Thurman Munson's Brother

Top 10 thoughts in Artie's mind right now

2010-12-13T12:46:00.000-05:00

10. Douche ads and spas use the same design elements. Be careful you don't get them mixed up.

9. My kids are absolutely loco. Christmas has them so jacked-up, so out of control. As I see it, I have lost the ability to parent them from Thanksgiving to Christmas.

8. People who say put the Christ back in Christmas don't know what they are talking about. Sure we get an occasional Xmas out of someone, but do we really think there is some type of conspiracy against the 224,457,000 Christians in America? Given they make up more than 3/4 of the population, do they really feel that oppressed?

7. Tea is for pussies and people with a cold (like Artie).

6. I am stressed about finances and job security, but other people are stressed because they are hungry and don't know where their, or their child's, next meal will come from. Think about supporting your local food bank. Even $10 a month for a year will go a long way. Remember, folks are hungry all year round.

5. Is registering popular CB handles. When the Internet dies and CB's make a comeback, I will be all set to make a killing.

4. Will reduce my carbon footprint by wearing smaller charcoal-based shoes.

3. Babe Ruth was #3. He was fat, liked booze, and chased women. Maybe there is hope for me after all.

2. Had seven channels growing up; 13 if the rotor to our rooftop antenna was in order. I always found something to watch.

1. Vacuum is the only word I know with a double "U". I know a lot of words with double other vowels: Hawaiian aardvarks oogle beer; skiing baboons seek bazaars.

It happened like this...

2010-12-02T17:43:00.000-05:00

"I am not sure if you understand what I am talking about," the older guy lectured with impatience and despair.

He and his 20-something crony were camped out at a coffee shop interviewing fellow losers who answered their advertisement on Craigslist. Chance of a Lifetime, the ad read. It told of a 30-year old company looking for self-motivated men and women who are interested in earning a lot of money distributing the world's next great energy drink, an organically made, low carbonated beverage. Its name escapes me.

In front of him was a socially maladroit, slightly balding, certainly under dressed 30-something who told farcical stories of his over-importance and wonderful life.

Yeah right, buddy. Things are so good, that's why you are in a coffee place meeting with two DeVry Institute drop outs who claim to run an established and thriving business but need to meet in a coffee house instead of an office and are willing to spend 45 minutes interviewing you when, as soon as you said that you didn't want to risk losing your disability and would work for NO MORE than $28,000 a year, they should have gotten up and left." Your denial of reality is almost as as pronounced as that last sentence was long.

I am a table or two away. I should be writing for work. I have tight deadlines ahead but little motivation. The conversation between the three is mesmerizing. I hear the older dude referencing Robert Kiyosaki (Rich Dad/Poor Dad) and Donald Trump (Rich Dad/Bad Hair). It seems they are pitching a multi-marketing corporation, a pyramid scheme if you will.

The two douche bags have no product to show, no website, no anything. They do, however have an opportunity that few will be offered: Give them a thousand dollars or so and they will set you up with a franchise. Get soda machines set up at places of business and sit back and let the passive income flow your way.

So that's it. Make money on the front end with some idiot who will actually pay you the cash and, if you are lucky, find a sap a month who actually places a machine or two and make money on the back end, too. If they don't work out, no worries. You got paid. If they succeed, less worries, you get paid more.

I am stuck here wondering what would happen if they truly acknowledged what they were doing and candidly explained their business plan.

"Look, we don't have much going for us, but we rightfully contend that you have even less going for you. We will sell you a dream. You will likely fail,except if you can do one thing: find someone dumber than you and offer them the same deal.

Admittedly, you won't earn the whole $1,000. We are your bosses, after all. Thus, we will take $700 and leave you $400. Find 70 people to take the deal and you have your $28,000! If they actually sell the product, you might only need half as many stooges!

It is a big world out there, fella. There are more than enough prospects to succeed. You want to move up the corporate ladder? Then you better be willing to move down the social/intellectual ladder."

Of course none of this is said. The interviewee is rambling on about his real estate investments that didn't quite pan out but made him millions on paper before they made him move back in with his diabetic mother. He then changes topics and talks about going to Europe each year and would need an assurance that this would be no problem. Seems he has a friend in Amsterdam and travels all over Europe--Amstrerdam, Rotterdam, The Hague, and Utrecht. Fuck, man, all of those places are in Holland!

It is comical how long this goes on, but it must. Instead of being the worst job candidate in the world, this guy is the best. He is the Jamie Dimon of delusional, the Steve Jobs of senseless, and the Warren Buffet of wacky. In the Pyramid scheme world this guy is Wharton material. Another 20 minutes or so and they all get up and punch contact information into their phones.

Was a deal made? I can't say. But I do feel a bit envious. For all the reasons this scheme sucks, I also know it can work. I want in. Perhaps I'll look for that ad online, set up a meeting, and maybe even get a vanilla latte out of the deal. I realize pyramids are set up to prey on the misguided, but how would it work out for someone who is totally tuned-in but doesn't care?

I'll let you know how it turns out. But until then, can I interest you in purchasing some Herbalife products?

A nude Angelina Jolie?

2010-11-16T13:33:00.000-05:00

Okay, so Rob Pattison didn't draw the traffic I assumed. Maybe that is because I was appealing to a group, women, who don't puriently surf the web as much as I guys do. So this time I will try a woman of appeal.

For my newer minions an explanation, I was curious if putting the name of a famous person here would increase traffic. My hypothesis was built on the premise that no one I personally know is aware I am writing, and thus, strangers are coming to this page--purposefully or not. If that is the case, then the likelihood of someone purposefully visiting this page would increase with certain keywords (famous people).

Stay tuned.

Rob Pattison Drives Traffic Here

2010-11-15T05:53:00.000-05:00

It is 5:35 am and I have been up for four hours writing a speech I am not particularly proud of. Oh, I know what you are thinking. "Hey Writer-Boy, you just ended that sentence with a preposition. Gotcha!"

Yeah...umm...whatever. Everyone knows that is pedantic nonsense up with which I shall not put. (Thanks, Churchill).

I really have nothing to say or write, but just wanted to check in. It is kind of fun to do this with nary a friend knowing I am blogging again. I assume I will eventually be found out, but until then, let's make fun of my douchebag friends. Okay, you go first.

Lastly, what's up with the title? I just want to see if putting a celebrity's name increases web traffic. Given I have NO followers, anyone who comes here does so by random chance or is looking for someone else. Results to follow.

Whatcha looking for?

2010-11-12T14:45:00.000-05:00

So I like these new blogger stats (okay, so they may not be new, but like I said in earlier posts, I haven't been here for a while). In case you were wondering, here are the top search terms used that drove folks to this site. I wonder if that kid looking for a degree in Zeus fround this site helpful. I sure hope so.

Thurman munson
thurman munson autopsy photo
thurman munson's brother
"ba in Greek mythology"
"Do you like beer and nachos?"
"guys who have never had girlfrineds"
Artie Lange Munson
artie lange republican
artielange

Fellow bloggers, what are your top search terms?

Shut up and read

2010-11-10T12:06:00.004-05:00

I just stopped by to marvel at my own blog. I guess it is sort of like taping myself masturbating. It seemed like a good idea, it felt good when I did it, but now, in retrospect, I am both ashamed and disgusted in myself. What kind of freak am I?

If you are reading this it means you are either a Yankee fan or Howard Stern devotee who has no idea how to use Google. Your stupidity is my gain I suppose. But really, who, if anyone, benefits from this blog? Pen pal-less prisoners?

Most of the folks who blogged with me back in the day have disappeared (or at least won't return my calls). I miss this format. It allows me to write more, be honest more, and take risks. I am on Facebook, for sure, but I am beginning to really sour on the need to edit myself, deal with argumentative people, and read your post about missing Grampy who died 11-years ago and had such a profound impact on your pitiful life. That said, I love an audience and I am too lazy and inconsistent to build one here. I love to write for writings sake, but when it comes right down to it, I am an extrovert and need those personal relationships. Love me, please.

We moved recently and one of our new neighbors, who I have yet to formally meet, told my seven year old son who came to her house trick-or-treating that he and my other kids need to learn to be quiet. I found this out a few days afterwards when my son matter-of-factly shared with me the story.

What the fuck, old lady? You have a problem with my kids, come to me or the Mrs. I suppose if we were established neighbors/friends and you wished to correct my child's behavior, I would be okay. I mean, I am not one of those parents who thinks my kids can do no wrong. That said, I am not sure what they have done wrong. Do they play out front and play chase and laugh and even scream (during daytime hours)? Likely. Do I think they are exceeding 100 decibels, shitting on her lawn, or swearing or dry humping a girl/boyfriend in their view. Not likely.

What should I do about this old crank? I feel like I should approach her and introduce myself. Tell her that I understand she has a problem with my kids and that if she feels she is being inconvenienced, she should come to me or Mrs. Lange. This way, I put her on the spot and secondly, I can then judge if she has a case or not. Who knows, maybe my kids really are true sumbitches. But instead of getting totally defensive, I feel like I should be the judge before I should be the enforcer. We love the neighborhood, but if I have to explain to my kids the idea that there are old kooks in the world and they should be laughed at and ignored, I will. It is not generally my way, (nor is filming myself whacking it, BTW), but sometimes you have to adapt to the circumstances. I would like my kids to always be respectful, but I also want them to learn how to exercise good judgement. Some folks may not deserve our respect.

Thanks for stopping by.

Artie

No (Ex)cuse

2010-07-21T23:25:00.002-05:00

I don't spend much time on this blog because I am always on Facebook stalking ex-girlfriends in the hopes that we can get back together. Hey, ex-girlfriends, what is it that you didn't like about me, was it my semi-common references to other ex-girlfriends that I wish to get back together with? Just call me a pack-rat of pootang. I won't let you go.

I am really glad that Old Spice is making a comeback thanks to that really creepy guy. It means my loveletters make more sense (sents). To those who are not ex-girlfriends but still get stalked, don't let my love for ex-girlfriends get in the way of our love for each other.

Artie loves you.

Start with nothing, see where it ends

2010-07-15T09:54:00.004-05:00

Even the poor coed chained to a radiator in my basement needs to be fed once in a while, right?

Greeting to my minions. I am Artie Lange and this is my blog. For certain I have neglected this site, starving it of the intellectual nourishment and comic quenching that only I can provide, but who can blame me? On Facebook my following is deep and dependable, on Twitter I have twenty-thousand fans, and on Blogger what do I have? Hope that Pistols at Dawn will remember me and give me access to his glorious bog (if it is even there).

So what has been keeping Artie busy over the last few years? I don't really know. I continue to age, widen, and shift hair from my head to my back. I have eroded my brand to the point that BP takes pity on me (that's actor Bill Paxton, who is a real dick and may have even raped me on the set of Spy Kids 3. I say "may" because I can't remember if he or I was the aggressor).

So what should we talk about? I don't know. Does it even really matter? My investments in the pay phone industry have not succeeded as I would have hoped, but I think I will rebound thanks to my purchase of a truckload of Kodak 35mm film, which I will sell at the Englishtown Auction this weekend.

Alas, all my other blogging buddies are gone. Dead (to me), but I persevere. I am a survivor. I thank you for visiting, for your comments, for your offer of oral sex.

Artie has to go now. I have things to do (really).

Writers Unite!

2007-11-05T10:54:00.000-05:00

In solidarity with my brothers and sisters of the Writers Guild of America, I will cease posting to my blog until a fair contract is negotiated.

To my faithful readers, I apologize. I know it will be strange not having Artie Lange's musings to read everyday, but I must take a stand.

I'm sure that scab, Pistols at Dawn, will cross the line and continue his low-brow hackery. Go there if you must.

Meow!

2007-02-13T22:37:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-13T22:26:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-10T15:40:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-02-09T15:05:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-08T22:42:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-08T11:05:00.000-05:00

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!

2007-02-07T15:21:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-06T12:31:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-06T06:35:00.000-05:00

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)

2007-02-03T09:39:00.001-05:00

Business Plan Complete: Introducing My Face Furniture

2007-02-01T00:02:00.000-05:00

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.

-30-

Artie Lange: Charlatan Hunter

2007-01-31T14:24:00.000-05:00

So I got to thinking (not really, but I never use this tired phrase and thought it was about time I tried it on). Anyway, I was thinking, are there bloggers on this planet who plagiarize their posts?

They must exists, people who are insecure, lonely, want to be more than what they are. Perhaps they are cutting and pasting my witticisms, observations, and otherwise publishable material. If you are out there, I hate you! Get some of your own ideas! Do you think it is easy for me to craft a story about bowel movements and homosexual love?

