Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Mystery Meat- Repost

***I'm still on vacation. Next week, I promise I'll be back with new material. Until then, in honor of the New Year, I've decided to repost one of my most important pieces, Mystery Meat. Enjoy...

It seems like everyday a new creature is discovered that was previously thought to be mythical or nonexistent. A few months ago, some Italians discovered a one-horned roe deer that may actually be a Unicorn. Then, a lady in Texas found roadkill which could possibly be a Chupacabra. Some cops recently filmed a bizarre animal running erratically and it too may be a Chupacabra.

There's also The Montauk Monster. It might be a decomposed dog or it might be a mutant turtle (that might be teenage and a ninja). Either way, it knows The Hamptons is the place to be in the summer. Just today, I saw a picture of what some guys claim to be the remains of a Bigfoot. And there's even a video circulating of an alien that's peeping in on homes right here in Colorado.

A whole science is based around animals that fall outside of contemporary zoological catalogs. It's called Cryptozoology. I used to smoke a potent strain of marijuana called Crypto when I was a kid. I assume most cryptozoologists smoke Crypto as well. I also assume most of these claims are probably hoaxes or viral marketing schemes.

Still, who's to say that some cryptids aren't out there? They have to be loosely based on fact, right? And, mutations do occur, especially with all the shit that's in the air and in the soil and in our food. I know for a fact that aliens exist. One time when I was smoking Crypto, I played Parcheesi with 4 aliens. Maybe I was just stoned. Either way, it's impossible to believe that in the billions of light years of space, our tiny little tract of miles is the only place with life.

So, these mysterious creatures just may be real. If they are, LET'S EAT THOSE FREAKY FUCKERS!

I am so sick of the food we have to eat. Every restaurant has the same menu - grilled salmon, ahi encrusted in something, some kind of really expensive steak, and a pasta with a frozen shellfish or cephalopod. Where is the variety? If I have to eat at another restaurant that has "fusion" or "small plates" in its description, I'm going to vomit in my mouth. If I have to taste another dish slathered in tamarind, rosemary, or cilantro to cover up the bad taste, I'm moving to Darfur. I'm over the slop I'm being served. If I could, I'd go to that place in The Freshman where Marlon Brando and Matthew Broderick eat Komodo Dragons and other enadangered animals. That's just the movies, but these cryptids could be real.

I'd gladly eat Chupacabra. After all that goat sucking, they gotta be filled with succulent goat blood flavor. A Unicorn? Shit, with all the Chinese food I eat, I'm sure I've had a horse or two in my time and I'm sure I liked it. A unicorn can't taste any worse than that. It's probably magically delicious. If there are aliens, I'd cut those little inter-stellar travelers up, season and sear 'em, and have a balls out BBQ. Cannibalism is illegal, but the law says nothing about extraterrestrials. I always thought ET looked tasty.

Even if the these creatures taste horrible, they gotta be better than our fast food. I can say with 100% confidence that The Montauk Monster tastes better than any of the meat at Taco Bell or KFC. At the very least, it's the same meat (that would explain my sharting problems). Carl's Junior? White Castle? I'm sure Bigfoot remains would be a major step up from their rancid burgers. I would rather have a pizza with cheese made from Martian milk than what they serve at Pizza Hut.

And what about the lower profile cryptids? The Kongamato is a reported giant bat-like creature from the border area of Zambia. I'm sure their wings taste better than the wings at Chili's. The Bunyip is a kangaroo-type animal that haunts Australian swamps and causes nocturnal terror by eating people or animals in their vicinity. Now that sounds delectable!

I'd eat mutants too. Look, who the fuck knows what science has been keeping from us all these years. They've been creating and mutating animals since at least the '40's. I assume they've gotten something right. I'm sure these mutant animals don't have Salmonella, can't get Mad Cow, and taste like a little bit of heaven.

So, when you see these crazy animals showing up on the Web. Don't get scared, get hungry. We're on the verge of a whole new movement in food - the freaky shit. The world is going to start chowing on stuff we've never chowed on before. Mystery Meat: It's What's for Dinner!

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Don't Be a Facehole - Repost

***I'm on vacation again. As my gift to you for Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Ramadan, or any other nonsensical celebration of a nonsensical organized religion, I've decided to repost one of my most important pieces, Don't Be a Facehole. Enjoy...

If you're not on Facebook, you're not going to understand this post. If you are on Facebook, like most students, housewives, programmers, stalkers, pedophiles, and bored losers throughout the world, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

Facebook has become infested. Not by a virus. Not by phishers. Not by spam. Something far worse. Facebook has become infested by Faceholes - the people who commit unforgivable faux pas of online etiquette and render the social networking site completely annoying and unbearable.

Faceholes use wacky screen names instead of their real names -- usually something obscure or immature and almost always ironic, showing just how witty and clever they are. They also have wacky profile pictures -- usually a shot with them and somebody famous or a midget or something else that nobody really finds that funny.

Faceholes with children often use pictures of their kids as their profile pictures. This is Facebook not Faceofyourkidbook. We understand you're proud that you're fertile, but save the kid pictures for your wallet or those vanity mousepads you can get made at CafePress.

Faceholes love poking. Poking is sort of like throwing ice at somebody at the bar. It's irritating, it serves no purpose, and it can get your ass kicked (by the way, there's nothing I like better than throwing ice at the bar, but I don't poke). Faceholes also love those poke add-ons that make their pokes extra special - SuperPoke, MagicPoke, SuperIntenseAnalPoke, etc. Faceholes also make scatalogical jokes about poking.

Faceholes invite people to use stupid Facebook apps - FunWall, MobWars, Suckulous, etc. There are thousands of these things and I don't know what any of them do. I do know they're a pain in the ass and they clutter profiles, making them look like MySpace pages.

Faceholes compulsively give status updates 20-30 times a day. When the site asks "What are you doing right now?", you don't have to always provide an answer. Honestly, nobody gives a shit what you're doing right now! And, if you're trying to be funny in your status update, don't. Leave the comedy to professionals like Dave Coulier and Nipsey Russel.

Polite Faceholes follow the mini-feed like it's the Dow Jones stock ticker. If it's your birthday or you got a dog or you have your period, they'll post on your wall or send you a gift or poke you. Leave it alone. We know you care.

Faceholes set up Fan Pages. Nobody cares that you like MGMT or Stephen Colbert or Ann B. Davis or Babar (although, an Iron Mike Fan Page would be sweet - somebody set it up).

Faceholes forward on spam. Faceholes make comments on pictures about how awesome you look. Faceholes post grainy mobile photos and tag you in them. Faceholes invite you to events you have absolutely no intention of intending. Faceholes ask you to support causes you couldn't possibly care about.

Facebook is the de facto place for gaining the acceptance or validation you never received when you were younger. It's there to show your old girlfriends or boyfriends that your life is better than theirs. It's there to show everybody just how loved you are. It's there to help you get laid. It's there to allow you to stalk in a non-confrontational setting. Facebook is wonderful, except for the Faceholes.

Yes, I've committed many a Facehole move in my time, but that doesn't make it right. Like Myspace and Friendster before it, Facebook will eventually have it's comeuppance and we'll all move on to some other site. Until then, stop being a Facehole.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Spam I Am

The first thing I do each morning is check my e-mail. I look forward to reading gushing compliments on my writing, promising leads for my business, benevolent greetings from my friends, and the occasional death threat from an angry malcontent who feels that I've ruined his life. Often, those e-mails are there, but to find them, I have to sift through a veritable ocean of spam.

Cheap Viagra. Free laptops. Hot stock picks. Young amateurs. Real diplomas. Grocery vouchers. Security updates. KFC gift cards. Penis enlargement drugs. Replica Rolexes. E-card deliveries. Investment opportunities. Paypal alerts. Travel discounts. Legal settlements.

Marketers and sellers and phishers and hackers and scammers and con men and Bernie Madoffs. They're all online. They're all taking advantage of naive Web users. They're all clogging our in-boxes and slowing down our servers. They're all wasting our time with spam.

I have it worse than most. Because I work on the Web, I have at least 25 e-mail addresses. Some of them, I've never used. Still, the spammers found them. They're relentless, they're unscrupulous, and they're careless. Some spammers have identified me as a German woman named Belen Swasey. Therefore, many of my e-mails are in German and market female-oriented products. Unsolicited e-mail sucks, but unsolicited e-mail in a language I can't understand about shit I'll never use REALLY sucks.

According to my systems admin, nearly 95 percent of the e-mails that hit my company's server are spam. Blocking spam is a multi-billion dollar industry in the US alone. In Nigeria, the number one career is spam con artist (number two is assistant crack whore). It's obvious that spam is a problem, but the question is why? The answer is simple - spam is a problem because it works.

If nobody was clicking on those "special offers", if nobody was buying those hard-on drugs, if nobody was revealing their social security numbers to identity thieves, if nobody was exposing their computers to spyware and worm viruses, spammers would pack up their bulk e-mail software and find something else to do.

Ah, but that wouldn't happen. Some people are just idiots. They're given the most powerful computing technology that's ever existed and they use it to get suckered, they use it to do things they're embarrassed to do in person, and they use it to waste their money on useless crap. Who are these people?

Who keeps falling for the African scams? At first it made sense - you get millions if you give out your bank routing number and your life savings to a complete stranger. But after all these years and all these reports on Dateline, people still haven't wised up?

Who's investing in stocks that are recommended in spam? Fuck, who's investing in stocks at all these days?!?

Who's so desperate for affection that they'll open e-cards from people they don't know?

Who's buying all this Viagra? I knew erectile dysfunction was a common affliction, but based on my inbox, everybody's limper than Stephen Hawking!

