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5/30/04: White Man in Tompkins Square Palais

So today I did what I said I would do.  Which wasn't much, really.  Had a little Washington Square Picnic with the family and then went out and shot some buckets with D. Lee in Tompkins Square. 

There was a guy in Washington Square Park with a "Free Hugs" T-shirt on.  Kind of a goofy guy, asking everyone who walked by if they wanted a free hug.  About one out of every ten people took him up on it.  From what I understand, he does this every Sunday.  What a loser.  If I get around to it, I'm going back there so I can stand next to him with my "$2 Cock Punches" T-shirt and see if I can't steal some of his customers.

The hoops was OK.  I shouldn't have played so soon after stuffing my belly with cheese and bread and oatmeal raisin cookies.  The first game I nearly died four times.  I couldn't buy a jumper (despite my Alford-like release), and we lost a pretty close game.  Dan was sucking some wind, too, so we were relieved to sit one out before playing again. 

We scrounged up some kids to play against, maybe 16-17 years old.  They thought they were gonna smoke us, but we completely manhandled them.  Dan found his jumper and we pretty much had our way with them.  The guy who was guarding me, who was actually very talented, had the line of the day.  We had hit a couple of shots and so he decided he was going to put the clamps on me, overplaying, trying to deny me the ball.  Dan and I had just the slightest eye contact which indicated, "Let's back door this fool," and sure enough that's what we did.  Ball fake, back cut, layup.  2 E-Z. The guy slammed the ball on the ground, and in a statement that went a long way towards confirming our fears about the next generation of ballplayers, yelled out, "I HATE PASSING!"  As if we had broken some unwritten basketball code.  It's probably too late for him to be rehabilitated, but maybe his kids' kids...? 

I also made an awkward-looking lefty scoop which prompted the kid to call me "Sabonis."  I will add that next to the names of the other clumsy white dudes I've been compared to over the years.  Somewhere in there with Laettner, McHale and Marc Iavaroni.  OK, I made that one up.

It's always nice to beat people who are younger than you. Especially if they are physically mature, which these guys  were (sorta).  Once you start losing to teenagers, you've officially turned the corner as an athlete. There's nowhere left to go.  I think I'm at the stage now where unless the kids are actually skilled, I can at least put my fat ass on 'em and shove 'em around  a bit.  That's usually enough to discourage them. And if not, I'm not too proud to cheat or fake an injury.  Can't be losing to kids.

Occasionally I wonder what it would be like to play against a younger version of myself.  I think I can safely admit I'm not the best I've ever been right now.  I wonder when I peaked.  I'd say around 26.  But I wasn't bad at 19, either. I had a pretty good left hand.  Still, I think I could beat my 19 year-old self for some reason.  The 26 year-old?  He was a load.

Perhaps out of respect for the lack of softball played this weekend in the W. Village, the Royals and Twins got involved in a pretty special quasi-hotbox today (scroll down the page to read about the play, I can't find any video of it online, but you might be able to catch it on Sportscenter).

I've never been a big fan of the Smiths, but I have read enough about Morrissey, Marr and Co. in the last twenty years to write a book about them.  The British music press worships them above all other bands.  I've listened to my share of Smiths in dorm rooms and college apartments over the years, and they never really stuck with me.  But maybe I just missed the boat on the damn Smiths.  Can someone recommend three great Smiths songs that will change my life? I'll gladly download them (legally) for $2.97.  I've probably heard 'em already, but maybe I need to give these old jokers another chance.

OK, we have two new reviews and a smokin' hot new challenge as well as answers to the previous challenge.

5/29/04: Puke City, Population: Me

I had a rough night last night.  On the surface, it should have been fine.  Dinner and a movie (see "Mean Girls" review, #15) with the wife.  That was all dandy, but when I got home I felt a sharp pain in my stomach.  It kept getting worse, and I considered going to the hospital.  I couldn't sleep in any position, I couldn't find a minute of relief.  It was pretty agonizing.  Finally, I went in for the first of what turned out to be maybe five spectacular semi-intentional vomit sessions (see vomiting review, #16).  Afterwards, I felt a little better for a few minutes, but then I'd start feeling the shooting pain again.  I was doing everything possible to ignore the pain just so I could get to sleep.  I was imagining a better day when the pain would be gone, when I could run around and play ball in the sun.

And when I woke up today the pain was gone.  I am most thankful.   Not sure what it was, but I am so happy it's gone. I still slept most of the day to make up for last night, but now I feel charged up for a nice day tomorrow. We ended up not having enough players for a softball game Sunday night, but that's OK.  I needed a week or two to recover from last week's double blowout.  So this Sunday I will see the niece and play some hoops at Tompkins Square to celebrate my good health. 

We got some very thoughtful advice for Vinny about his Mac/PC dilemma:

1. "Get himself a girlfriend."
2. "Get the PussyBalls 3000 Compact ScroteBook (tm)"

Ambrose also offered some wise words:

"Macs are for retards and hipsters who think they'll eventually need it to edit their masterpiece documentary on."

Thanks everyone!

OK, we have the two new reviews mentioned above and a smokin' hot new challenge as well as answers to the previous challenge.

It's fun when the Lakers lose.  I don't think it's gonna happen much more this year, though.  Minnesota's a bit of a mess right now and the Lakers are just too good.  Kobe and Shaq are still the best 1-2 combo in the league when you need a shot, or a win.  What a completely unlovable team, what an unlovable league, what a shame.  Fox and Fisher are the two biggest floppers in the league.  It's embarrassing and it goes against the spirit of true competition, which is to outplay your opponent, not to trick an official into making a bad call.  It's all horseshit. I'm getting sleepy.

I think I puked out some valuable ideas that might have made for some enjoyable reading for you all, and for that I apologize. 

5/28/04: Embrace your inner chicken

I thought of a nice new slogan for New York City:  "New York: Our milk goes bad three days before yours."

As our office prepares to relocate for the third time since I've been working there, I suppose I should be feeling nostalgic for any of a number of reasons. But I'm really not. I went out for a couple of beers* after work to the Bull McCabe, possibly the last time I'll set foot in our cozy little s-hole across the street.  I guess I reminisced a little bit about some of the stuff I've been through at the Food Network, but it wasn't with great fondness for wonderful days behind and great excitement for wonderful days ahead.  It was more with a dull acceptance that this has been my life for over ten years, and it looks like it will be for the foreseeable future.  When they announced we were relocating the previous two times, I always kind of chuckled at the thought that "they" were moving.  "There's simply no way I'll be here in a year," I'd think. I didn't have to worry about packing my stuff up or labeling boxes or what my new commute was going to be like.  This job was just a stopping point, and I'd be gone long before this whole move thing went down.   Well, now I've been wrong twice, and apparently I'm a broken man because I think I've accepted this third move would be part of my life since the moment they announced it. 

Not to say it's all been bad.   Here are just a few things I'll remember with fondness and laughter:

1. When we forced Chris W. to stay until like 4 in the morning painting the entire studio floor, on maybe his third day on the job.  I'm sure he had serious thoughts of getting back into lamp sales.
2. Ambrose's campaign of bad office behavior: whipping a hard ball of rope at the back of my head every day as I sat at my desk, multi-stapling Gary the mailroom guy's newspaper together, filling interoffice envelopes with stray pubes and paper clips and beef jerky and gum wrappers, and then sending them on to randomly selected employees.  Sending the entire company an email congratulating himself for all the good work he had done over the previous months.  I could go on. It's a wonder they only saw fit to let him go twice.
3. Dinny responding to stress by climbing up on his chair and squawking like a chicken, in full view of vice presidents and assorted other honchos.  Me as his manager trying to talk him down.
4. The various freaks and perverts who sent paranoid, anonymous emails complaining about corporate policy or just talking dirty to 19 year-old French interns.  Like nuclear power, the internet became accessible long before we were wise enough to harness it properly.
5. The time when a list of every employee's salary was photocopied and posted in the men's room stalls, among other places.
6. The time I saw the President of the company shuffle from one stall to the other, bare-assedly searching for TP, losing all his spare change in the process.
7. The days when there was somebody secretly smearing boogers above both urinals in the men's room.  Let's hope it isn't a verbungle.com reader.
8. The night when my department was forced to relocate another department after hours, and we celebrated afterwards with barbecue and animal porn in the conference room.
9. The day the swat team came in and busted an employee.  Said employee had been featured on "America's Most Wanted" the previous weekend.
10. The boozy nights filled with merriment and the brutally hung over mornings after.
11. In all sappy earnestness, the 30 or 40 truly excellent people I've met there.  That's like three and a half per year.

I'm saving the good stuff for the book.

Remember to answer the latest challenge, or I may send Steven Seagal over to sweat on you.

Vinny on the car phone, first-time long-time, has a question and he wants your help: "Should I get an Apple laptop or a PC laptop? I like the Apple. it looks cool as shite."  He's a Mac lover but a PC user.  What should this poor joker do?

To budding chef Little Scotty F.: my boss says don't try to order the rock shrimp through the mail; just substitute regular shrimp or lobster or even some monkfish. 

Pete B. had a Yankee-induced meltdown yesterday and I can't say I blame him.  I don't think tonight's 18 runs will help, either.  The Yankees were sending the runners on a 3-2 count with two outs in the ninth inning and a 15-run lead.  They also scored their 18th run by tagging on a medium fly ball in the 9th.  As someone who's been humiliated 70-something to nothing in Tecmo Bowl, and who's been repeatedly backed down and dunked on by a slightly larger opponent on the 9' dunk hoop by Ogg Hall, I feel particularly sensitive to matters of running up the score.  I know there is a "code" (baseball's full of 'em) about continuing to play hard no matter what the score -- short of stealing a base, you're supposed to try to continue scoring all night long.  And I think that's somewhat noble, because the only thing worse for your self-esteem than having the score run up on you is having somebody take it easy on you.  Ask little brothers everywhere.  But I think the Yanks would have been prudent to refrain from scoring on that fly ball.  It was overkill.  And these things sometimes come back to haunt you in the form of a Benitez fastball right between the shoulder blades. 

