Thursday, March 29, 2007

From The Old Stone Cross
William Butler Yeats (1865 - 1939)

A statesman is an easy man, he tells his lies by rote.
A journalist invents his lies, and rams them down your throat.
So stay at home and drink your beer and let the neighbors vote.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Celebrity Haiku, Vol.#18: Spring Training Edition

私は最もよい beyocthes によ

ってストン示す私に moula をで

ある Red Sox を愛する

-Daisuke Matsuzaka

Go Red Sox; Yankees Suck.

Last Ice Fishing of the Year 3/24/07

5 Things you'll do at Camp that you'd You'd Never do at Home

1. Make a distinction between 'breakfast beer' and 'regular beer'.

2. Buy Swisher Sweet cigars, when perfectly good cigars are right there next to them on the shelf.

3. Completely neglect your toothbrush and floss for 2 whole days.

4. Go to bed with the same pair of wool socks you wore in your boots (okay, I do that one at home sometimes).

5. 4 Food Groups: Bacon, Onions, Lil' Debbie's, and Beer.

5a. Did I mention Beer already?

Man, was that ice mealy. Never have I driven a snowmobile and left a water wake. Good time, good Togue, good Trout, good God, let's eat. Next trip, I am wearing my waders and standing in the water waving a stick.


Friday, March 23, 2007

So Much Great Music - So Young, The Year

I have to be honest, last year it was pretty hard coming up with a top ten, never mind a flippin' top twenty CD's.
This year has already lay witness to a pleathora, nay a cornucopia, nay a veritable shmorgasboard, nay a shitload.....well.... you know what I'm driving at. We have already seen the following contenders for "album of the year" with a mere 9 months left of 07.

The Shins - "Wincing The Night Away" : The third release from James Mercer and co. putting an exclamation point on that musical hatrick.

The Arcade Fire - "Neon Bible": Hype? Only time will really tell.....but while you're waiting for this wine to age to see if it turns ..... right now it's going down pretty sweetly.

If you like Big Star (and who doesn't?) and Cheap-Tricky power-pop goodness . . . the two latest releases from The Broken West - "I Can't Go On, I'll Go On" and Grand Champeen's "Dial T for This" are two EXCELLENT examples of everything that is right with indy rock.

Ladies? Perennial Faves Patty Griffin and Lucinda Williams have very strong releases this year as does "The Innocence Mission with "We Walked In Song" a number one contender if there ever was one. If you are not familiar with the Innocence Mission . . . you need to remedy that pronto tonto!

It's too early to tell if Modest Mouse have topped themselves with their latest release, but if you've heard the single "Dashboard" and it isn't stuck in your head . . . well... then you haven't heard it.

From the great Uncle Tupelo, The Son Volts and The Wilcos will duke it out for musical superiority this year releasing "The Search" and "Sky Blue Sky" respectively. What I've heard of "Search" is pretty good, but I have to give it to the soul-stirring Wilcos with their best release since "Being There".

I've also heard snippets from forthcoming discs by Fountains Of Wayne and golden voiced Grant Lee Phillips, both showing lots of promise.

If none of these do it for you . . . there's always that "Chinese Democracy"

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

I am Sparticus!

'I am Sparticus '... 'No, I'm Sparticus' ... 'No wait, I am Sparticus'...