Who's getting diplomas online? Are they really going into job interviews holding their recently purchased PhDs in physics from MIT?

Who looks at an offer for a Wii or an iPod and thinks it's real? Do they really think they get free electronics just for having an e-mail address?

I don't know who these people are, but they're out there. Yes, they're out there patronizing the spammers. If they weren't, there would be no spam.

You may say it's not that hard to deal with spam. When it comes in, just delete it, right? Unfortunately, when you you get 700 e-mails a day and 650 of them are spam, it becomes a major pain in the ass. This is especially true on the iPhone. Most people see me fingering away on my cool new microcomputer and think I'm using one of those cool apps featured on those cool commercials. No, I'm deleting spam e-mails one at a time because the iPhone doesn't have a delete all button. I probably spend an hour a day dealing with spam. Add that up over a lifetime and it's costing me more than two years of my life.

So, yeah, spam sucks. We must put an end to it. We must find those fuckers that click on those links and kill them, or at least tell them to stop. If we do, we'll live in a land without spam, a land where we can view our forwarded porn and Facebook friend requests and legitimate money-making opportunities without interruption. Dare to dream! Dare to ignore spam.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Citizens on Patrol

I don't shovel snow. It's not because I'm lazy, well...actually, it is because I'm lazy. But, it's also because I know that the snow will melt or be walked on or both. I figure - why should I screw up my back and waste my precious energy when the problem will take care of myself? So, you can imagine how annoyed I was the morning after Denver's latest snowfall when my doorbell rang and it was a neighbor who complained that I didn't shovel my sidewalk. He went on and on about how it's my responsibility to clear the snow so people can walk by without slipping. Of course, I told him to fuck off.

After work, I came home to find a citation on my door. It was for not shoveling the sidewalk and it sported a hefty fine. Obviously, this asshole ratted me out to Public Works. If I were in the Mafia, he'd be killed. Lucky for him, I'm not in the Mafia. Still, I felt like killing that do-gooder.

Why is it that random people feel the need to police me? Why can't they just leave me alone with my lawlessness and anti-social behavior? Why must they go out of their way to correct me when they feel that I'm wrong? This shit happens to me all the time...

Last weekend, I was blissfully walking my dog to the bagel store for a little nova and schmear. As we crossed Speer Boulevard, a postman driving a postal truck towing a postal truck (redundant, but completely true) screamed out of his window, "You're an idiot!". At first, I thought he was commenting on my mental capacity or possibly my choice of dogs. Then, I realized that I was walking in a crosswalk that wasn't actually a crosswalk. This postman decided to take it upon himself to reprimand me, thus alerting me to the error of my ways. Of course, I told him to fuck off.

Another time, I was driving in my neighborhood and I made a right turn. A dreadlocked lady in an old maroon Saab started honking her horn uncontrollably. I thought I might have gotten a flat or hit an old person. So, I pulled over. The Lilith Fair holdover proceeded to yell at me for not using my turn signal. Sitting in my brand new Mercedes, I told her my signal doesn't work. Then, of course, I told her to fuck off.

I can't get a break. Don't these "good samaritans" have anything better to do with their time than to point out my misdeeds? Yes, I'm an asshole. Yes, I'm a bad driver and a bad walker and a bad neighbor. Yes, I don't have any consideration for anybody other than myself. But, that's my problem. I don't need meshugeneh yentas getting involved. If you ask me, they should mind their own fucking business.

Recently, in front of a hospital, a lady in a wheel chair told me that I couldn't smoke on the hospital's campus. I told her to take her oxygen tank and roll back to bed. Recently, outside of the grocery store, a bum yelled at me for not putting away my shopping cart. I explained that I'm keeping retards and Mexicans employed. He said something nonsensical and asked me for money.

I've been punched for cutting in line at the DMV. I've been hit with a pole for cutting in line at a ski lift. I've been reported for not recycling, for not picking up dog shit, and for not wiping my sweat off the exercise machine. I've had people call the cops when I get into fights, when I drive drunk, and when when I steal from convenience stores. I've had guys tell my wife when I don't wash my hands in the bathroom at the bar. What the hell?

Rules are made to be broken. Only suckers follow rules and I'm no sucker. It's not like I don't know I'm breaking the rules. I just do it because nobody's around that has the authority to bust me. Still, these randoms take it upon themselves to make things right. That ain't right!

I don't report Audi drivers for being the biggest douchebags on the road. I don't chide people for buying Britney Spears's new album and bringing her back into our collective consciousness when we were almost rid of her. I don't attack hippies for not wearing deodorant and forcing me to inhale their rancorous scent. I don't correct Born Again Christians when they claim that Jesus is our savior. No, I just let everybody be, whether I agree with them or not.

There's a classic scene in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles where John Candy is driving the wrong way down a one way street. A driver on the other side of the road tries to flag him down shouting, "You're going the wrong way!" Candy's character dismisses him by saying, "How would he know where we're going!?" That's how I feel.

Nobody knows my intentions. Yes, they're usually inconsiderate and wrong and illegal. However, they're my intentions. I don't need to be corrected or chastised or reported. I just need to be ignored. The next time you see me doing something you don't approve of, just let me go the wrong way. And of course, fuck off!

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Dying for Death

The last two months have been horrible for celebrity death watching. Since Paul Newman died at the end of September, virtually nobody notable has passed away. Sure, there was Mitch Mitchell and Odetta and Mr. Blackwell, but they're minor. They're no Charleton Heston or Tim Russert or Estelle Getty. I had such high hopes for the fourth quarter of 2008 when Bernie Mac and Isaac Hayes went on the same day in August. Ah, but just like on Wall Street, celebrity deaths are in a bear market.

Why, you may ask, am I so pissed about the lack of recent notable deaths? Well, celebrity death watching is my sport. It's what I think about while most other men are thinking about baseball or NASCAR. I don't watch ESPN, I watch the obituaries on Yahoo News. I'm not a member of fantasy football leagues, I'm a member of dead pools. Yes, it's morbid, but it beats following sports I'll never play. I can tell you with absolute certainty that, one day, I will die.

I've always been a fan of celebrity death watching, but it truly became my passion in September of 2003. Within 24 hours, both Johnny Cash and John Ritter died. When I called my Dad, he so eloquently said, "Well, I made it longer than Ritter, but not as long as Cash." I enjoyed his quip. When Gordon Jump died a week later, I called him again and he said he'd rather be dead than be in Cincinnati (Gordon Jump was on WKRP in Cincinnati). Good stuff!

From then on, anytime anybody famous died, I would call my Dad. Soon my mother got in on the act. And then my sister (who, by the way, lives in Cincinnati). The four of us would compete to be the first one to let the others know when a famous death had occurred. By phone or by e-mail or by text, we would broadcast the information and hope that nobody else had heard it. Not exactly The Cosby Show, but it bonded my family and gave me a reason to check at four in the morning.

Our rules are pretty simple. The dead person has to be somebody we all know. You get extra points if it's somebody beloved like George Carlin. You get even more points if it's unexpected like Heath Ledger. You get even more points if it's scandalous like Anna Nicole Smith. You get even more points if it's particularly brutal like Jam-Master Jay. And you get the maximum amount of points if it's Osama Bin Laden. I love this game!

Celebrity death watching isn't actually as morbid as it seems. When famous people die, it's our last chance to appreciate them. They could be disgraced or go insane and we'll still memorialize them. I can't wait until Michael Jackson dies. They could be old, fat, and disgusting and we'll still memorialize them. I can't wait until Elizabeth Taylor dies. They could be irrelevant and into Jesus and we'll still memorialize them. I can't wait until Stephen Baldwin dies.

Celebrity death watching also helps us realize how lucky we are to be alive, or at least not be dead. One of the things I pride myself on is that I'm not afraid to die (hey, it'll put me out of my misery). Still, I can't help but question my mortality when Jennifer Hudson's mother gets shot.

So yeah, I'm upset that nobody good has died recently. Where are the Phil Hartmans and Chris Farleys? Where are the Frank Sinatras and James Browns? Where are the Benazir Bhuttos and Nicole Brown Simpsons? In the new year, it is my hope that we'll have some solid celebrity deaths.

I hope for the expected deaths - Fidel Castro, Patrick Swayze, Amy Winehouse, and Jeff Conaway. I hope for the needed deaths - Paris Hilton, Dick Cheney, Martha Stewart, and Mario Lopez. I hope for the holy shit surprise deaths - Todd Palin, Miley Cyrus, and Michael Phelps. I hope they all die. For me, death makes life a whole a lot better.

Monday, November 24, 2008

The Shart Heard Round The World - Repost

***I'm on vacation this week. However, so you'll have something to discuss during Thanksgiving dinner, I've decided to repost one of my most important pieces, The Shart Heard Round The World. Enjoy! -- IM

It happened on Saturday morning. I was driving to Glendale to pick up my mother-in-law's birds (don't ask). The night before, I went to see Lez Zeppelin at The Bluebird. When you're watching four lesbians cover Dazed and Confused, you gotta drink.

So, I drank and then I drank some more. At the end of the night, I got that urge that only a drunken Jew in Denver could have at three in the morning -- I wanted a beef, egg, and chicharon burrito from Chubby's. It's the perfect combination of pig fat, grizzle, cholesterol, and jalapeno peppers. And it tastes oh so good. After finishing my gastronomic nightmare, I went to bed.

The next day, in my car for the bird pick-up, I noticed a familiar grumbling in my belly. In the past, this grumbling had signaled that I had to release some gas. Subsequently, I did what I had always done in that situation - I tightened my stomach muscles, relaxed my sphincter, and flatulated. Unfortunately, this was no normal flatulence. It was one with a partner, a very determined, wet, smelly partner.

