spotted shopping for suspenders.
Barack Obama’s former pastor Jeremiah Wright will appear on PBS tomorrow. He’ll be a guest of Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street.
The FDA has agreed to hear grievances this week from dissatisfied Lasik eye surgery patients. That is, if the patients can manage to find their way to the meeting.
A Dutch school director has discovered a holiday card sent by Anne Frank back in 1937. I’m not sure which holiday it was for—but I think we can rule out Christmas.
The Denver Post did an article on a weather modification scientist who has developed a way to generate rain. In fact, I understand the San Francisco giants are thinking of hiring him to do just that every time Barry Zito’s supposed to pitch.
AOL ran a health article with the title“What never to order at McDonald’s.” Number one on the list: the food.
This weekend, I took my Dad to the Celtics game. In return, he went to the souvenir stand and bought me a giant, foam gang sign.
Pope Benedict said mass at Yankee Stadium. There was one awkward moment when on his way out of the dugout, the Pope was approached by Roger Clemens’ trainer, asking if he needed anything…
Over the weekend, John McCain questioned Barack Obama’s radical ties. Obama responded by questioning McCain’s bitchin’ sports coats.
Police in Topsfield, MA are on the lookout for a daytime burglar posing as a cable man. I guess people realized the guy wasn’t really with the cable company when he kept showing up to the houses on time.
The Washington Times had an article talking about John McCain being superstitious. With him, McCain carries a lucky penny, nickel, and quarter, as well as a lucky feather—or as Ralph Nader would call them, “campaign funds.”
In a recent survey, 98% of historians said “yes,” the Bush Presidency has been a failure. The other 2% couldn’t answer, because they were still laughing at the question.
There is now speculation that if she leaves her job at CBS, Katie Couric could replace Larry King at CNN. In fact today, Katie was spotted shopping for suspenders.
Barack Obama’s former pastor Jeremiah Wright will appear on PBS tomorrow. He’ll be a guest of Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street.
The FDA has agreed to hear grievances this week from dissatisfied Lasik eye surgery patients. That is, if the patients can manage to find their way to the meeting.
A Dutch school director has discovered a holiday card sent by Anne Frank back in 1937. I’m not sure which holiday it was for—but I think we can rule out Christmas.
The Denver Post did an article on a weather modification scientist who has developed a way to generate rain. In fact, I understand the San Francisco giants are thinking of hiring him to do just that every time Barry Zito’s supposed to pitch.
AOL ran a health article with the title“What never to order at McDonald’s.” Number one on the list: the food.
This weekend, I took my Dad to the Celtics game. In return, he went to the souvenir stand and bought me a giant, foam gang sign.
And finally...
Gas prices on Martha’s Vineyard are expected to reach record highs this summer. So, if you’re planning on driving to Martha’s Vineyard…
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