Speaking of smug bastards who always come out on top, I can't fucking stand Kobe with his constant, disingenuous smile.  I think maybe it's a nervous thing because he knows he's really a dork with no identity of his own. Whatever. He's so condescending and unoriginal, he makes me sick. It would be as if another painter came up who was nearly Picasso's equal in talent, but all he wanted to do was paint imitation Picassos all day long.   Despite all this, he may be the best player in the world right now.  Such a shame. 

Sometime pilot and full-time aviation industry employee Mark S. sends in an excellent picture, with the following explanation: "This hangar is equipped with a Foam Fire Suppression System. This picture shows what happens when the system malfunctions and goes off without a fire!"

 * - today's couple totaled 4

5/27/04: Connie Stinson and the Lamestains

You know what's cute?  How the local papers still refer to the Mets as the "Amazin's".  Presumably with straight faces.

Congratulations to blogging titan Tony Pierce for getting written up in the New York Times.  I actually didn't think much of the article (it had the same hopelessly-out-of-touch, desperately-trying-to-stay-current vibe as their infamous "grunge lexicon" article), but it's nice to see somebody small get credit in a big place. The thing that separates Tony's blog from a lot of others is the quality of the writing.  He just makes it look so easy. Much of the time I don't agree exactly with what he's saying, and I'm completely embarrassed when he puts up all the titillating pictures of the sexy babes, but I find that his writing style keeps me coming back no matter what he's talking about.  I'm thinking he may be blogging on somebody's payroll before the year is out.

Speaking of the Times, how about the fact that they saw fit to issue a collective "our bad" about their Iraq coverage?  I really don't know what to make of it. I guess it's good to step up and admit your failings. But it's like, if you're a journalist, you just have to journalize, right?  You can't just fuck it up and say, we fucked up, sorry about the bad journalizin'.  That's not good enough.  It'll be interesting to see what the media critics over at the PBdotC will have to say about this one.

I tuned in late the other night, but SNL was doing a "Best of Christopher Walken" episode.  Of course we all know he's a tremendous and odd host. What bothers me is I think they may have left out what to me was his crowning moment on the show, the "Connie Stinson Talks" segment (the transcript doesn't do it full justice).  Did anyone happen to see it and if so, can you assuage my fears?  Skits like that are what keep me watching this terrible show year after year, sitting through all those bad bits, in the hope of one of those Connie Stinson moments when unexpected magic occurs. 

Two quick, moderately amusing Christopher Walken stories:

1) Walken lives on West 80th street in NYC, or at least he did a few years back.  One day, I was going to visit Chris W., who happened to live on that same block at the time.  It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, and people were out enjoying the day.  Unfortunately, a parked car's horn was stuck in the "on" position, creating a horrible, constant, siren-like sound.  We were all walking by, glaring at the car and covering our ears.  All of a sudden, Walken emerges from his apartment building in his sleeping clothes, marches up to the car and begins shaking it violently with everything he's got.  The car horn stopped.  He sort of made that "my work is done" gesture my slapping his hands together, and then headed back toward his apartment.  Somebody recognized him and went, "Yeah, Chris!"  Walken kind of raised an eyebrow as if to say, "Yes, that's right, how ya doing" and then just went right back into his place.

2) My boss also used to live on that block in the early 80's.  Apparently there was a family of drug dealers on the block, just really scary guys with pit bulls and baseball bats who terrorized the neighborhood on a daily basis.  If you saw them coming towards you, you'd just cross the street.  Well, one night they were out on the stoop next to Walken's apartment blasting music and carrying on, and Walken went out and told them to shut up.  One of the guys was like, "Who the fuck are you?" Walken stood his ground, and the guy just decked him. They ended up getting in a semi-fistfight.  Walken got the worst of it -- his face got all mashed up and my boss saw him calmly walking back to his apartment covered in blood.  But he called the cops to press charges, and testified against the dude, who ended up going to jail.  At least that's how I heard it.

One thing I am damn good at is keeping my cell phone charged and on my person.  Maybe it stems from some weird compulsion, but I am almost always on three bars and ready to receive your important calls. 

My sleep pattern is all f'd up, partly because I've been staying up late to update this site for the two of you.  I hope you appreciate it.  A lot of work goes into putting out a product this mediocre, and it takes its toll.  I might add that I have not spent one paid minute at my day job working on verbungle.  This is all on the house, with love.

There was an elderly gentleman sitting on the subway platform this morning with a sign that said, "My name is Mac.  I am homeless and hungry." A guy came up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder, handed him a dollar and said, "Here you go, Mac.  Good luck." It was actually kind of a nice moment.  And even though the guy's name happened to be "Mac,"  it made me think it's time "Mac" made a reappearance in our social exchanges. We'll use it for the same purpose we used to: to add a degree of toughness AND warmth to an encounter between strangers.  "Boss" and "Chief" have had a nice run.  It's time for the Return of the Mac.

Another thing we need to do more of is busting on each other's shirts.  In reading the Bouton book, it seems that shirt-dissage was the number one form of attack when you were flustered in an argument back in 1969.  Guys will be getting verbally pummeled against the ropes, and then they'll just come out with a quick couple of jabs, punctuated by a roundhouse shirt-zinger that turns the fight in their favor. If a guy is broke and can't afford a decent shirt, I think he's exempt (unless he started it).  Otherwise, it's a great, fairly harmless way to get some big laughs without getting too personal.  Plus, it's always nice to punish someone when they try to do anything outside the meager expectations we have set for them.  A good "Gallagher called.  He wants his shirt back" will remind them to conform.

5/26/04:Very little to offer

Tonight I went for a nice cool evening bike ride through Central Park with the wife.  I was pretty groggy and it was getting dark, but I'm glad I went.  It's never a bad idea to go on a bike ride, and I suggest you do it whenever you get the chance.  Unless you're the President of the United States.

Pete B. chimed in with a couple of nice additions to CW's list of "Before and After" band names:

-Pol Pot Pie
-Phish Styx

Speaking of Phish, it looks like they're coming to the end of the line.  I know some serious Phish Phreaks, so I extend my sympathy to you.  I hate to admit I'm unwilling to try new things, but I don't think I have ever heard a Phish song.  How is it possible that I completely missed out on this huge cultural phenomenon?  One thing it means is that Pete B's prediction (#10) is a step closer to becoming a reality.  Well done by Prime Minister Pete Nice. 

Not since Sunday's softball double debacle has a team been so thoroughly dominated as The Real World team was on the RW/RR Challenge this season. They needed a reset button, and it never came. Losers.

I've got more dental work scheduled for tomorrow.  I guess it serves me right after all the teeth I done knocked out over the years.

5/25/04: Say No to YES

The YES Network employs at least four truly unacceptable announcers:
1. Suzyn Waldman
2. Michael Kay
3. Bobby Murcer
4. Fred Hickman

As Yankee fans who dutifully buy products advertised on YES, we deserve better.  I say bring in Jim Bouton and Steve Kemp.  If the Yanks were smart, they would let us make these decisions.

Serious fucking Sopranos Sunday night.  It's going to be a hell of a last episode.  I can't believe they killed off Grandpa Al.

The Detroit-Indiana game was perhaps the sloppiest, most un-officiated game I have ever seen.  It was an insult to the sport.  The rules weren't applied.  Bodies were flying, guys were getting punched in the face and no calls were being made.  It was a true disgrace.  And for the second time in about a week, Doc Rivers completely mis-analyzed the pivotal play in the game, this time with his failure to criticize Reggie Miller for going weak and slow to the bucket with a chance to tie the game in the final minute. I hope little Scotty F. wasn't watching.  It would make him sad.

Twice this weekend I turned my back on my beliefs and drunkenly stuffed my face with beef.  First a juicy steak at the bachelor party.  Then a tasty, greasy-ass cheeseburger at The All State last night. I also drank quite a bit over the weekend, now that I think about it.  Whatever the cause, I woke up at around 2am Sunday night with severe abdominal discomfort.  It was not pleasant.  Several times, the whirlybird was ready to take flight.  I really didn't want to throw up, so I toughed it out and made it through the night.  Even though it was likely the alcohol wreaking all this pain on my insides, I am going to take it as an endorsement of my vegetarianism. Let the little creatures live. Or eat them, I don't care.  But at least keep it to animals that would eat you given the chance.

Alright, we got a new list and a new softball recap to keep you busy through the next seven to twelve minutes, so get cracking.  Chris' list is so enjoyable, I am sure you'll be tempted to send in your own suggestions.  Please do -- our willingness to share trivial nonsense is what makes us better than the terrorists.  That and our superior selection of cable channels.

5/23/04: The Oliver Twist

Funny, when you're a married old fuck, a bachelor party can turn into just another Saturday night when you're home by midnight with the Sunday Times, ingesting CD's into your computer, in the hopes of someday getting that portable MP3 player. It's not too far off now.

And as I was putting some CD's onto the old hard drive, I came across my Material Issue album, "International Pop Overthrow."  Idiotic title aside, this is one of my favorite CD's, although I can't really recommend it, because you'd probably hate it.  The lead singer has a high-pitched voice and sings with an affected British accent; I say "affected" because the dude was from Chicago.  And I say "was" because the dude is now dead.  He asphyxiated himself on the fumes from his moped (!) while sitting in his garage, apparently distraught over a recent breakup with a girl. The songs are all hook-laden little pop ditties about girls. In fact, at least four songs are named after girls. Apparently that was the depth of his human experience: girls.  And how magical and wonderful and destructive they are.  He was definitely a lifelong adolescent, and for that he is to be respected and studied. 