I am on a quest; I will find blogosphere plagiarizers and expose them as the Charlatans they are. Sheriff Artie is in town and I’m lookin’ to rustle up me some word lifters.

By the way, my favorite Charlatan may be John R. Brinkley, the "goat-gland doctor" who implanted goat glands as a means of curing male impotence, helped pioneer both American and Mexican radio broadcasting, and twice ran unsuccessfully for governor of Kansas.

In the end, I suspect the only Charlatan I may find is Mustard10 (see January 19th post "The original post that ticked-off an unstable person (you decide who I'm talking about)"

2007-01-30T10:44:00.000-05:00

If you haven't read Bert Bananas vivid account of a relationship ending over espresso, then you should. As I mentioned on his blog, I too was at the same Starbucks. Subsequently, Bert posted a crummy, uner-exposed picture of the unhappy couple. Thanks to the Artie Lange photo fixer (patent pending) I was able to clear up the picture. Notice anything different?

Original Photo

Image enhanced photo

2007-01-30T09:33:00.000-05:00

Case Number 1,297 on why women are better than men

The entire Lange family had a stomach virus recently. Son was first to heave-ho (Friday), followed by Frick and Frack on Sunday. Mom and dad came down with a belly ache on Monday, as the kid's ailments lingered on.

Anyway, Artie and son were both lifeless, unable to walk, talk, or blog; while daughters and mom carried on in spite of the virus. Mrs. Lange cleaned, Mrs. Lange did laudry, Mrs. Lange took care of the kids. The girls played, made a mess and did everything that (almost) two year olds should do.

Artie and son slept and slept. Artie slept on the couch. Son fell asleep in the stairs. Artie made it into bed. Son, who refused to go to bed, slept on the living room floor.

As Artie's sister-in-law put it: "The girls are learning to be mommies; mommies aren't aloud to get sick."

2007-01-27T22:26:00.000-05:00

Steakbellie is Having a Party
(and I'm at home)

It is high school revisited. All the cool kids have gotten together at Kimmy Mezner's house for a party while her parents are in New York City. Artie Lange, however, is not invited. Instead I am planning to meet a few other nerds at Shira School for some late night basketball. Afterwards we will go to the 7-11 and get a big gulp. If we are lucky, we'll see one of the hot chicks at the store picking up more ice and condoms. She won't talk to me.

Boy, I wish I was at Steakbellie's party. Son has a stomach virus and is puking every hour. Actually, he is on the mend, but Mrs. Lange and I are exhausted. Looks like we'll watch 13 Going on 30 and eat ice cream.

I bet right now, Steakbellie is laughing with a bevy of women surrounding him, their hands stroking his chest, getting a chance to feel what must be a $1,000 tux. I imagine the caviar bar is being replenished and the Gray Goose and Belvidere are flowing down a carved track in the Wing Bowl ice sculpture they purchased. In about an hour I bet they'll be having Baked Alaska and Bananas Foster. The twelve-piece band will be starting their final set. That is until Wing Kong throws the band a few hundred extra to keep playing.

My 20 year reunion is this year. It is a chance to reopen the wounds of adolencence and see all of the people who I can't, and don't, call friend. Not being at Steakbellie's party is good preperation. That said, I think I want to go to the reunion. I don't know. I guess there is a hope I could have a meaningful conversation with someone, perhaps help me think more favorably of MCHS and my hometown. I will not go there to measure myself to others. The first person who feels the need to tell me how sucessful they are, I will lift their wallet. I'm serious. I've been practicing. You can find anything on the web, even the art of pickpocketing.

Hope you are having fun, Steakbellie. I'm sure I'll see all the pictures posted on your website, and if not there, in the society page of the New York Times.

2007-01-25T15:19:00.000-05:00

My Day at Work
By Artie Lange

"The speed of time is one second per second," he announced to the assemblage of lab coats. There was disdain in his voice and an “82” pin on his lapel.

“Military, I think,” I whispered to Sasha. “He must have been in the Eighty-Second Airborne.”

Sasha shushed my almost silent supposition and spoke scoldingly of my selfish stance towards the seasoned superintendent, who was our new boss.

To my credit, I deflected Sasha’s defamatory declarations and deliberately declared détente, as I no longer disapproved of my desk mate’s dalliances.

“I forgive you for everything,” I said softly, my hand giving his thigh a squeeze as tight as my words were slack. Our eyes locked long enough for me to share with him an effeminate and loving smile.

Sasha pulled back quickly, “what the !” He was stopped before his panicked response could continue. A hundred set of eyes shoot darts through his skull. His co-workers were not amused by the interruption.

The General, or whatever his rank was, raised his voice loud enough to refocus the audience’s attention on him.

“Thought is not something we have time for at this company,” he measuredly said, too slow for someone who is so concerned with time, I thought.

“Thought gets us distracted,” he continued, every word gaining emphasis.

“The climax was soon to come,” I said and then winced. As a person who prides himself on words, climax and come should never be set in the same sentence. Pornography has permanently divorced from proper usage two perfectly acceptable words.

“From now on,” and with this the lights dimmed in b-movie fashion, signaling to us the ominous words to come.

“From now on,” he repeated this part to fully gain everyone’s attention. Then he said it again.

“From now on, I’ll do the thinking for all of us. I’ll think and you'll do. Is that clear?” His words were authoritative and seismic, the room shook with fear.

“You dawdle, Sasha, you delay. I forgive you for being so slothful.”

Sasha shook his head with disgust. He thinks I am being silly when I am steadfastly serious.

“You! You got a problem with this?” Colonel Carthwright, or whatever, was dressing down Sasha. “Shake your head all you want to, my friend, but I hear one more smart-ass remark from you, I’ll can your ass!”

The Admiral, or whatever, had now bounded off the stage and was face to face with Sasha. Lieutenant Lipshitz, or whatever, came closer to Sasha, bringing his mouth to Sasha’s ear.

“Try me, dipshit,” the Captain, or whatever, said in a laughed whisper. “They don’t call me Avery “Eighty-six them all” Anderson for nothing.”

Hey, that’s not an eighty-two on his coat after all, I thought. Maybe this guy isn’t prior military.

My civilian boss was still next to me, still confronting Sahsa. Sweat beads were rolling down his pink, hot skin. He was waiting for Sasha to throw the first punch.

“Sir, my name is Artie Lange and I’m fully prepared not to think, sir,” I said aloud. I was beginning to really like this guy.

The boss never took his eyes off Sasha as he spoke to me.

“G-o-o-o-o-d, r-e-e-e-e-e-ally good,” his syllables extended to fully convey his satisfaction with me.

His words then shifted course back to Sasha. “You could learn from this guy,” he said. "Maybe you two should be desk mates.”

“I’ll be his desk mate if you want me to,” I said, “but be warned, sir, this guy likes to dally, dawdle, and delay.”

“Hmmm, alliterations,” nodded the boss, “I like that. I really like that.”

Maybe I’ll tell him about my blog.

2007-01-23T16:06:00.000-05:00

Bush: worst president ever.
Vote Bert Bananas in 2008; he mentions me in his blog

It is approximately 4 hours until the State of the Union and I am already disheartened by Bush's remarks. Take his health care plan. Let's call it what it is: a plan to punish middle class, mostly union workers, and reward his pals. The basics: tax those workers with the best health plans (those negotiated by organized labor, being a large part; high level executives the other), and use that money to give tax breaks to small businesses and the self-employed so they can afford health insurance. Shouldn't we aspire that everyone has good healthcare, and not punish those that have it? Is this really a race to mediocrity--bring some down to bring others up?

I'm all for helping small business pay for health insurance, in fact, I think it should be a top priority to fix the system, but why must we punish some to reward others? I also understand the concept of a zero sum game, but this is just another partisan piece of crap initiative offered by a truck load of crap president. I have an idea? Stop dumping billions upon billions into Iraq. Take our soldiers out of harms way, and use our nation's resources to help our nation, not reward your Haliburton cronies and exact revenge for Saddam's attempting to kill daddy.

Sleep well, President Harding. You are no longer the worst president ever.

2007-01-22T13:28:00.000-05:00

Why I should be Tucker's Daddy
(Should Smelmoo and Tangentwoman both eat it)

Irresponsible parents that they are, Smelmooo and Tangent Woman have not made arrangements to care for their dear doggy should they die.

I want the job.

Tucker will have a warm and friendly home with a fenced yard condusive for play.
I have a bucket full of tennis balls in my garage--they are all his.
The dog park is close to my home giving ol' Tuckie a chance to interact with other canines.
LikeTucker, I can't spell (shared interests)
Like Smelmooo, I promise to write emasculating blog posts about the sweater I knitted for Tucker.
I don't have a dog named Tanya, Chris, or anything else that will cause people to giggle.
I am a state-college graduate (Salt of the Earth).
I am an Ivy League graduate (among the elite).
I promise to spend quality time with Tucker as often as possible.
On the anniversary (ies) of your death (s), Tucker and I will visit the cemetary and lovingly pee on your headstone.
Rutgers liver snaps.
I have no problem with another living creatures sticking its nose in my groin.

2007-01-19T15:30:00.000-05:00

The original post that ticked-off an unstable person (you decide who I'm talking about).

This is a thread of e-mails between three people, one being me. It all started with one of those urban legend e-mails I received. I hate those things. I hope you enjoy the correspondence!

FW: letospirosis - very dangerous

Spebma wrote…

Here's another warning! We certainly live in a dangerous world. This incident happened recently in North Texas.A woman went boating one Sunday taking with her some cans of coke which she put into the refrigerator of the boat. On Monday she was taken to the hospital and placed in the Intensive Care Unit. She died on Wednesday. The autopsy concluded she died of Leptospirosis. This was traced to the can of coke she drank from, not using a glass. Tests showed that the can was infected by dried rat urine and hence the disease LeptospirosisRat urine contains toxic and deathly substances. It is highly recommended to thoroughly wash the upper part of soda cans before drinking out of them. The cans are typically stocked in warehouses and transported straight to the shops without being cleaned. A study at NYCU showed that the tops of soda cans are more contaminated than public toilets (i.e).. full of germs and bacteria. So wash them with water before putting them to the mouth to avoid any kind of fatal accident. Please forward this message to all the people you care about.(I JUST DID)

Artie Lange wrote…

While I think it is a good idea to wipe cans clean, I wouldn't characterize letospirosis as the killer it is made out to be, nor would I consider it a can to mouth disease, since it is more likey to be transmitted through swimming in lakes or splashing in puddles.

According to the CDC, there are approximately 100- to 200 cases in the US each year (and almost hald of those in Hawaii), most leading to nothing more than aches, pains, and fever that usually go away on their own. 1 out of 10 cases may include jaundice, menengitis, serious kidney or liver complications and even death. Antibiotics can effectively treat letospirosis. In other words, at most, 10 people might die each year from Letospirosis. If that number frightens you, you better not drive a car or swim, your chance of death with those two activiites are expotentially higher.

Have a great day!

Love,
the Coca Cola Bottling Company
(Rat free since November 23, 2006)

Mustard10 wrote…

I appreciate the warning no matter what. If it was your kid who was the one in 10 you are not going to care about the stats then, not for anything swimming or driving either bc it won't seem like 1 in 10 then. Thanks for the heads up Marty!

Artie Lange wrote…

I couldn't disagree more with your train of thought. To tell me to be warned about a disease that affects 100 to 200 people a year (that is a 1 in 3,000,000 chance of getting sick, and, at its worst, a 1 in 30 million chance of dying--though the number is more like 1 in 150 million) is nothing more than creating unwarranted paranoia and undue anxiety.

Be worried about this...

Deaths per Disease per year

Diabetes 74,219 (maybe our dear children shouldn't be drinking coke at all given that it is 37,190% more likely one will die from diabetes than letospirosis)
Chronic lower-respiratory disease 126,382
Stroke 157,689
Cancer 556,902
Heart disease 685,089 (342,544% more likely to die from this)
Letospirosis 2

Lastly, thanks for pointing out the very demagogic and obvious fact that stats don't matter when it is my kid with the disease. My children don't have the disease and likely never will. What they will have, God willing, is a clear sense of scientific inquiry and a patrilineal disdain for urban legend e-mails sent under the guise of public service. Yes, the story you read is an urban legend. Please refer to http://www.snopes.com/ if you don't believe me.

That said, clean your soda cans if you want; it is probably a good idea.

