Friday, April 29, 2005




School Mistakes Huge Burrito for a Weapon


If, for breakfast, I have a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice, followed up by a delicious helping of Metamucil, does it make me:

A) Like Wilford Brimley
B) Smart, sensible, and healthy
C) Post-modernly ironic
D) Awesome

Thursday, April 28, 2005


Ms. Audrey Tautou
Attn: Claire Blondel
20 avenue Rapp, 75007
Paris, France

Dear Ms. Tautou:

A few months ago, I sent you a letter in which I asked, perhaps a bit too bluntly, "to be your lover and your friend." I went on to acknowledge a few clearly obvious facts, namely that, "you have beautiful eyes that are large and dark and remind me of a place that I knew as a child - a place that does not exist but in the innocent mind of youth, a place that I'd still like to venture to, with you by my side."

I do not regret those words, but with the current advantage of hindsight, I do question their effectiveness. I realize now that perhaps I revealed my hand too soon, in the parlance of the gaming classes. Nearly six months have passed and you have yet to respond to my earlier plea, which I do not take as a rebuke but view, as I'm sure you appreciate, a challenge.

In my previous letter to you, if you'll remember, I asked you to disregard a few of the more unsightly rumors spoken of me in certain circles. I also listed a few of my more redeeming attributes:

It is not true that my body boils over in hives during the wonderful act of making love. I am not unambitious yet arrogant, nor am I prone to overwhelming and crushing self-doubt. As a matter of fact, I am a dynamic young man. I make a fantastic vodka cream sauce, which I serve fresh with whole-wheat organic pasta. I have a blog. I once took a class in Landscape Architecture.

Oh, Audrey, to be youthful again, full of such innocence and vigor!! Some things have certainly changed in my life, while other matters have stayed relatively the same. For example, my body still does not boil over in hives during the wonderful act of making love (or at the least, I doubt that it would - it has been such a long time since I've last shot fits of ecstasy through the veins of a woman). Also, I still make a pretty delicious vodka sauce, though now my culinary preference is to add some roasted eggplant and a few cherry tomatoes, with of course an ample amount of basil. I must say it is an improvement. In fact, that's one of the most important things you should know about me. I view life as a chance to constantly improve. I'm not one to rest on my laurels, no matter how impressive they may be!!

I still retain my blog. It is amazing. Occassionally, I have been known to make mention of you.

Audrey, I'm trying hard not to make a fool of myself, as I fear you must imagine me after my last letter in which I remarked the following:

Listen to me very carefully, Audrey. I do believe I am in love with you. I realize that there is more to you - much more, I'm sure - than the characters you create and portray in your films. This is the Audrey that I hope to come to know and cherish.

Oh, such courage!! I can see where one might form the impression that I am a man without balance. But Audrey, surely you know that the attributes possessed by the maniac are the same as the romantic, the dreamer, the inventor, the poet, and the lover.

I see that I have gone on long enough without making my most essential point, which is this: if you give me a chance, Audrey, I will woo you. I will - and this is a personal promise I make to you - move you.

Please accept my offer to meet you. Though I do not live in France nor have I ever been there, I do live close to an international airport with destination flights to most of Europe and the continental United States. In other words, I would be delighted to pick you up at your gate should you decide to take on my offer.

Best of luck and continued good wishes in your career and in your life.

Until we meet, I am forever yours...faithfully.

The American Mastodon


Yesterday, I realize, I blew some of your minds. For that I apologize. By request, here are some early morning haikus, inspirado de Cougar.

Lover not crazy
Thrill me then go away say
Hey hit the highway


Sometimes love hurt good
Don't feel like should you make it
Come on make it hey

Lil' ditty 'bout two
Kids suckin' on chili dogs
Oh yeah life goes on

Black man black cat yeah
Something to see baby ain't
That America

Born in a small town
Live breathe had ball in small town
Die in a small town

Wednesday, April 27, 2005


Who knew that child molesters were such huge Star Trek fans? If any of you reading know whether or not this is funny, would you please let me know in the comments? Because seriously, I just don't know.

Gillespie has been on that knife's edge since the Child Exploitation Section was created four years ago. The Toronto police seized more than 2 million pictures and videos of child sexual abuse in 2003. So far, the world's law agencies have identified fewer than 500 of the children.

Their work is a daily sojourn to the underworld. Gillespie has a team of 10 men and six women who spend hours in front of their computers, extracting leads, writing warrants and sifting photos for clues. The payoff is the day they get to kick down a door and take the "bad guy" away. The mood is light and the humor often off-color to ease the horror.

On one wall is a "Star Trek" poster with investigators' faces substituted for the Starship Enterprise crew. But even that alludes to a dark fact of their work: All but one of the offenders they have arrested in the last four years was a hard-core Trekkie.


I'm not a very good writer, but I am awesome.

Hold up. Wait a minute.