Thinking about Material Issue reminded me of how I came to own their CD. My roommate Brady had it in college, and I enjoyed listening to it in our apartment while he waxed me in darts over Old Milwaukees. But I never really thought about it again until like 1997, when I found a wallet in the back of a cab.  I was drunk, probably as drunk as the young lady who left her wallet there.  I took it home with me to investigate and hopefully return it.  She was a Goth chick from California, and there was a work ID from the Times Square Virgin Megastore in the wallet.  I called the store the next day and got ahold of her.  She was ecstatic that I had her wallet, and offered to come get it.  I told her I'd be in the area the next day, and I'd just drop it off.  When I went to the store, she greeted me like I was rescuing her from a lifetime of indentured servitude.  She insisted, over my halfhearted objections, on giving me like a $30 gift certificate to the store.  It was with that gift certificate that I purchased the Material Issue CD, along with another that I can't recall.

Then about a year later, I was wearing some big-pocketed pants and sure as shit I lost my wallet in a cab, too.  Having done the right thing when I found the girl's wallet, I assumed I was due for a nice little karmic payback.  Problem was I didn't notice the the wallet was missing until around 10am, and I had a rental car reserved for like 11.  Time was short.  I checked my home answering machine to see if a kind party wanted to return the wallet.  Sure enough, there was a British-accented voice on the first message:

"Hello, uh...Stephen.  My name is Oliver, and I think I have your wallet.  If you'd like to come get it, I'm at....um...(to someone in background)...hey, where are we again?  Oh. Ok.  We're at 154 West 13th street, apartment #2.  My number is 555-3672.  Let me know if you want to pick up the wallet."

I was thrilled.  I called Oliver back, thanked him profusely for his honesty and integrity, and told him I was on my way over to get the wallet.  I confirmed the address, and again he had to double check with someone. But it was a go.  So I zoomed over to 154 West 13th Street, a little brownstone on the same block where my friend Jonathan grew up.  I rang the buzzer, waited, then I rang another buzzer.  Nobody answered. Weird.  I had just spoken to him.  I kept ringing and waiting, and finally I took a couple of steps back into the street and started yelling, "Oliver! Oliver!" up towards the window.  Fucking flighty Brits.  At this point, I noticed my friend Jonathan walking up the street towards me.  I hadn't seen him in maybe five years, and I didn't think he had recognized me yet, so I just decided it would be better to turn away and avoid saying hello rather than explain why I am standing in the middle of the street yelling, "Oliver!" He walked past without noticing me, and so I continued yelling.

At this point, a postman walked by and said, "Who are you looking for?"

"Oliver," I answered, realizing now just how little information I had.  "A British guy named Oliver."

"There used to be a British guy named Oliver that lived in that building, but now he lives in #170, apartment 3B," the postman/savior said.

I thanked him and walked down to #170.  I went into the foyer and rang 3B. 

"Who is it?" a British voice answered through the intercom.

"Is this Oliver?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Um, it's Steve, I believe you have my wallet."

Silence.

Finally, "Um, will you go outside so I can see you?"

I stepped out of the lobby and into the street again. A head peered out of a third floor window.

"Oliver?" I yelled up to him.

"Yes."

"I'm Steve, I think you have my wallet."

"Hold on, let me check."

Then he went back inside for a minute.

Reappearing, he said, "Nope, I don't have your wallet.  But you can come up for some sausage if you like."

This being 170 West 13th Street, I knew that offer might be somewhat metaphorical in nature, so I politely declined.

"I hope you find your wallet," Oliver said.

"Thanks," I said, totally confused. 

I walked up and down West 13th street, hoping that some dude named Oliver might come running up to me and give me my wallet.  Finally, I checked my messages again.

Message #1: "Hi Stephen. This is Oliver.  I believe I gave you the wrong address.  I am actually at 154 EAST 13th street.  Sorry about that."

So I zoomed back over to the East side, and buzzed #154 (another brownstone), apartment 2.  A dog began barking.  Finally, the front door opened and a Chihuahua came out and starting yapping at me.

"Hercules, get back in here," a British voice yelled. It was the real Oliver,  wearing a bathrobe and holding my wallet. 

I thanked him for the wallet and offered him some petty reward (maybe $30), which he turned down.

Then I went home, closed the garage door, and let the moped fumes do their thing.

5/22/04: Get your drunks on

I managed to get drunk twice yesterday.  First, I went out for a couple* of beers with some co-workers at the bar across the street from the office. We are moving to a new office in a much swankier location in about a month, and I hope they have a place as nondescript and accommodating as our local, The Bull McCabe.   It's never crowded, the Buds are like three bucks, and they've got an awesome 4' by 10' window in front that they keep completely open when it's nice out.  Just a fine, unpretentious little shithole.  It was good seeing so many people at the bar.  One guy told the story that he always tells about the guy who gets drunk at his friend's house, and in a boozy stupor shits all over the guy's living room and wipes his ass with the guy's two pet rabbits.  Soft, white rabbits. 

Anyway, I know I was drunk because when I got home at around 7:30 I started eating tortilla chips like my life depended on it.  I was also getting nice and sleepy.  Over the next hour and a half, I pretty well sobered up, and then met some friends at another bar at around 10.  I proceeded to get re-drunk and shoot bad pool for the next four hours.  It was fun, although there was a terrifying bachelorette party that swung through for about an hour and a half.  We began taking bets on which idiotic bachelorette party behavior would occur next: there was the ceremonial attempt to drink a shot out of each other's belly button while lying on the pool table, which ended with a spill of beer and a reprimand from the bouncer/ambassador dude who was sort of patrolling the place with no clear purpose. There was slow, suggestive girl-on-girl dancing.  There is an entire generation of straight girls who has grown up feeling extremely comfortable lezzing out with one another, probably due to how prevalent it's become on TV.  For this I suppose we should be thankful, although when it's so commonplace it loses some of its sting.  But it's not really something to complain about, now is it? Anyway, these girls did all the typical bachelorette party things that make them bachelorette parties.  They made me somehow sad with their predictability, but Abby kept scolding me for looking down on them.  She's right, I'm every bit as much of a stereotype.  I'm just not sure exactly which one.

I finally left around 2am, feeling a nice buzz.  Everybody else was still there; I wanted to stay with them and keep pouring 'em down.  But I kind of realized that the difference between a good, solid night and one that gets washed away in a tidal wave of stupidity and regret may be what time I decide to call it a night.  If I leave when I still want to stay, I'm probably OK.  It's those nights when I stay so long that I actually want to go home that get me in trouble.  Those last few hours, from like 2am until 6am, are when the devil goes to work on you.  Of course, the devil knows how to have a good time, so it's easy to get caught up in his charisma and lose track of your judgment. Anyway, even without the devil I managed to get pretty well snookered last night.  After I left, I walked for a couple of blocks to get some air, and I actually convinced myself that the cars were all driving on the left side of the road.  I finally got that figured out (turns out they were actually on the right side as always), but I knew it was time for a cab directly to my bed. 

I woke up today with a pretty nice hangover.  I would even call it a hangover and a half, which is still a bargain when you consider I was drunk twice yesterday.  A good way to see if your hangover's got any teeth is to head out into the 80 degree heat and humidity and play basketball, which is what I did after waking up at noon.  My jumper was lost somewhere in a shallow puddle of Rolling Rock and Budweiser, but we managed to win two out of three before I decided to get the hell out of there and fix myself up with some Citrico Vibrante Gatorade.  Ahhh, that's better.

And tonight a bachelor party.  No details to come.

* - "A couple" generally means two, except when referring to how many beers one has consumed. In those instances, it means anywhere from two to five, and occasionally six.  On rare occasions, it can even represent as many as eight.

5/21/04: Rock Ain't Free (OK, maybe it is)

I do not consider myself a PC Person, yet I do consider the Mac Person my natural enemy.  I just don't buy into how much they love their products.  They're just products. A co-worker is a huge Mac Person, and he loves to bust my balls about how visually stunning and intelligently designed Apple products are compared to my dumpy, clunky PC.  Especially on those occasions when something's fucked up with my computer.  Those are his favorite days. Similarly, when his Mac crashes or he has to install a new "OS,"  I see it as a great opportunity to strike back.  Whatever, it's all basically the same shit.  The Mac People will ultimately be undone by their smugness.

But then tonight I decided:
1) It's time to start ripping my CD's to my hard drive.  I can't cry over the fact that I lost them all during my System Restore a couple months ago.
2) MusicMatch Pukebox isn't the most stylish or practical home for my music.
3) It's time I stopped stealing music with Kazaa lite (this decision was made easier because I lost the version I had on my computer, and I think it may have become harder to get).  I will join the thousands of suckers who are paying for music online.  So sad.

So I downloaded iTunes (boy, I hate the way they do all that cutesy capitalization).  And the damn thing smokes like Jim Leyland.  I love it. Now if I can strike a reasonable deal with my sister for her iPod (there they go again) that she's never taken out of the box, I will begin to rock like Klaus Meine.  Which is to say I will rock in a manner similar to this:

If you see me, don't attempt to run.  It's not likely that I will kill you.  You should probably just stand still or slowly begin to rock along with me until I move on.

