Meow!

I told Max the cat that he needs to wait a few minutes before eating because his daddy has to post something to his blog. Poor little guy. He doesn't know how to tell time. The way he now lies on the kitchen floor, lethargic and despondent, I think he thinks I told him he'd never eat again.

Cats can't tell time and that sucks, but they can put their head on a pretty girl's lap and she won't call the cops or her big brother who is headlining an Ulitimate Fighting Championship card at Caesars this weekend.

I'd give up time telling skills for the feline superpower of unquestioned cuddling, but I don't always get my way.

And neither will Max. I'm going to bed now; he can eat tomorrow--maybe.

Note: No animals were hurt during the writing of this post. Though there are unconfirmed reports that Steakbellie chokes his chicken while reading Thurman Munson's bother. PETA is investigating.

A case for polygamy

I'd like to have several wives. Not for the sex, mind you. I can barely handle Mrs. Lange. I just want a set of spouses so they can talk with each other.

Artie isn't very good at the active listening thing, and I really don't like Grey's Anatomy, but feel I must watch it so me and da' missus have something to talk about Friday morning.

Give me a gaggle of girlies and they can meet each other's emotional needs.

Artie Lange just wants to be left alone. I want to watch TV, sleep on the couch, eat two pounds of pasta and finish my meal off with a pint of Vermonty Python ice cream. I'd like to stop bathing, stop shaving, and stop-up my neighbor's toilet.

Can't a guy soil himself without being judged?

Even blogs go into repeats: In response to Bert Banana's great post

To properly celebrate Woman's History Month, I will write about ex-girlfriends and other women I have encountered. All names have been changed to protect the subjects. I write these not from a misogynistic viewpoint, but from a place of sincere appreciation. I would not trade my experiences, my relationships, for all the graft in Tom DeLay's overseas bank accounts.

Come on, what's really under there?

I met Sally Slingblade on my first night at college. She was part of a group of clueless freshman looking for a party. I was doing the same with another group. When we arrived together at the ZBT house at GSC, people were spilling out of the doorways and windows. I saw two Haitian boat people walk away in disgust complaining that the party was too crowded.

Sally was scared and didn't want to go to the party. I could sense that. It was her first night of independence, her first night away from the security and predictability of Boonville, Cumberland County. I was a couple years removed from high school, having served in the Navy. Neither alcohol, not paddle spanking frat boys interested me. I wanted to meet girls and Sally was now caught in the cross hairs of my libido.

Moving this story along, we smooched that night, and quite a few nights afterwards. We never went all the way, but heavy petting and youthful grinding filled up our dance card whenever we met. She would send me perfumed letters talking about her love for me and desire to watch the sun rise over duckshit pond. I would share the notes with my roommate Matt and we would laugh and giggle at what a proper response would be. I never did write back. I am from the mafia-school of correspondence. Never in writing. Never on the phone.

Sally's dependence on me grew. She would stakeout my classes and wait for me at my dorm. I had known her for about two weeks by this time. We were neither exclusive, nor did I fill her ears with false promises. I was a jerk to her, for sure--just look at this post--but not a jerk in the way one would assume.

One day, while searching for the keys to my suite door, Matt darted through the door.

"Sally is in the room,” he stammered. “She's been there for four hours and won't leave until she sees you!" Recognizing that I was cozy with a stalker, I did what any brave, formerly military, rippling muscles, trained killer would do. I hid in Bluto's room.

Sally saw me sneak into his room and pounded on the door with Waco/Branch Davinian-force. Bluto made an excuse and said I wasn't there. She demanded to search the 15' x 15' box and Bluto denied her request. "Do I know you?" he asked rhetorically. Funny thing is, Bluto didn’t know me. This was our introduction to each other. We would fast become friends.

Sally stomped back to my dorm room, cursing all the way. Realizing that both Matt and now Bluto were victims, I managed to muster the courage to confront Sally.

“Get out! Go away! I don’t want to see you again! You are crazy!” I tried to be delicate but firm.

She did leave, and our contact became less frequent. She called me a week later to tell me she was transferring because I broke her heart (cool, I’m a heart breaker!). My friends once stopped her outside my building; she was crazed and demanding to see me. (I was in the stairwell window, mooning my pals). And, the coup de grace, upon hearing I was seeing someone else, she summoned me downstairs to talk.