What I mean by that is though I usually know how to put words together in a way that conveys an idea - at times, even an action - and this fact makes me competent, it doesn't prove that I can move you. All it proves is that I'm just like every other sap with a college degree who has too much time on his hands and hasn't found his calling in life - at least not a calling that would make a person a little money, unless someone out there has found a way to turn a profit making plaster-casts of horse penises. As far as me being awesome, I only mean that I was born with it and I'll always have it, and I wish you knew how it felt, but you don't so stop bugging me about it.

I mention my mediocre literary skills as an introduction to what I'm about to do next: criticize one of contemporary literature's world heavyweights. Now, before you say, "Oh, but American Mastodon, everything is within your jurisdiction of expertise - including, but not limited to, the proper way to construct a perfect roguefort cream sauce, how to safely inseminate a great white shark in the wild, where to find the G-Spot, and who to talk to if you'd like to see the world's last remaining Tasmanian Tiger (the species was thought to have gone extinct in 1986)," please remember that none among us is perfect, except Jesus, who lives in our hearts.

If you were to say the above, you'd be mostly right, but there is one area where I plead ignorance, and that is in the field of literature, though I feign this deficiency softly; in public, I do it unconvincingly and in private I don't do it all. With that said, I don't mind telling other people whether or not they're good, bad, or just right, like the porridge in that one story, the really neat one with the bears.

Haruki Murakami, for instance, is one of those authors that doesn't seem to know how to write very well. In fact, sometimes I think he doesn't even know English! (Disclosure: I don't think Murakami does know English - he at least doesn't translate his own work.) Here are some excerpts from his short story "Where I'm Likely to Find It," recently published in the New Yorker:

She closed her eyes as if recalling it. If we were in a Hitchcock movie, the screen would have started to ripple at this point and we'd have segued into a flashback. But this was no movie, and no flashback was forthcoming. She opened her eyes and went on.

And then:

Not that Denny's made great pancakes - the butter and the syrup weren't up to my standards - but they would do. Truth be told, I'm a huge pancake fan. Saliva began to well up in my mouth. But I shook my head and tried to banish all pancake thoughts from the time being. I blew away all the clouds of illusion. Save the pancakes for later, I cautioned myself. You've still got work to do.

It's almost as if Murakami writes like a high schooler trying to write like a real author. "Let's see - this sentence here seems fine, but it lacks punch. Maybe I should put a metaphor in there somewhere. No, wait! I'll just throw in that cliche I heard yesterday!" I personally don't want to read a short story or a novel and see the words "Truth be told" unless someone's saying it. There is absolutely nothing in Murakami's work (or at least in the two novels and few short stories I've read) that really hits me as great writing. And yet...

And yet, that's precisely why I love his stuff. This morning while reading "Where I'm Likely to Find It," I found it difficult to put it down and get back to work. Granted, I was squeezing out a Dodger dog in the crapper, and that is always an opportune time for reading, but the simpleness, directness, and cheesiness of Murakami's prose is also one of its greatest assets. His works lull you in with their awkwardness but also with their consistency, so that as you work your way toward the end of the piece, you begin to concentrate even harder on the rare occasions when he tries to piece together something sublime.

I put down the phone. For a while I sat there, slowly twirling a brand-new pencil, staring at the blank memo pad in front of me. The white pad reminded me of a freshly washed sheet just back from the laundry. The sheet made me think of a calico cat stretched out on it for a pleasant siesta. That image - of a napping cat on a freshly laundered sheet - helped me relax.

Murakami is like that really quiet kid you knew who never said much because he never felt like he had to. But when he did, it was always a little weird, always a little funny, and always awesome.

And friends, I know awesome.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005


This just never gets old.


You know, if there's one thing I've said over and over again, and stand behind every time I say it, it's that they just don't embed homo-pedophilic images in today's comic books as often and as outright as they used to. Not only is this fact a goddamn shame, it's un-American and anti-Christian, like the ACLU and activist judges.


Road no place family
Circus life clowns smile; music
Man forever yours

Winter here oh Lord
Stranded sleet rain tomorrow
Keeps turning don't know

Lights go down sun shines
Lonely friend? I'm lonley too
City by bay ooh

Small town lonely world
Smokey wine cheap perfume; hold
On streetlight people


You want you need it
Loves laugh sing move groove lovin
Any way that's the way


Beer breakfast dessert
Dirty shirt fryin chicken
Lonesome Lord sad stoned

Harpoon bandana
Blowin sad blues New Orleans
Nothin freedom good

Devil tomorrow
Dead yesterday gone alone
Bad night Lord lay down

This world turn bridge burn
Head pillow tender body
Make believe love me

Big time lonesome town
Spend Sundays wishing Mondays
Nowhere going home

Monday, April 25, 2005


These are funny commercials. Especially the first one. But they're both good. Thanks to the Wooly Mammoth for the links.