At work a couple of weeks ago, a couple of us were sitting around whining about the fact that people who play on the company softball team manage to leave work at like 4:30 on the days when there's a game.*  (I am officially too old and crusty to play on the team.  The young kids deserve to play; I had my run. And I ain't splittin' time with some little punk, no way no how.)  Anyway, we were talking about how we should make an office drinking team, and take on other offices, partly so we could leave work early and hit the bar. Anyway, one of the guys I was talking to goes, "Yeah, too bad Steve couldn't be on that team...he's a lightweight."  Now this is a guy I've gone out with for beers a couple of times, and I never got drunk or had to push the beer away in fear.  So I don't really know where he was coming from.  But it struck a nerve deep within the macho frat boy at the center of my soul.  Am I a lightweight? Maybe I am.  It's true that when I drink hard liquor, I'm perfectly likely to steal your pants.  Maybe I had mentioned that to this guy and that's why he made his comment. But I've always considered myself one of the better beer drinkers around, sort of the Harold Baines of the sport. Now that I think about it, though, maybe I'm not.  A good beer drinker should be able to sit there poker-faced for 12 hours straight, saying stuff like, "I can't get drunk on beer."  Me, I begin to feel special and warm after about four sips of delicious cold beer.  It's like I'm genetically calibrated to process every last drop of magic within each gulp.  But I level off after about two beers, and then I start getting kooky again after maybe 7.  After about 9 or 10, I'm rocking like Klaus Meine.  But I can keep drinking 'em down, brother. That's probably not good.  But it's true.  Left to my own devices, I'll keep sucking 'em down like a champ until morning.  I'll probably offend you along the way.  You may need to physically subdue me.

*Actually, I don't really give a shit when they leave.  That stuff never bothers me.  But I'll lend a sympathetic ear to the resenters when appropriate. You know, now that I think about it, for someone who is in a constant state of anxiety and confusion, nothing in particular really bothers me.  Come on over and kick me in the shins.

Ambrose sends in this excellent story about the search for the giant squid. Just because they were obviously inspired by verbungle staffer Vincent F.'s award-winning squid piece from last year is no reason to discount the hard work they put in on this one.  We're glad they took our idea and ran with it.  It's about getting the info out there.

5/20/4: The man they call "Traut"

I miss AOL chat rooms:

The dialogue in AOL's "I had Trautwig" chat room on 2/12/01: Dyvercity33: Who is Trautwig? IrvingBird: I was wondering the same thing Rody0: Trautwig is a sports announcer, and my first male lover Dyvercity33: Al Trautwig who works for MSG? Rody0: maybe IrvingBird: ? Rody0: he said he worked for some cable channel Dyvercity33: How long ago was this? Rody0: i think he said QVC Rody0: but maybe it was MSG VRFIII: he came on to me once IrvingBird: ??? Rody0: 1994 Rody0: It was in Houston Dyvercity33: Why was he in Houston? Rody0: I don't know...it was June VRFIII: probably to get some cowboy ass IrvingBird: where is Dyver City? Dyvercity33: Oh jeezus IrvingBird: ? Rody0: He made me yell out "Bob Page" during intercourse Dyvercity33: It's diversity spelled differently IrvingBird: oh - sorry Dyvercity33: Rody- You're so full of it VRFIII: did he "make" you or did you just blurt it out? Rody0: He referred to his genitals as his :Gus Johnson" Dyvercity33: Now i know you're full of it VRFIII: why, you've experienced things with him? Dyvercity33: Why don't you name another MSG sportscaster? IrvingBird: who is Gus Johnson? Rody0: I think his first name was Sal Dyvercity33: Yeah Dyvercity33: It was Sal Dyvercity33: How conveniently close to Al Rody0: He said he wanted to do something really "Daughtry" Dyvercity33: Did he talk about his sexual liasons with Marv Albert? IrvingBird: Isn't it supposed to be spelled 'trout"? Dyvercity33: IrvingBird- Are you blond? Rody0: He said he knew a guy named "Mark" Albert Dyvercity33: I am gone IrvingBird: yes I am Dyvercity33: This is pathetic VRFIII: lol IrvingBird: and, i get the insult VRFIII: let's invite him back IrvingBird: lol VRFIII: Hi John IrvingBird: dang VRFIII: First time long time? Rody0: that was fun

There was a brief and stupid online rumor today that Andy Kaufman was alive.  Of course, it was a hoax, and a pretty lame one at that.  Good for Andy Kaufman, keeping everybody guessing even when he's been dead for 20 years.

Chris W. sends this link that shovels more dirt on what should already be a deep and well-covered grave.  Even if you voted for Bush last time, what has he possibly done to earn your confidence again?  Does anyone disagree that the dude is dangerously over his head?  He should just slink back to Texas, take off his shoes, climb into one of the probable dozen leather recliners he owns,  and crack open a cold one.  Let the big boys clean up this mess.

Now that most of us agree that The Onion has lost its oomph, the boys over there have decided to start charging for some of their content.  It always seems to go this way, doesn't it?  You start to suck, and then you get desperate for money.  Like Metallica's Napster lawsuit.  Or Bell Biv DeVoe's comeback album. You have my word that www.verbungle.com will remain as free as the air you breathe.  When they start charging for that shit, all bets are off.  'Cause I'm gonna need some air money.

Even though he's (probably) human and occasionally screws up, there is really no adequate word for the comfy feeling I get in my tummy when Mariano Rivera enters the game.  We really need to treasure this man.

Sometimes you get little opportunities to see if you've grown up at all.  For instance, when one of the IS guys came over to my desk and asked to see my dongle.  A grown man would probably slide his  computer forward so the dude could get a look at it.  Me, I started unbuttoning my pants.  And continued with a litany of inane dongle-related jokes.  I guess I'm still not at a point in life when I can just let the word "dongle" scoot by unaddressed.

So right after I mentioned what a great interview KG is, he says a bunch of inappropriate stuff and has to issue an apology.  He's still the best, though.  I am very glad the Wolves won, and he played like a man possessed.

My wife got a belated birthday card from her friend, and the friend wrote one of the best lines in recent birthday card history. I just had to share it with you:

"Your special day has come and gone
Like the gayness of Ann Heche"

I like that.  A lot.  I think I'm even impressed, or at least forgiving, that she managed to rhyme it with "dulce de leche" in the next line.  Which wasn't just a force, as she had made some cupcakes with dulce de leche frosting as well. Do you think she chose that frosting just so she could execute the poem?

5/19/4: When We Were Slackers

Pardon our appearance.

The good news is I sort of remembered what my forgotten post from yesterday was about.  The bad news is it ain't all that good or interesting. What the hell was I thinking?  Oh well, here goes.  Pretend like I never talked it up as anything different or cool.

Several years ago, a co-worker (who is a valued if somewhat unreliable contributor to this site) and I were both stuck in similar jobs within the same company.  We didn't have enough to do, and we didn't want to have enough to do.  This was in maybe 1995, and in our office, the internet was reserved for maybe three VP's and our "I.S. Guy," Chris Weber.  So on those days when you didn't have enough work to do, you just didn't have the same options you do now.  You could either go request some more work, or focus your energies on avoiding more work until the clock struck 6.  The latter always seemed to me a much more reasonable path.

The key to avoiding the "extra" work was preventing the higher-ups, or even the medium-ups, from figuring out just how underworked you were.  But again, this was 1995, so you couldn't sit at your desk, pretending to work as you googled secret ex-girlfriends or checked the Replacements Newsgroup.  Sitting at your desk was deathly boring, and also somewhat dangerous.  If you were at your desk, staring at your computer, and somebody needed some work done, you made a fairly appealing target.  At the very least, you risked facing the dreaded question, "What are you doing right now?" If you didn't answer that question exactly right (i.e. lie boldly and convincingly), you could count on receiving some extra work, and possibly a mild reprimand as well. 

So the trick was to get up and move about the office.  While walking around the office, you could amuse yourself by chatting with co-workers at their desks (hopefully out of the way of your own supervisor), by staying up-to-date on gossip, and by looking at girls.  Plus you got some good exercise and managed to be away from your desk if anybody came by looking to get some work done. But you couldn't just walk around all day without purpose, or more accurately, you couldn't let everyone know that was exactly what you were doing.  So this friend and I designed a system.  Since we were in the TV industry, it was decided that while strolling around the office for up to five hours at a time, it was safest to carry in your hands one random 60 Minute Beta SP videocassette along with a piece of paper.  The piece of paper should have some typewritten text on it, as well as handwritten notes on top of that text.  The clincher was that as you walked through the halls, you had to find a suitably anguished expression, somewhere between steely determination and complete panic. This look would indicate to anyone you might encounter that the shit had just hit the fan, and this tape/note combination was our last chance to rescue the network, so stay out of my way and don't fuck with me. 

This technique never failed.  Not only do people refrain from assigning you extra work when you are in this state, but they don't even make eye contact. When shit is going wrong, people want to distance themselves from the center of the storm. Nobody will ever offer to help you.  It works great.

So I was thinking, what would be the ideal Tools of Shirksmanship in other lines of work? A Doctor could walk briskly through hospital halls, carrying one of those giant saws they use to cut open people's chests prior to heart surgery (I assume they use giant saws for this).  If he could achieve a sufficiently grave appearance, nobody would mess with him.  A construction worker could carry a trusted shovel over his shoulder, and maybe a small girder.  Nobody's gonna bother you if you have a girder.  In retail, you could probably get by with any item from the "stock room" -- you clearly pulled it for a customer and Where have they gone off to now?

Ideally, you work in a job that you love or at least a job where you are allowed to attach a garbage can to the wall and shoot wadded up paper balls, or real basketballs, at it.  But if not, try this technique.

I know this sounds terrible, but I really like having Alex Rodriguez.  He's excellent.  It's like if my parents were rich, and they gave me a Porsche for my 16th birthday.  I'd be ashamed at first, but then I'd get used to it, and soon enough, I'd really like that Porsche. 