I sharted.

As defined by Urban Dictionary, a shart is "a small, unintended defecation that occurs when one passes gas (blend of "shit" and "fart")". It's also known as "Foop" or "Gambling and Losing" or "Gas Followed by Mass" or "Shitting Yourself".

Obviously, I wasn't prepared for this surprise. I knew I had to fix it before I picked up the birds. I couldn't face my mother-in-law literally smelling like shit. Plus, I didn't want to stain my car's interior. So, I pulled over at the first McDonald's I saw

Anonymously zipping past the masses waiting for their McGriddles and Egg McMuffins, I ran to the bathroom. Unfortunately, when I got there, the one stall with a door was occupied by a man teaching his son how to poop (which my father probably should have done). I banged on the door and the father told me to wait. When I frantically told him I couldn't, the son started crying. The father yelled at me. Soon, the manager appeared. At risk of spending more time soaking in my own feces, I jetted before the cops came.

Back in the car, it was like a sewage treatment plant. I made my way to a Taco Bell. With the food they sell there, they were undoubtedly prepared for this kind of incident. I went into the handicapped stall so I would have enough space get the job done right. I first removed my shorts, set my underwear aside, and began wiping like the wind (front to back, of course). For fear of somebody seeing me bottomless at Taco Bell, I used the water in the toilet for a makeshift sponge bath. Then, I was somewhat clean. Unfortunately, my shorts and underwear were not.

I considered stretching my shirt into a very short dress. I considered making a toga-type sarong out of toilet paper. I considered bribing a Taco Bell staffer for her pants. Ultimately, though, I decided to wear my shorts sans underwear. I did love those boxers though, so I rolled them up, shit side in, and walked out. Nothing is worse than walking out of Taco Bell, facing those nice chalupa lovers with your shit covered underwear in your hands.

Eventually, I made it to my mother-in-law's. She had no idea of the hell that I had been through and I wasn't about to blow her image of me as a man who can control his bowels. So, I quietly got the birds and headed back to my house.

After showering vigorously with seven kinds of soap, all remnants of my fooping fiasco had been washed away. I put on new shorts and underwear, although I probably should have put on diapers or at least Depends. Quickly, I realized that whatever caused the initial shart wasn't quite finished with me yet. For the rest of the day, which seemed to be packed with wild and wonderful activities, I had anal leakage, also known as fecal incontinence.

I went to see my buddy's band, Rocky Mountain Jewgrass (yes, it's a Jewish Bluegrass band) play at an outdoor festival. In 100 degree weather, my balloon knot kept dripping. To the sounds of country versions of Shalom Aleichem and Dayenu, I ran to and from the porta-potty in order to wipe. All the wiping and the heat baking my wet anus had some horrible ramifications.

I got taint chafe.

As defined by Wikipedia, the term taint refers to "the perineum, the region of the human body between the testicles or vulva and the anus." Well, my perineum was swollen, burning, raw, and irritated. I wanted to go home, shower again, and put this day of soft stool sickness behind me.

Unfortunately, my wife had other plans for me. She had an engagement party AND a birthday party that we HAD to attend. As time passed, my taint was so chafed that it felt like I had gotten a battery acid enema. At the engagement party, I walked around like a duck, trying to keep my legs, ass cheeks, and balls from rubbing anywhere near my anal region. At the birthday party, I couldn't even stand. I just sat there trying to drink the pain away.

As I grew drunker, I began to tell everybody about my plight. It turned out that nearly every person I spoke to, both male and female, had been in my situation at one point or another in their life. They just never spoke about it. It was as if there were some heavily guarded "Secret of the Shart".

Throughout the night, I heard fantastic tales of wet sensations, soaked skirts, and sock drips. I heard from a fund raiser who once sharted on a hike. I heard from a crime reporter who once sharted during sex. I heard from a chiropractor who once sharted on a patient. I learned that married people are more likely to discuss sharting than single people. I learned that pregnant woman uncontrollably shart without even knowing it. I learned that the older you are, the more likely you are to shart.

It suddenly occurred to me - sharting is what unites us as humans.

We could be Republicans or Democrats or Muslims or Jews or Gays or Straights. We all have been in the horrible situation where our gastrointestinal functions got the most of us. Why do we allow ourselves to be divided by beliefs or backgrounds or orientations when we should be united by embarrassment? I say let's come together as one, let's come together as one and shit our pants!

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

No Boarding

With the the fall of the first snow in Colorado, most of my fellow Denverites are preparing for a long winter of mountain sports. They're waxing their skis and sharpening their edges and tightening their boots to ready themselves for what they assume will be an "epic season". I, on the other hand, am doing nothing. That's because this year, I will not be snowboarding.

Growing up in Miami, my idea of a winter sport was sailing, windsurfing, or carjacking German tourists. When I moved to Colorado 14 years ago, I had barely seen snow, let alone rode 40 mph on it. Still, I tried to fit in. Living in Boulder, my only role models were bobos that drove Subarus and shopped at REI. They told me that, to be a Coloradan, I had to pick a mountain sport to pursue. Because I didn't want to look like a cast member of Hot Dog...The Movie, I settled on snowboarding.

Working on the mountain as a janitor, I mastered my craft. Soon, I was doing ollies and grabs and switches and spins. I affected the snowboarder drawl (lots of "dudes" and "bros" and "right ons"). I stopped showering and shaving and wearing deodorant. I became a nuisance to skiers. And in time, I was a full-fledged knuckle dragger. As the years passed, I went snowboarding each time the winter winds would blow. Eventually though, snowboarding started to blow.

It's not the sport, per se. It's everything that comes along with it - the traffic, the people, the cold, the altitude sickness, the sore muscles, the long underwear, the dripping mucous, the anal chafe, the bathroom inaccessibility, the long lines to get on the lifts, the high prices for sub-par food at the lodge, the unbearable crowds at the apres ski bar, etc. Essentially, snowboarding became more of a hassle than it's worth.

Still, for some reason, every year I continued to buy my season pass. I continued to sit in traffic for five hours to be cold for five hours to be tired as I sit in traffic again for five hours. I continued to stand in line with obnoxious kids and jeans-wearing Texans and those goddamn handicapped skiers and their goddamn handicapped ski chairs to go for a run where I fight with the same aforementioned assholes for space on the trails. I continued to subject my aging body to strains and sprains and bruises and pulls when I should be at home like the rest of the sane people in my demographic. Well, that's over now since, as I said, this year, I will not be snowboarding.

It feels great to say that. In July, I won't get anxious that I haven't purchased my overpriced Colorado Pass in time to get the early bird "discount". In September, I won't be pissed that I didn't get to Sniagrab in time to get the good gear so I won't look like a tool four months later. In November, I won't dread the fact that I haven't had my first day on the mountain despite the fact that early season runs are wrought with bare trails, rocks, and jerks that think they have to take advantage of early season runs.

In January, I won't have to wait with the herds of lemmings to get to and from The Eisenhower Tunnel. If I don't want to deal with traffic, I won't have to spend the highest prices of the year to stay in shitty accommodations that only out-of-towners should stay in during high season. In March, I won't have to question whether I should wear winter gear or summer gear and sweat or freeze depending upon which choice I make. In April, I won't have to be sad that it's 6 months until I can snowboard again.

Hey, snowboarding has been good to me. It gave me a reason to go to Aspen to harass Hunter S. Thompson and to hit on foreign au pairs and nannys. Ah, but now Hunter's dead and I'm married. It gave me a reason to go to Breckenridge to smoke weed with hippies and to watch third tier jam bands jam. Ah, but now I no longer get high and I've lost any of my remaining tolerance for cacophonous noodling. It gave me a reason to get out of Denver to avoid the chores my wife assigned me and to get away from the tedium of home. Ah, but now my wife is wise to my avoidance tactics and snowboarding has become even more tedious than being at home.

Snowboarding has also not been good to me. It's been the cause of broken ribs, busted discs, and squished balls. It's been the cause of wind burn, athlete's foot, and mildewy body odor. It's forced me to schedule my life around I-70's traffic trends. It's gotten me close to frost bite. It's given me the worst gas of my life (open mouth snowboarding and high altitude are not a good gastric combination). It's ruined hangovers by forcing me to get out of bed to partake in an activity that should never be partaken in hungover. And, It's kept me from doing important shit like gambling online, surfing porn, and stealing groceries.

Snowboarding is sort of like Guitar Hero. It' pretty cool at first, but after a while, it becomes lame and boring. Look, there's a reason Blacks and Asians and Mexicans don't partake in mountain sports. They're smart. I'm no white man. So, this year, I'm going to act like it. Gladly, I won't see you on the mountain!

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Stealing from Grocery Stores

I'll say it loud and I'll say it proud - I steal from grocery stores!

It's not that I have 7 starving children at home that I have to provide for and welfare doesn't give me enough aid to do so. It's not that I have a debilitating illness that keeps me from holding a steady job and my disability checks aren't large enough to put dinner on the table. It's not that I lost all my money in the economy that George W. Bush built.

No, I steal from grocery stores because I can.

Right after college, I had this roommate that worked at a Whole Foods precursor in Miami. While getting his master's degree, he earned extra cash ringing up overpriced gourmet meals, organic vegetables, vitamins, soaps, and other crap upscale health food stores charge insane amounts of money for. He and I made a deal. Every day or so, I would go in there and fill up a shopping cart with the most expensive shit in the place. Then, when I went to checkout, he would ring up $10.43 or some other sub-fifteen dollar sum. No questions asked.