Well, all you loyal readers of SBL#178 know that I've been following closely the trials and tribulations of Brittany and K-Fed over the last year or so. I had really thought that Brit was over Kevin and was getting her shit together. Then the news broke last month of her latest rash of 'peculiar' behavior in the public eye. As you now know from the tabloids, the over-rated entertainer, erstwhile Mousekateer and pole-dancer, evidentally in a meth induced jaunt with her harlot homey Lindsay Lohan or something, had caught an express train to Crayzee-Towne and, amoung other things, shaved her head and checked herself into rehab in Malibu. Big suprise, right?
Well, today, a mere month later, on the radio news, I was giddy to find out, she was checked out of this chi-chi drug rehab 'resort' totally cured. Must be a miracle. I'm sure whatever problems she had going on were mostly acute. Obviously, the girl doesn't have any issues or anything, right?
Got me to thinking, though. As you readers may know, I happen to work in the Human Services industry, or the 'helping' professions. It's my job to counsil folks in their times of trouble, just like Brit has been wallowing in recently. When families in the State of Maine are in need of social services, it's up to good decent liberal types like me to provide services at a bloated and inefficient cost, paid for by the taxpayers. As you probably also know, as astute observers of current events, the State and Federal Gub'mint is trying their level best to save money on these mportant services by eliminating them or relegating them to faith -based programs, i.e. free or cheap. Given Brittany's recent breakthrough in treatment, however, I have an idea for Jim Beougher, now in charge of reforming Maine DH/HS. Instead of paying knuckleheads like me to prolongue and perpetuate reliance on the system, why not cut our positions and send all the poor bastards to that place out in California Brit went to for a speedy and complete treatment. Sure it'll cost a bucket of money at first, but shit, ONE MONTH: I can't compete with that. Hey, 50 million celebrities can't be wrong.
I'm sure Brit would agree.
Somewhere in Cootersville La., K-Fed sips the sweet wine of vindication.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Joke of the Week Volume #42

Jesus, it's been a slow week. It must be nearly fly-fishing season, id'nit?

So, this guy was sitting around the house, reading the paper, when he hears the doorbell ring. He gets up and answers the door. At first, he doesn't see anyone out there, but soon he hears the small sound of someone clearing their throat. He looks down at his feet and there stands a small snail. The guy curses and kicks the snail hurdling off his step. "Stupid snail", he says.

A few weeks later, the same guy is sitting around the house, watching TV, when the doorbell rings. He gets up to answer the door. At first doesn't see anyone at the door. He hears the small sound of someone clearing their throat, and he looks down. At his feet stands the same snail from a few weeks previous, who says, ......(wait for it) "Dude, what was that all about".

Get it? Cuz' snails are so darn sl...

Oh, never mind.

Okay, since it's just after St. Pat's, you get a bonus joke told to me by ol' Muddah the other day:

Q). What's the difference between an Irish Wedding and an Irish Wake?
A). One less drunk!

Saturday, March 17, 2007

Happy St.Patrick's Day Yerself!

We could use a good man like St. Patrick around here these days. What with his miracle driving the snakes out of old Eire, maybe he could drive some of these UMaine idiots out of Orono so I could at least drive down to the Package Store a little bit easier.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Erin Go Braggin'

Around this time each year, whilst I prepare my St. Patty's day menu, listening to my sweet Irish mix CD and watch countless documentaries on the History Channel regarding the plight of the early Irish immigrants, I am struck by two nagging questions . . .

1. Was that a run-on sentence? and
2. How Irish am I?

With a name like ****** you would have to figure "not much," but au contraire mon frere, which I believe is French for "You may or may not be full of shite O'mally, let's have all our facts first!"

My "Ma" was the daughter of A***** (where I got my middle name) Kenney (now deceased) who hailed from A*****e Ireland, so no questions there. Her Ma, however, one A*******es (also deceased) of Newfoundland used to claim Ireland as her ancestral home due mostly to the fact that she was born on St. Pat's Day and enjoyed the occasional bowl of Lucky Charms. This desire, no matter how genuine, seemed about as wonky as a protestant's claim to eternal salvation. As we Irish are wont to say "Yer either in or yer out!" The question here remains, "What percentage of ME is wont to say the aforementioned?" I'm getting to it! "The devil is in the details" is another thing we like to's not really applicable here, but we still like to say it.