1.) The Condor Nest

2.) The Sour Man


There is something special about the Chicago Cubs. Not just special, though, because special is the close cousin of different, and though the Cubs are certainly different there is also something quite magical about them. Not magical like Dragonslayer magical, but magical like when you were in high school hanging out with your buddies in a cornfield drinking whiskey from a bottle and a deer emerges from the stalks, walks 20 yards in front of you and looks at you, stares at you, then turns around and walks back into the corn and all you can hear is the rustling of the dried stalks brushing against its hide. Anyone who has lived in that part of the country knows what I'm talking about: the Mythology of the Midwest. The summer nights on a lake, drifting on a pontoon boat; the driving through a thunderstorm while it's still sunny; the backcountry roads with their run-down bridges and bait-shops. Michael Martone calls it the flatness, but whatever it is, it's about losing the anchor of time. It also involves, if you're me, the Chicago Cubs.

The devotion and allegiance found in Cubs fans is, I guess, most akin to that of Boston Red Sox fans, though there is also a great difference between the two, and I think it mostly comes down to the fact that Cubs fans are wholly Midwestern and largely rural. This may not seem significant to some of you, but what this means is we don't expect the Cubs to win, or even compete, year in and year out like Red Sox fans do. In fact, if the Cubs ever did perform well, we would be both prideful and ashamed, because success in the Midwest is always tempered with a pinch of guilt. There is also, dare I say it, a great religiosity to the Cubs. My grandparents, farmers, relied on the weather to dictate the success of their crops. Through time, they developed a great patience in general and a great reliance on God in particular. Being a Cubs fan involves these as well: great patience through slumps and streaks, but also, when at the end of the season they fall short, as they do every year, an acknowledgment that perhaps it was my fault, that perhaps if I weren't so selfishly thinking that they could win the pennant this year, they might have had a chance. Like when the farmer finally believes that that storm in Illinois will make its way east and end the summer's long drought, but ultimately, when it doesn't happen, placing the blame squarely on his own shoulders for not more humbly recognizing his ignorance of God's will.

When I was twelve, my father purchased cable. He purchased it for one reason, and that was so we could watch Cubs games on WGN. Since both of my parents were schoolteachers, there were many summer afternoons spent mowing the lawn, tending the garden, or picking up branches after a thunderstorm, only to be interrupted so we could watch the last few innings of a Cubs game. Later, my father purchased a Walkman with a built-in AM dial so he could listen to the games as he mowed the lawn or, in the fall, raked the dry leaves into a formidable pile. Driving to aunts or uncles or grandparents' houses, we listened to Ron Santo on WGN, talking already in the middle of the season about the improvements the Cubs needed to make in order for them to compete in the next one - next season, of course, was when they really were going have a shot at the pennant.

I don't know what, if anything, could make me stop being a Cubs fan. A large part of the Cubs mythology is Wrigley Field, but I don't see it lasting more than another 10 or 15 years. Structurally, it's crumbling. It's also not designed well (heaven forbid paying $20 for a seat then getting stuck behind one of those huge pillars), and it doesn't seat that many people. I'm not sure what the organization plans on doing when the city finally condemns the place, but my suggestion would be to raze it and build an exact replica, with a few minor improvements, on the same plot of land. When my father was 11, the house he lived in burned to the ground, and my grandfather decided to build the same house over again on the old foundation. In the Midwest, there is a precedent for such stubborness.

I know that if the Cubs won the pennant or the World Series, I would still be a Cubs fan. If they won ten World Series in a row, I would be a Cubs fan. Their mystique does not derive from their moniker as the Loveable Losers, even though they always lose and they are loveable. Being a Cubs fan is more like being a fan of baseball itself. Sure, sometimes you've got more time to watch or listen to the games, and sometimes the investment you put into a season is greater than the last. But driving past a little league game at night, watching the mosquitoes and flies swarm around the artificial lights, is part of being a Cubs fan. Watching a little kid with an oversized helmet, choking up too much on a bat as large as his thigh, hoping more than anything he just makes contact and gets to run up that firstbase line, pointing his head down and churning those little legs as he tries to outrun the throw from the shortstop - that is what it is like to be a fan of the Chicago Cubs. You want to see them do well, but more than anything, you just want to see them, you want to know they exist, you want to know that when you drive by that little league diamond on a Sunday night in August, you'll see another little kid, in another oversized helmet, looking over at his coach for advice, then stepping into the box with thoughts of a home run, or at least a single, hoping to get the ball out of the infield but hoping even more just to make contact, to run up that line, to get on base, and wait for his teammate to do it all over again.

Friday, April 22, 2005


I could ever come up with a better headline than this.


Editor, Times-Union:

John Kozon called yesterday. As cranked up about daylight-saving time as only John Kozon can get.

Did I miss something? I don't recall Daniels saying anything about the issue during the campaign. It's what I get for voting for a Washington insider. I normally vote Republican because until recently they have been the more conservative. Really wish I had voted for Joe this time.

I really think the state legislators have a lot more important things to do than horse around with the clocks. Daylight-saving time is nothing but a recreational issue. Never has been, never will be. It's another hour in the evening for people to spend outside and that's it.