In return, I would share the spoils with him when he got home. We'd barbecue Maine lobster and Kobe beef, we'd dip Beluga caviar and goose liver pate, we'd drink French wine and Belgian ale. It was glorious. Eventually, my roommate quit his job and he's now a high school principal. The store we robbed was acquired by Fresh Market for some crazy sum. I didn't get caught, my roommate didn't lose his job, and the store didn't go out of business. Truly, a victimless crime.

Later, when I moved out to Colorado, I got a job as a janitor at Eldora. At that time, I actually was hungry and I didn't have food (I spent my whole salary on weed and booze). One of my fellow janitors used to work at King Soopers. He told me that they had a policy - they would never prosecute anybody for eating inside the store. It was like this unspoken rule - anything consumed under their roof was free. For the rest of my tenure as a janitor, I spent most of my off time at King Soopers eating. Shit, I brought dates there. I hosted business lunches there. When my parents were in town, I took them out to dinner there. Not once did I get in trouble.

From those two experiences, I learned a few valuable lessons. First, for the most part, nobody notices when you steal from grocery stores. Second, except in extreme cases, nobody will punish you for stealing from grocery stores. Third, stealing from grocery stores hurts no one. And fourth, food stolen from grocery stores tastes really, really good.

So now, even though I no longer need to steal from grocery stores, I do it as much as I possibly can. And why not?

With my limited knowledge of economics and accounting, here's how I see it: Grocery stores know that people are going to steal from them. Subsequently, they mark up their prices to account for the presumed theft. That means that the people that don't steal pay for the people that do steal. Doesn't seem fair to me! I'm not going to let bums and indigents benefit from these one-sided policies at my expense. I want my piece of the pie -- if that pie is made by Safeway, even better.

When I go shopping, I immediately order some prosciutto and imported cheese from the deli. I make my way to the bakery where I grab that fancy bread, the stuff Mitch Hedberg talks about. I get the non-Kraft mustard from the condiment aisle and the organic lettuce and tomatoes from the produce section. I then consume a free delicious sandwich as I shop. That's just the beginning. Soon, I'm devouring eggs and donuts and Jello and pizza and meat, sort of like Belushi in Animal House. I eat everything I can. Hey, it's not like I'm gonna be arrested.

Next, I stuff small, but expensive items like olive oil, chopped garlic, macadamia nuts, and filet mignon inside potato chip snack packs, cereal samplers, fabric softener boxes, or anything with a little excess room in the packaging. Chances are, nobody will expect me to hide these products (macadamia nut theft is not yet a major epidemic). So, I pile them away. I also slide non-perishable items like razors, deodorant, early pregnancy tests, and Magnum XL Condoms into my jacket pockets. I don't really look like a thief (no mask, no striped shirt, no large sack over my shoulder), so nobody imagines that I have the Fort Knox of toiletries on my person.

Then, I throw large products like kitty litter, Gatorade, and toilet paper on to the bottom rack of the shopping cart. Upon checking out, no one ever looks at the bottom rack. They think you'll be honest and alert the checker to what's there. Honesty's for suckers. I just pretend that whatever's beneath eye level doesn't exist and I walk out of the store saving forty or fifty bucks. I rarely get caught doing this, but when I do, I claim ignorance. It's an obvious oversight because I, much like most checkers, don't look that low. Anyway, they got some fucking nerve charging twelve bucks for a 16-pack of toilet paper. It goes in your ass. It shouldn't cost that much.

If I don't have anything in the bottom rack, I head to the self-service checkout line. They expect us to ring up our food ourselves and not steal? Crazy! I pretend to run things over the scanner and make that little beep sound with my mouth. I'm the Larvelle Jones of shopping. When I "accidentally" miss some items, nobody knows any different. I love exploiting trust!

Over the years, I've stolen tens of thousands of dollars worth of food. I make a good living and, for all intents and purposes, I shouldn't steal anything. Well, I steal from grocery stores for reasons that go beyond frugality and avarice. I like to stick it to The Man. Yes, as the owner of a business, I could be perceived as The Man, but not The Man that owns grocery store chains. There's a Man hierarchy and I fall lower on that totem pole. Plus, in my business, I get it stuck to me all the time. I have clients that won't pay and employees that take advantage of my generous PTO policies. It's time for some payback! Stealing from grocery stores is my way to get paid, biatch!

On another note, in the grocery store parking lot, I don't appropriately put away my shopping cart. I just leave it dangling in the middle of the road and go on my merry way. You might think I do this to be an asshole. However, I actually do it out of benevolence. That's right! If I put my shopping cart in the designated shopping cart depository, the retards and the Mexicans and the old people whose job it is to collect carts won't have a job. I just can't have that on my conscience. See, I'm not all that bad.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Glad It's Over

In case you haven't heard, Barack Obama won the presidential election last night (I pride myself on reporting obscure news). It's a very good thing he didn't lose. Given his overriding lead in the polls, there would have been major riots if he would have lost. Shit, I would have rioted, not because I was angry that Obama was robbed, but because I need a new flat screen TV.

Interestingly enough though, there were some riots. At retirement communities and assisted living facilities throughout the Midwest, decrepit white men felt that the election was wrongfully snatched from one of their brothers. They refused to take their medications, they rammed their wheelchairs through windows, and they defecated in the streets. It was scary!

Like many Obama supporters, I was shooting off celebratory bullets from my illegally purchased handgun. It wasn't because I was ecstatic over Barack's victory. It was because I was relieved that this fucking election is finally over. It's been a long, draining race and it's time for things to get back to normal.

It's time to remove the election signs from our front lawns and put back our gnomes and flamingos and old sofas. It's time to peel off our political stickers and once again adorn our cars with witty slogans like, "If this van's a rockin', don't come a knockin'!" and "Honk if you're horny!" and "Jesus is coming, look busy!". It's time end to our donations to campaigns and return to spending money on important things like illicit drugs and prostitution and child support.

Remember what it was like before the election season went into full swing? Nobody gave a shit about politics. Nobody cared about poll results. Nobody knew the difference between Borat and Barack. Nobody watched Saturday Night Live. Nobody lusted after Campbell Brown or Arianna Huffington. Nobody wore rimless eyeglasses. Well, those days are back, baby!

Musicians, actors, and other retards who have no idea about national affairs, but think it's cool to support Obama, can return to being apathetic. D-list Republicans like Stephen Baldwin, John Ratzenberger, Robert Davi, and Andrew Shue can return to to irrelevance. Bill Ayers and Jeremiah Wright can return to domestic terrorism and America hating.

Extra, Entertainment Tonight, and every other entertainment news show can stop interviewing political figures and get back to reporting on important shit like the results of Paris Hilton's herpes test and The New Kids on the Block's historical reunion. Uninterrupted by weekly debates, we won't miss a single episode of titillating programs like Wife Swap, Are You Smarter Than a Fetus, and Law and Order: WTF. Without the endless barrage of political ads, we'll see more of those horrible Microsoft commercials that try to be as clever as Apple's, but fail miserably and make us all feel very uncomfortable.

For my part, after today, I will never mention anybody with the last name Palin ever again in my blog. Same goes for Joe the Plumber and every other obviously ineffective Republican pawn. Like in the old days, I'll write about significant issues like sharting, urinating, drinking, and being angry.

While I'm happy my candidate won, I'm going to miss having a foil to make fun of. I loved complaining about Bush. He was one funny fucking redneck. McCain and Palin would have given me that same joy.

Ah, but that's a small price to pay.

Now, Republicans will see what it feels like to be helpless, with the fate of their country resting in the hands of a president they didn't vote for. We won't have to be reminded of our inevitable mortality by McCain's corpse-like being. And, we won't have to hear Christian people talk about how refreshing Sarah Palin is. That's change we can believe in!

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Teetotal Recall

So, I'm thinking about quitting drinking. Yes, you heard me right - after more than a quarter century of imbibing with reckless abandon, America's favorite lush is considering getting sober.

I had my first drink when I was 11. Of course, it was Manischewitz. I grabbed a discarded bottle from the trash after Rosh Hashana. It tasted like grape juice, except it made me feel better than anything Ocean Spray could ever serve up. I wanted more.

In Junior High, I raided the liquor cabinets of the single mothers of the friends who were dumb enough to let me sleep over. In High School, I convinced the panhandling bums who hung out in front of Circle K to buy me Mad Dog and Mickey's Big Mouth for a slight surcharge. In college, I used the ID of a light-skinned 48 year-old black man to drink more alcohol than every character in Mad Men. Sure, I smoked pot and took pills and did psychedelics, but none of them stuck. It was booze that treated me right. My liquor love affair was cemented.

Until I turned 25, booze and I had a great relationship. We'd spend our days and nights together. We'd enjoy every moment we had, alone and with friends. It was a match made in heaven. In the morning, I never regretted a thing (after a little Gatorade and a few Tylenols). Yeah, there were some hook-ups with unsavory ladies. Yeah, there were the occasional brawls where I was left bloody and broken. Yeah, there were the times I'd pass out and get magic markered by my friends. Still, the hooch and I got along just fine.

After 25 though, things things started to change.

First, I got a DUI. You know the worst thing about a DUI? It's not the fines or the alcohol classes or the community service or the prison time. No, it's the fact that you can't drink and drive. Oh, how I used to love drunk driving. Nothing was better than being ripped, rolling down the highway, and following those squiggly little lines in the middle of the road. Well, that's over and done with. Now, anytime I want to drink and drive, I have to think twice. If I go out, I have to convince someone to drive me or, even worse, I have to find a cab. Not fun.

Next, they made it illegal to smoke in bars. Shit, that's what bars are about - drinking and smoking. They go together like liver cirrhosis and lung cancer. Bars minus smoking equals a horrible time. Plus, without the savory scent of smoke, every bar smells like farts and body odor. Again, not fun.