At a recent family get-together my Ma informed me that she had been in touch with a cousin of hers from California (not deceased). He had been studying the ***es family tree and discovered that the very first ***es in Newfoundland was "banished" from IRELAND for ... get this . . . . KILLING an English Lord. My heart leapt for joy as I exclaimed "Calhoo Calhay!" for we that are of the Irish decent are all aware that the only thing we prefer to the "Guinness and Whiskey" coursin' through are veins is the pure Irish blood.

So the answer dear readers . . . a little more than I was.

Happy St. Pat's Sufferin' Bastards!

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

„Ich bin Theodoric, Visigoth Meister vom Reich von Mordor. Du sind Eragon vixens jetzt mein Vergnügen schuftest"!
„Hee hee, ooh ya Theodoric, bist du so tapfer und meisterhaft. Du bist der Meister deines Reichs“!

Joke of the Week: One for the Ladies, 3/14/07

(Submitted by my Duck-Hunting Homie, Chippy McKnight. A Classic.)

You can use any ethnic group you mean to disparage, but, since it's near St. Patrick's Day, let's say for argument's sake....

There were these two Irishmen, one day,just blown into town from the Northwest Counties, fresh off the farm. They hadn't a clue, and between them they only had about 10 dollars in their pockets. They were sitting on the curb, outside the local pub, wondering what a couple of County boys could do with only a Saw-Buck betwixt 'em. So, after a spell, ol' Seamus sez to his partner, 'Connell, m'lad, I've gotten m'self an idea. Give me the Tenner, and I'll be right back'. He takes the last of their money and disappears into a Pharmacy. In a few minutes he comes back out with a big bag in his hand. Eager for news, Connell comes up to Seamus and excitedly asks, 'Seamus, old sod, what've you got for us'? Seamus pulls from the bag an extra-large sized box of Tampons. Aghast, Connell loudly laments, 'what in the bloody Fuck are we gonna do with a fookin' box of Tampons'? 'Look here on the back of the box', Seamus shrewdly replies, 'you can play tennis, go horseback riding, go swimming, bike-riding....'


Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Monday, March 12, 2007

Holy Crap! I've tapped another rich vein!

Read and enjoy the laughter that is sure to follow . . . .