That said, Joe Torre needs to stop sending runners. It's stupid. He's always sending the slowest dudes, too.  While I'm doing my annual May Torre Grumbling, he sure knows how to lose a tie game on the road when things get testy.  Say it's second and third with 1 out.  You cannot let the other team score, or you lose.  Here is what Torre will do, every time. 1. Walk the next batter, even if it's your cousin Shirley.  Now the bases are loaded and the pitcher has to throw strikes. 2. Bring the infield and outfield in. 3. Lose the game.  I know it's sort of a tough spot, but he really paints himself into a corner. It has NEVER worked since I've watched.

I love getting feedback. Positive is great, but there's really nothing better than some good constructive criticism.  Here is an anonymous comment I received today, in reference to eth Reader Chalenges, that made me stop and think:

5/18/4: The Post that Got Away

Today at around 10:30 am, I got a great idea for a post.  It was simple, it was elegant, and it was going to be laid out for your enjoyment by 1am Eastern time. It started with an amusing little anecdote from my working life, and almost immediately I found a nice, tidy analogy to run with that really tied the story together and gave the post a reason to be.  Unfortunately, some time between the initial thought and the completion of the post, I completely forgot what the hell it was all about.  My only memory is that it involved a construction worker and a shovel; amazingly, that's not enough to jar the rest of the story loose. It was gonna be a great one, though.  One of the all-time champs.  The Pulitzer was hanging on the other end of verbungle's line, only to squirm away into the deep recesses of the ocean, likely never to be seen again.  And so I come to you with the usual bullshit.

Pete B. is still brimming over with rap lyrics:

"They say that I sample,
But they should sample this ... my pit bull."

-Chuck D

As the Editors of a website that pulls in at least 7-10 unique visitors per day, we come across information every now and then that might not be available to the average schmuck. We have devoted followers in two of the four corners of the country, and they do their best to keep us in the know. Through the tireless labor of this underground network, we have uncovered some data that may be of great interest to you. It has been brought to our attention that there is currently a sale at Duane Reade on Spree and Sweet Tarts: 3 packs of either for 99 cents.  The actual little tubes of candy are pre-printed with the sale info, so we suspect that this sale may be nationwide.  Check your local CVS, Duane Reade, Rite-Aid or equivalent.  Your happiness is thanks enough.

So maybe it wasn't Jim Bouton in Barnes and Noble yesterday.  At least according to Jim Bouton:

"There are many Bouton impersonators.
-Jim Bouton"

Pretty cool that he responded personally to the email.  I am loving the book so far.  It's a great slice of that era, and it's easy to forget that before he wrote it people generally viewed athletes as flawless granite heroes, devoid of the faults and quirks that make us all human.  Today, we know about our athletes' personal lives in great detail; some might argue that it's only made us more aware of what ungrateful, unlikable pricks they are.  But as Bouton says in the introduction:

"After the book, it was no longer possible to sell the milk and cookies image again.  It was not my purpose to do this, but on reflection, it's probably not a bad idea. I think we are all better off looking across at someone, rather than up."

Sorry I waited so long to read it, but I'm stoked/psyched/fired up/amped/insert other suitably annoying synonym for "excited" here that I have the rest of the book to look forward to as new.

There were a lot of bad Paula Abdul songs that danced stupidly across the dial in the late 80's/early 90's, but I bet you forgot about this one, which I heard in a store today: "Knocked Out."  Not her best.  I have a friend who made a mix tape once that he gave a modest name like "The Greatest Songs of All Time," and he put "Straight Up" on there TWICE.  His explanation was that the song was just so good it needed to be on both sides of the tape.  You can't really argue with that logic. Were that tape to appear on eBay, I would definitely bid on it.

I just want you to know that John Elway is endorsing a pharmaceutical product on TV these days, and at no point in the commercial does he say what the product does, what condition it treats.  You'd have to be a pretty fucking big John Elway fan to go out and sign up for this shit, just because John Elway's pushing it. Maybe it's one of the many prescription drugs that is so well-known by now that I really should recognize it immediately, but I still think I need some more info before I start taking it.  Even though he won those two Super Bowls.  Maybe it treats something embarrassing, like Smallcox.

The Real World team in general, and David from Boston in particular, are among the lamest competitors in the history of the RW/RR Challenge.  David was an amazing disappointment.  Wasn't he supposed to be a tough guy?

Today I learned that a woman who I used to work with had committed suicide.  She was a deeply troubled lady, but it's still just shocking and sad that this has happened.  She marks the third person I've worked with to pass away.  It's been ten years at this job, so I guess that's not surprising, but there is something profoundly weird about the death of someone who was once part of your daily routine.  In a way, it's stranger than losing a friend, because co-workers are right there in front of you every day. They're so constant, they seem almost indestructible.  You share this common sense of being in it together, whether "it" is repairing cars or producing cooking shows or digging ditches, and when people go away forever it reminds us how fragile it all is.  I hope she is at peace.

5/17/4: Chipwiches all around, bitches

Dinny's got the recap on the way, so I won't say too much, but there was an odd and curiously intense softball game tonight (actually, there were two).  21 people showed up, including several new faces.  Very strange night. More to come. 

You know those nights where you know you were sloppy, filthy drunk, but you can't remember just what exactly you did or who you offended, you just know it's bad?  And then, every hour for the next couple of days, you recall another unforgivable transgression you committed.  Like, oh shit, I stole that guy's valuable hunting knife.  Or, oh, I was accosting strangers and trying to convince them to buy a Loverboy tape.  Or, ouch, I was talking to an oscillating fan. Or, oops, I think I called my high school girlfriend at 3am and vomited while on the phone with her.*

Distant cousins of those are the nights where you think you were pretty much fine and dandy, just had a nice buzz going, and then little by little you remember a few things you did that, while somewhat innocuous, clearly indicate you weren't as sober as you thought you were.

I just had one of those thoughts.  I remembered that at bowling Friday night, I bought a round of Chipwiches for my co-workers.  What the hell was I thinking?  I remember having a hard time giving them all away, too. I bet I'll be the laughingstock of the office come Monday a.m.  They'll never believe that there was a sense of silliness to it, that I sort of did it because I couldn't believe they were selling Chipwiches. 

In addition to having huge gaps in my education about important stuff like History, Literature, and Botany, I also feel like I missed out on several of the key pop culture moments of my idiotic generation.  Example #1: I have never seen "Caddyshack" straight through from beginning to end.  Sounds impossible, but I swear it's true.  Another: I have never read "Ball Four," by Jim Bouton, not even a little bit of it.  So when a co-worker offered to loan it to me the other day, I said sure.  Unfortunately, his copy was an ancient hardcover and it was so dusty that I kept sneezing when I tried to read it.  So today, I went to Barnes and Noble to find a nice paperback version.  I scored the book and was walking towards the checkout line when who should I see, walking towards the section where I found the book, but Jim Bouton himself.  Weird shit.  Just sent him an email to see if it was really him.  If it was, I wish I had offered him some Big League Chew. Or a Chipwich. 

I had another waitress try to make like Karnak today by operating without the pad and pencil. Of course, something got fucked up.  During my lifetime, I have placed about 2000 orders with pad and pencil-using waitstaff, and they have come through with the correct order approximately 92% of the time.  The fucking magic act Johnny Mnemonic types who try to go sans writing implements are accurate about 16% of the time.  That 16% doesn't even include the 93% of the time when they come back to double check your order with you after forgetting it.  Are they doing memory exercises so they will be better at remembering lines in their acting careers?  Do I care? Did I pay for this special show?  I am so very tired of this bullshit; it's right up there with Disco Bowling.  They need to do some focus groups on this stuff before implementing it.

There are new answers to the most recent challenge and there is another opportunity for you to make immortality yours on the right side of this page.  You guys all kick ass.

* All of these examples are based on real-life events.

This isn't as bad as it looks, kids.

5/16/4: NBA Solution

It's easy to get in the non-posting habit if you don't post anything for a few days.  So while this post may not be good, at least it's here and maybe I'll get back in the groove again.

As I continue to hammer away at the same tired joke with the superimposing of the scrubby dudes I play softball with over the 1981 and 1983 baseball cards, I've been reminded how Topps would always give the good players card numbers that ended in 0, and the great players cards that ended in 00. That was fun.  Maybe even more fun than my lame joke.

No matter how many times I see it, it's still fun to watch a manager and an umpire get in one of those nose to nose arguments that inevitably result in the manager getting ejected.  It's also a good lesson in restraint.  For all those screaming arguments you've seen, with Billy Martin, Earl Weaver, Lou Piniella, etc. you really never see it turn physical.  I think it's also funny that the umpire can basically decide to end the argument whenever he feels like it by tossing the dude. 

Pete B. sends in a personal favorite from the rap lyric archives:

(Peace!) Piece of what? /
You can't mean P-E-A-C-E /
Cause I've seen people on the streets /
Shoot the next man and turn around and say peace /
But that's leaving people in pieces /
It's not what the meaning of peace is /
To me it means absence of all confusion

main source (aka large pro)

5/15/04: 11:30pm: It's pouring and thundering and lightninging outside, and it looks like another iffy Sunday night.  Who do I need to blow for a beautiful, threat-of-precipitation-free Sunday evening?  

Went bowling after work Friday night with about 25 co-workers.  It was pretty fun, but the whole "Disco Bowling" shit they do with the music blasting and the lights out and the disco balls and the glowing pins is so awful it makes me want to leave.  It's like they thought, "People like disco music.  People like bowling.  People will therefore like Disco Bowling."  I have never met anyone who approves of it.  The minute the lights dip, my heart sinks.  I believe in preserving the purity of the bowling experience.  The Disco Bowling shit is completely disrespectful to all the great bowlers through history who have made the sport what it is today.