What really makes me nervous is what Daniels feels we need to get in line on next.

Harold L. Kitson
Mastodon City


Good news out of Texas for those of us who like our religious dogma narrow-minded, spiteful, and thrust into the face of others: homosexuals, bisexuals and transsexuals will no longer be able to become foster parents.

If the bill gains approval from the Texas senate, the state will be allowed to investigate the backgrounds of current foster parents and remove children living in non-heterosexual households. All future foster parents will be required to disclose their sexual preference on an application form, a legislative aide said.

Though it is not mentioned in the article, a further examination of the bill reveals that the children who do not find foster parents as a result of the now shrunken pool of qualifiable applicants will be raised in the forests of Northwest Montana by a pack of wolves and a sociology Ph.D. candidate from Yale.

Some have protested this move as unseemly, unwise, and unfounded. Regrettably, these same people have not, I'd venture to guess, visited the forests of Northwest Montana, nor have they had their lives ruined by being raised by genuinely caring people who would rather stick their penis in another guy's starfish or stick their ladyfingers in ladyholes than love Jesus Christ and families and America.

my fight (crusade) continues

Thursday, April 21, 2005


My friend Dan once remarked of my friend Andy, "Andy's just mad that nobody talks about Paul Bunyan anymore," or something like that. Which was, funnily enough, a really good way to sum up Andy. A man out of time. Bigger than legend. Keeper of a blue oxe. And mad at the world.

Lately I've been thinking of a man who should be often but is rarely, if ever, discussed: Jim Abbott.

When I was younger, I used to collect baseball cards. By far, I had more cards of Jim Abbott than any other player. Lest you think I was a sentimental sap who was inspired by the man's incredible disability, the truth of the matter was that the acquisition of his numerous cards was a sound financial investment. I figured that since there had never been a one-armed major-league pitcher before Abott, there more than likely would never be one after him. So far, my theory has proven correct. However, as a result of his (commendable) mediocrity as a big-league pitcher, his cards are worth no more than, say, Shawon Dunston's. But what I really don't get is how people can refrain from talking about Jim Abbott. Forget Lance Armstrong and his one ball. Jim Abbot played baseball and didn't have a hand! Let's give the man his due respect and start speaking his name in public places - officially shouting it on high. I think we should even try to introduce the word "Abbott" as shorthand into our modern lexicon, a word meaning "a successful attempt to achieve a great accomplishment against greater odds." In addition to his past acheivements, I have no doubt that the man remains an inspiration, I'm sure, to literally fives of one-armed kids on little-league teams throughout the country.

My advice to those kids: try soccer?

Yeah, Jim, I do think bunting would be a good idea.


Has this written on its front:


Of course, "A Tolstoy Novel" wins hands-down.

UPDATE!! Now I'm thinking that maybe "That's Some Hot Jazz" wins. Will come back with a decision shortly.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005


Right now I feel bloated and a bit ill, because I ate way too much during lunch. This happens on the rare occassion when I feel as though I've paid too much for my meal and not finishing it would be wasteful and decadent; a truly American undertaking. Afterwards I feel stupid for trying to cram it all down, but it always reminds me of my father, who has a great story about the first time he ever went to a restaurant: when he was around twelve years old, his parents took him and his siblings out to eat after a Sunday church service. His eyes were decidely larger than his stomach, and after he ordered the roast beef manhattan, he realized there was a significant chance it would be too much for him to eat in one sitting. Naturally, when the plate arrived his suspicions were confirmed. However, he tore into the dish optimistically and tried to finish the meal. Since he was twelve years old and his parents had never taken him to a restaurant, he recognized the fiscal sacrifice at stake here - not finishing a meal that his father was about ready to pay someone else for would have been the ultimate in ungratefulness. He had no choice but to show his dad some respect and finish his plate, so the forkfulls of mashed potatoes and gravy kept coming. Even when he felt completely full, he forced his arm to grab a few pieces of beef and a chunk of moist bread, demanded it reach his mouth, chewed it up, swallowed it, repeated.

That is, repeated until he became so sick that he vomited his entire meal all over the table.

Funny story, huh? Kind of sad, though, too, that he was so poor he never went out to eat before he was twelve. That's poor people for you, though. Never knowing how to act in public. Goddamn louses. The only thing they want more than a handout is a fucking glass of whiskey and some straw to chew on. I, for one, wish they'd get off their asses and do something for once, instead of just whining about it. Pricks.


First I thought this guy was cool, because he expressed an equal appreciation of television's hottest new drama, House, M.D. But then today he posts this, which if you remember was the EXACT title of my post yesterday, and now I think the dude is just plagiarising me, which isn't cool and could land him in academic probation sometime soon.