Veritas

Mustard10wrote…

Who are you? Other than quite rude so far? I am glad to hear about anything that I can do to keep my kids from getting sick at anytime from anything. I am open to knowledge of all sorts and even if it comes from an "urban legend" that there is some truth to it in there is an actual thing called letospirosis. I am beyond well aware about the other stats you posted to me although quite condescendingly you should know. To be warned about anything that can be harmful is called knowledge and if it creates paranoia and undue anxiety in people who can't just clean the can that is more of a personal issue. I happy to recieve knowledge no matter how insignficant as no one knows everything and we should never think we do. It is more likely at that point that we start to know less and less. I agree with the stats and the fact that kids shouldn't be drinking soda but I bet at a party now and then they might sometime in their lives have one (even yours) and if a little peice of knowledge is what reminds them or I to wipe the top then so be it. Who are you to pass judgement on what stats/things are "demogogic"?! Have you ever wrapped the body of someone's dead child while the parents are uncontrollably sobbing about what "might have been"? Have you ever felt true empathy for someone other than yourself? Given the tone of your email I would describe you as puffed up with way too much pride, but hey pride comes before the fall, eh? I have wrapped many bodies and I have grieved with families who lost children to things with lower stats working as a nurse for many years. So I continue to be grateful for what knowledge I get no matter how large or small if it benefits in any way my family, even if just to remind me of the small little things as the days fly by. So you worry only about the "bigger" things, and I hope all is well with you and yours. Next time try being nicer though, makes the world go 'round better.....

Artie Lange wrote…

I appreciate your reply and the conviction of your beliefs. I even enjoy your characterizations of me, as inaccurate as they are. But that happens when you have limited information on a subject (i.e., me). Same goes for inaccurate e-mails about a fictional guy who died as a result of a fictionally unclean soda distributor, from a disease that is so limited in scope that its only publicity comes from patently false and overly alarming e-mails. Last time I checked, the Letospirosis Society had yet been formed. As a nurse you should know the difference between information gained from bad sources and those gained from peer-reviewed sources.

Think it doesn't matter that the source and information is false and/or misleading? OK, let's play that out with Marty's other e-mail, the one urging you to reverse your PIN when it is demanded of you by a criminal. Go ahead and do it. After all, you received the information from an e-mail, it must be right. What will happen is Mr. or Ms. Gun-toting thug will go the ATM and be frustrated by the fact that he/she can't get money. Given that he/she probably has your wallet and therefore knows your whereabouts, there is some chance that he/she will be back to exact revenge. Oh, it might not be tomorrow or the next day, it might be never. But it could happen. In fact, I'd put those odds as significantly better than contracting letospirosis.

As I said, clean your cans. I personally think it is a good idea. Live life. Be happy. Enjoy! Enjoy!

You ask who I am. I am the guy who received an e-mail from you that said, damn the facts, this information is good. Then you evoked, what I consider, the hackneyed (and demagogic) mantra, what about the children?!!! It's all about the children, the children! You may disagree with my characterization. I have no problem with that.

I love children. I love mine and I love others. They deserve our love. I feel for the pain you must feel facing the death of an innocent child as part of your job. It is a noble calling that you (and my mother) have endeavored. But if I may use an analogy: hitting me in the head with a lead pipe to demonstrate the need for bicycle helmets, will get the point across, but it will also cause damage. The original e-mail that was our source of contention was written with the explicit desire to evoke emotion and cause fear. What makes it successful is that it is plausible and therefore gets spread virally through the internet. It is up to those of us who know better (and I include you in the group who obviously knows better) to discourage such e-mails. From a sociological standpoint, it is that same "plausible, but not based on all facts, conclusion" that stigmatizes the poor, the disabled, the mentally ill, and those of color.

It has been said "where you stand depends on where you sit." Given your experiences and the attitudes that were shaped by them, your welcoming Marty's information is valid. As for me, given my experiences and the attitudes that were shaped by them, I think of things this way. I should get about 60% of my diet from carbohydrates, but I shouldn't eat a box of Ho Hos to accomplish my nutritional goals. Junk food is junk, and junk information is junk, regardless of whether there is some good to come out of it. In the end, we are both right...just arguing different things.

I enjoy the dialogue. Sorry if you don't like the way my message was delivered.

Spebma wrote….

Artie, I know you love a good banter, I GET THAT, but if you had an issue with my FW:email which originated from another source, you should have contacted me directly. Not everyone gets your humor. BTW ....since when have you ever referred to me as Marty in the 17yrs I've known you...even to other people? I would love to say you're not an ass at times, just as I am obsessive...but we all know it's true. Kerri, he's enjoying every minute of this aggravation...so don't let it get to you. Believe it or not, Artie's not all that bad- just twisted.
Just LET IT GO!
Warmly, Marty

Mustard10 wrote…

I agree with Matry Artie, let it go. This is too much work and very tiring. I give your wife credit for having a patient soul for you. I get the impression that a lead pipe might not get the point across with you though.;-)
Have a great day Artie, take care.

Artie Lange wrote…

Stop brining my family members into this. It is not about my wife or my children. You've referenced both. And save the winks for your friends.

No need to respond. I do not care to hear from you.

Signed,
Matry Artie (commas, like facts, matter)

Artie Lange wrote (just to Spebma)…

Ah hominem: attack the man when you can't attack the argument.
I did contact you and everyone else about the veracity of your e-mail.
She responded by saying "if it was your child, statistics wouldn't matter" (duh)
Keep my child out of it. Stick to the facts.
I was worried if I called you MP, people might not know whom I was talking about :)

As a measure of atonement, I will send Mustard10 information on an archaic, yet vitally important, rare disease each day. After all, she appreciates it and it's all about the children. It is always about the children. Here is my first:

Alert Alert Alert

Beware of Achard Thiers Syndrome!

This disease, which was first diagnosed by a friend in East Texas, Arkansas, is very serious. According to a professor at the esteemed Harvard University, we must protect the children.

Also known as bearded woman disease, Achard Thiers Syndrome can severely hamper the dating habits of post menopausal, insulin dependant, diabetic women. Ladies, if you look in the mirror and see a scruff of hair on your chin, go to Home Depot at once and buy dimmer light bulbs for around your house, then make a bee line for CVS and the Norelco section, lastly, stop at the store and pick me up some beer. I'm thirsty.

This message is about 10% fact, that makes it good and worthy of distribution. No reasonable person can refute or object to the posting of this message. For more information, go to *******.

Mustard10 wrote…

Ay yi yi Artie, I am not bringing family members into anything I was complimenting her since you emails are so intense most likely you are that way everywhere. No need to be so defensive, none of us is perfect. Commas like facts matter and so does spelling, see your email below. Just relax, no need for hard feelings, there are none here. Take care.

Artie Lange wrote…

I thought I asked you not to contact me.

Mustard10 wrote…

Just like the last email I told you to let it go and you didn't. You are not the last word or thought Mr. Arrogant. I guess you have as much trouble with direction as I do.

Artie Lange wrote…

Really, you don't understand. I don't care what you think about me. Look at all the e-mails and total up the adjectives that directly describe you. Compare that to the adjectives used to describe me. Know what? I still don't care. I only want to be left alone. Please.

*******Editors note*******

Mustard10 was in a serious car accident an hour after Artie's last post. In her car police found a sawed off shotgun and directions to artie's home.

2007-01-19T06:39:00.000-05:00

Forgiveness

Consumer Reports gaffed on a recent study of car seats; Isaiah Washington got called out for using inappropriate language to describe a co-worker; and George Bush may have been a tad careless in his approach to Iraq.

So who is perfect?

Hey gang, things happen. If you have apologized and are truly sincere about it, then I forgive you. In fact, even if you haven't apologized or weren't sincere when you did, I forgive you too.

Congratulations, everyone starts with a clean slate today. Now that I have absolved you of sin, your job is to stay pure.

Heretofore, once you have done/said something that would land you on the pages of the National Enquirer, please report it here. Artie, is using the honor system. You are all honorable people.

2007-01-16T11:37:00.000-05:00

Better than Bush

Your SAT Score of 1280 Means:

You Scored Higher Than Howard Stern
You Scored Higher Than George W. Bush
You Scored Lower Than Al Gore
You Scored Lower Than David Duchovny
You Scored Lower Than Natalie Portman
You Scored Lower Than Bill Gates

Your IQ is most likely in the 120-130 range

Equivalent ACT score: 29

Schools that Fit Your SAT Score:
Boston Univeristy
University of California-Los Angeles
University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill
Dickinson College
Hampshire College

What Does Your SAT Score Mean?

2007-01-16T11:22:00.000-05:00

For your consideration...

Wing Bowl XV will be held at the Wachovia Center in Philadelphia on February 2, 2007. The theme is Philly versus the World. Everyone knows that the world is bigger that Philadelphia. But can a virtual nobody rise above his meek existence to triumph? I think this video gives us the answer.

2007-01-11T16:26:00.000-05:00

Dear Mr. Ramen Noodles guy,

I'm sorry I never knew your name. Now that you are now dead, I know it to be Momofuku Ando. Given that you were 96 at the time of your death, I guess all those warnings about Ramen noodles being high in sodium were overblown. Then again, seeing that you likely made tens of millions of dollars (at $.25 a pop, during my college days) selling your tasty, just add water cusine, you may have lost the motivation to ingest your own brick-o-soup. I however had the need for Ramen Noodles. I had neither money nor cullinary skill.

Sleep well my dear friend. I hope you had a good meal before you kicked it.

Love,

Artie Lange

2007-01-08T14:00:00.000-05:00

Meeting at Halliburton (overheard)
or
12 white men sitting around a table.

Boss: (to all) Now that Democrats are in charge of the Congress and subpoenas are sure to follow, we have some big problems with an upcoming project. Johnson?

Johnson: Yes sir. Well it seems our bid to build a 1,700-mile wall to protect us from those terrorist Mexicans and Guatemalans may have been a tad optimistic in price. Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal. We underbid, we win the work, and then we make money on change orders. No big deal.

Boss: God, I love change orders! Say can you believe they let that black, Tiger Woods, play at Augusta? He even drinks out of the same water fountain as I do!

Johnson: Yes, err…. as I was saying. The problem is that a Democratic controlled Congress will likely investigate any irregularities in constructions costs.

Boss: Speaking of irregularities, I haven’t had good bowel movements in days.

VP: Must be all that white bread you eat, boss. (laughter follows).

Johnson: Anyway, we need to find a way to make this project come in under budget. We can’t afford to lose money on this deal. Our company’s partners demand we make money.

VP: What, does Cheney plan on buying all of Wyoming? (laughter follows).

Boss: (angrily) Quiet, he could be listening! Besides, I need you to think. Time is money and the cost of materials is increasing as we sit here. Save us money! Make us money!

Intern: Sir?

Boss: Who are you?

Intern: I’m your intern sir. I’m a senior at Yale, a member of the Skull and Bones Society. I’m the guy who runs your predatory lending businesses in poor urban areas.

Boss: Yes! How is the company going?

Intern: We are taking 25% of each check cashed.

VP: You could make more, if the government would raise the minimum wage.

Boss: God forbid!

Intern: Sir, I think I know a way we could make this project work.

Boss: Keep talking:

Intern: Hire Mexicans.

Boss: What?

Intern: Hire Mexicans, sir. Many of them are skilled in construction and they will work for pennies on the dollar compared to American workers. In fact, sir, don’t pay them at all. Once the wall is up, it won’t even matter.

Boss: Can this work?

Intern: Yes sir, just make sure the Mexicans only work on the south side of the wall.

Boss: South side of the wall, brilliant!

2007-01-04T22:32:00.000-05:00

of creativity, individuality, and a cup of mayo

SZG had tuna salad the other day. My kids had chicken salad for lunch. Whitefish salad is one of my favorites, and turkey salad is a staple, post-Thanksgiving meal in my house. Does anyone else notice we are missing something here?

Where is the beef salad? Where is the pork salad? Why isn't someone mixing mayo with these tasty meats?

Artie Lange sees a get-rich scheme in the making. Be on the lookout for Artie's House of the Beef Salad Sandwich. Coming to a redlined neighborhood near you.

2007-01-04T22:26:00.000-05:00

How Jersey ARE you?
A shout out to my Joisey peeps. Time to establish your Bayonne/Begen/Burlington bona fides. Take the test. Artie Lange's prediction: Kat is more Jersey than Birdy. Will the Reverend prove me wrong?

http://www.gotoquiz.com/how_new_jersey_are_you

By the way, Artie scored an unimpressive 70%.

2007-01-02T17:20:00.000-05:00

An Artie Lange Exclusive!

Smelmooo Left with Wife's Table Scraps!!!

The New Year kicks off on a sad note, as Artie Lange investigators learn that the great Smelmooo lacks the domestic clout to claim anything but his wife's piddling castaways from the couple's M&M bowl.

Based on an online interview conducted by Artie Lange Super Slueth Kelli, we learn that Smelmooo is forbidden to eat from the M&M bowl until Tangentwoman eats all that she wants. Smelmooo, by then totally emasculated, is then free to partake in anything that's left. He does so with the smile of a Texas steer, happy to graze but unable to perform any manly functions.