I don't know the right term for them, but I will call them "Folk Jokes" and I'm a sucker for 'em.  The kind of jokes that have no known originator, they just kind of get passed from person to person in bars, at ball games and across the counter in 7-11's.  For instance, walking into a crowded men's room and mock-marching to the front of the line while saying, "Excuse me, Johnson, party of one" as if there is a urinal reserved for you may be 30 years old, but I'm not above using it, and laughing at it.  So I was disappointed when my attempt to have the lady at the bowling alley page "Johnson, party of one to Lane 21" was met with raised eyebrows and a request for Mr. Johnson's first name.  Apparently they, too, have heard this one. So it became "Andrew Johnson, please contact the front desk" while I slid away in shame.

Another one of those old jokes that cracks me up is "Fuck her! I did!" Basically, if you're in a car and you see a couple together, ESPECIALLY a couple that's engaged in nauseating lovey dovey PDA on a street corner, you scream this out as you go by.  I fully endorse nauseating street-level PDA, and thus have received the "Fuck her! I did!" greeting on several occasions.  That shit never fails to bring a smile. So when I was riding my bike home drunk from the bowling alley the other night (via the West Side Hwy bike path) and I saw two clingy couples walking ahead of me, I figured that if "Johnson, party of one" had failed, at least I could get in a "Fuck Her! I did!" and salvage my night.  Right as I went by, I howled it at them, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than is ideal.  I'm sure they were freaked out nonetheless, just by the suddenness of the exclamation.  Right after I said it, as I sped away like a big chicken, it dawned on my drunken skull that these were teenagers in full prom gear. I was a 34 year-old man, drunkenly riding a bicycle back from a lame work outing, and I was yelling out to anyone who'd listen that I had fucked one (or both) of the two 16 or 17 year-old girls peacefully enjoying their prom wind-down.  What a douche. It just wasn't my night, I guess.

Our apologies for the lack of a softball recap last week.  It was assigned to one of our freelance reporters, but he has a history of personal problems and I fear that it's caught up to him once again.  Publicly, he has stated that he was involved in some union business at his other job as a tire salesman, and didn't have time to post his story. Here in the office, we take that to mean he's been on the park bench with his old friends, up to his old tricks. Whatever the case, he has been docked a week's pay and he's given us his assurance that it will not happen again.

So I must admit that I thought San Antonio would win it all.  They folded pretty quietly, didn't even seem like they wanted to be there. Other than a few great moments, these NBA playoffs have just been awful to watch, and it's too bad.  For the last five years or so, I've been trying to figure out what exactly is wrong with the league, and I haven't been able to come up with anything. Here is my latest theory. The players are just way too tired  to make shots. 

In the Golden 80's, you  could be recognized as a superstar even if you didn't play a lick of D.  Alex English, Bernard King, George Gervin, Mark Aguirre, Dominique Wilkins all come to mind. They were paid to score, and score they did. Even Magic and Larry reserved their genius, and their energy, for the offensive end -- with the occasional brilliant defensive play when their teams really needed it. There were defensive players then, like T.R. Dunn, Tree Rollins and Harvey Catchings.  They couldn't score, nor were they expected to. 

When Michael Jordan came along, he made defense cool -- he made it seem perfectly logical, fun even, to play basketball for 94 feet.  The man would hound your ball handlers, he would block your center's shots, he would outwork your forwards for low-post position. But Michael Jordan was a God. He could do all that because he was a God.  And in doing it, he may have set the bar so high that nobody else can meet the challenge.  But everybody's trying. You must understand that ANYONE who grew up playing basketball from 1985 to 2000, even 'til now, wants in some way to be Michael Jordan.  Look at the great defense Kobe plays.  Check out how seriously Garnett takes his D. And on the other hand, even the guys who are defensive specialists, like Bruce Bowen, can hurt you at the offensive end.  The game is just more competitive at both ends of the floor.  If you are chasing around another guy for 40 minutes, dogging him every step of the way, it wears you out.  And when you're on offense, and he's dogging you for 40 minutes, clutching and grabbing, it wears you out.  Mentally and physically.  And one of the easiest things to do when you're tired is take bad shots.  Rather than working your man off screens, drawing up fancy back door plays, and moving the ball, why not just take the first 20 footer that presents itself, even if it's contested? At the end of the San Antonio game last night, you could see it.  The Spurs have Tim Duncan, one of the best offensive threats in the game, but by the 4th quarter, he was a non-factor.  Every time he got the ball all night, he was aggressively doubled, guys swatting at his arms, pushing him around, forcing him to find an open teammate.  By the end of the game, he was too worn out physically and psychologically to demand the ball.  And his team had that glazed-over look in their eyes, like a mouse in the snake cage.  Just let us toss up some 20 footers and then we'll be out of your way.

When you think about it, most other sports have defensive and offensive positions.  In soccer, some of the dudes generally stay on the defensive side of the field, others push the offense. Same in hockey.  In football, it's completely divided; other than maybe two guys, you either play offense or defense, not both.  In baseball, it's gotten more like the NBA, with offense expected from every position, but you can still survive if you're a defensive whiz at SS or C.  So I propose that the NBA go to the old Iowa High School Girls' basketball rules. 3 on 3 at each end of the court. Everybody knows their roles, and nobody will need to imitate Jordan anymore. 

5/13/4: Crockett's Tab

You may already know this, but a magazine exists called Relevant.  Relevant seems to be targeted at Christians who like to rock out and might otherwise be reading Maxim and going to hell. A guy at work had a copy out on his desk, and I shit you not: the cover boy of this month's issue of Relevant Magazine is Bono, in all his irrelevant glory.  Next month's cover will feature Boz Scaggs.

D. Lee offers a personal favorite to add to B. New's list of delightful rap lyrics:

"Ohhhh...Ohhhh....I begged./Be easy on my balls --they're fragile as eggs." -Old Dirty Bastard

Tough to argue with that one, especially after sitting on my balls again today.  Luckily, this time it was on a cushioned chair at work.  Still felt a twinge of discomfort, but it felt more like a warning shot than a direct hit.

Yesterday's News Dept.: I saw a few minutes of "The L Word" the other day on Showtime, and to save you some time, I can report that the word in question is "Lame." 

As I chomped down on the metal plate coated with the fast-drying molding material today in the dentist's chair, my dentist made an interesting observation.  I had no choice but  to listen, as I was chomping down like a damn fool.  He pointed out that A-Rod has already hit a few balls at the Stadium that would have been gone in other parks, and he said we should just accept that he's not going to hit 40+ homers this year.  He might be wrong, but what if A-Rod is just a .285, 29 HR guy?  Is he worth the dough?  Of course, he is on pace for 35 as of right now, and he hasn't gotten hot yet.  Maybe my dentist should stick to inflicting pain and leave the sports predictions to brilliant men like Mike Francesa.

While browsing through annoying celebrity news, I came upon a story that says Don Johnson is facing a $5000 unpaid grocery bill.  Imagine if you went back in time to 1986, tapped him on the shoulder and showed him that news item.  He'd punch you right in the mush and tell you to get lost. 

Don't forget to sign in for softball if you're playing.

5/12/4: A Guy Named Brad

Check out Benge's list and feel free to add. And also take a crack at the latest reader challenge.

Just a hunch: I don't think I'd have a lot to talk about with the guys featured in this article.

It has been fun watching the personal development of "The Miz," the steroid-inflated, self-nicknaming Neanderthal on RW/RR Challenge.  He went from inarticulate racist galoot from Ohio to hair-product-using egomaniac wannabe-celebrity galoot in just a couple of years. He actually had a period in between for about a month where he was bearable.  It's long gone now.

Even though the Nets and Pistons did about as much as possible tonight to squander the NBA goodwill that the T-Wolves and Kings generated late last night, I just want to add one more thought on last night's game. I had forgotten what an excellent announcer Doug Collins is.  Even though he's got a nails-on-blackboard voice, he just brings so much insight to the game.  I think he may be the best color commentator around these days.  His observation about Garnett checking the shot clock on the opposite end of the court before putting up a ridiculous, contested jumper was dead on.  So was Garnett's focus to think of doing that.

Mattingly Moustache update: the shit is DEFINITELY getting bushier.

I was supposed to go to tonight's Yankee game (Thanks to the unable-to-attend Chris H. for the tix), but I got out of work late and it was absolutely pouring outside.  I took a cab from work to the Columbus Circle Train Station*, still intending to go, but by the time I got there I knew I was not only going to be late, but that it might be one of those nights where you sit in the stands all night waiting through multiple rain delays, only to see the game postponed at midnight.**  Since I have a dentist's appointment tomorrow at 9am, I decided not to take a chance. I came home and prayed for a rainout, planning on giving Chris his rain checks back as a Thank You.  If they went ahead and played the game, I'd feel like a dickhead for not going, and I was also considering paying Chris for the tickets, because you don't just accept free tickets and then not go.  Well, after a two-hour delay (Thank goodness I didn't go), they resumed play at around 11:15. I felt the symptoms of dickheadedness start to emerge, but then they announced that anybody who stuck it out through the delay (as well as, presumably, schmucks like me who stayed home and took two-hour naps instead) could redeem the tickets for one of three games (likely against Tampa Bay) in September.  So it's a happy ending: I can return the tickets to Chris, and assuming he can tear off the correct half of the stubbage if and when he's  asked, he can go to a game in September.  Whew. The lesson: never throw out a ticket stub.

At 12:56 am, the couple thousand fans who were still at the Stadium put together a pretty decent chant of "Angels Suck!" 

* I am happy that NYC cabbies finally got a long-deserved raise, but damn that shit ain't no joke.  My cab ride from 52nd and 11th to 60th and 8th cost me $5.10 without tip.  I am prone to overtipping, but there was no way I was giving him more than $6 for that ride.  It makes me wonder if the new fares will make people a) tip less and b) take cabs less in general.  It makes me glad my measly annual 4% cost of living raise is not contingent on the spending habits of others.