You know when you wake up in the morning, sit upright and rub the sleep out of your eyes, then think to yourself, "today I'm going to help the little blackies suffering in squalor in the Dark Continent?" Well, today was one of those days. I'm sick of psuedo-caring about the crisis in Darfur, and I figured that there was no way to completely extinguish those feelings of sympathy until I did a little something to help the effort. Then, and only then, would that pestering feeling of shame and guilt and emotion go away, leaving me more fully able to enjoy tonight's episode of American Idol. So I threw a little money to a humanitarian organization today, appropriately elevating my self-satisfaction gauge to unprecendented levels and sating my near constant urge to be a better person than you assholes (with the exception of Fisher, of course, who is really sort of in a different ballpark here, though I will say there is a pleasant satisfaction in knowing I could kick his ass).

You may wonder why I bring this up. "It sounds like he's tooting his own horn," you'll say. Well, ladies, truth be told, that is unfortunately the only person who's been tooting my horn lately, and frankly, I don't mind tooting it one bit. In fact, I'll readily admit that my only point here is to prove to everyone I know that I care more about dark people than they do, and I couldn't really think of any better way to do that than to give a very small and comfortable amount of money to a group I have never heard of over the internet, thereby saving me precious time to finish my game of solitaire and take an online IQ test.

I hope you all feel like douchebags for not loving people as much as I do, but if you wish to aspire to my saintly level of philanthropy and, in the words of Kevin Spacey, "pay it forward," here are some links to check out.

This is the part where I say that my fight (crusade?) continues.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005


Even though it's a cute idea, I can't help but think that the Mesa, Arizona Police Department has a whole load of crazy hijinks and hilarious scenarios coming its way after acquiring a monkey to join its SWAT team.

The police department's new deputy, seen here in outer space, proved to get himself in all sorts of funny situations, and in general was a real handful!!


Except, like, way worse.

Here's some cool facts about the new pope:

He wrote a letter of advice to U.S. bishops on denying communion to politicians who support abortion rights!

He publicly cautioned Europe against admitting Turkey to the European Union and wrote a letter to bishops around the world stating that the continent is essentially Christian in nature!

He was active in stamping out liberation theology, with its emphasis on grass-roots activism to fight poverty!

He once called homosexuality a tendency toward "intrinsic moral evil" and dismissed the uproar over priestly pedophilia in the United States as a "planned campaign" against the church!

He opposes contraception and the use of condoms to combat HIV/AIDS!

He advocates a diminished role for women in the Church and has called for mandatory celibacy for priests!

He was a member of the Hitler Youth!

Clearly the Catholic Church is begging for irrelevancy, though I'm not sure why.

Monday, April 18, 2005


You know what's funny? This morning around 9:30 in the AM I added this guy to my blogroll, because this post about blowjobs was really funny, and I like funny things. Then, at 4:31 PST, the man puts this in writing.

I'd love to say something right now about how amazing I am for being so far ahead of the curve, or how I have such unbelievable taste, or that you could drive up and down California Highway 1 for days and not find a sexier muthafunker than me, but that would be gloating, and that's just simply not who I am.


There were some scientists.
Trying to figure out the Oscar the Turtle riddle,
Then they figured out it was a missing link.

In search of Oscar,
that was a kick-ass In Search Of
with Leonard Nimoy
kickin' out the jams...ha!

He captured imagination,
Of people all around the globe.

His name was Oscar, so I'm told.

His legend's ancient
in the ancient scribe of the indian tribe.
Apache tribe.

Scientists have proven that Oscar the Turtle, he is real.
Take a look at the plaster cast of his foot, now you know he's real.
Listen real close to the audio tape, not human no you know he's real.
Couldn't be a man in a turtle suit, no fuckin' way.
No, you know he's real.
Real, real, real real, real, real, really real, real.

We know your legend's real.
We know your love is real.
You and the American Mastodon, are...real.


I'm not really going to write anything significant today, because I'm just not in the mood. Granted, I never really write anything significant, except on those rare occasions when I really get behind what I write and try to deliver you the goods, like that time I figured out how to cure cancer and that other time when I proved which God was the real one. But today is the first day back to work after a long weekend of too many narcotics and too much sun, toiling away at the job I loathe with a warm ambivalence. Also, my friend just alerted me to that fact that I bought tickets to go see the Books at the New York City Knitting Factory, not the LA Knitting Factory, thereby throwing away $60. In addition to that, I found out this weekend that my family really is crazy, especially my crazy aunt, who we call crazy because she's crazy, because some guy has been basically stealing all of her money with her consent, and just the fact that there's some asshole out there taking the money of these crazy and invalid and lonely old ladies makes me want to take a flight to Indiana and see to it that the man develops a permanent disability to his legs, but for now I'll let the lawyers do what they can. In the meantime, I shall hone my Chuck Norris vigilante justice abilities so that in case my skillz are needed, I will be able to rain hurt upon his body and drown his pleas in a torrent of my karate chops. Just in case.

If you want to see pictures, go here.

Friday, April 15, 2005


A.O. Scott:

The reasons to avoid "House of D," David Duchovny's earnest, unwatchable coming-of-age drama, can best be summarized in a simple declarative sentence. Robin Williams plays a retarded janitor.