Then, my body fell apart.

At about 30, my bowels got irritable and my liver got sensitive. It became a chore just to put down a liter of whiskey or two. Acid reflux reared its ugly head with every sip I took. Heartburn became my new chaser. Nausea became my new euphoria. And the hangovers...

They say there's this gene that causes some Jewish people to have worse hangovers than goyim. I thought I didn't have that gene, but I realized I was wrong, very wrong. My hangovers are wicked. Fatigue and migraines and depression and gas and sharting. When I'm hungover, I'm like a mental patient that just ate Mexican food. I'm angry, I'm irrational, and I defecate everywhere. Worse, It takes me days and days to recover from my hangovers. Then, as soon as I'm recovered, I'm back to drinking, which causes my next marathon hangover.

Recently, I created rules to lessen the pain of partaking. I don't drink before sundown and I don't drink on school nights. Sounds smart, huh? Well, following the rules, I get drunker on weekends and I stay out later than ever. No help. Plus, I haven't seen a non-hungover weekend day in years. Is drinking becoming more work than it's worth?

What would life be like as a teetotaler? Well, I assume it would be a lot easier. My mornings would be glorious, birds chirping and sun shining. No more leaning over the toilet for an hour followed by sitting on the toilet for another hour. No more wishing I was dead. No more cravings for KFC and Alka-Seltzer.

I wouldn't have to apologize to anybody for being an asshole. I wouldn't have to resolve ridiculous fights with my wife. I wouldn't have random scrapes or bruises or burns on my body. I'd open my wallet and there'd actually be money in there from the night before. I could give that money to charity, or at least spend it on porn. My mind would be clear. I could read the classics. I could finish my novel. I could learn guitar. I could contribute to society, or at least watch more porn. Man, it sounds great, huh?

Hold on there, bub! There's another side to this story, though.

If I didn't drink, I'd never be drunk. I'd never have that sweet sense of sweetness that only a buzz can provide. I'd never have those warm moments where nothing matters other than peeing and ordering another drink. I'd never have those drawn out conversations that only make sense when you're under the influence (zen and the art of bukakke, Small Wonder vs. Robocop, etc.). I'd never have those uncontrollable urges to act on really ridiculous ideas like vandalizing a cop car or throwing ice at a gang member or joining The National Guard.

I'd have to go to places I hate without alcohol to make them better. I'd have to talk to people I hate without alcohol to make them more bearable. There's nothing worse than drunk people when you're sober, so I'd probably never go out. Then, I'd never have stories of senseless fights or of being overly surly or of sharting. I wouldn't be able to write this blog.

Fuck, just thinking about life without alcohol makes me want to have a drink. Who am I kidding? I can't quit drinking. There's too much to love about it. Sure, it's tough on your body and it makes you act like an idiot and and it's expensive. And sure it hurts the next day and it makes you tired all week and it causes numerous problems with your close relationships. That's not as much of a problem as being a loser who has no fun. Life hands us choices and I choose booze. Long live you, my old friend liquor!!!

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Hair of The Mug

It's that time of the year again, the glorious month where I grow my Octobeard.

Usually, when I grow a beard, it's a very organized process. I plan and I trim and I shape. I use Just for Men Beard Formula to get rid of what I call the Miller Half Moon (the gray inverted arch that grows on the bottom of my chin, making me look like Dennis Miller). I brush out the knots and I even out the length. All of this work results in a beautifully designed beard, sort of like James Brolin's.

When I grow an Octobeard, on the other hand, I do nothing. I leave my beard unkempt and wiry and gray. I let it blossom like an unencumbered weed. Eventually, I start looking like Rick Rubin or Zach Galifianakis.

Why, you may ask, do I grow the Octobeard? First, I want Winter to know that I'm not afraid of it -- if the weather gets unseasonably cold, I'll have an extra layer of fur to protect my mug. Second, I have to be prepared in case I decide on a Halloween costume that requires facial hair -- if I want to be Serpico or Mr. Whipple or Captain Lou Albano, I won't have to use that synthetic shit. And third, I grow the Octobeard because I can!

Facial hair is the one thing men have that women don't (other than penises, prostates, testicles, chest hair, and an appreciation for Maxim Magazine). Sure, some women, mostly of Israeli, Italian, or Middle Eastern decent, have facial hair. They are, however, encouraged to get rid of it (by the way, I recommend waxing over bleaching any day - nobody wants to kiss a hairy lip, even if it is blond). And, no woman (except maybe some circus freaks or morbidly obese senior citizens) has facial hair to the extent that men do.

So, we cherish our facial hair. We embrace it. We experiment with it. I've had a mustache, a goatee, a vandyke, a soul patch, and mutton chops, and that was just last month. Facial hair allows us to assert our individuality and it allows us to look ridiculous. Those are two things men love.

To some, having facial hair defines them. What would ZZ Top be without their beards? What would Scott Ian be without his billy goatee? What would John Oates be without his mustache? No hippie worth his weight in weed would be caught without some sort of beard. Suburban dads who worship MMA fighters usually favor the close cut goatee. Mustaches are the staple of cops, cowboys, and queers.

If you're not a cop, a cowboy, or a queer, mustaches are funny (unless it's an ironic mustache which has been played out by hipsters from Williamsburg). Offering mustache rides is ALWAYS funny. Y'know what else is funny - guys that don't have any hair on their head that make up for it on their face. They look like they're upside down. I also enjoy laughing at guys who can't grow facial hair. They ARE less male. They're the same guys that don't have chest hair or an adam's apple. Sad, but also funny!

In addition to being the butt of endless jokes, facial hair can be very useful. It can cover up zits and moles and pock marks. In my humble opinion, Bill Murray should have as much facial hair as he can find. If one had a cleft lip as a child, facial hair can cover that up too, just like Stacy Keach. Strangely though, Joaquin Phoenix has chosen to let his cleft lip exist naked. Not a good move. Facial hair can also eliminate the need for such commonplace nuisances as face washing, nose hair trimming, and tanning.

Good facial hair is hard to come by. I once got into a fight for admiring a dude's facial hair at a bar. He thought I was clowning him. I wasn't. I admire lots of men for their facial hair: Kenny Rogers, Burt Reynolds, George Michael, Abe Lincoln, and even Adolf Hitler. The Hitler mustache is on its way back. Sure it's got some PR problems, but if you call it The Chaplin, you can rock that shit hard!

Good facial hair is also found on the non-famous. This guy is sporting the half beard. Nice! I'd like to popularize cheek polkadots or the underbeard. I'd also like to shave everything off, then grow it all back, dye it orange, and become Alf. Alf knew how to wear his facial hair. Some people don't.

A facial offender is a guy who wears his facial hair in such a wrong way that he should be stripped of the privilege of growing facial hair. Aging hipsters that sport the soul patch are facial offenders. Tools with Backstreet Beards (beards favored by The Backstreet Boys) are facial offenders.

The Amish are facial offenders. They have no style, so don't try to look like them. That means you, James Hettfield! Wearers of the business beard are facial offenders. If it looks good at work, it should be shaved. Anybody with a Todd Palin goatee is a facial offender. Tight goatees are to the nineties what mustaches are to the eighties. They're relics of a bygone era that should not be brought back until they can be ironic.

I, fortunately, am not a facial offender. Also fortunately, my wife likes me to have stubble at all times. Essentially, I'm always one step away from growing facial hair. How sweet is that? Now, I just have to get creative and one day, I may make it into The Facial Hair Society. Dare to dream!

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Clubbed Over The Head

The other night, I was tricked into going to a nightclub. The wife and I were having a quiet dinner when she received a text. Seconds later, she looked up from her little phone and said, "Hey, Sandy's gonna be at 24K. Wanna go say hi?" Whenever we "go say hi", it never turns out good. If we were meant to go to a club, we would have planned on it. We wouldn't have planned on it because I don't go to clubs.

There are so many reasons I don't go to clubs. First, I'm 36. Second, I hate techno, house, drum and bass, and any other music foreigners dance to. Third, I don't dance. Fourth, I don't believe in paying a surcharge to be surrounded by people I don't like. Fifth, and foremost, I'm married and I don't have to subject myself to the aforementioned crap to get laid.

Clubs are the scourge of humanity. They're gathering points for assholes of all kinds. Trendy assholes and musclehead assholes and bridge and tunnel assholes and cokehead assholes and Middle Eastern assholes. Assholes love clubs! They work their shitty jobs all week (usually waiting tables, selling mortgages, or managing rental car counters), then they waste all their money on party drugs, ugly designer clothes, garish jewelery, and malodorous perfumes so they can shine at the club.

There's a hierarchy at nightclubs not based on merit, but based on cheesiness for men and hoochieness for women. If you're a guy and you wear sunglasses at night, you have facial hair shaved into a thin line from ear to chin to ear, and you bob your head at the first sound of an electronic beat, you'll be treated like royalty. If you're a chick and you wear undergarments that are intentionally visible to anyone with eyes, you have abnormally large fake breasts that you're not afraid to expose, and you flirt with cheesy guys at the first sound of an electronic beat, you too will be treated like royalty. I, however, do not get treated like royalty.

I cringe when the drinks are $15 and I take offense when the waitstaff scoffs at me for not getting bottle service. Bottle service is ridiculous with a capital diculous. Shit! You pay $400 for a $30 bottle of alcohol so you can sit down. I realize it makes you look rich, but if you really were rich, you'd spend your money on more practical things, like stocks (just kidding).