Here is a Q&A between Kelli and the tragically powerless Smelmooo:

Q. What was the last thing that you ate?
A. Yellow M&Ms. We have a candy jar here and it only has yellow M&Ms in it. FUN!

Sadly, Artie Lange sources reveal that yellow M&M's are considered by Tangent Woman to be "disgusting little pellets of dried cat urine" and are "something I give to those I most despise." This according to an anonymous source who is close to the couple.

Artie Lange's news team began to investigate this marital injustice of confectionary proportions when Tangent Woman proudly proclaimed on the Artie Lange web site her hatred of all things yellow (and produced by M&M/Mars in a bag labeled M&M's).

Her rambling and hate-filled confession to follow.

tangentwoman said...
[...] I won't eat the yellows because I was allergic to yellow dye when I was a kid, and it's just stuck with me [...] Glad the Smelmooo [...]!

The hate-filled rants can be found within the ellipsis. For fear of facing litigation, the editorial board decided to omit said rants.

Artie Lange will keep you informed of any further developments.

2007-01-02T14:24:00.000-05:00

2006 Revisited
I didn't write every month, but here are the leads to my sporatical postings of 2006.

In the 154 years since this great country was first formed, there has been only two great presidents: Benjamin Franklin and you.

It is true. I dumped a girl not because of boredom or aspirations for a better girlfriend. In the end, I did it because I was hungry, really hungry.

Iraq seems to be slipping further and further into the abyss.

So this chick named Iris comes to my studio. She's the quiet-type--not prone to offer eye contact or a warm smile.

Steakbellie away/Vacation in New York State/Wife’s heart with Artie

It is a sad, sad story that needs to be told.

Thanks Captain! (One day late)

One day at work I was asleep under my desk. It was OK, because I put on my schedule that I had a lunch meeting in Coney Island. Then I walked around the office that morning huffing and puffing. "Damn it, I have to go all the way to Coney Island for a meeting. Can you believe that?"

The young doctor ran his sinewy fingers through his dark wavy hair. He paused and sighed, measuring his thoughts; buying some time.

Colls, NJ, December 26, 2006-- Papa may have a brand new bag, but the Godfather of Soul is looking for a barely used coffin.

2006-12-28T10:42:00.000-05:00

An Artie Lange Exclusive

LOVE LETTERS FROM STEAKBELLIE'S PARENTS.

I stole these from his parents' attic. I told them I was looking for my cat. Amazing insight into the molding of an eating giant.

October 15, 1970

Tina,

As first dates go, last night was one of the best. Your hair shined luminously thanks to the buffet-heating lamp. Pulling chairs directly up the wing bar was so thoughtful and a good use of our time. I think I love you.

I hope this doesn’t scare you but I feel so comfortable talking with you and sharing my feelings about what makes a good Bolognese.

I hope we can go out again sometime.

Affectionately,

Ted

P.S. Thanks for putting out in the back of my Pacer. I knew that bubble hatchback would come in handy!

December 25, 1970

Dear Ted,

Merry Christmas, sweetheart. I can’t believe it has been two whole months! You continue to charm me with your affectionate ways. Renting the Hickory Farm store for an intimate dinner last evening was so sweet. This morning, I literally pooped one of those cheese logs with the nuts on top, still intact. Don’t laugh at me silly. At least I knew the sausage was wrapped (not yours, I hate the feel of condoms in my ass).

Ted, I hope this feeling never ends. Well, I do hope the feeling of constipation ends; eating an entire Yule Time Family Cheese Pack was probably not a good idea. The feelings for you (and that fucking awesome heroin you scored) are so real, so strong. I do love you!

Our first holiday together; may there be many, many more.

Luv,

Tina

January 1, 1971

Tina,

I hate the fact that we fought last night. I am so sorry. I thought you wanted to see me with another man.

Please let me make it up to you. I’ll take you to Beefsteak Charlie’s and we can feed each other the shrimp cocktails, and laugh as we eat a half a head of iceberg lettuce covered in blue cheese dressing and bacon bits. A bottle of Martini and Rossi will be brought to the table, for sure. Tina, nothing would make me happier than sharing a half gallon of snapper soup with you and downing a box of those oyster crackers. Baked potatoes? Let’s get two each. Filled with butter and sour cream. Broccoli? You bet, boiled until it loses all its color (just as you like it). Of, course we will have to order the surf and turf. I’ll order you an extra large t-bone and a school of flounder (just don’t fill up on white bread, hee hee!). Cheesecake with canned cherries will be served as dessert. Of course, we will have a Sanka, nothing but the best.

Please let me make it up to you. I love you, Tina, and I want the new year to start off right. We are meant to be together.

Yearning for you,

Ted

January 3, 1971

Dear Ted,

I don’t care that you had gay sex. Do you think I’m that shallow? I think man-on-man action is very beautiful and natural. Should we ever have kids, I am going to make sure they experience man love by the time they go to a state school to study art.

I’m angry because you ate the last piggy in a blanket without even asking me. I thought we had a deal. We wait by the kitchen door and highjack all the hors d'oeuvres before they make their way to the guests. That was our deal. The tray leaves the kitchen and we get to work, every eater for him or her self. Imagine how shocked I was to find you, head first in the oven, eating frozen mini-weenies that were just put in a few seconds before.

Rules matter, Ted. You may not agree but I think there should be an accredited organization that sets standards and officiates the gurgitation habits of people like us. I mentioned it to the Shea brothers as we did lines of coke and they agreed. They are such nice guys with beautiful straw hats. I’d FOCE either of them if given the chance (sorry about the spelling, my Smith Corona manual typewriter sometimes gets stuck and I have to use what letters still work).

Ted, I want us to be together. I want us to be a team and spit on those Goddamn, baby-killing, pig soldiers as they arrive off the tarmac. But you need to be aware of my feelings and the fact that you are standing on my foot. The pain is so great I am left speechless; hence the letter which I will hand to you now.

Love,

Tina

February 22, 1971

Dearest Ted,

I can’t believe you got drafted, sent to boot camp, and 4-f’d all in the course of two days. What did you do to make the Army dismiss you so quickly?

Ted, I am writing with some news. Good news I hope. I am pregnant. That’s right. I am going to have a baby. The father is one of the following:

Dean Martin
Joe Namath
Dick Nixon
The cast of Laugh-in (they really socked it to me!)
Willis Reed
Neil Armstrong
The stock boy at Grants
Kurt Vonnegut
Walter Cronkite
Cop who let me off with a warning
You

In fairness, I will ask everyone for blood test, to eliminate people. I hope you are the father, Ted. I do. I do.

I love you forever and am sorry if this news comes as a surprise or hurts you,

Tina

WESTERN UNION

TO: TINA

CANCEL ALL BLOOD TESTS
I WILL BE THE CHILD’S FATHER
IF BOY, WE WILL NAME STEAKBELLIE.
IF GIRL, WE WILL NAME MADONNA
IF BLACK, WILLIS REED’S BABY.

TED

2006-12-27T10:47:00.000-05:00

Ford is Dead
GM sure to follow

Sleep well President Ford. You were a good man and deserve kudos for saving the presidency at a time of crisis. Also, I like your son in When Harry Met Sally. I don't know his name but he plays Sally's boyfriend at the airport. Very handsome.

Most of all, I liked your character on the Simpsons. "Homer, do you like beer and nachos? Would you like to come over my place and have beer and nachos and watch football?" Ha ha, Hee hee. Very funny.

They say bad news comes in threes. Who will be next? Kobiyashi? Estelle Getty? Jack Klugman? We are losing the 1970's. Very sad.

On a happy note, there was an Iris sighting on the great Steakbellie's blog. Wow! I'd love to hear all about the first semester at school.

2006-12-26T06:39:00.000-05:00

James Brown is Dead
Gun dealers, domestic violence centers, translators mourn the loss of "one great customer"

Colls, NJ, December 26, 2006-- Papa may have a brand new bag, but the Godfather of Soul is looking for a barely used coffin. James Brown, the enigmatic singer who taught generations of white kids how to look lame while feeling cool is dead.

His last words, according to his longtime publicist and bail bondsman Gilbert Fallon, "I don't feel so good."

In other news, the Dow opened down 600 points, largely a response to the announcement that Johnson & Johnson will close down its hair straightening division due to an anticipated drop in sales.

2006-10-06T13:37:00.000-05:00

I'm Free!!!

It has been a harrowing few months laid up in a lumpy hospital bed at the Center for Indigent Care in Halifax. I want to thank Steakbellie for wiring me the money to pay my cable bill and finally freeing me from that Nova Scotian prison.

Tetanus is not something to joke about, and lockjaw is not something one wants to experience in the throes of passion. But this is what happened: a hooker is dead, a good pair classic Pro-Keds have been torn to shreds, and I have paid the price by losing four months of my life, which I will never get back.

I can't say this has been an entirely awful experience. Thanks to my Haitian orderly, the man whose name I never learned but whose counsel I will never forget, I have come to understand that life does not exist for the purpose of gluttonous eating, a prideful need to self-promote, or a lustful zeal for attention. No, I have come to reject my slothful best buddy whose envy of my blog has unleashed his wrath and has opened me up to ad hominem attacks. Without sounding overly bitter, I must tell you how betrayed I feel by this friend. We will call him "EDL NAMBLA--charter member" for the purposes of clarity.

While my Haitian friend sponged my lower back sending a steady stream of warm soapy water down the contours of my ass and thighs to its terminus—a gentle pool of liquid on the center of my threadbare gray sheets just below my relaxed and dangling balls, he said something unintelligible yet at the same time uplifting. Since I don't speak Creole, his actual words meant nothing to me. What I heard, though, was prophetic.

“Mister Artie, if you can come to accept your own failings, you will begin to understand that right or wrong, good or bad, have no relative importance. The human life is as frail as a gosling’s feather. Now bend over so I can thoroughly clean your bud cheese.”

I did as he said to do and then cried the cry of Hemingway and Thoreau before me, a manly cry that signified neither sensitivity nor sadness, it was merely a literary device to spice up a rather mundane plot line.

I am too hardened to go on with my story. Perhaps I will continue at a latter day. I am back. I am well. And I look forward to hearing from you, my literary friends.

I am attaching a photo of my last day in the hospital, taken by one of Nova Scotia’s greatest photographers, groundzeroprodukt. Isn’t he the best!!!

I am still bed-ridden in the pic, my Haitian friend is in the white coat on the right.

2006-10-03T13:28:00.000-05:00

Bad Literature about a Great Man.

The young doctor ran his sinewy fingers through his dark wavy hair. He paused and sighed, measuring his thoughts; buying some time. His jaw was square, his teeth were white and straight, and his skin--dark and moist--was fertile ground for the black stubble of a 14-hour workday. He was all together a beautiful man: probably hated by his high school classmates, envied by his fellow med schoolers, and worshiped by his neighbors and everyone else without a Mercedes convertible and beachfront home in Stone Harbor.

His life was as smooth as China silk, but his body language at that moment was 60 grit rough.

I hate doing this, he thought.

Giving patients bad news is not something he was good at. Mostly, because he hadn’t had much practice. First in his class at Hopkins, a choice residency at the Mayo Clinic, an esteemed fellowship at the Cleveland Clinic—Young Doc had, indeed, faced adversity in his career. In fact, he was usually brought in on the most difficult cases. Yet for Doc, adversity was like a fertilizer: deepening his roots in medicine and blossoming his creativity for a solution. He was bad at delivering bad news, because he was so good at delivering good news.

But today would be different. For this case he had no answers. The patient had three boys--all blonde, all deeply in love with their father, all nervous and unsure of what would come next. They huddled on the bed around their father like survivors on a life raft, their limbs tangled, heads and hands everywhere, they struggled for real estate on the narrow mattress.

Doc thought of his own children, three girls, whose ages probably matched-up perfectly with these three kids. In order to gain some private time with his patient, he tipped the kids off to the ice cream in the doctors’ lounge freezer. “Help your self,” he said, “and feel free to watch some TV, too.”

As the children left, the patient could see the doctor’s hazel eyes turn a shape of somber. Lids lifted, eyes down, the patient could see in his doctor’s out-of-focus gaze a telegraphed punch of bad news. That is a merciful thing to do, he thought, giving me some time to brace myself before impact.

As the doctor began to preface his prognosis, the patient’s mind turned to a simpler time, when physical goals were measured by time and distance, not dogs and buns. His ears tuned in to the doctor as he transitioned his speech to the things that matter.

“Mr. Steakbellie, I am afraid there is nothing we can do for you,” he apologized. “Your intestines are hundreds of yards long and able to pass mountains of food, but only at a measured pace, only in reasonable amounts.”