Friday, March 09, 2007

A little long.... but stick with it for comedy gold

'I feel robbed. I feel duped' It took 15 years of therapy to haul 70s superstar David Cassidy back from the brink. Jan Moir reports David Cassidy is older, shorter, odder, tougher, richer and crankier than you might imagine. When the shouted goodbyes of departing customers disturb the afternoon serenity of the hotel cocktail bar, he stops talking and looks at them, appalled. "Are they not conscious of themselves?" he says, tensing. "God, I hate people in my face like that. I mean, back off. Go away. Go into the next room and close the door." Does he ever remonstrate with others in public? "What? Yeah. In a minute. In a second. My own personal space is very protected. I don't allow people in." Well, I can see that. The Cassidy barriers are not high but they definitely run deep, the entrenched legacy of over 35 years in the public eye, most potently as a pop idol who drove millions of little girls wild. Back in the 1970s, in his pooka shell necklaces and appliquéd dungarees, Cassidy was a worldwide sensation; the limpid-eyed receptacle of a million schoolgirl crushes. But hey, as he would say, that was a long time ago. Today, at 56, he is the kind of take-charge guy who is hyper-aware of the effect he is having on others, and always in control of himself and the situation. "I can't put my arms around that," he says, when anyone in his entourage makes a suggestion he does not like. "Too intrusive," he tells me, in response to a question about money. "No way," he says, when I ask if it ever gets boring singing I Think I Love You for the thousandth time on his millionth comeback, or farewell, tour. "I am not, as you put it, like a fly trapped in amber. Not any more. That's for sure," he adds. We meet in the depths of the Dorchester in London, where Cassidy is staying during this promotional tour to publicise his new autobiography, Could It Be Forever?. Dressed all in black, he looks fit and well, probably in good shape from horse riding, about which he is passionate. Despite the lush gloom of the bar, the protective shields of his tinted glasses are up and on, and his breath smells of minty mouthwash. Like the old pro he is, he is also wearing make-up for his photographs; a cladding of foundation, plus mascara on his upper lashes, which also look as if they have been curled. When he was 29, he had an operation to remove the fat from the bags under his eyes, but since then, he says, nothing. "Not even Botox. If you look real close, I have a lotta lines. Go on, have a feel," he says, removing his glasses so I can pat his sticky cheeks. Doing this, I notice that in profile, with his lipless smile and receding hairline, he looks more like a tanned tortoise than a former pop star. It is not polite to mention this, of course. Instead, I tell him he looks like a cross between Bono and the actor Ray Liotta which, oddly enough, he does. "Whaaat? Ray? I know Ray. I don't look like Ray. A lot of people say I look like Clint Eastwood." Whaaat? I look hard for a glint of Clint but instead can only see a face that would look perfectly at home peeping between some heads of lettuce in the vegetable patch. Perhaps it is time to move on. Could It Be Forever? is not Cassidy's first autobiography, but it is his most candid to date. Weighing in at nearly 400 pages, it is a great, big brick of a book, padded out with testimonials from the likes of Petula Clark ("David is a perfectionist and so am I") and his 16-year-old son, Beau ("He's my dad and I am darn proud of it"). Although not particularly well-written, the book does tell a gripping tale of fame and fortune found and lost, and one man's struggle to reclaim his sanity and sense of self. It makes him sad when I say that I found the dominant tone of the book to be a melancholy one. "I did not intend it to be sad; I just wanted to tell the truth," he says. "The last thing I want is for people to think that my life has been sad. It has been blessed. I mean, my God. I don't dwell on the bad bits. I just don't." In 1970, Cassidy was a young actor trying to make it in Hollywood when he was co-opted into a saccharine television show called The Partridge Family. In essence, they were the bubblegum answer to the Von Trapps and from the beginning the savvy, 20-year-old Cassidy had his reservations about the role. In real life, he was a hippy who lived up in Laurel Canyon, smoked dope and dreamed of playing dark, sophisticated dramatic roles or being the next Jimi Hendrix. "I mean, I had played a killer in Bonanza," he says. "I was doing OK." Figuring that The Partridge Family would flop anyway, Cassidy signed on as Keith, the squeaky clean elder son, and also signed away all his rights to his image and his recordings. What did it matter, he figured? The "crazy" show was going to flop anyway. Of course, the Partridges went on to be hugely popular all over the world, and catapulted Cassidy, the show's heartthrob, into a toxic level of fame that has rarely been seen, before or since. On the back of the show's success, he launched a solo pop career. Hits such as Cherish and Could It Be Forever? anointed his global dominance and his popularity soared to an extent that today's pygmy stars, such as Robbie Williams or Britney Spears, can only dream about. At the height of his powers, Cassidy was the highest-paid solo performer in the world, breaking concert box office figures in America, Australia and the UK, and selling over 25 million copies of each of his singles. In the four year period from 1970-74, he made over $8 million, a fantastical sum at the time. Yet he ended up with almost nothing, ripped off by a serious of duplicitous business associates and poorly drafted contracts that did not protect him. Very few stars have risen so high, but ended up with so little, or been so keen to flee from the spotlight. When a fan was killed in the crush at one of his London concerts in 1974, Cassidy retired from showbusiness and went into a long, mental decline. Two marriages failed, and he relied on the spare rooms of friends and the help of psychiatrists to get him through. Now, he feels that part of the problem was that he never quite got over being abandoned by his father when he was only three years old. Therapy was his saviour, even if one sometimes wonders if he will ever be able to truly relax on the sunlit uplands. "Fifteen years on the couch helped. Woow! I have done so many different approaches to how to peel the onion; different types of analysis and self-examination. Even Reikian breathing technique. I mean, my God. Pant, pant, pant, pant, woof, woof. Like a dog. I did some weird things once or twice, but I never got into primal screaming like my friend John Lennon did," he says, in what must be the most delicious namedrop of the century. Lennon, says Cassidy, was really into transcendental meditation but felt that "the Maharaji was bullshit, he saw through all that but thought the TM technique worked." Why did he end his therapy? "You know, a lot of teardrops fall on that couch. I was clinically depressed. Not suicidal, just very lost," he says. "I didn't really decide to end it, I just kinda got happy. Now I feel healed. I have a scar, it is tender, but it does not hurt any more. I can talk about my father and ex-wives without getting... hurt any more." Now happily married to songwriter Sue Shifrin, he dotes on their son, Beau, and his 20-year-old daughter Katie, from a previous relationship. "We are all like this," he says, crossing his fingers. There is much to admire about Cassidy, who has done well to pull himself back from the brink and live his life without bitterness. He has rebuilt his fortune by creating Las Vegas shows such as The Rat Pack Is Back! - much copied around the world - and by shrewd investments. Capable of still producing an emotional crumple in middle-aged female fans who can still remember all the words to How Can I Be Sure, he tours and sings the old hits because people still want him to. Somehow he survived the long-haul damage of 1970s pop celebrity and remained respectful of his fans - unlike those, such as Gary Glitter and Michael Jackson, who went over to the dark side and took advantage of them instead. "I thank my fans for everything," he says. Signing autographs in a bookshop this morning, they thanked him, too, even if some of their motives were not as wholesome as they could be. Cassidy hates it, he says, when something he has "personalised" ends up on eBay. "I feel robbed. I feel duped. How could I not? You know, people have tried to profit from me my whole life and it still makes me feel cheap," he says, nodding his old tortoise head. "I can't put my arms around that. At all."