Anyway, the wife and I finished dinner and went to the club (yeah, I wear the pants in the family). 24K is supposedly the hippest club in Denver. Isn't that an oxymoron? Nothing in Denver is hip. I love that these days, there are hip venues in shitty places like Des Moines, Dubuque, Butte, Albuquerque, and Denver. Small cow towns should stick to country bars and dive bars. That's what they do best. Regardless, 24K has all the trappings of a hip bar in a real city, including the velvet rope. There, a large bouncer ID'd and questioned me. I guess being old at a club is the equivalent of being a terrorist at the airport.

Because my wife is hot and looks young, she was able to vouch for me. When we got in, Sandy was at a table with a bunch of basketball players. I have no idea why small towns lionize professional athletes. They're freakish and dumb. I'm short and I don't like sports. So, I can't stand professional athletes. The players were obviously happy to have my wife join them at the table and have her sip from their bottle. I, on the other hand, had to go to the bar. Since I didn't want to buy two $15 drinks, I was fine with that.

After about a half hour of waiting for my drink, I returned to the table and saw the wife and her friend having a grand old time. It seems as if Sandy also texted some other thirtysomething women to come "say hi!". To her delight, they all showed up. Thirtysomething women love to dance. I have no idea why, but it's their thing. Within minutes, they were doing what looked like a tribal menstrual ritual. I had a strange feeling I wouldn't be leaving anytime soon.

So, I stood in the corner and sulked. I already had a headache from the thumping bass and I was claustrophobic from being packed in like a sardine. Every once in a while, I would glance over at the wife to see if maybe she was ready to go anytime soon. She wasn't. If I asked her to leave, she would call me lame, boring, and old. Yes, I am all of those things, but I can't be called that by the woman I love.

Next thing you know, a cologne soaked body came flying at me, knocking my $15 drink to the ground. It was an Armani-clad jackass who got a little too into his dancing to see me standing there. He was about 23, right around that age where you think the world owes you something and you haven't yet realized that your life will suck once your parents stop helping you out. I said, "I hope you're gonna get me another one." He said, "Fuck you, old man! I'd kick your ass right here if it wouldn't get me kicked out. That would really suck. This place is awesome!"

He sauntered away and I was ready to explode when all of a sudden something occurred to me. This little fucker had the key to me getting home without looking lame, boring, or old to my wife. I would get kicked out.

I grabbed a couple of drinks from people that weren't looking. I walked right in front of the enormous bouncer and started to dance like I actually liked that bullshit music. My hands were moving and the drinks were splashing. Clubbing fools hate getting splashed on and soon, there was a major commotion. The bouncer grabbed me like a ragdoll and dragged me toward the door.

The wife and her friends saw me being carried out. I screamed, "I'm not lame, boring, or old! I'm just a bad dancer! See you at home, honey!" Ten minutes later, I was back at my house with no techno, no douchebags, a bottle of liquor that didn't cost $400, AND internet porn. Next time, I'll think twice before agreeing to "go say hi" to one of the wife's friends.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Iron Mike's Halloween Costume Ideas

Being in a mixed marriage (she's a Catholic and I'm a Jew, which makes us a Cashew), the wife and I don't really celebrate religious holidays. We do however, celebrate nonsensical holidays based on paganism, commercialism, and alcoholism. That's why we wholeheartedly embrace Halloween.

Each year, we transform The Iron Mike Compound into a bacchanalian den of iniquity, where aging revelers can let loose and pretend that they're still able to imbibe like they once could. There are three requirements for attending our frightful fiesta. You must leave all children at home, you must bring top shelf booze (don't think I won't notice), and you must wear a good costume. We're non-negotiable on that last one.

I stand at the front door with three large Mexicans and evaluate the garb of the arriving guests. If I see anything trite or stupid or lame or boring, I'll direct my Vatos to eject the wearer instantly. It's not that I want to be elitist about who attends my party, it's just that I believe that Halloween has become littered with too many uninspired costumes. I'm over chicks dressed as naughty nurses or naughty schoolgirls or naughty nuns. And I'm over dudes dressed as anything related to Will Ferrell, Ben Stiller, or any other member of The Frat Pack (and I don't want to see Apatow Crew outfits either).

My guests have got to get creative with their costumes. I realize that reality television and the internets have fried our brains. Still, you can come up with something that doesn't make it look like you're going to a VFW masquerade ball. I'm a master Halloween outfitter. So, I've decided to help out with Iron Mike's Halloween Costume Ideas:

Right now is a great time to go political. The obvious choices would be our beloved Palins - Sarah (stupid frameless glasses, annoying pageant hair, Dress Barn suit, Midwestern accent (even though she's from Alaska?!?)) and Todd (spotty nineties goatee, T-shirt that says "First Dude", Wal-Mart flannel, blank stare, retarded child).

Of course, there are more creative Palin-related costumes. You could be Bristol before she was pregnant (hoochie outfit, sex toys, spread legs, loose morals, unused condoms). You could also be Levi Johnston, the kid who just wanted to get laid and ended up stuck at the RNC against his will (chewing gum, American flag pin, bewildered gaze). You might also try one of the actors in Nailin' Palin, Hustler's newest porn film.

And how about Hockey Mom or Joe Six Pack? I have no idea who these people are, but I hear an awful lot about them. Growing up in Miami, we didn't have hockey. However, I can assume Hockey Mom is probably one of those frigid, god-fearing bitches who drives a Buick, wears Mom Jeans, and hangs out at Hobby Lobby. I can also assume that I HATE Joe Six Pack. In my mind, he's the asshole who drove a Camaro, listened to Stryper, and urinated on me after kicking my ass. Where do Hockey Mom and Joe Six Pack live? You guessed it - Main Street. Bring these two inanimate characters to life and you will be the life of the party.

There are other political options. Do the Obama Black Face thing. Nothing is funnier than being racist about one of the most important African Americans of our time. You could also mock John McCain's age by sporting dementia, Depends, a walker, and an AARP membership card. That'll show those evil Republicans!

Elsewhere, the financial meltdown can provide some excellent ideas -- Lehman Brothers Employee (disheveled suit, useless resume in hand, noose around the neck) or Homeless Mother (five kids, Carl's Jr. uniform, foreclosure notice on $900,000 house) or Sad Guy on Trading Floor (choose from any of these looks).

Then there's pop culture -- Amy Winehouse at 4:00 AM (rotten teeth, hair lice, emaciated frame, crystal meth), OJ Simpson after a few weeks in jail (prison bitch clothing and makeup, bloody anus), Clay Aiken on the prowl (leather chaps, Astroglide, provocative photo of Doogie Howser), Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson performing 2 Girls 1 Cup.

Some other ideas just defy categorization. Click on the links to find out more -- Mayor Mel Kuhn as Smellishis Poon, The 14 Year-Old Sumo Girl, A Man Who Loves Cats, A Monkey Waiter, The Chef From The Cum Omlette Video, The Japanese Toilet Guy, The Repliee R-1 Robot, The Models From This Shampoo Ad.

You get the picture. It's not that hard to come up with a sweet costume. If you use my suggestions or if you come up with something that rivals them, you'll be granted entrance into the Iron Mike Compound. If not, you can just sit home dressed as Borat or Britney Spears or Austin Powers and watch Two and a Half Men or Samantha Who. It's your choice.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

A Short Life

When I was 8, my mom was concerned that I was, shall we say, diminutive. I was like Tiny Tim in A Christmas Carol, except without the Christmas crap. So, she dragged me to our pediatrician, Dr. Bong (seriously, that was his name). He gave me a Bone Age Test, which would determine how tall I would be when I got older.

After the test, Dr. Bong solemnly pulled my mom into his office, while I sat in the waiting room with my undersized legs dangling from the chair. When she came out, my mom had tears in her eyes as she hugged my petite frame. At home, she explained that Dr. Bong confirmed what we had all feared - I would never be taller than 4'10". She then turned on Diff'rent Strokes and said, "It's not that bad. At least you're not black too!" My mother's racist logic provided little solace.

Reality soon set in. I was gonna be really small, like a Keebler Elf or a Lilliputian. I was gonna be a midget without those cool stubby body parts. I was gonna be a primordial dwarf, but less rare. Yes, I would be miniscule. BUT, I would not be discouraged. I had to forge ahead and prepare for the vertically challenged life that awaited me.

I learned everything I could about historic little people -- Billy Barty and Willie Shoemaker and Pablo Picasso and Mahatma Gandhi and Adolf Hitler. I read The Hobbit and Of Mice and Men. I watched every movie staring Mickey Rooney and Dudley Moore.

Then, I started smoking. Hey, it's not like I had to worry about my growth being stunted. I came up with a cute catchphrase similar to "Wha'choo talkin' 'bout!" Mine was, "Fuck off, bitch!" I also came up with tough sounding nicknames for myself - Mean Michael, Gruff Gellman, and the one that stuck, Iron Mike. And, since I wouldn't be able to play sports that required height, I got really good at sitting on the sidelines making fun of people. Did I have a Napoleon Complex? You betcha!

Miraculously, I started growing. At 11, I passed 4'10". At 13, I hit 5'3". By 17, I landed at a sub-par, but healthy 5'7". Thankfully, Dr. Bong was wrong. Who knew what he was smoking? I spent my formative years thinking I would be shorter than Emanuel Lewis, but I ended up being taller than Lou Reed, Al Pacino, and Harry Houdini. Moe, Larry, and Curly from The Three Stooges were all shorter than me. So were Sinatra, Cobain, and Brando. I've met Robert Redford and Henry Winkler and I towered over those pip-squeaks!

Yes, I'm still shorter than Hillary Clinton, Regis Philbin, Oprah Winfrey, Ross Perot, Ben Stiller and Tom Cruise (yes, Tom Cruise!!). But, that's not the point. The point is that I could have spent my life as a freak, with my only job options being at the circus or in Mike Meyers movies. I could have been mocked and tossed and dressed up for the holidays. I could have had to shop for clothes at Baby Gap!