** I remember the last time I was faced with this scenario because it was September 10, 2001.  I got a call that day from a guy named Brad, who was the husband of an ex-co-worker. I didn't know him well, but apparently his wife had told him I was a Yankee fan, because he called me that afternoon around 4:30 and asked if I wanted his company's tickets for that evening's game.  Clemens was going for his 20th win that night against the Red Sox, if memory serves (I believe he was 19-1 at that point).  It sounded like a great offer to me, the only catch being that I had to get down to the WTC, where he worked on the 49th floor,  to pick up the tickets from him.  No biggie -- I just hopped on my 10-speed and zipped down the West Side Highway bike path as the rain clouds moved in.  I locked my bike outside and went upstairs to get the tickets, after going through what seemed to me then to be a slightly overaggressive check-in system downstairs.  I went up to Brad's floor, and the receptionist had the tickets for me.  Brad was in a meeting or something, so I couldn't thank him in person. I left the building and was unlocking my bike for the ride back to 52nd street, when a security guard approached me and told me I wasn't supposed to lock my bike there.  Again with all the security, I thought, even though I was aware of the '93 bombing.  I apologized politely, and the guy actually said, "Thanks for understanding.  Usually when I tell people they aren't supposed to leave their bikes here, they get all mad.  You were very nice about it." 

I rode back to the office with the storm riding right up my heels.  I remember feeling a few drops falling on my bike helmet, and pushing myself to ride faster so I could beat the storm and get back to the office relatively dry.  I succeeded, and made a plan to meet up with some buddies at the game. The weather looked bad, but we went to the stadium anyway, because, as I said, you don't just accept free tickets and then not go.  I remember the rain falling and falling for about two hours, and still no announcement from the team about a postponement.  It was such a bleak night, sipping our beers in the rain with our pants getting all bunched up and uncomfortable. Finally, they made an announcement similar to tonight's: they thanked us for our patience and told us that the game was cancelled, but we could redeem our tickets for any TWO games during the 2002 season.  We left groggy and soggy, but excited about the free tickets to come.

The next day was 9/11, without a cloud in the sky.  I went to work that morning after both buildings had been hit, and actually started to do a few job-related things, even knowing the towers were on fire.  Nobody really knew how to deal with it; nobody could grasp the significance right away. After the towers fell, they gathered everybody in the studio and told us we could go home if we had a way of getting there. I was able to meet up with my then-fiancé and we walked the 50 blocks to my sister's house, trying to find some place to watch it all on TV and get a sense of what was going on. I remember hundreds of people just walking around in a daze, unsure of exactly what to do. We stopped in to get some water at Au Bon Pain, and everybody was being so nice and patient and supportive of one another.  Once we got to my sister's, I started thinking about Brad.  All I had was his work number, and the building that that phone was in lay in rubble. I wanted to know if he was OK.  I checked my voice mail, and somehow, the guy had thought to call me. I barely knew him.  He left a message that said something like, "This is Brad calling from the pile of wreckage formerly known as the World Trade Center.  I just wanted to let you know I'm OK." I burst out crying at his thoughtfulness.

Of course, I never found out what happened to that nice security guard.   And I never got around to trading in those ticket stubs.  They just sat in my wallet for about a year.

5/11/4: Commitment to Mediocrity

When I first started working in the cable industry many many years ago, I had little understanding of just how bush league the whole bizness was.  I thought it was kind of neat to have a job. I had just come back to New York City from Wisconsin, where I had been making $6.20 an hour at the UW Athletic Ticket Office and living pretty comfortably on that. So when the Food Network told me I'd start at $15K a year, I was one happy little fool.

The job was OK, but like anything else in life, it was marked by long periods of mind-wrenching boredom and stomach-churning stress, interrupted by brief intervals of celebration and wild stupidity. One of my first disappointments occurred when I had a conversation about ratings (i.e. how many people are watching your shit) with someone from the Programming Department. The short term goal was to air actual shows, hopefully without porn. The long term goal was a .5 rating, which is so small that I have my doubts that Nielson can even measure it accurately.  The longer term goal was to compete with the mature cable networks, like MTV and ESPN.  The impossible dream was achieving the ratings of cable's #1 cash cow, professional wrestling.  That's right, professional wrestling was, and still is, the Barry Bonds of Cable TV.  This news was disheartening on a couple of different levels -- one, that our little startup network was so far behind such a stupid enterprise as pro wrestling (and if you must know, I actually kinda like it, but come on, it's pretty fucking stupid), and two, that what America really loved (and loves) is pro wrestling. And that will always be so.

How do you motivate yourself to do good work when you know that what people want is more pro wrestling and Wheel of Fortune and Olive Garden? (I actually kinda like Olive Garden, with the huge portions of salad and the unlimited breadsticks and stuff, but it's shitty, no doubt about that.) There are two answers.  Either you do the work for yourself and your pride and the select few who are going to appreciate it, or you simply don't do good work.  I think it's possible to choose both, as I have in my cable network career.  There've been days (maybe just a couple) when I went home with my chest out, proud of a good hard day's work, and there were other days I'm not even sure I was really there.

My goal is to carry that philosophy over to verbungle.com.  Intermittent excellence.  Mixed with fairly consistent mediocrity.  Together, we can do it. 

I watched some NBA tonight (against my better judgment) and it wasn't half-bad.  OK, it was half-bad.  It was about 5/8 bad.* But it was watchable and there were a few brilliant moments, like this:

Perhaps the NBA has the same attitude as the verbungle. Something good once in a while and then just phone it in the rest of the time.  Kings-Wolves is actually pretty good.  I have an easy time rooting for Minn. in this series, despite mixed feelings for Spree and Cassell. At least I don't have to watch Wally. The Kings gross me out.  I like Divac and Peja and Bibby, but Doug Christie is such a loathsome human, I hate the whole team on his tab.  He's a fine player, though.  To think he couldn't crack the Knicks rotation.  He wasn't the same player then, but still...

It's a little after midnight and there's a spectacular thunderstorm going on outside.  Huge bursts of thunder and brilliant flashes of lightning right outside my window.  There really is something soothing about huge storms (when you are indoors).  They kind of remind you that the world's been here a long time and it'll still be rolling along whether you finish the Endecott report by Monday or not.  Fuck it. Go lay in a field and eat cheese and drink cold beer and read "The Mysteries of Pittsburgh" or something along those lines and remember how relaxed you were when you were 22. And make sure you do all this with your balls flopping out joyfully in the breeze.  Like Damone says, you won't regret it.

Softball recap to come. In the meantime, feast your imaginations on the latest challenge at right, and view the most recent answers here.

1:39am update: I am staying up late watching this awesome Minn-Sac game.  The Wolves had it won and then Sacramento went crazy and stormed back to send it into OT. Minnesota NEEDS to win this game.
1:50am update: This reminds me of all those nights in high school when I'd stay up late watching NBA games and rooting for the losing team and waking up too tired to attend class the next day.  Hopefully I'll make it to work tomorrow -- if not, you can find me sitting in a bench in Stuytown with the Daily News, some Wrigley's Spearmint, and some Gummi Bears. 

*1:58 update: The Minn-Sac game was a true classic.  Kevin Garnett is a force for galactic good. It was worth staying up just for this tremendous postgame quote from Garnett, when Barkley asked him if they felt like they stole game 2:

"A win's a win. I don't believe in stealing. I ain't stole since like 6th grade or something."

He may be the best interview in sports right now.

Have you guys seen that hilarious Dancing Baby?  That shit is a scream.

5/10/4:Babies, Ball and Brother D

Has it really been ten years?

I visited two friends with babies this weekend, and there were two more babies on the way.  Babies, babies, everywhere!  Holy shit, everybody's got babies.  Pressure is on.

This Iraqi prisoner abuse scandal is so upsetting on so many different levels, not the least of which has been the administration's inadequate response, of course.   But that part isn't surprising -- they have something to protect by making excuses and downplaying the horror of the abuse. 

But what about other people's reactions? Unless you are a lapdog Bush-loving Republican who feels a need to defend your idiot President at all costs, even the price of your own soul, how can you turn a blind eye to what happened (and may still be happening) in these prisons?  How can you not have a deep emotional response to the pictures?  How can you justify it?

Here's what Mr. Rush Limbaugh had to say:

"This is no different than what happens at the skull and bones initiation and we're going to ruin people's lives over it and we're going to hamper our military effort, and then we are going to really hammer them because they had a good time. You know, these people are being fired at every day. I'm talking about people having a good time, these people, you ever heard of emotional release? You heard of the need to blow some steam off?"

Wow. That is simply one of the most offensive, ignorant statements I've ever heard. I guess I always knew that only a true mental deficient could listen to his show, but  if anyone listening at that moment was able to resist the urge to change the station forever, they are deeply fucked in the head.  Each statement in that paragraph is just completely incorrect, factually, logically, and morally.  Here are just a few problems I had with it:

1) Rush knows little about the bullshit that goes on in the skull and bones initiation, as he dropped out of Southeast Missouri State University after three semesters.  But to say it this abuse is “no different” overlooks about three million reasons it IS different, most obviously the fact that skull and bones members are THERE ON THEIR OWN ACCORD, whereas the Iraqi prisoners were...PRISONERS. 

2) The fact that our soldiers are “being fired at every day” has something to do with the fact that we have INVADED AND OCCUPIED SOMEONE ELSE'S COUNTRY. 

3) That Limbaugh categorizes degrading, torturing, and dehumanizing prisoners of war as “blowing off steam” goes a long way towards understanding his worldview.  I guess covering up such sick acts is preferable to “ruining people’s lives” by exposing the scandal.  Clearly, American soldiers who invade another country and sexually molest prisoners of war deserve more protection than the Iraqis they are torturing.  I think that’s what he’s saying.