Happy Birthday BFC !!!!!!

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Mein mein OH-, das ist ein grosses“!
„Ja, ist es ein lalapalooza gut“!“

Celebrity Haiku Vol. #70: Live from New York

Per request of Muddah, who notified me the other day that the anniversary of his death was coming up. One of our favorite comedians growing up.

I owe it all to

the little chocolate donuts

cocaine, anyone

-John Adam Belushi

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

Salad Days, Volume #48: Toledo Friends of the Opera

The following exerpt is taken without permission from my forthcoming novel, tentatively titled, 'Men have a Penis and Women Come from Bars', or, Everything I Ever Needed to Know, I Learned on the Job-Site', availible on Flybynyt Publishing.

It was the best of times, it was the best of times, to paraphrase Dickens. It was, as it always was, some time in the early mid-80's, and me in my natural prime was still working the trade with some of my most esteemed cronies in Uncle Frank's ZVI Construction Rolling Thunder Revue and Commercial Construction Contractors. We were, in this instance, in the highly urbane and sophisticated environs of Toledo Ohio, along the Great Lakes and the majestic banks of the Maumee River. We were holed up in a low grade Motel called the Westgate, on the less reputable side of town, because, and I am not making this up, there was a really big women's bowling championship in town, and all the good hotels were booked. The best perk about the Westgate was that it was near the job-site, the rooms could be rented by the hour, and and we got Porn channels for free. Also, as we came to find out, the manager was a drinking man, and he didn't mind buying.

After settling in to the Westgate, the job was going along swimmingly in the usual manner, all things considered. This was good, because the trip out to Toledo from the home office in Boston had gotten off to a less than auspicious start. On the way there, for example, our caravan had gotten separated somewhere in Buffalo, when yours truly, distracted from a wicked contact high from my weed-smoking passenger and co-worker Greggy, who was puffing on a fatty the whole trip, followed the WRONG panel truck all the way into the heart of Buffalo, into a gas station, before I realised, 'holy fuck, that's not Uncle Frank'!