“The eighteen hotdogs you ate in twelve minutes were just too much for your intestines to handle. Your stomach did its job. It expanded to meet the demand. But the food bottlenecked in your small intestine. It’s like a six lane highway full of traffic narrowing to a hiking path. Those Nathan’s are a jackknifed tractor-trailer to your system.”

“Mr. Steakbellie, and I’m so sorry to have to tell you this…” tears began to roll down the doctor’s cheek, he trembled with the next few words, “but you have to pass those hot dogs and buns on your own. I can’t help you. Eighteen hot dogs, you see, is a lot of food to eat in twelve minutes.”

Eighteen hot dogs are a real lot to eat in eighteen minutes.

2006-09-06T23:03:00.000-05:00

Feetsprints

One day at work I was asleep under my desk. It was OK, because I put on my schedule that I had a lunch meeting in Coney Island. Then I walked around the office that morning huffing and puffing. "Damn it, I have to go all the way to Coney Island for a meeting. Can you believe that?" I'm not sure anyone cared, just like they didn't care that I slept under my desk, but I want to be responsible. I want to be a team player. So I lie to them.

Anyway, while sleeping I had a dream. I was walking along the beach with Jesus as many scenes from my life flashed in the sky. As I watched the part where Terry Harkin, his brother Mike and I played strip spin the bottle in 4th grade, I also noticed two sets of feetsprints. Actually mine was a shoe print. I was wearing my new Merrill hiking boots which I bought at JDR Shoe Outlet for $54.

Jesus was handsome and black, like Denzel Washington only with holes in his hands and feet.

"Do you get angry that most images of you show a white guy with long hair, my Lord?" I asked of him.

"Look at the scenes from your life, my son. Besides, there probably shouldn't be any graven images of me, I think. I never was quite sure about that one."

"One what?"

"What?"

"What?"

"You said you weren't quite sure about that one. One what?"

"Oh, commandment.”

“Huh?”

“Just watch the scenes from your life.”

So I did as the Lord said, what he commanded, and wondered if that makes eleven commandments. I was unsure whether I could ask him if it was indeed eleven, though I imagine it must actually be something like the 14,688 commandment. I mean if Yahweh orders two Whoppers Junior (thanks Bill Safire) at Burger King does that count as one or two commandments?

Watching my life flash in the sky was pretty darn impressive. I was most touched by the scene of Dad and I sitting in the bar across from Shea Stadium listening to the eighth and ninth inning of the game. We never stayed for the end of the game. They cut off the beer after the seventh.

“Lord, did you have anything to do with that Bukner error in 1986? If so, thanks,” I said. I meant it too.

“I did, as a matter of fact. I was watching the interviews after game 5 and Roger Clemmens said his success was due to his improved slider. Not once did he thank the Lord almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, of all that is seen and unseen, for his Cy Young Award.”

“Black people always thank you first. I saw the Ebony-Jet Vibe Awards to satisfy a multicultural requirement in college.”

“That’s true; they do. That is why I want them in heaven first and thus subject them to poverty, violence, drug use, racism, disease, and a systematic genocide. They are my people. By the way, where did you go to College?” he asked.

“Montclair,” I answered.

“Ah, blessed are the stupid…”

As my life kept flashing before my eyes I was sad because Jesus never copywrited or trademarked all those cool things associated with him. If he had any business sense, he’d be so freakin’ rich right now even Bill Gates would worship him (I think Gates converted to Judaism in a failed attempt to get into Wharton back in 1979).

Instead of being a self-supportive Messiah, each Sunday we all have to kick in a few bucks to keep him in a good pair of sandals. I do get a kick out of my dad, though. He always checks the “Other contribution” on his church envelope and writes in “$500” in big permanent marker. He makes sure to drop it a few times before the offering, giving other people a chance to see what a big shit he is. Week after week he did this. Inside the envelop was a poorly photocopied picture of some lady’s ass. Damn Dad liked that picture. There had to be about 2,000 copies to be found all around our house.

“You didn’t do grunge very well,” He said, commenting on my Nirvana tribute band, Smells Like Teen Hormones.

“I thought all flannel was alike, and my hair wouldn’t lie flat like Eddie Veder.”

“Hmmm.”

Could you beat up superman?”

“Superman isn’t real.”

“So you say, but if he was real, could you beat him up? He had some pretty wild powers.”

“I could beat up Superman.”

“Batman?”

“Road kill.”

“Green Lantern?”

“I’d extinguish him.”

“How about Popeye?”

“He’s not a super hero.”

“Who said anything about superheroes, Lord? I just asked if you could win in a fight. Besides, you just proved yourself to be a stooge who is controlled by DC Comics and Marvel.”

“I’m nobody’s stooge. I’m the Lord.”

We kept walking, our silence interrupted only by Jesus’ commentary on Tom Cruise (he never should have fired his old publicist, and Elron Hubbard is actually a nice guy. Too bad he’s in hell.)

As my life continued to flash in the sky, the scene became the present. I was watching from above as Jesus and I walk side-by-side, holding hands in a non-gay way. It was all in real-time. I guess the FCC doesn’t control Godly visions.

When if first became apparent to me, I groaned from deep within. Disappointment and despair quickly overcame me. What had I been living my life for? Does Jesus not have my back? I needed to say something.

“Lord there is no feetsprints. No feetsprints. You say in the Bible (or was it Reader’s Digest?) that you would stay by my side no matter what, no matter where. You died on the cross for the forgiveness of my sins. I go to church each week and ardently believe garbage men, and not scientists, are the only people on Earth worthy of destroying embryotic stem-cells. And now I see that you have left me, no feetsprints!” I sobbed uncontrollably. My faith was not just shaken, it was smacked around and kicked to the curb.

“My son, you cry for no reason,” saidth the Lord. “The reason you seen no feetsprints, is because we are in the parking lot. There is no sand in the parking lot, hence no feetsprints.”

“Can I have a ride home, Jesus?”

“Sure kid, hop into my Hummer. I have Sirius and XM.”

“It must be good to be Jesus.”

“It is, kid, it is.”

2006-08-17T11:58:00.000-05:00

Note to Bloggers:
Avoid Clichés Like the Plague

Bring Me the Head of Charlie Brown

2006-08-17T11:11:00.000-05:00


Charlie Brown is on the run from the Peanuts Gang after the Great Pumpkin puts a bounty on his head in this wild animated student short by Jim Reardon.

2006-08-03T14:27:00.000-05:00

Thanks, Captain!

(One day late)

2006-07-30T20:55:00.000-05:00

The Truth

Steakbellie away
Vacation in New York State
Wife’s heart with Artie

2006-07-30T20:50:00.000-05:00

The Facts (Haiku)

Steakbellie’s all gone
Old Artie is in control
Blogs and Brats—all mine

2006-07-27T14:05:00.000-05:00

Writing Exercise # 2

Use these 10 words:

ivy, squat, mizzenmast, iguana, rivulet, muzzle, xerography, twosome, foyer, decibel

Extra credit for using all ten in the order given, and/or for creating a piece which uses all ten words in 75 words or less. 1,200 words max.

Dear Yale alumni,

Ivy League Schools can squat down and kiss my state-college beanbag. I don’t care if your forefathers rode proudly on the mizzenmast of the Mayflower; my dad crossed the border from Mexico by riding in a wooden crate along with a hacking and evidently horny iguana. Think your granddaddy was special for wearing a big belt-buckle and wooden shoes? Mi papi had to endure a rivulet of salamander semen on his journey.

Go ahead, muzzle me, you oligarchs. There are others like me ready to preach the truth. Get rid of one of us, and another two will reproduce: the xerography of social justice, I call it. You are portrayed as wholesome, but your desires don’t stop with a twosome; fucking people, all people not you, is a genomic trait. It’s in your over-privileged DNA.

By the way, Eli, you run this country like I get the runs from mole sauce: predictably and with the end result of everything going down the shitter. Is this what $40,000 a year tuition got you?

I concede I am not a refined person. What you call I foyer, I call a hallway. But what you call leadership, I call “can’t lead for shit”. Tune me out, if you want. Have your symphonies and espresso makers drown me out. Just remember, what ever you do, I’ll amp things up one more decibel

Better invest in a hearing aid company, because when I get through, I’ll have burst out your damn eardrums.

Si Se Puede,

John Radcliff Smythington
Amherst, MFA, ‘94

2006-07-26T13:57:00.000-05:00

A Must Read

So I've gotten into the business of eyeing and promoting new talent. Not in the Irene Cara--Fame way, but that's not a bad idea. No, I have found the universe's next great blogger. Bert Bananas. As best I can tell, Bert is 90 years old, hasn't left his home county in the last 20 years, and is a 4 handicap. All of those things are purely speculative, but I suspect he will tell you otherwise if he cares to.

Make sure to stop by his site and say hi. Tell him Unlce Artie sent you.

And definitely make sure you read his archives; there are some really funny commentaries, especially this one.

2006-07-25T10:54:00.000-05:00

Because Iris told me to....

Iris had one of these tagging exercises on her blog. I figure I'll do the same. Here is my life exposed for all to enjoy as breif snapshots of time.

Ten Years Ago

In was working at the American Red Cross in Philly. Living with Carol on Naudain Street and dating Liz. I still hadn’t completed my graduate degree, though I was only a class away. I was starting to make plans to attend the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, which turned out to be a blast. Likely, I weighed about 188 pounds, and though I had chronic back pain and exercised infrequently, I was still able to crank out 8-minute miles on the treadmill. I was 26 years old.

Five Years ago

I was planning my wedding, which was two months away. I was living with Barbara in a one-bedroom attic apartment in Oaklyn. We paid $500 in rent. Lot’s of free time in my childless world. I would spend several days a week at PSC and liked to get my coffee at Three Beans in Haddonfield. I was working at the same place I am now. I think I’ve gotten better at what I do, but I may be kidding myself.

One Year ago

One year ago was a Sunday, and chances are I was caring for the twins and playing with the Ruy-guy. The weekend was sandwiched in between meetings in Edison on schools and transportation and Monday’s market development in Delaware. In both instances I got a free lunch. Vacation would be but a week away. Not only would I enjoy the beautiful OBX summer, but my daughters would be christened at sunset at a beautiful sound-side church. I was also doing the Atkins diet for the first time. I melted away 20 pounds in two weeks.

Yesterday

I read an interesting article on the United States Patent Office which is now the American Portrait Gallery and part of the Smithsonian. It is an architecturally stunning building and serves as the focal point between the White House and the Capitol. I plan on visiting it next time I am in DC. I was supposed to meet my athletic trainer for an initial meeting yesterday but he canceled. That bastard will have to pay for the inconvenience he caused. I will eat a can of pinto beans before our next meeting.

2006-07-25T08:54:00.000-05:00

The Donald is losing it.

I just watched the Miss Universe Pagent and was greatly disappointed that there was not one contestant from outside the galaxy. What's up Trumpster, your flair for the self promotion does not extend beyond the planet Earth?

Miss Universe is fun. No talent needed. I am amused by contests that reward genetic superiority (OK, and maybe some surgical genius, as well). I guess Trump can get away with this because he is, well...Trump. If Hitler tried to organize a beauty contest, I imagine he would catch some flack. Then again, I am not sure Hitler's judges would be fair to Miss Israel.

By the way, Miss Puerto Rico won. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn't Puerto Rico a territory of the US? Is it fair that the US get's more than one entry? I think Guam might have had a contestant as well, so that makes three.

Given Puerto Rico's status as a terristory of the US, I wonder if Junior will invite Miss Universe to the White House. I know Clinton would.

2006-07-23T21:56:00.000-05:00

In Loch Loman's nave,
near the Abbey of Columbia
come the earthly bed of Wallace, Campbell and Doune before.

Here lies the boy of red tartan
and his mouth earns the pie.

Mossy cradle,
wooded nymphs:
an infant wails in hunger.

On Aberdeen's hills
a clan's blood washes over.

"Ne'er agin, me Celts,
O' Scotland calls fer ye whole."

From Bobby Burns' hand
it passed to him.
Neither words,nor fame.
Just a hunger.
Just a hunger.
Just a hunger.

A chit from Brittania.
Eat on, Macwing!

2006-07-20T13:26:00.000-05:00

Literally...

OK, this is a lame post, but I want to address the fact that many people use the word "literally" when they really meant "figuratively." Sorry to my elitist friends who consider this post close kin to Indians working at 7-11 humor, but this is Literally/Figuratively all I have to offer.

Let's play a game. I'll give you some personal claims and you decide whether they are true or false.

I literally…

…Shit myself when someone played a practical joke and pretended to rob me.