I was having a discussion with my friend Benjy about this, and I thought he was selling the average conservative voter short when he said many of them share Rush’s ho-hum attitude about this story. But I think he may be right.  Am I wrong in assuming that the average American has enough decency to condemn these acts unequivocally?  Am I in the minority on this?  Forget about assigning blame for a minute, can’t we at least agree that what happened is terrible and shameful and needs to be addressed?

Mr. Joe Lieberman offered his own equally confused take on the matter:

"The behavior by Americans at the prison in Iraq is, as we all acknowledge, immoral, intolerable and un-American ... I cannot help but say, however, that those responsible for killing 3,000 Americans on Sept. 11, 2001, never apologized. Those who have killed hundreds of Americans in uniform in Iraq, working to liberate Iraq and protect our security, have never apologized. And those who murdered and burned and humiliated four Americans in Fallujah a while ago never (apologized)....

I hope as we go about this investigation we do it in a way that does not dishonor the hundreds of thousands of Americans in uniform who are a lot more like Pat Tillman and Americans that are not known, like Army National Guard Sgt. Felix Delgreco, of Simsbury, Conn., who was killed in action a few weeks ago, that we not dishonor their service or discredit the cause that brought us to send them to Iraq, because it remains one that is just and necessary."

Lieberman’s attitude is emblematic of U.S. arrogance. 

1) He actually is invoking September 11^th.  Has Joe Lieberman not been reading the paper for the last year?  Iraq had NOTHING TO DO WITH SEPTEMBER 11^th. 

2) Bringing up all the deaths of Americans in Iraq is again meaningless in connection to the abuses, as we are an INVADING ARMY.  Of course we are going to get killed.  What the fuck does that have to do with our soldiers going on what looks to be a widespread campaign of torturing prisoners of war for shits and giggles?

3) He may feel the cause that sent the soldiers to Iraq is “just and necessary,” but that doesn’t make it true.  The justification for this war was not ousting a dictator who had violently oppressed a citizenry.  That might have made it “just and necessary,” but we had 25 years to do it and chose not to.  This war was theoretically about Iraq developing WMD’s and distributing them to terrorists who might use them against us.  So far, no evidence has emerged supporting this premise.  We can’t just say, yeah, well it’s still just, because we got rid of a bad man.  We did it at the cost of thousands of lives and we may have created a genuine hotbed of terrorism in the process, not to mention further inciting the Arab world against us.  We should be a little more sensitive in our tactics instead of digging ourselves deeper and deeper into this huge global divide.

4) Since when are holding ourselves to the same standard as TERRORISTS? Has it come to that? Somebody killed some of our people, and didn’t apologize, so now we are going to kill and torture some other people, and it’s too bad if you don’t like it.  It’s a new planet.  We have the right to assume.

5) Reciting the names of dead soldiers is a pretty cheap tactic.  There will always be good soldiers and bad soldiers; who doesn’t know that?

Plus, is it so bad to say something critical of the troops?  They have my utmost sympathy and respect, but when they fuck up in grand fashion, they need to know about it, morale be damned.

We're all fucked.  But there was excellent softball tonight.  New guys, old guys, cool breeze, Big Handsome. Recap and photos to follow.

I will put up a new challenge tomorrow, so answer this one ASAP if you want a place in history.

5/8/4: Exchanging Balls

Today was good.  We got out of work by like 5:30, which gave me a chance to get to the park and play some hoops.  My knee, which feels completely screwy when I walk up stairs, feels totally OK when I play ball.  The funny thing about going to the park and playing alone is that a bunch of random factors contribute to how good a time you're gonna have, not the least of which is who you end up playing with.  Today, I went and shot around by myself for about ten minutes before I decided to get in a game. Then I asked two guys who appeared to be waiting for Next in a 3 on 3 if I could play with them.  They said I could, and we proceeded to win about 6 in a row. One guy was about my age, and had a streaky hot jumper and a willingness to cut to the basket.  I must have hit him with a dozen passes for backdoor layups.  The other guy must have been in his mid-40's, but he had a deadly shot from 20 feet and nobody really had the energy to get out on him.  My own shot was hot and cold, but I was working the boards and feeding the other two guys.  It felt really good to win. One game we were down like 8-2 in a game to 11 and won.  Finally I decided to leave on top, and went looking for my ball, which some little kids had been shooting around with earlier.  The damn thing was gone; apparently someone had vicked it.  The kids were still there, shooting with a ball that sorta looked like mine but wasn't.  So I took that ball home with me.

I know what you're thinking:  "Didn't you just post the following statement the other day:

'You can't lash out haphazardly whenever somebody does you wrong.'

?"

Well, don't you worry about me losing my sense of playground ethics.  I did a little detective work.  I asked each person in the park if the ball in question belonged to them, and they all said no.  This led me to conclude that someone had mistakenly taken my ball and left this one behind, because they looked so similar.  I had no choice but to take this ball.  I had the right to assume.

The problem is that I now possess one of those "infusion" balls with the little pull-out pump.  Stupidest idea since...the Reebok Pump.  First of all, a basketball doesn't need to be inflated more than a couple times a year.  Second, from what I hear the pump does not work that effectively, letting out large quantities of air as you try to push the pump back in.  You knew the product was lame from the commercial: an NBA player (maybe Paul Pierce) is playing pickup ball on a city court, and the ball goes flying over the fence (this happens in a pickup basketball game approximately once every 7000 games).  Luckily, a little kid is standing in the alley where the ball landed.  But apparently he is not strong enough to lob it back over the fence.  And the ball is just too big and round to fit back THROUGH the fence.  But that ball is an INFUSION model, so the kid just deflates it, squeezes it back through the fence, and Pierce or whoever it is pumps it back up and it's game on. This has NEVER happened.  It WILL never happen. The whole scenario is so farfetched -- it would be like advertising a garlic-flavored gum based on its ability to repel werewolves.  Or some better analogy.

Maybe you knew this.  I didn't.  We were talking about it at work today, and it led to one guy admitting (without being prompted to admit anything) that he pisses on his feet in the shower each morning to prevent Athlete's Foot.  We were all grossed out, so he got sorta defensive and said, "It's an old Navy trick -- my dad taught it to me.  Ask anybody who's been in the Navy and they'll know about it." 

My dad was in the Navy in WW II, so I called him up on the spot.  It went like this:

Me: "Hi, Pop, I'm at work, and there is a guy here who claims that in the shower, guys in the Navy piss on their feet to prevent Athlete's Foot.  Do you remember anything like that?"
Pop: "No, that doesn't sound familiar.  But you know what did go on in the shower?  A lot of corn-holing.  Do you know what that is?"
Me: (weirded out): "Uh, yeah.  But you stayed away from that, right?" (I have no problem with how and with whom people make love, but no son wants to hear that his dad was involved in corn-holing.)
Dad: (almost giggling) "No, no, of course not. I didn't go near that."
Me: "OK, good."
Dad: "You know who he two happiest guys in the Navy are, right? John Fitzgerald and Gerald Fitzjohn."
Me: "I have to go."

To the anonymous "reviewers" who sent in reviews of some of the stuff on the site: your shit was pretty funny, but I can't post it for reasons that I'm sure you understand. I will answer your questions, though.

1) The "white bread" in the Ronnie Lott pic is me.
2) For the story of Ronnie Lott's Finger (band name: Lott's Finger), go here.
3) The baseball cards are all of the dudes I play softball with.  The pics are supposed to be stupid.  I feel confident that they are.
 

5/7/4: Today on The People's Court: Judge Wapner struggles with the girth of my wonderful cock

I have what might be considered verbungle.com's first-ever news scoop. Some insider info for y'all to think about. Here goes:

A fellow I work with from time to time also works full-time on the show "The People's Court" (henceforth TPC). Today, he was working with us when he got a call from TPC.  Apparently Viacom had a problem with tomorrow's TPC episode.  Viacom, for those of you who don't know, owns the following: Paramount, CBS, UPN, MTV, Nickelodeon, VH1, BET, Comedy Central, Spike, Showtime, Infinity Broadcasting, Simon and Schuster, and a whole mess of local TV stations and other stuff. 

Viacom said there was something "objectionable" on tomorrow's episode.  Apparently, one of the guests said the "F word" (that's FUCK) on the show, and Viacom was not about to let your average TPC viewer hear this word.  Seems reasonable, right? Except that they had already BLEEPED the word "FUCK."  So what the FUCK is the problem, you ask, confused. Well, in the closed captioning of the episode, they had written "f@#%" or something along those lines.  The FCC has got them so scared that they are PULLING THAT SHOW OFF THE AIR.  My friend also told me TPC has been asked to remove from the schedule any episodes where the judge or any other person says "God," "Jesus," "Go to Hell," etc. until they are edited to completely delete the offending phrase.

Stuff is getting scary. What a terrible place this is becoming. I wonder how long before the internet falls victim to this fundamentalist Christian bullshit.  I don't rightly know. But I will take the opportunity, while it's still here, to say the following:

Balls in ass.
Giant tittays covered in apricot preserves.
Donkeyfuckers unite.

In my ongoing effort to maximize your verbungling experience, I am going to use the white box at the top of the page to alert you to new shit.  I will also use this box to strong-arm you into sending in shit of your own. And remember to sign up for softball.  Or this guy's coming after you.

I normally don't approach celebrities when I see them (I wait for them to approach me).  But with Ronnie Lott back in the mid-90's (just after The Day), it was different.  Note how I am folding my fingers under in tribute to his famous amputation.

5/6/4: R.I.P. N.B.A., Time of death 10:30 pm 5/3/4, pronounced by Dr. Scott

Sometimes I post stuff as fast as I can just to get rid of other stuff.  This is one of those days. Not to detract from the quality of this post in and of itself, but yesterday's post was a little bit of a drunken debacle, so it's just as well to move past it.  It's