And because I like Fridays, I thought that I would reward you all for your undying devotion to me.

Here you go.

2:32 PST -- Updated to something better!!


This story is compelling and intriguing, because it involves the unheard-of scenario of a lesbian coaching a high school girl's basketball team in a close-minded small town.

Oh wait, no it's not. Nevermind.

Coach Merry Stephens, above, is just as dykish as any other women's basketball coach I've ever seen. She's also painfully unaware that it is no longer 1987.

Thursday, April 14, 2005


What with the Holocaust, good engineering, and a respectable sternness, you just wouldn't be human if you didn't love the Germans. More specifically, you wouldn't be a living, breathing, lump of wasted space if you didn't love this German:

Antje Vollmer, pictured above, is the head of Germany's Green Party and the highest-ranking woman in the country's Parliament. In addition to her political successes, she's also a foxy minx who loves to play I-am-a-Muslim-man's-property dress-up. Recently, she expressed to the press a new theory concerning the United States and its foreign policy decisions, accusing the American government of orchestrating the Catholic pedophilia scandal in order to weaken the moral relativeness of an already frail pope - a pope that oppossed the war in Iraq. She went on to claim that it was this reasoning that also led the US to declare Poland its chief partner in the Iraq War: i.e., it was all done to make the Vatican look bad.

Let's forget, for a second, that little boys getting raped by priests and hundred million dollar settlements paid by the Catholic Church would have been a bit difficult to coordinate from Washington, or the fact that the United States would have trumpeted any country recognizable to at least 20% of the American public as a chief partner in the Iraq War. Let's put that aside for now and think about something more pressing: how in the world did she come up with this theory? My friends, I think you and I both know the answer to that question. Pot. Lots of pot. And as the leader of the Green Party, I'd bet dollars to donkey dicks that she's been smoking the good stuff.

Dude, you know what I was thinking about, today, man? (Inhales huge bong hit) It sort of came together and made some serious fucking sense...shut up, Rammerstein! I'm talking about some serious shit, man, a huge government cover-up. Fuck! I mean, crazy shit...shit that is seriously intense - fuck, man, you guys don't even know. I'm talking about the POPE, man. I'm talking about the US and the POPE, man - the US was trying to take down the POPE, you fuckers. (Another huge hit) I'm taking this shit to Parliament, fuck you guys. You don't even know.


Yahoo's front page has instructed me to click here to view the video for the new Oasis song, "Lyla".

So, you know, if anybody feels like doing that, there you go. Personally, I can think of a lot better ways to spend three minutes of my time. One of which involves logging into blogger, finding the URL of the directed webpage, and constructing a post about how lame Oasis is and how much effort I will put into to actively not watching one of their videos.

My fight (crusade?) continues.


This morning, whilst tip-toeing through the minefield of secularism and temptation that is today's internet, I came across an article that brought sadness to my heart. The article, entitled, "Closest Human Relatives Face Extinction," cited a recent report that details the possibility of several species of apes, monkeys and other primates becoming extinct in the near future.

"Why, oh why, oh why, oh why!" I asked myself, but I knew not the answer. Looking deep into my heart, I tried, as best I could, to understand why we live in a world that is so cruel, that is so harsh, that is so unapologetic in its disregard of beauty and righteousness - in other words, I sought to understand why some over-educated journalist thinks we're related to gorillas, and why he's trying to get me to think the same thing.

Articles like this usually leave me paralyzed and disturbed, trepidatious as to explore the internet for the remainder of the day. I don't think I even have the courage to visit Andrew Sullivan today, that pole-smoking hedonistic sodomite fornicating homosexual-agena-spewing Hell-dweller.

My fight (crusade?) continues.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005


As part of my continued efforts to show you, my dear readers, how the world looks through the eyes of a genius, I present to you "some say" (read: the world at large) vs. "I say" (read: brilliance and understanding on a level very nearly close to, if not surpassing, that of God).

Some say: the world is a big place. I say: love makes the world go round.

Some say: you have an Asian fetish. I say: Asian chicks are hot.

Some will go on to say: Asian girls are more attractive because they represent the ideal woman through their implied demure submissiveness, their soft skin, their youthful appearance, and by the inferred smallness of their sexual organs. I go on to say: could you prease intwoduce me to rour fwiend.

Some say: you are addicted to non-commital sex. I say: Oh my God! Who are you? What are you doing in my bed? Aaah!

Some say: an apple a day keeps the doctor away. I say: an apple ain't gonna clear up these warts, honey.

Some say: the more things change, the more they stay the same. I say: Asian chicks are hot.

My fight (crusade?) continues.


This morning on the way to work, I did as I always do: turned on NPR, tuned out my existence, and robotically replicated the leg and arm motions that safely get me to the Century City Plaza Towers each and every day. Today, however, a missile of emotion came careening through the radio waves and registered in one of those remote regions of my mind that has all but atrophied - some indistinct area that defines and processes what I have heard others discuss as "sympathy"; perhaps even, "compassion".