…Died in a hospital operating room.

…Choked on my own vomit after reading Smelmooo’s Tuesday’s Top Five.

…jumped for joy after a Marine recruiter told me I was qualified to enlist.

…cried after seeing Kurt Gibson on a Wheaties box

…ate a serving of ravioli that could have fed a family of eight.

…pummeled a guy into unconsciousness for giving me a bad advice.

…laughed so hard I began to hyperventilate.

…spent so much time in the library that a librarian offered me a cot to sleep on.

…risked my life attempting to steal a mannequin from department store.

…dumped over 500 gallons of toxic chemicals into the Delaware River

…Became the first person to pee in the university’s new swimming pool.

…sang my way out of a traffic ticket.

…begged my way into losing my virginity.

…sold more candy for a school fundraiser than the rest of my class, combined.

…, from the age of 8 to 16, watched more TV each day than I slept.

...lost thousands of dollars betting on college football.

2006-07-17T22:37:00.000-05:00

What did Smelmooo purchase for $2.23?

The great Smelmooo recently posted about a shopping encounter in which he received too much change. That is all well and good, but what I want to know is this, What DID Smelmooo purchase for $2.23?

2006-07-12T20:07:00.000-05:00

Is Popeye a superhero?
Well, he did have supernatural powers. I mean, I've been eating spinach for years and have yet to kick the ass of a bearded brute. He kept peace and order in his little universe, AND he had a uniform (navy issued).

Why does Marvel and DC get to decide superhero status? Isn't it time Popeye gets his due?

Maybe the great Birdy can chime in. Also, and I don't know a lot about comics, but how does Thor end up a superhero? Isn't he an actual Norse God? Are there other comics that use historical or religous characters as the hero. Is Jesus marketable?

2006-07-10T16:15:00.000-05:00

Writing Exercise #1

“Have you been laying eggs on my desk all week?” asked Delbert Smidge, his question as baffling as his taste in clothes, a gray satin jacket with an elastic waistband that performs a Heimlich Maneuver grip around his ample belly.

The jacket was so old that even the stains of cheesesteak grease and cheap newsprint had faded over time. For all his sluggish style, I must admit, circa 1983 fashion worked well for Smidge. Like his histrionic hairwhip, the jacket had the unintended consequence of revealing instead of concealing. It belong to him in the same unfortunate way that Bob Dole’s limp hand both explained his past and helped shape his present.

“I guess by you silence, you are either deaf or ignoring me,” Smidge snickered, his voice full of self-congratulation. He was a hostile and harsh boss. This was borne not out of some stern style of managerial excellence, but out of fear that his brother, who owned the business, might shut down the company and leave Smidge jobless. In six years, the business that Smidge captained had turned a profit just once.

Like Smidge himself, that old jacket no longer added value, but hung on for dear life, the beneficiary of someone else’s charity. Or is it the desperate need for a friend that kept both Smidge and the jacket so close?

Quite frankly, I was surprised that Members Only still has members, but any investigation on my part into the cult of 80s garb will have to wait. After all, it is only three days until the Concrete Technology Convention in Atlantic City, and if we are to make a lot of sales, we have to focus.

My name is Ramona, and I am Mr. Smidge’s Marketing Director at Beck and Call, a specialty advertising company based out of Keyport, New Jersey. You know, we are a company that sells all those giveaways that other businesses use to attract customers.
My title is probably more impressive than it is. I am Beck and Call’s only other employee. I answer phones (Smidge says he can’t be bothered), design layouts (I have an Associates in Design), and attend trade shows, which are our primary source for business (thanks to my flirtatious ways and 36c breasts).

Specialty Advertising has changed a lot in the six years that Smidge and I have been together. Why just last week, the company in Oaxaca that makes all those foam beer can coolers shut down their plant and will re-open in a month as North America’s sole provider of foam cell-phone holders that fit into your car’s cup holder.

The difference between the two products is more than the distinct diameter openings and the object it cradles. It’s about the future; about creating a need in a mind that doesn’t even know your product exists. Beer coolers were yesterday. Cell phone holders are tomorrow. And Smidge’s jacket is forever (hee hee).

“Boss, did you get the double-stick tape we need for AC?” I asked.

“But what about my question?”

“What question?”

“About laying eggs on my desk. Aren’t you curious about what I mean?”

Actually I was very curious. Ever since he borrowed from the library Catch-22 on audiotape, Smidge is always coming-up with these stupid questions. And I giggle as he carries on the witless banter with me. It is actually one of the things I like about the little shit: his inability to know when someone is laughing at him and not with him.

“I don’t have time, boss. I’ve got orders to fill and you still haven’t fixed the copier.”

“But these eggs, they aren’t ordinary eggs,” he giggled

“They’re not?” Damn, he drew me in!

“We’ll yeah they are…normal eggs, that is. But do you know what an egg is?”

Is he fucking serious? He asks me if I want to know what he was talking about and now I have to answer his questions?

“They are eggs, boss…from a chicken, I guess. Hey, did you order two rooms at the Econo Lodge? There is no way in hell, I’m bunking with you again.”

“They’re periods!” he exclaimed, gleeful and by the looks of the slight bulge in his Hagar slacks, maybe even titillated.

“What?”

“They are periods. Chickens drop eggs, just like you do. The eggs you eat are unfertilized chicken periods,” Smidge was red with excitement. “What I was getting at is were you on the rag this week, you know, laying eggs on my desk?”

I hope his brother does close this shit hole down. That little bastard makes me wear low top blouses at the convention, screams at me, and subjects me to listen to his douche bag comments.

Let’s see what kind of business he generates without me, when all he has is his lousy personality, bad hairwhip and that Goddamned jacket.

Fucking Smidge.

Fucking eggs.

Fucking Members Only jacket.

2006-07-07T05:57:00.000-05:00

Don't let the poop get to you (Redux)
(a short story about a friend)

It is a sad, sad story that needs to be told. He decided to give cross-country a try, knowing that there were many months until baseball season began and the conditioning might do him so good. As with most eighth graders, he approached the first cross-country practice with the laser-sharp intensity of an ADD kid without his Ritalin. But that would change.

Growing up in his comfortable South Jersey town, running was not the sport of choice for either the ambitiously encouraging parents or their under appreciative kids. Folks in his community could afford the hockey equipment, the basketball camps, and the private coaches; his parents were no different. Running, it was thought, was something you did to prepare and excel in another sport; it wasn't a worthy sport in and of itself. People in M-land where he lived weren't running to escape their abusive parents or crack-infested neighborhoods. These families all had cable with HBO and Showtime. They didn't want an escape, they wanted more time to watch Batman and still make it to the Flyers game sitting in their father's corporate seats.

The other fall sports failed to interest him. The star soccer players have been playing on traveling teams since kindergarten, the esoteric sports like crew were still a few years away from catching-on at the middle school level, and football was forbidden according to his over-protective mother.

So cross-country became a sport of last resort, but also a depository for his dreams of stardom. He watched the 1984 Olympics and saw what success did for Carl Lewis and Edwin Moses. Maybe he was to be the country’s next great runner. He did, after all, do fairly well in the elementary school field days. Granted, he knew nothing about the sport, a 3.1-mile race through woods and over hills and across uneven plains of grass. What he did know was that he wanted to succeed, to be a star.

His first practice began sharply 15 minutes after the final bell at school. Harriers were to get into their gym clothes and muster in the gymnasium for a pep talk from coach. Like many of his fellow classmates, he was not wearing the newest running shoe from Nike. He was outfitted with large boxy white basketball shoes that made his spindly legs even more awkward. He knew this to be the case, but he thought of Secretariat and Seattle Slew. They once were gangly colts themselves and needed time and the proper training to win. This stage, too, would pass.

The course they would run that day would take them around the perimeter of the middle school and adjoining high school. Coach wouldn’t run with them. He was heavy and unhappy. He wanted to coach varsity football but couldn’t land a job. He did this for the $1,500 stipend and nothing else.

The young runners, about a dozen in all, darted across the field at an unusually rapid pace. Arms flailed, legs swung haphazardly, and heads bobbed. It was obvious that everyone shared a few common traits. First, they had no idea how to run--the pace, the fluid motion, the economical strides, all lost on them. And secondly, they all wanted to be the best. If effort were results it would be a 12-way dead-heat for first.

He got off to a good start, all things considered. He wasn’t with the lead group (who would be walking in another quarter-mile) but he wasn’t with the back-packers either (they’d be walking in another quarter mile, too). The group he was with would be turning onto the high school property in a minute and the burning in his lungs convinced him that gold medals would not come without a little pain.

Hitting the long stretch that ran parallel to the soccer fields, he and his fellow runners glumly encountered their next obstacle. It sounded its presence on the heel strike and spread its terror through the harriers gasping mouths and noses.

The green, green fields they were traversing didn’t get so lush by accident. True to the community’s agricultural past, natural treatments were used to treat the grounds, and if he wasn’t again recalling Secretariat and Seattle Slew, he should have been. They were running through a field of horse manure.

The weaker yearlings around him already halted their strides, sensing that manure was like quicksand, the more you struggle the worse it gets. He would not be shaken-up by equine waste, however. Just he and another boy, an equally awkward kid who appeared more at home in a science lab than a dual meet ran shoulder to shoulder.

The course was now ¾ done and he was amazed at how a distraction like horseshit could erase the pain. Looking down at his shoes, now no longer white but a scuff-filled prism of brown to gray, he wondered what his mother would think.

As the flittering thoughts of a scolding mom came and went, he now thought bigger thoughts--of victory, triumph, and adulation…all things that would soon be his.

His pace quickened with anticipation of the finish and he gulped in oxygen as if it were golf balls to be swallowed. His running mate, super geek, was now but a shadow on the ground. He had fallen behind by several links and would not be a challenge today.

Knee lifts were getting higher, heels were hitting hamstrings, and oxygen debt was just a mere inconvenience for the next 45 seconds. He was in the homestretch.

Coach would probably recommend he run with the high school varsity, he thought, even though his races would be limited to the few schools that fielded a middle school cross country team.

“I’ll progress so much more with the varsity,” he gasped between strides. The finish was but 200 meters away. “Villanova’s good but if I really want to be great, I should go to Arkansas.” To him, it was not to early to think of colleges.

In actuality he floundered to the finish, but with his heart racing so fast he felt like one of those Japanese express trains: sleek and steel, silent and swift. With his final strides, he bounded in self-adulation. He had done it. He had finished first. It would not be his last time victorious, he thought, but there can only be one first, first. How could he mark the occasion?

Other students—cheerleaders, and dententionees waiting for the late bus started to stare at him in amazement. “Probably saw my finishing kick," he thought, hands on knees struggling to catch his breath.

Actually, it was his apple red face and back full of horse feces that engaged the other students. His shoes were now caked with muddy horse slop…an inch added to the bottom, a half-inch around the edges.

He couldn’t find coach outside so he hustled toward the locker room. If anyone beat him to the coach, it might be assumed that they finished first. He couldn’t let that happen. He worked too hard for this and wanted to reap the rewards: an ‘atta boy’ from coach.

Inside the locker room there was silence, except for the leaking faucet and hum of the air conditioner. The only sound he would hear was that of his own groan. A note was on the chalkboard.

I went home. Don’t mess up the place. See you tommorow (sic) --Coach

“Burning lungs!
horse dung!
rubber legs! s
mell like rotten eggs!
and now coach is gone!
what went wrong!

He would learn that the solitude and loneliness of running extends beyond the run itself and weaves itself into the fabric of one’s life. He needed more. Coach would not see him tomorrow or the next day. He would never return. His running career was over, and with it went the dreams of glory.

2006-05-31T15:08:00.000-05:00

New Business Venture a Success!

So this chick named Iris comes to my studio. She's the quiet-type--not prone to offer eye contact or a warm smile. She seems special, though. So I give her a chance to do some "modeling." Besides, I like goth. Goth sells in my world of Internet porn.

I am a business man. I employ two men, one with an incurable itch in his private area; the other a 30-ish year-old who thinks he is a bartender and constantly offers people drinks. Most people would consider these two not worth hiring, but I won't give up on them, not even when Itchy's asthma kicks-in during taping and his panting is unwelcomely audible.

As Iris mumbles to herself, "I'm doing this for Stalebellie...I'm doing this for Stalebellie," (whatever that is!) I can't help but feeling good about myself. I love giving young women the opportunity for fame and fortune. I am a pretty good director, too. I gave Iris her cues for disrobing and diddling. Doing this right is more of an art than a science, but I seem to have mastered the technique. My guess is the upstanding citizens who pay to view my web-site-- all with jobs, girlfriends/wives, and clean keyboards--appreciate my contributions to helping young women like Iris.