“What do you want Sally?” I disinterestingly asked.

“I know you want to kiss me,” she purred, her finger making coy little circles on my belly.

Is she freaking serious? “Is this a dream?” I asked myself.

Using the acting skills I perfected convincing my mother I was sick 14 times senior year, I played the role of the weakened male; unable to refuse the sexual advances of this little minky.

“ I do,” I hurriedly panted, pressing my lips to her lips, my hips to her hips. I kissed her slowly and deeply. She moaned.

Suddenly, I pulled away and ran.

“I hate the power you have over me, Sally. I must never see you again.”

Into my dorm I went, shared the story with my friends and became a folk hero to the moronic. Really, we are all folk heroes to someone; we just need to find what makes us interesting to others.

What is interesting about Sally is that in all the time we spent together, including naked interludes in her roommate-free dorm, she never took off her socks. Never.

I became convinced she possessed an extra toe and thusly gave her the nickname “Six-Toed Sally.”

She eventually got a boyfriend and I became invisible. She seemed pretty happy, which is good. I mean, just because I’m not the one for you, and you are definitely not the one for me, doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be happy.

Congratulations Six-Toed Sally. You are the first story in ArtieLange’s celebration of Women’s History Month!

If a tree falls in the woods...

I love this post. It was written by a political scientist who hosts the blog http://irrational-woman.blogspot.com/

Advice Please

I'm planning to get my oldest son a laptop computer for a combination birthday and graduation present, and I'm not sure what I need to get. Any advice on brands and processors would be greatly appreciated. I want this to be something good that will hopefully get him through 4 years of college without needing to be replaced during that time frame.

What's the big deal, you say? Well, this post was written on February 7th. She posts about 5 times a day and hadn't received a comment since January 26th. According to my math that's like 5 million posts without a comment. Just whom was she seeking advice from?

Death Pool Participants Celebrate Anna Nicole's Death

For Madison, Wisconsin residents Jerry Bulgmeyer and David Johansen February 8,2007 was a wonderful day. Known in their Death Pool as Sunny and Share, the two longtime roommates were the only contestants who selected Anna Nicole Smith for a 2007 termination.

With news of the Trim Spa model's death, the two Best Buy employees hugged and danced in the HDTV ailse and then fought off challenges to their sexuality by claiming that it is perfectly normal for two 38-year old guys who have never had girlfriends to coahbitate.

By correctly selecting Smith, the death pool duo picked up 61 points and an early lead in the point standings. Participants in their Yahoo Groups Death Pool, named The Morge (sic), each anted up $20 for the pool. It is a winner-take-all contest.

Should they win, Bulgmeyer and Johansen, who are playing as one, stand to win $40. The only other participant is John Mugwumbi, a farmer from Malawi who thought he was actually buying seeds when he entered the contest.

Said Mugwumbi of Anna Nicole's death, "We are very hungry and if we don't get those seeds we will all die."

Psychological profile of Artie's favorite new blogger

Pistols at Dawn is a young white male, approximately 25 years old. He is likely a graduate of an esteemed college or university. Some guesses are Columbia, St. Johns College, or Williams.

Pistols is likely employed as either an account executive, probably in the PR/Advertising field or as a staff member of a company with large federal government contracts. Given his penchant for posting, he is an unproductive worker.

Pistols at Dawn has trouble relating to his co-workers, as his superior education and contempt for others has alienated most. He especially dislikes his immediate boss who obviously gained his job through a nepotistic connection. In the top drawer of his desk is a stash of candy, most likely Snickers and 100 Grand bars.

While Pistols loves the women, they are not enthralled with his willingness to interrupt any conversation to share a terse and insightful comment. His creative mind confuses most women, and those that are attracted to him are probably not desirable themselves. As a result, Pistols occupies his time with reading. He has read Braudel’s Mediterranean (both volumes), as well as Proust’s À la recherché du temps perdu. He has a collection of comic books (Marvel over DC) and he lives alone.

Growing up (likely in Washington DC) Pistols at Dawn was exposed at an early age to the wealth and power concentrated in the nations’ capital. He was kicked-out of St. Albans Prep to make room for a diplomat’s son, and completed prep school at Georgetown Prep where the Jesuits named him most likely to be excommunicated.