Wait, let me retrace a bit. Perhaps you should take a minute and get to know some of he ZVI Construction 'Rabbit Killers'. I believe this would help you appreciate my position. Of course, there was Ol' Uncle Frankme, Top-Hatted ringleader of this underpaid, under talented band of 20-something knuckleheads who got to be paid $10 per hour to travel the country and drink, under the auspices of construction work. He was the man who really knew better, but somehow was still out there on the road, despite himself, if nothing else, out of obligation to all our Mom's to keep our asses out of jail. Then, of course there was Stu Augenstern, alias 'Auggie the Blade', or 'the master of the Idle Threat'. Stu was about 5' 1' and 140 lbs. ringing wet. But when Stu was teased, or drunk, he was often want to throw out ridiculously unlikely threats, way out of proportion to his ability to implement, like, 'I'll cut you a new asshole', or, 'I'll cut you 4 ways, fast, wide, deep, and often. See, Stuey carried a knife. Right. He carried a knife in the same sense that Barnie Fife carried a pistol. Anyway, beside Frank and Stu, there was Greg Liberty. His claim to fame was that, in 1969, he drove from his home town of Linneus Maine, with his first wife, in his VW micro-bus, to Woodstock N.Y. to attend the big show. Oh yeah, and at this time, he was also doinking his first cousin Wanda, and the bastard once sent me in to a one-hour photo shop in Chicago to pick up pictures of him and his paramour, nekked as God made 'em, doing who knows what, embarressing the bejeepers out of me in front of the hot photo-shop attendant. I swear, I don't make this stuff up. Greg was the guy who got me stoned on the trip out to Toledo in the first place, from the Bob Marley Spliff he was smoking with the windows rolled up. Anyhow, beside these two mooks, there was Mark Cote, also known as Animal, the mad Potugese mellanzana described in earlier episodes, his Italian partner Joe Paglioni, and my old cousin Billdo, from Florida. Of the group, Joe was the only guy on the crew who seemed to have a fucking lick of sense. That I'm not even too sure about. Rounding out the team was the guy from the head office, sent out to check on us, name of Gene LaFrancios. The only thing I remember about Eugene is that he crashed his rental into and through the hotel room door one time, and he had a penchant for cocaine. Along with yours truly, that rounded out the crew.

So, as I said, things were going along well. We were building the store, and we were coming in on budget thanks, in large part, to Frankme bribing the living fuck out of the Fire and Building Inspectors. We had secured a really good 'package store' in the neighborhood that sold 'Old-Style' at about $2/six-pack and, like I mentioned before, free porn. Life was good. One particularly fine Saturday morning, Greggers decided sitting around the motel room drinking beer and watching porn wasn't good enough. He wanted adventure. He had brought to Toledo, strapped to the roof of his 'Weed-mobile' a 16 foot canoe, with which he intended to navigate the mighty Maumee River. He asked me if I wanted to come along. I had already forgiven him for the '1 hour photo' incident and since he had the bag of Ginch and a cooler of Beer, and a plausible plan, I decided to go. A friend with Weed is a friend indeed, I alway said. At least, I thought, he could regale me with stories of his trip to Woodstock. We get to the river and have a marvelous day out on the water, dodging Barges and Oil Tankers in our little canoe, absorbing the magnificent sky-line of Toledo Ohio, and waxing philosophic. But after an afternoon of this our cooler was empty, and we were pretty sun baked, so we decided to shizzle back to the Hizzle for a night-cap and a nap. When we got there, the rest of the fellas were getting shined up for an evening on the town. The plan for the night: Booze Cruise. Our Motel manager friend knew some people, and he and the crew were going to do a night water cruise of the Maumee River and out into Lake Eerie. Sounded great, except the fact that Greggers and I were already pretty well polished at that point. Coincidentally, so were the rest of the crew. It seemed that while we were plying the silky waters of the Ohio Vally, the rest of the crew were plying the hospitality of Tom, the motel manager. Did Iention I loved this Westgate Motel?