I felt so good about myself when she left. I imagine I made her day...maybe, her week, month or year! Not everyone is cut out for this type of work, but Iris has that special it. She'll be back; I know it. Underneath that dyed hair and heavy eye-liner lies the soul of a true performer.

She probably put my business card by the phone and plans on calling me for more work tomorrow. That happened, I imagine, only after she went out and celebrated her new career by treating herself to dinner or a nice drink.

I kind of see Iris an a TGI Fridays person, maybe a Starbucks-gal. Either way I am glad I could make her happy. I hope she never forgets the feeling I offered her today. Just one more way Artie Lange helps make the world special!

2006-03-03T10:17:00.000-05:00

2006-03-01T09:51:00.000-05:00

In Like a Lion
Here is letter number two.

The Honorable Donald H. Rumsfeld
Secretary of Defense
1000 Defense Pentagon
Washington, DC 20301-1000

Dear Secretary Rumsfeld:

Greetings from Philadelphia! It is not exactly Iraq, though there are some areas of town that seem like a few thousand bombs hit it.

My name is MacWing and I am a contestant in the nationally famous Wing Bowl, a competitive eating event performed at the Spectrum in front of more than 15,000 people. I am a true believer in what you are trying to accomplish and believe it is the duty of every American, even the illegal ones who cross our border and work at our restaurants, hotels, factories, construction sites, and Wal-Mart’s, to support our troops. Support our troops, I say, because they are on the front lines supporting us!

Anyway, Wing Bowl is a huge media event and will draw the attention of hundreds of thousands of listeners and viewers—most in the important male 18-24 demographic. I want to find someway to properly recognize everything you have done to promote peace through military action. You are a true patriot and think it deserves to be recognized. I’m not sure if you were in the military, but I imagine you must have been since you know so much.

I am a very big admirer of yours. When I found out you walked everywhere and carry around a pedometer, I went and got one myself. Too bad, because of your position, you can’t start a business and endorse a particular brand of pedometer. I bet you’d make a lot of money. If you are interested in this when you retire as Secretary of Defense, let me know. Maybe I can do a testimonial or something.

Back to my point. I am trying to find someway to recognize you, your sacrifices, and the way you have handled yourself at those press conferences (Wolf Blitzer can be really unfair!). I haven’t come up with a good idea yet (a paper mache statue?), but am working on it. I wanted to give you advance notice and seek your input to anything you’d might like to see. By the way, is there a chance I could get a picture of you? That would really be great and help a lot. You could autograph it or not, but if you do I am MacWing and not McWing. Also, you are more than welcome to come to the event if you wish. I get 10 free tickets and I’d love to bump my friend Rob since he is a Democrat and voted for that Draft Dodger John Kerry.

Thanks in advance for your help, but more importantly thank you for your contributions to making this country the greatest in the world, the land of the brave and the home of the free.
Sincerely,

2006-02-28T15:10:00.000-05:00

Please Respond Mr. President!
I wrote these letters for a pal. I'm not sure they ever saw the light of day, but think they are worth sharing. I'll post one a day. Enjoy!

The Honorable William Jefferson Clinton
William J. Clinton Foundation
55 West 125th Street
New York, NY 10027

Dear President Clinton:

In the 154 years since this great country was first formed, there has been only two great presidents: Benjamin Franklin and you. Allow me to introduce myself, I am MacWing, a competitor in Philadelphia’s 610am -WIP Radio’s Wing Bowl, a competitive eating contest scheduled for the morning of February 3, 2006.

More than 15,000 people attend Wing Bowl which is held at the CoreStates Center/First Union Center/Wachovia Center. I qualified for Wing Bowl by eating 2 pounds of Haggis in four minutes. Have you ever eaten Haggis? I imagine a worldly man like you has eaten Haggis. Perhaps you had it when you were a Road Scholar at Cambridge or at one of those State Dinners like the one in the movie The American President. By the way, do you like movies about the president? Which was the most realistic? Do you have a favorite? I love The American President. I think Annette Benning is really pretty and Michael Douglas is the type of guy I want to be when I turn 70.

Anyway, as part of Wing Bowl, I am allowed to have an entourage to enter the arena with me. It is a big honor since I am only allowed to have 10 people. I wanted to see if you wanted to join my entourage. Having a former President would be a real hoot. I imagine you would have to have the secret service with you, but I don’t think WIP would count those brave people as part of my group.

I know it must seem silly, for me to make this request, but like my wife tells our kids: you never know if you can do something unless you try. I figure I’d give it a try.

Thank you so much for your consideration. Sorry for the short notice but I just qualified.

Sincerely,

XXX

PS. May I have an autographed picture?

2006-02-25T10:10:00.003-05:00

There is a God and She is just

If you haven't yet heard the story of Jason McElwain, a senior at Greece Athena High School in Rochester, NY, I am so sorry for you.

With only four minutes left in the varsity basketball, Athena coach Jim Johnson signaled for McElwain to get in the game. Excitedly, he sprinted onto the court. In his haste he forgot to check-in with the scorekeeper.

You'll forgive Jason this transgression. You see, this was his first varsity game of the year. In fact, this was his first varsity game ever. Until that day, the 18-year old was the team manager, a kid whose unbridled love of basketball and his classmates and his unending enthusiasm shines incandescently on the dark wintry days of his upstate New York school.

Oh, by the way, Jason has autism. He didn't learn to speak until he was six. He spends his day in special ed classes.

The crowd was packed that night with Jason's classmates. They knew this was the first time the boy would wear a team uniform. His coach made no promises he would enter the game, but the crowd let the coach know their desire. The Jason chants started at tip-off and never died throughout the game.

With 4:02 left, Jason got the call. Getting to this point hadn't been easy for Jason. His autism is a condition that has made some people uncomfortable to be around him. Obviously the kids at Athena don't feel that way

"A couple weeks ago he missed practice because he was sick and you feel differently when he's not around because he brings humor and life to the team," says Athena basketball player Levar Goff.

Getting the ball on the right arc, Jason,--a runt of a kid, 5’ 7” and no more than 125 pounds--heaved a three point attempt, his chance to fulfill a dream, to score a bucket.

The ball was so far off the mark that it made pre-Iraqi intelligence look accurate. The gym groaned a collective groan and Jason, head in hands. back peddled on defense. The good hearted coach Johnson wondered if it was a mistake, playing McElwain. His apprehension got worse when Jason missed a lay-up their next time down the court.

Jason's father told Johnson not to worry. Jason is fearless, he said. He is not afraid to fail.

And fail, he wouldn't. Getting the ball at the same place of his first failed attempt, Jason pushed-up line-drive shot that rattled on the rim and then fell as the frenzied crowd’s excitement rose to deafening levels.

Jason was red with excitement. A fun-loving special-needs kid, his warm and accepting classmates, a kind and generous coach--this is a cast of characters and a story on par with Rudy (which, unlike the story of Jason, is heavily embellished).

But it doesn’t end there. He scored again (3 pointer), and again (3 pointer), and again (3), and again (3), and again (3). With time running out he lofted his last shot, with his foot on the line, it was a two pointer. It too went in.

Jason McElwain, the Athena High School Boys Basketball Team Manager, a kid who recognizes his handicap but refuses to bow to either its effects or the cruel prejudices it creates, scored 20 points in 4 minutes. It should be pointed out that the other team, while not exerting the defensive pressure of Duke, gave no freebies to Jason. He earned them on the perimeter. He made six of eight shots from three point range.

As time ran out, the students stormed the court; Jason was hoisted onto the shoulders of his teammates and eagerly accepted the adulation of the thousand or so people in attendance.

"This is the first moment Jason has ever succeeded and is proud of himself. I look at autism as the Berlin Wall, he cracked it," says Jason's mom, Debbie McElwain."I've had a lot of thrills in coaching and I've coached a lot of wonderful kids, but I've never experienced something like this ever in my life, you know other than my own personal family things. My emotions, I couldn't stop crying," says Athena head coach Jim Johnson.

Jason spent an hour afterwards signing autographs. His last nine days have been filled with interviews and children knocking on his door wanting to meet the star of Greece Athena High School. Disney has called about the rights to his story.

As someone else put it, “Because he is autistic -- Jason says he's used to feeling different. But never this different - never this wonderful.”

Wonderful, indeed! Wonderful for him. Wonderful for the rest of us, who continue to search for what Jason already has. Not fame, but a dream, a passion, a respect for the credo of “do unto others,” a credo that was rewarded dollar-for-dollar, bucket-for bucket, on that winter New York night.

2006-02-23T15:42:00.000-05:00

OK, OK. The great 25b suggested I put an end to the politicking and write more stories. I think he may have gotten overly turned-on by the sponge bath description from two days yore and that creeps me out. But I do value his opinion.

That said, I'd love to write more short stories, but unfortunately I am not that complete of a thinker and most of my ideas dig no deeper than Fox News reporting on Iraq. I wish I had Birdy's focus, but I ams what I ams (poop poop).

Oftentimes I will come up with an idea for a character, and before the words leave my lips, they evaporate from thought. Good ideas but gone ideas. Let's see what's going on in Artie's head; maybe a story will arise.

A guy who buys two identical lottery tickets, that way if someone else wins, he is guaranteed two shares.

A guy who proudly wears a WWJD bracelet, but always guesses wrong with regard to Jesus' likely actions (Jesus would steal that i-pod because music should be free, not something to be paid for).

A guy who becomes infatuated with eating contests. He alienates his family in the vain search of glory and is only saved after his youngest son gets run over by a car. Instead of getting help, the guy orders 60 Buffalo wings from his cell phone and then asks if the delivery guy could bring extra napkins for the blood (the kid lives).

A guy who becomes consumed with posting top five lists in his blog ( I know...I'm getting really weird!).

It really isn’t much, but like I said, I forget my ideas almost before I think them. Tomorrow is another day. Oooh, another one!!!

A 12-year old boy whose only goal in life is to get the title role in the musical Annie. I think I will go with this one!!!

2006-02-23T12:17:00.000-05:00

Man on the White Horse
Iraq seems to be slipping further and further into the abyss. Sunnis and Shiites are all but at war with each other; their common disdain of our actions has not been enough to keep them at relative peace.

Iraq, like the former Yugoslavia, is a mishmash of cultures that have battled each other for centuries. Also like Yugoslavia, it took a dictator to get things calm, and anarchy rose upon their leaving office (death for Tito, arrest for Hussein).

Is it too early to start discussing the partitioning of Iraq into separate countries? Can we begin to consider if a benign dicator is desirable or even possible?

I'd love to see an interim cost-benefit analysis of our endeavors. Question: if our costs continue to rise, will our objectives have to change. In other words, creating a Democracy might be good enough for $400 billion, but do we want total control over all oil at $2 trillion? I don't say that jokingly. At what point do we have to say f*** our principles, we need money, and their oil is our rich uncle.

I'm a big believer in "as circumstances require." I never would have went to war with Iraq and the radical Muslim world, but now that we are waist high in our own feces, should we peaceniks consider what actions we must take to make this worth it?

2005-10-27T14:59:00.000-05:00

For all you Rutgers Fans

Rutgers plays Navy this weekend. I thought I'd share a story I just heard. It speaks to the academic rigors of our student athletes.

The year was 1976, and a Rutgers freshman from Staten Island was doing pregame stretching on the grass of Navy-Marine Corps Stadium in Annapolis, Md.

Dino Mangiero, a tackle, began to scan the upper deck and the flags that decorated the stadium.

He began to mutter to himself, "Wake Island, Guadalcanal, Eastern Solomons, Georgia Campaign, Iwo Jima, Normandy."

Standing, he confidently announced to teammates, "Hey, these guys don't play anybody!"

Go Navy

2005-10-27T11:20:00.000-05:00

News Bulletin
This Just in…

President Bush was forced to cut short his visit to the Caribbean Island of St. John in anticipation of the imminent arrival of Hurricane Myagkeey Znahk. The president was visiting the island at the invitation of Exelon and General Motors who jointly sponsored the third annual Global Freezing Conference.

According to conference materials, the best way to combat the Jesus-created global warning phenomena is to turn up the air conditioner and buy Papal-Blessed Hummers. Stuart Smythe, founder of the conference, said the program was created to offset the Liberal, pro-terrorism, academic elite who like to confuse hardworking Americans with their empirical data, detailed climatologic charts, and scientifically-based projections of how changes in weather patterns will negatively affect towns, cities, and counties around the world.

“I get all my answers right here,” said Smythe while holding up a Gideon’s Bible. “Worried about flooding? Build an ark!”