Pistols at Dawn has never actually challenged anyone to a duel, though he is a charter member of the Aaron Burr Society. His parent are both college professors and he has a younger sister who he loves dearly. He most associates himself with Holden Caulfield, though others see him as a disciple of Catch-22's Yossarian.

Pistols at Dawn hosts Artie Lange’s favorite new blog. Stop by and don’t forget to read the archives.

You've asked for it and we've responded!

I had twelve bowel movemently-challenged engineers working on My Face Furniture's newest product line. I fed these enthusiastic techies a diet of prunes and shredded wheat with the stipulation that no one goes until the project was a go.

When they told me that the beer meister (far right) would be energy efficient, cooled with recycled toilet water, I knew I was onto something big. In fact, I just got off the phone with my lawyers who trademarked the name “Brownstar Efficient.” I will corner the market on earth friendly bathrooms.

My ad agency has just sent me some branding ideas.

“Mother Nature sits on My Face”
“Sit on My Face and save a dolphin”
“You can download porn while you sit on My Face.”
“Bring your ass to My Face and have a beer while you are at it.”
“My Face is made for pooping”
“Fight logging while you leave a log…only on My Face”

Welcome to the big leagues, Artie. You finally did it!

Artie Lange wants to be a Republican. Desperately

I am saddened that some damn computer has deemed me unworthy of the Grand Old Party. Only 4% of me is truly Republican and I'll let the ladies decide what 4% of me that is.

I want to be a Republican. They have more clothing options. Republicans have Brooks Brothers, Izod Lacoste, Rockport, Polo. Democrats have Birkenstock and that Walter Mondale t-shirt. Reps have more radio options (Rush, Hannity, O'Reilly, and Bennett; while Dems have that communist run NPR).

Republican women are blonde and agressive (probably beasts in the sack); Democratic women want to talk about reproductive rights as a form of foreplay.

I've never played golf, but I imagine I would make a lot of Republican friends on the links. My Democratic friends don't play sports because someone has to lose and that is wrong.

Republicans can count on the military personel, with their tanks, guns, and jets, as a key continuency. Democrats have a dude with a VW Bus.

In the end, I want to be a Republican because then I can blame the poor for my woes. I don't like the poor because they make me feel bad about myself. I think a poor person cost Steakbellie a victory at Wing Bowl.

Artie Lange. Republican since 9:39 AM EST.

Because I don't want to write

You Are 4% Republican

If you have anything in common with the Republican party, it's by sheer chance. You're a staunch liberal, and nothing is going to change that!

How Republican Are You?

Wing Bowl XV: A Success! (for Beer Vendors)

Business Plan Complete: Introducing My Face Furniture

For Immediate Release

February 1, 2007

New Jersey--Artie Lange Enterprises announced the creation of his new superstore, My Face Furniture. The store, which specializes in bidets, is set to open this Saturday

Founder and CEO Artie Lange is wholeheartedly fervent in his belief that My Face Furniture will succeed. “Sit on My Face Furniture and you’ll never want to go anywhere else.”

While Lange has been called the Midas (or was that Meineke?) of retail, he concedes he isn’t perfect. “I have a big mouth and many people believe it hurts My Face,” he stated. “That said, we have developed an aggressive marketing plan that urges wavering lesbians to sit on My Face Furniture.”

Others are encouraged to try-out My Face, too, but Lange has set some restrictions.

“Anyone over 150 pounds is too big for My Face,” he warned. “My Face was designed with the petite young flower in mind. For those over a buck fifty, I can recommend some other, perfectly fine places to sit, just not on My Face.”

The company is also guaranteeing to leave your crotch wet or you get your money back. Lange emphasizes his customer oriented focus, “I want every woman uncertain of her sexual orientation to know that My Face is here to serve you.”

But the service doesn’t stop with a single-seater; My Face Furniture is also introducing a love seat style bidet. “I’ve always dreamed that My Face was meant for two women, not just one,” said Lange.

This is Artie Lange’s third venture into business. His first, You Need a Big Dick, Private Investigative Services was closed down for tax evasion. His second, Give a Hand, Job Placement Services was voluntarily closed down after claims of prostitution surfaced.

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