The news story outlined the continuing prevalence of polio in third world countries, where national health care systems are all but irrelevant and where predominantly Islamic populations, suspicious of white-skinned WHO doctors, won't allow their children to be immunized. It shouldn't come as a shock to anyone that this is happening mostly in Africa, and somewhat less frequently in India and Pakistan. Though it'd be easy to make a joke about how backwards these people are, it wouldn't really be that funny, because even though it seems like these people would rather eat their own shit and bathe in their own urine than do what is necessary to keep their family healthy, the fact of the matter is that children are becoming paralyzed and dying for no good reason, save the fact that their dad thinks white people are ghosts intent on injecting their sons and daughters with magic serum that eats their soul and turns them into...well, I guess turns them into whatever is worse than what they already are - malnourished and on the brink of death. And that, my friends, is just not funny.

Do you know what is funny? Brittany Spears and Kevin Federline. They really crack me up. Did you hear she's pregnant? Let's talk about that. Polio is so...I don't know - icky?

My fight (crusade?) continues.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005


Some say that life is a rollercoaster. I say, "life is a highway!"

Some say that today is the first day of the rest of your life. I say, "but today is almost over!"

Some say that life is pain. I say, "cheer up!"

Some say that life is like a box of chocolates. I say, "yum!"

Some say that life is unpredictable. I say, "life is great!"

Some say that life begins at conception. I say, "life must have started in the simplest possible way, as a cycle, a natural chemical reaction that repeated itself, spinning off byproducts, some of which stayed around to maintain and develop the cycle and that at some stage, the little cycle acquired a cover of protective chemicals, to separate its own reactions from the general milieu. I also say that when the cover eventually enveloped the cycle and broke free of the mineral surface, the first cell was born!"

These are few circumstances where I see things differently than other people. Your mileage may vary.

Some say life is an adventure. I say, "life is THE adventure!"


A forty-five year old high school principal, MR. RIFTON, clean-shaven and wearing an obvious wig, is clothed in a school letter jacket with numerous awards pinned to it. Around his neck hangs a couple of GOLD NECKLACES , his t-shirt reads, "LEARNING SUX", and he is wearing a pair of small, round, JOHN LENNON SUNGLASSES. He struts down the hall, dipping his shoulders as he walks, and attempts to high-five a couple of students. Eventually, he arrives at the locker of PEGGY STERN, one of the school's best students and captain of the equestrian team. MR. RIFTON leans against the row of lockers, crosses his legs, and looks around suspiciously.

MR. RIFTON: Heeeey, Peggy. What's shakin?

PEGGY: Mr. Rifton?

MR. RIFTON: Who, that old square? Man, I hate that guy, too. He's so "establishment," y'know?

PEGGY: What is this?

MR. RIFTON: Yo, no need to go spastic, yeah? Just be mellow, it's cool, it's copasetic. I'm Jack. I just moved here.

PEGGY: Right.

MR. RIFTON: Yeah, man, the fuzz were on to me something fierce at the last school, so I had to shake 'em, you know, truck outta there. Now I'm here, you know, it's cool, I like it. But so far it's been pretty hard to find any grass.

PEGGY: Mr. Rifton, why would I sell you marijuana? You're the principal.

MR. RIFTON: Hey, hey, hey! Don't be so heavy, man. You're really cramping me up, just be mellow with me. Check this out, k? As part of my probation with the smokeys, I make this deal where, you see, if I tell them about anyone doing drugs or packing heat or that kind of stuff, you know, it's like I'm solid again. And if anyone around here gives me any info, I pass the bread on to them, dig?

PEGGY: So you want me to nark on my classmates to my principal?

MR. RIFTON: I know it's a head trip, but I got a cool hundo going to anyone who helps me out, and - ah, for fuck's sake, man, I'm not Mr. - uh...uhh... Mr.

PEGGY: Rifton?

MR. RIFTON: Yeah, that guy's like a dinosaur, man. So check it, a hundred boss bills to the first Bobby or Betty who helps me out. Dig?

PEGGY: I've got to go to class.

Looking for some weed, maaaan.


You'd think that an extinct creature who was once purged from this living earth more than 10,000 years ago at the hands of a band of rogue redskinned hunters, only to return centuries later in the sunny climes of Southern California with a basic understanding of the internet and a tendency to talk about strip clubs and Asians, would be first picked by this group of forward-thinking scientists to be genetically reproduced and let loose in the wilds of Siberia, but nooooooooo, they have to choose the Wooly Mammoth.


Like I really wanted to hang out in "Pleistocene Park" anyway, right? I mean, what am I going to do all day with a bunch of deer, woolly rhinoceroses and saber-toothed tigers? Talk about the old times together, sit up against an ice floe, play a little shuffleboard, maybe squeeze in a quick round of nine par-threes.

Fuck that. Like I really want all that. Give it to the Mammoth. If he needs his glory days back so bad, give it to him. The AM keeps it on the modern tip. No doubt.