Hurricane Myagkeey Znahk is the 374th hurricane of the season. Named after the 30th letter of the Russian Alphabet, Myagkeey Znahk is presently a category 5 hurricane and is expected to literally annihilate the island. Hurricanes are named by the World Meteorological Organization which follows a formula of phonetically naming storms using proper names alternating between male and female names. If all 26 pre-accepted English names are exhausted (once in the last 60 years), Greek letters are used, then French, then Chinese, then German, then Sanskrit, then Hmong, then Creole, then Portuguese, and finally Russian.

2005-10-24T07:38:00.000-05:00

The Anti-Schadenfreuder

This post serves as fair warning that I am about to reveal my wussy-sissy ways. That's right, ol' Artie is not afraid to admit that Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is one of his favorite shows. True, I usually watch no more than the reveal; after all, it doesn't take an hour to figure out that the beneficiary cares for unwanted AIDS babies and that building a house in a week is difficult. But those fifteen minutes I do watch can stir a week’s worth of emotion.

It's fulfilling to see good things happen to good people, and that all of life’s riches are not reserved for Lindsay Lohan and D-list celebrities. For those not familiar, EMHE producers find America’s unsung heroes—the soldier who lost his legs in battle, the foster mother to hundreds of children, the little girl with cancer who started a foundation to help others—and sends them away on a vacation while a team of builders, designers and community volunteers spend a frenzied week constructing a dream house.

In almost every instance, the deserving person/people have made sacrifices in their own lives so that others may benefit. For me, the stories of selflessness are engaging enough—the homes, I imagine, are rewards but not nearly as rewarding as the act of helping others.

I vividly remember my wedding rehearsal dinner winding down and the few stragglers remaining standing around a kitchen island talking about nothing too important. I’m not sure what provoked this remark, but the Amazing Blonde One expressed and confessed that she had one true love, and she bellowed it in a voice that let everyone within a five-mile radius aware of her feelings.

“I love Downs Syndrome!” she giddily shouted. “Downs is the best,” she later sighed obviously coming down from her euphoric state.

Now, I kid. I do know what brought forth this proclamation. It was her commitment to care for kids with special needs (including her husband)--along with her downing two quarts of cheap white wine. But perhaps her obvious inebriation, slurred sentences, and frequent groping of the groom-to-be lessened the impact of what is otherwise a very important message.

We get what we give. Big rewards await those willing to make even a small gesture of kindness. And we are in need of the opportunities to do something great.

A former boss of mine would repeatedly tell the story of the rabbit. In short form, it is a story in which a young man in search of God who travels into the dessert to speak with a monk who has lived a reverential life in solitude in the dessert.

Upon meeting the monk, the man asks how he is able to feel so close to God. Seemingly ignoring the question, the monk talks about a beautiful September day where he and his dog lay outside basking in the sun. His dogs keen senses spot a rabbit nearby, and after seeing the rabbit, the dogs takes-off after the furry creature, chasing him and barking all along. Other dogs, hearing the commotion join in the hunt and now several dogs are chasing the rabbit. As the chase continues and the terrain gets more difficult the other dogs drop-off, and eventually all that is left is the monk’s dog and the rabbit still running.

After sharing the story, the Monk leans back and smiles telling the young man that he has answered the question.

Perplexed the young man counters, “I don’t understand. What does your dog’s chase have to do with your closeness to God.”

Expecting that very answer the monk assuredly smiles, “ah, but you ask the wrong question. What you should have asked was why did my dog continue the chase while the other dogs gave up. The answer to that question, my boy, is that my dog saw the rabbit while the others were merely following the noise.

“Once you see the rabbit, you will never give up the chase, no matter how difficult the terrain gets. If you see the rabbit, you will never give up.”

I suppose that helps explains my love affair with Extreme Makeover: Home Edition; the Amazing Blonde One’s affection for kids with Down’s Syndrome; and countless blogs written by miserable people who are desperate to change jobs, change homes, and change their lives. It seems like those folks still haven’t found their rabbit.

Happy hunting.

2005-10-21T19:16:00.000-05:00

Free form

Who knew managing a blog would be so much pressure? The Gods of Time, Topic, and...well, Time just don't seem to be coming together. So, like the great Larry King, I will write my scategorical statements for all to read. My apologies for not being more prepared.

Universal Signs.

My plan to create a universal sign for “you have something on your face” doesn’t seem to be catching on. You know how pretending to write on one’s palm is the universal sign for “check please,” and hands around the throat means you are choking? Well, being the entrepreneur that I am, I saw a need for a new signal. Nowadays, people try to pinpoint the offending spot on another’s face by pointing on their own, and we, the offenders, are left to guess if it is a mirror image or if we should go to the opposite side. Moreover, we helplessly play a game of “you are getting hotter” as we carefully move up and down, left and right, with full attention on the other person, whose sole job is to lead us to the promised land, a smear of veggie cream cheese on our chin. My thought was to be more general with our signaling. Instead of attempting to laser-in on the exact spot of slop, I proposed a phalanx strategy in which we sweep the entire face and remove all unwanted matter. The key is to start at the hairline, pinkies touching, thumbs extended just above the ears. With one sweeping motion, the hands slide down the face towards the chin. No piece of real estate goes untouched and the pesky particle will have most certainly been cleared. I thought this would really work. I’m not satisfied with identifying a problem; I want to offer a solution. And the “Face Sweep,” as a universal sign, is surely better than the present method. That said, perhaps I am ahead of my time.

Green and Yellow

Yes it is true. For the past 28 years I have eaten only yellow and green M&Ms. The genesis of this trait goes back to the 1977 Notre Dame Fighting Irish Football Team and my strategy sessions in which green and yellow would be Notre Dame and brown, light brown, and orange would be USC. I would set up formations and run plays for Vegas Ferguson or Joe Montana. Notre Dame would always win. In the end, I could never in good conscience eat the opposition, even if it does provide a good metaphor. I’d usually give them away or throw them in the trash.

Now, to answer the questions I am sure you are asking yourself. Even though M&Ms introduced Blue (a Notre Dame team color), I do not eat them. It’s really about the streak now; the original reasoning seems a little silly at 36. I like peanut more than I like plain. I don’t eat the pastels or Christmas colors. People have tried to force me to eat other colors. I once had a girlfriend try to trick me into eating another color. I dumped her because of it.

Running

I would like to start running again. I am fat and out of shape, and I am growing impatient with my poor lifestyle choices. That said, what I need most now is patience. I am known to push too hard, too soon which usually leads to injury or burn out. I am stating this in my blog so you can all hold me accountable.

A bad idea

The great Steakbellie has taken notice of my historical posts and suggests I write the history of porn. This is a bad idea. Though I have the breadth of knowledge to do so, my depth of knowledge is sorely lacking. In fact I’ve never seen past the first 10 minutes of any x-rated movie. Go figure.

2005-10-19T15:26:00.000-05:00

If there must be nation building, then let there be Walker

On a weekly basis or so, I will share stories of historical figures who tickle my fancy. These essays will be painstakingly devoid of accuracy and fact checking, but will, nonetheless, allow me to share with you the story that has evolved (devolved?) in my mind. History is a wonderful field of study. I believe there is an aesthetic to the human story; an intrigue that can only be enjoyed with the knowledge that the story told is both unique and true.

William Walker is one of those historical figures whose story reads almost like the tall tales of Paul Bunyon and Pecos Bill. A man with a real hunger for adventure, Walker lived in the early 19th century staking his claims in San Francisco and eventually becoming a mercenary for hire. Nicaraguan revolutionaries hired him and his band of soldiers to help overthrow the existing conservative government. His insurgency encountered success when he captured Granada thus ending the fighting. Rather than taking his booty and moving on to new fights and skirmishes, Walker had a brilliant idea. He petitioned the United States to recognize the new government with the idea of annexing the small country. He made himself its president. He couldn’t have been much older than 30 at the time.

His tenure was short lived--even by Latin American standards of the time—but his actions in office are worth noting: he re-instituted slavery and made English the official language of Nicaragua (though I’m not sure how effectively it was implemented). A faction of neighboring countries who were threatened by Walker’s belligerence defeated him and drove him out of the country. Cornelius Vanderbilt, whose economic interests in the area were enormous, interestingly enough funded both Walker’s rise to power and his demise. And we though Halliburton was dangerous!

Walker is probably better known in Nicaragua where he is vilified and held up as the poster boy for American imperialism. In the US, nary a word is written of him in our history books. Sometimes the truth can be a bitter pill to swallow.

2005-10-18T07:44:00.000-05:00

Wilson's Revenge

There once was an aide his name Libby.
To a grand jury he told a fibby.
But the Times lass won't lie;
And his job goes bye-bye.
Gay sex at prison he will be.

2005-10-17T15:35:00.000-05:00

Killing two birds with one burning cross

I’m always looking for ways to bring people together. I don’t do the matchmaker thing very well as far as love is concerned; but, when it comes to finding areas of mutual self-interest, I must claim an uncanny power. You know, he cooks fries for a living; she drives a Volvo that runs on vegetable oil…presto! A match made in heaven!

Which brings me to my plan to bring our troops home and defeat Islamic-based terrorism (the rest of the terrorists will have to wait, while I think of my next plan). Simply put, send all US-born skinheads, Nazis and Klan members to Iraq. I figure they hate, among others, Arabs. Now, I am loathe sharing my plan with the Pentagon just yet since I fear these hate-mongering groups may kill indiscriminately and not focus on the terrorists. But as Dr. Phil might sarcastically ask of our present plan, “how’s that workin’ for you?”
Innocent Iraqis and soldiers are dying at the hands of terrorists, insurgents, and US-led forces everyday. Meanwhile, Nazi’s are living large, hating big-time, and planning demonstrations in Toledo, Ohio.

Let’s send these folks to Iraq. Transport them via the old slave ships and let them do the fighting. My guess is, in the end, the Klan, et al will lose, but in their deaths won’t we all win? And perhaps, we will get lucky and they will pick-off a few of the truly nasty folks in the process.

Can my plan work? What needs to be done? I can’t do this alone. In need your help.
Operation Burning Cross has begun!

2005-10-14T10:34:00.000-05:00

My intentions are not what you think.

Following the Colls Girls Field Hockey Team and eargerly waiting for Thursday's Star Ledger to see the Girls Cross Country rankings does not mean I am perverted or full of lacivious thoughts.

It is just that, right now, girls sports are more interesting.

Field Hockey is not something I knew much about until recently, and I still know very little. But I do know that Amy is awesome, that Katie rocks, and that Kristen is the best! Amy came over my house to hang with my babysitter this summer. She has white, white hair, and when I saw her in my house I was giddy. "That's Amy!" I shouted inside my head. Keeping my emotions inside seem like a good idea because high school girls don't usuaully have 36 year old groupies who don't also have a prime billing on Meagan's List.

The thing with this field hockey team is this: I come from a small town, and their success has a Hoosier-esque quality, nothing more. My wife points out that I took off from work once to go to her pre-natal medical exams; I left work early 5 times to see the Lady Panthers play. My wife's pregancy, I shamefully admit, was considered at-risk, to boot.

Now, girls Cross-Country has also tickeled my fancy as of late, mainly due to the introduction of Briana Jackucewicz. She was a phenom before she could spell it. I think she beat Joan Benoit Samuleson, 1984 Olympic Gold Medalist, at the age of 11. She holds the national junior record for 5000 meters at 16:43. Shedid that at age 13. The Junior classification includes kids up to 18. In other words she still has 5 years to better her record.

Anyway, I ran into her training at Brookdale CC and spoke to her dad for about an hour. He is a nut and is either training the next great runner or will destroy her body and soul by the age of 17. Thus, I follow her as I would a soap opera. But I am rooting for her to succeed. it would be neat to say I knew her when...

Go Briana and Go Collingswood! Girls Rule and Boys Drool!

2005-10-13T12:36:00.000-05:00

Inaugural post, hooray! I suppose I should use this space to salute my favorite inauguratee, President William Henry Harrison. For those not in the know, ole WHH is probably best known for his campaign's slogan: "Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too!" That refers to a battle in Tippecanoe, Indiana, where he defeated a fragmented group of Indians and took their land so that we could build McDonalds, porn theatres, and Purdue University. Tyler refers to his Vice Presidential candidate. I guess they received the same respect then as they do today.

Less known about William Henry Harrison is that he was president at all. His inauguration speech was the nation's longest (1 hour and 45 minutes) and his term in office, the shortest (30 days). The day of his swearing in was a miserable day (not just for the Democrats and Federalists, but weather-wise, as well). Ol' Tippecanoe stood in the snow, sleet and cold weather for hours after his speech to greet well wishers, and he did so without a hat or coat. He caught pneumonia and died one month into office.

I'm not even sure he had time to bang an intern or come under indictment.

Let's hope this blog has more promise than our ninth president of the United States.