I do have to stand on my tiptoes to hug most friends. I do have to sit on the shoulders of women in order to see at concerts. I do get height ID'd at amusement park rides that have those signs that say, "You Must Be This Tall to Ride". I can't date tall girls without them being accused of being trannys. I can't reach high shelves without a five finger boost. I can't intimidate people unless I'm packing heat. So what!

Hey, it's a short life, but it could have been much shorter.

Friday, September 26, 2008

The Day The Web Stood Still

Last night, I had the strangest dream. I didn't sail away to China in a little row boat to find ya. No, it was something even worse than Matthew Wilder's one popular song.

In my dream, I awoke as I usually did. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping. I pissed, took the dog out, lit a cigarette, and checked my e-mail on the iPhone. It wasn't retrieving, which wasn't unusual for Apple's piece of shit. So, I went upstairs and checked my e-mail on the computer. Nothing, I figured my Internet must be down. So, I shit and showered and kissed the wife goodbye, assuming all would be wired at the office. It wasn't.

I'm always late to work. So, by the time I got there, everyone already knew what I would soon find out. No Internet there either. Everybody in the building was experiencing the same difficulties. What the hell was going on? Was it a Denver thing?

I pulled out my iPhone to check with my non-mile high friends. The iPhone couldn't make calls. Again, not unusual but, upon checking around the office, nobody's cell phone worked. Weird! It was like a film by M. Night Shyamalanadingdong (or whatever his name is), except this wasn't really, really boring.

I picked up a newspaper for more info. As expected, the newspaper had no current news. I turned on the radio and found that mysteriously, the world had become unwired. No Internet, no cell phones, no e-mail, no texting. No nothing.

Was it terrorism? Aliens? Collapse of the top financial institutions (nah, couldn't happen)? Who knew? What I did know was that this was gonna suck. It would be like 1992. However, in 1992, we weren't yet reliant on the technology. Now, without our tools of simplicity, we would be like the blind without their dogs, the deaf without their braille, and the retards without their drool cups.

For those of you that don't know, I work in the Web development industry. With the world unwired, I had nothing to do at the office. So, I took a walk. It was madness outside. Without ways to communicate online, people were screaming and throwing notes and stringing up tin can phones. Without Facebook and online gambling and gossip blogs, people were bored stiff, pacing back and forth on the streets. Without Mapquest and Google Maps, people were running around in circles like demented senior citizens. And, we'd only been unwired for an hour and a half.

What would happen if this wasn't fixed? Lacking the Web, information would slow to a crawl. It would take us days to find out anything. We'd actually have to read the daily periodicals or watch broadcast television. There would be no Perez Hilton. Scared yet?

Deprived of Wikipedia and other educational sites, we would become dumb and ignorant, mumbling unrecognizable gibberish. With no e-mail or texting, we would be completely uncommunicative. What would we do? Send letters? Use CBs? Ham radio? I think not. We would just become lonely hermits, cut off from humanity.

How about all those awkward and ugly people who use or eHarmony for dating? They ain't hooking up offline! They'll end up as stalkers or sexual predators. And, how will those poor stalkers and sexual predators get off? They'll have to go about their antisocial behavior in public. Not good. And the pedophiles? They'll have to return to the schoolyards or, at the very least, fly to Bangkok.

For us normal perverts, masturbation would take a huge step back. We've become conditioned to jerk off to a huge variety of sick shit at the click of a mouse. Midget golden showers?? BBW TVTS DVDA? Good luck finding that at the adult book store. So long Bang Bus and Milf Hunter and YouPorn! We'd have to get our jollies the old fashioned way - watered down on Cinemax and Playboy. Ouch!

And entertainment? Shit! The only way we'll be able to steal music is to wear a big coat into Best Buy. If we want to find new music, we'll have to listen to the crap on the radio or we'll have to talk to the assholes that work at record stores. Without YouTube, the only people who will become famous will actually have talent. So long Tay Zonday, Renewed Mind Dancers, and Spaghetti Cat. Hello Daniel Day Lewis, Helen Mirren, and Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Not fun!

Seems like everybody works in technology these days, huh? Not in an unwired world. Everybody would have to go find a new job. But how would they do it? No Monster? No HotJobs? We'd have to pound the pavement with our copies of the want ads in our back pockets. Fuck!

Housewives would have to abandon their eBay stores. Pirates would have to go back to hawking bootlegs in Times Square. Those guys selling Viagra and penis enlargement drugs and genuine rolexes and college degrees via e-mail? They'd be shit out of luck! And Nigerian con artists? The entire continent of Africa would go bankrupt?

Maybe we'd all get jobs at the mall, because there'd be no e-commerce. We'd actually have to leave our houses to shop. We'd have to use travel agents to buy tickets and book hotels. We'd have to use stockbrokers. I'm already getting tired.

What else? We'd have to go to the video store. We'd have to hold up a wet finger to find out the weather. We'd have to invite people to parties with paper invitations instead of Evites. We'd have to use payphones!!!

In my dream, rather nightmare, all of this happened and more. Most psychologists believe that every dream means something. Freud would say I fear losing my penis. Jung would say I fear losing my penis and my mother. I say I fear losing technology.

We've become so accustomed to the advancements that have been made over the past 15 years that we would crumble without them. Luckily, it was only a dream. However, from now on, I won't curse technology when it gives me trouble. I will embrace it like a sacred little shaman. You should too. After all, without technology, you'd have no Iron Mike. 'Nuff said!

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Urine Nation

I've been cited for public urination more times than I'd like to remember. Once in high school, once at Mardi Gras, once outside of a Dead show, twice behind temple during the High Holy Days, and most recently, on the front lawn of a police station in Denver.

It's not that I like to break the law, it's just that don't like to keep excess urine in my bladder. As a man, it's my god-given right to be able to piss wherever I damn well please. Women have to find a bathroom, they have to wait on long lines, they have to wipe. Men can just whip it out and release.

Obviously, we exercise this power more often when we're drunk, much more often. You see, once we break the proverbial "seal", liquor pushes out our penis excrement at an alarmingly quick rate. Over a 5 hour span of drinking, the average American male pees an average of 17 times (not a scientific statistic). Our inhibitions are lowered to the point where we don't care about being naked in public, we don't worry about germs, and we DO NOT feel like having bladder bloat.

So, we'll piss wherever we can. If we're on line and there are too many people in front of us, we'll pee in the sink. If we can't find the bathroom, we'll go outside. If we can't get outside, we'll go in a bottle or in a glass. Sometimes, we'll just forego those aforementioned options and piss on the floor. My buddy Ron used to randomly pee at every bar he was at, even if the bathroom situation was solid. It was like he was marking his territory. I'm not like Ron, but I do take my share of pee pee liberties while intoxicated.

The ladies definitely get the short end of the stick when it comes to drunken urination. I've seen chicks spend more time on line for the bathroom than in the actual bar. Sometimes, women try to be like men, utilizing the "twat squat" technique. Personally, I'm not a big fan. It's unattractive and it's uncouth. Yes, I could use my boxers as a piss cloth so many times that gallons of pee are ingrained into the fabric, but I don't like when a girl doesn't wipe. That's just me.

Back in my single days of taking drunk girls home from bars, I've had more than one woman piss in my bed. There's really no way to recover from that gracefully. When the pisser would leave, I'd make sure she took her travel toilet (sheets) with her.

I'm not a golden showers guy. I think it's demeaning to women, but when you gotta go, you gotta go. I guess I've engaged in a semi-golden shower once or twice while showering with a woman. When I get in the shower, I uncontrollably squirt. I'm like the fountains at the Bellagio.

One of the biggest urine-related conundrums is waking up with morning wood and having to piss. When guys have a hard-on, their piss receptors are put on hold. It's one of the most difficult things to piss while erect. You have to really concentrate and manipulate your body so you don't get it everywhere. Girls hate when our pee gets everywhere. They also hate when we don't put the seat down. Why? Is it that hard to move the seat? That's their argument, but I challenge women to look at it differently. We're men! We like the seat in the position it was in when we dropped our fluids.

Urinals irk me. There's so much etiquette involved. You're supposed to find a urinal that has at least one urinal between you and another patron. If you don't, you run the risk of landing next to a toilet talker. Bonding or telling jokes at the urinal is NOT cool. If there have to be words said when two men have their penises out next to each other, the rule is - you can only talk about sports or girls. Otherwise, it's gay. At close urinals, you also run the risk of being pissed on (urinal splash). They say it's better to be pissed off than to be pissed on. That is true!

I really don't like seeing or smelling urine. People who take a lot of vitamins have that fluorescent piss that smells like a health food store. Interestingly enough, I'd take vitamin urine over asparagus urine any day. By the way, Asparagus Urine is the name of my next band. I'm beginning to ramble....

I've never laughed so hard that I've pissed my pants, but based on how common that saying is, a lot of people must do it. I'd like to tell a joke that good. I'd actually like to see and smell that urine.

Stop it!

There are so many shitty things about urinating that I'm considering wearing a diaper like that broad who stalked the astronaut. That's some innovative thinking. Either that or I'll continue going about my business as usual and I'll probably have a couple more public urination citations on my record. Could be worse, right?

Friday, September 12, 2008

Bad = Good

Why is our society so afraid of everything that's good? By good, I mean bad - not in an ironic, hip-hop kind of way mind you, but in an unhealthy, vice kind of way. Most of us are the spawn of people who indulged. Our parents smoked and drank, and did drugs - and this was while they were pregnant with us. They ate food high in fat, they never exercised, they had unprotected sex. Now, because of all these ridiculously biased reports, mostly developed to serve the selfish interests of financial concerns, we live in a constant state of fear. Fuck that! I'm here to tell you that we should be living like Mad Men, embracing all which is "bad" and sucking the marrow out of the proverbial bone of life. If we do, our existence will improve and the benefits will far outweigh the "dangers".