Anyhow, one of Tom's friends was mostly sober and rode us downtown, and we find ourselves down on the waterfront, loading onto some sort of Mark Twain looking craft, with big-assed paddle wheels, if I'm not mistaken, which I could be. All of us grungy construction types sallied up onto the craft, mostly wearing the ususal array of filthy t-shirts and ripped dungarees, basball hats and two day beards. For some reason though, Greggers was wearing some sort of outfit, which I think was a matching set of red and black flannel pajamas. I don't actually think I'm making this up. Anyhow, even for Toledo, home of the Toledo Mud Hens and Jamie Farr of M*A*S*H fame, we looked like a bunch of friggin' hillbillies.

Well, one drink led to another and about half way along our aquatic journey we started getting hungry. Stu had taken a quick reconnoiter to the upper deck, and had reported that there were hors'd'ouvres up there, and they smelled really fucking good. He offered to go up there and cut someone a new asshole, but Cousin Bill was able to calm him down. So Greggers, the drunken, stoned, cousin fucker, wearing the plaid p.j.'s takes the lead and suggests we go on up there and commence to bogarting said snacks. However there happens to be some sort of high falootin' private function going on up there, he says. But who's gonna notice if we mingle and enjoy a few snacks. Well, to be specific, the private function on the upper deck happened to be the 'Toledo Friends of the Opera'. This was, in it self, surreal: to hear Toledo and Opera in the same sentence seemed a bit incongruous. But hey, snacks are snacks. To make a long story short, after about two platefuls of stuffed shrimp and scallops on a toothpick, it was readily obvious to any one wearing a tux that we were no friends of the opera, Toledo or otherwise. Somehow a summons of the Captain was made and it was gently requested that we leave the upper deck immediately. To be honest, I think there was a somewhat seious discussion of throwing us over board, if Greggers didn't cut the shit.

So the night kind of went on about like that from there. The cruise was pleasant enough , except the0 part about almost getting keel-hauled. After, we ended up going to a strip club ( you knew that was coming, didn't you?), but there was some kind of fight between some of us who wanted to go back to the room, and some of us who wanted to hang around and meet some of the entertainers. What I remember is me and Ol' Joey Paglioni staying then hitching a ride from downtown and getting picked up by a couple of deaf girls. I swear I don't make this shit up. Either that or the benefiicial effects of the last two strip club shots had rendered me inaudible. No, I remember now, it was two loveley hearing impaired girls who were ever so patient with my and Joe's drunken asses and not only drove us to the west side of town, but arranged to meet us for a double date for the next night. It was all a bit bit Jimi-Hendrixy at this point. Anyhoo, me and Joey P. get back to the room, wake up Greggers, have a night-cap, and look back on our busy day. We didn't see how we would have changed a thing.

I rememeber thinking to myself, the next afternoon, as I was hiding out in Tom's office, hung-over, slouched behind his desk, hiding from some double-date that I had arranged with two nice Ohio girls; Jesus Christ, to think I could have been working today.

Sunday, March 04, 2007

Are ya' one, are ya' two, are ya' three.....

Considering the impending birthday of Founding Editor Bigfoot Chester, this might be an apropos present, considering how many birthday spankings it'll require to count.

Friday, March 02, 2007

Rock and Roll All Night and Party Every Day...

I discovered a new feature I can use on the Blog, today: I simply label an entry to fit a certain category, for example, 'Celebrity Haiku'. Then when you read the latest entry, and if you like it, you click on the label at the bottom of the post, and you will find other similar entries, for example, more Celebrity Haiku. I have taken the liberty of labelling Daddy's entries as 'It's Daddy Shithead', Jenny's as 'Professor Boylin', most of mine and Muddah's as 'Diatribes', or some of mine are labelled variously. Enjoy.
I knew you'd be fascinated.....Yeah, well fuck you, I thought I was doing you a favour. See if I care.