Seemingly, the biggest "evil" of them all is smoking. Yes, it may cause cancer and emphysema and heart disease and peripheral vascular disease and infant crib death and multi-drug resistant tuberculosis and leprosy and the plague. BUT, it makes you look cool. It decreases boredom. It gives you an excuse for having bad breath. It covers up the smell of your farts (have you smelled the bars since they outlawed indoor smoking?!?). It tastes pretty nice and it feels really good. Shit! We all know smoking kills, but while you're alive, it's a useful luxury. Light up that Marlboro!

Then, there's drinking. Some people say alcohol causes alcoholism. Maybe that's true or maybe it's not. They also say alcohol causes drunk driving. Could be, but let's not dwell on the negatives. Let's look at the positives of imbibing. Lots of people go to shrinks and take anti-depressants in order to feel good. I'll tell you what'll make you feel really, really good - a stiff drink or two. Are you lonely? Are you afraid of getting close to people? Get drunk - your social fears will be assuaged and you can mingle and grope with reckless abandon. We don't need fancy pharmaceuticals to fix our mental ills. We just need Jägermeister, Tanqueray, and Absinthe. We don't need expensive therapists to help us cope with life's little inconveniences. We just need Jack Daniels, Jose Cuervo, and Johnnie Walker. Have drink for heaven's sake!

DRUGS. Yes, they're addictive. I'll give you that. However, why do you think they're addictive? Because they're so fucking good! I've never gotten my hands on some sweet coke or crystal meth or heroin, but judging from how many people like those "narcotics", I want some. Look, we only live once. Are we going to deprive ourselves of mood modifying goodness? I don't recommend it. Wanna know the real villains in the War on Drugs? They're the people that promote deprivation. Smoke some dust and huff some duster and do whatever it is they do with Jenkem. Enjoy! Marijuana's not addictive, but for some reason, it's considered bad. Hell, I don't even know why it's considered a drug. Regardless, pot makes fat, lazy, and lame people happy. Pot makes food taste better and television seem funnier. Toke a fatty, my friends!

On to sex - sweet, sweet sex. It was once such a delightful joy. Now, because of diseases and pregnancies and and scandals, it's become such a dangerous endeavor. Lest we forget though, sex is fun. I'm pretty sure it's good for you. It releases endorphins. It makes insecure people feel loved. It relieves stress, unless we're stressing about wearing condoms and taking birth control. Fuck it! Take a risk. Throw caution to the wind. So you get a disease or have a kid. At least you'll never forget the sex you had. Plus, getting a shot of penicillin or having an abortion will give you something to talk about when you're old. If you're not getting sex, jerk off or pay for it. Everybody pleasures themselves. It's pleasurable. As for prostitutes, our leaders are always getting busted for using ladies of the night. We elected them. They're smart people, right? So they must know what they're doing. America's a capitalist society. As far as I know, paying to play is what we do. Let's get banging!

There are other so-called bad things that are good for you:

Overeating? Everyone's up in arms over this "obesity epidemic". Not me. I'm pretty sure fat people are warmer when it's cold. That's a good thing. Also, they say that fat women are better in the sack (they have to try harder, they have more orifices to fill, etc.). Great! Better sex does not suck.

Poor hygiene? I don't think it's a problem. If you have enough dirt on your body, I'm sure you'll be protected from skin cancer. Body odor is the easiest way to weed out people who just want to be around you for your money or power. If you don't shave, your big ugly beard will cover up unsightly lesions and pocks. Not too shabby.

Compulsive gambling, shopping, video gaming, hand washing? Anything compulsive is good. It means people are actually into something. At least they're not lemmings who live in moderation like the rest of the lambs. Repeat and repeat again!

I could go on forever...

Here's my point - don't believe the hype. Bad stuff ain't all that bad. We've become a species of pussies. Science does not tell the whole story. Our vices exist for a reason. If we indulge in them, we'll be fine - just like our parents, our leaders, and our heroes. Now get out there and do something bad!

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Nombre Del Número

After all the negative responses to my use of the C-Word to describe Sarah Palin, which by the way, I wholeheartedly stand by (I don't use that word often, but that Jew-hating, book-burning, abortion-banning shrew deserves it), I've decided to forgo politics for a while and focus on something much more pressing - Chad Johnson's name change.

The Cincinnati Bengals wide receiver officially changed his name to Chad Ocho Cinco, the incorrect translation of 85, the number on his jersey. If he were doing it right, his new name would be Chad Ochenta y Cinco. However, I'm not going to quibble. I want to commend this man's use of the legal system to assert his individuality. More people should follow his lead and take on names that describe more than just their family lineage.

Chad Johnson could have changed his name to Chad Eighty Five, but he didn't. He opted to use Spanish, even though he's not Hispanic and has no real affinity to the Hispanic people. It's brilliant! Imagine if others did this. Devil worshipers could take on the French translation of 666. Stoners could take on the Japanese translation of 420. Douchebags could take on the Russian translation of 69. It's all possible with Babelfish.

People don't have to limit themselves to numbers. Translations of words work just as well. Britney Spears could be Britney Verrückter Sänger (the German translation for Crazy Singer). Brett Favre could be Brett Dronken Is Geweest (the Dutch translation for Drunk Has-Been). And, John McCain could be John Uomo Anziano Diabolico (the Italian translation for Evil Old Man).

Chad Ocho Cinco has also been on the forefront of child naming. Like the great George Foreman before him, he named each one of his four kids with derivations of Chad - Chad II, Chade, Cha’iel, and, I think, El Chad (the Spanish translation for The Chad). I love people who completely disregard the future happiness of their children in exchange for their own vanity.

The authors of Freakonomics predict that some of the top baby names in 2015 will be McGregor, Keyon, Maeve, and Waverly. They sound like streets, not children. And they're the popular names! This study doesn't even take into consideration the brand babies - Armani, Maserati, Bud Light, Summer's Eve, etc. And what about the crazy names? I've never met a kid named Satan or Chupacabra or Global Warming, but I'm sure somewhere, there are some angry tykes running around with those monikers. Piper, Willow, Bristol, Track, Trig? Could be characters in The Lord of The Rings. More likely, they're numerological Christ references.

I've been helping my friend name her unborn kid. Her last name is Carter so I've suggested: Jimmy (an homage the former president some say is akin to Obama), Lynda (a tribute to the star of Wonder Woman and a thousand infomercials), Coach (commemorating the fabulous Samuel Jackson film), and Martyr (because the kid will be half-Jewish).

The wife and I are thinking about having a baby of our own one of these days. My old business partner had a saying about copy writing - "When in doubt, rhyme or alliterate." With our kid, we'll go with a rhyme. Rellman Gellman if it's a girl (that's roughly translated to Gellman Gellman in Chinese). Bellman Gellman if it's a boy (for his future career, if he's lucky).

Names are like tattoos. For the most part, they represent some stupid thing you're into at a specific time in your life. Then, you're judged on that stupid thing until you get so fed up that you get rid of it, which is a big pain in the ass. I'm changing my name to Microfone Do Ferro, which is Portugese for Iron Mike. Catchy, huh?

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Impale Palin!

If you look up Cunt in the dictionary, you'll find a big picture of Republican Vice Presidential Nominee Sarah Palin. If you look up Sarah Palin in the dictionary, you'll find the words, "See Cunt".

I used to think Dan Quayle's doppelganger was just a stupid white trash whore who liked Jesus too much. However, after seeing her shrill (yes, I said it too, Harry Reid) performance last night, I think she might be the biggest cunt in the entire world.

In light of her ridiculous tirade, I've decide to put together a list of people (and animals) I like more than Sarah Palin. It would have been easier to just say "everyone", but this is more fun.

So, without further adieu, I present Iron Mike's List of People (and Animals) He Likes Better Than Sarah Palin:

- Rudy Giulian (but not by much)
- Bristol Palin, the political child most likely to have a sex tape within the next 2 years
- Anne Coulter (yes, there's somebody I like less than Anne Coulter)
- Mr. Fontana, the assistant principal at my junior high
- Kim Jung Il (Sarah looks a lot like him)
- Allison from the best episode of Intervention ever
- The cop who gave me a DUI, just like Todd Palin
- The 2 Girls from 2 Girls 1 Cup
- Peggy Noonan, especially after her live mic remarks
- The guy who made a hat out of his hair
- Mel Gibson, Michael Richards and Dog the Bounty Hunter
- Xiguang, the heroin-addicted elephant
- Dick Cheney (Yes, Dick Cheney!)
- Trig Palin, the Corky of the New Millenium
- The idiot I punched for messing with my wife
- Babar
- Every Eskimo except for Yup'iks
- Bill O'Reilly (at least he has an excuse for being an asshole -- he has a VERY small penis)
- Todd Palin's business partner
- Jerry Lewis with his bloated face
- James Dobson (I'm only kidding)
- The Penis Fencing Flatworms
- Walter Monegan, the victim of Troopergate
- Angel Pantoja Medina, the Puerto Rican who got buried standing up
- The Jonas Brothers, except for Nick (I hate him!!)
- The guy from Obama's campaign who keeps spamming me for $5
- Helen Mirren when she speaks
- The Spaghetti Cat

I'm all for hiring vaginally endowed politicians, just not Sarah Palin. I'll bet the next big bombshell is that she doesn't really have a vagina.

Go Obama!