I mean, seriously, like I even care. Like not picking me to bring to life is really going to hurt my feelings. Puh-lease. Next.

Monday, April 11, 2005


What To Say
Editor, Times-Union:

I recently went though open-heart surgery, where I had six bypasses. That is something that I don't want to go though again, especially when there are complications, and two more times in the hospital happened. This isn't why I'm writing this but what people we know will say to you. The phrase is "If there is anything you need or I can do for you, just let me know" are we as humans programmed to say certain things that we really don't mean? What is the reply from a simple question like: "How are you?" The answer is "fine" correct? Although we feel like we fell though a tree, and hit every limb on the way down, we are fine. I think that I upset the person who offered to help in my time of need, because the phone calls and visits stopped. I know that your readers mean well, and there are those who really care, please don't get me wrong. Because a few do not dictate all. I had doctors visits, blood tests, chest X-rays, 35-40 times before I could drive myself. Then my mds made me feel like a space cadet. So driving was a thing that I could not do. Who could take that many days, or several hours off from work? My suggestion is, don't say anything but to show up at the door then ask what you can do to be a helpful caring person. May I say, if you are planning on a hospital visit, remove all hair on your arms and if necessary, the chest area. You won't be sorry, but getting your hair ripped out isn't going to feel all that good.

Robert L. Reed
Mastodon City


A WOMAN and a MAN kiss passionately and disrobe each other on the top of a bed with rumpled sheets. The WOMAN removes the MAN's pants and stares admiringly at his genitals.

WOMAN: Wow, you're a healthy one.

MAN: Thanks. I'm glad you like it.

WOMAN: I do like it. It's big, bigger than most, but it's not huge, not threatening.

MAN: What can I say?

WOMAN: I bet you hear that a lot. That it's big.

MAN: Actually, only recently. In the past year.

WOMAN: Oh yeah? Why's that, I wonder? Bet you just never had a real woman who appreciated it, huh?

MAN: No, that's not it at all. It just used to be really small, like 2 inches, until I had it removed and grafted on my arm, where they stretched it out to 7 inches, then they cut it off and re-attached it to my groin, where the sewed it all back together.

WOMAN blanches and vomits onto the floor, gathers her clothes and leaves.

Friday, April 08, 2005


So the Cubs are already a whopping 1-3. Which is nothing to cry about just yet, as there are still another hundred-odd games or so to go before the playoffs. But they did lose to Milwaukee today. And that is embarrasing.

Oh, also: did this guy ever get the shit beat out of him? Because he should have.


My roommate, whom I love very much, albeit in the same, protective, mysterious way that I love my retarded cousin, enjoys occassionally tormenting me by asking me annoying questions, or saying annoying things. In other words, he enjoys provoking me. And it is only right to admit that a man with well-established sensibilities and an unfounded righteousness, such as myself, is easily provoked. One thing he enjoys saying is, "(Insert name of awful celebrity) is so brave." Such as, "Ashley Simpson is so brave," or, "Amber Frey is so brave." Another thing he enjoys saying is, "Hey, you should put that in your movie." For instance, say one of us will be walking around the apartment and accidentally knock something over. He'll then say, "Hey, you should put that in your movie." Annoying, huh? But see, it's satisfying for him, because he's a fucking prick, and he doesn't care about my emotions.

There is one game, however, instigated by his devilish tomfoolery that I don't mind engaging in. We shall call it the "Would you?" game. It started, I believe, long ago, on a cold Monday morning, the two of us preparing for work by exercising our daily ritual - the watching of an early morning episode of "Sportscenter". Linda Cohn was one of the anchors, and as the cameras cut to a close shot of her face, my roommate simply turned to me and asked, "So...would you?" Since that time, the question "Would you?" has come up often between us, and is usually quickly resolved with a "fuck yeah", "fuck no", "why not?", or "if I were drunk". Sometimes, however, the question lingers and no correct answer can be given. Listed below, for your amusement, are some of the greatest "Would you?"s the world has to offer.

(Note: All "Would you?"s are hypotheticals, and thus, hypothetically, the question is, "would you do it with this person at the time the photograph was taken" and not, as one might think, "would you do it with this person as they may look at this present time." Thank you.)

Early-90's, straight-haired Delta Burke. Would you?

Totally hot but totally crazy and probably really annoying after you did it Gillian Barberie. Would you?

Crazy, dirty, and stinky, but a legend and I'm guessing a real firecracker Janis Joplin. Would you?

Depp. Easy answer for the girls, tougher for the guys. Simply put, if he asked you to, would you?

Way too old and tons of plastic surgery Raquel Welch. Still, would you?

Early Connie Chung. Would you?

Mary Cheney. Would you?*

That's all for now. If you can help me answer any of these important questions, or if you have questions of your own, don't hesitate to let me know.

*I keed! I'm a totally keeeding with a you!

Thursday, April 07, 2005


In which I refuse to be cowed by the pressures of crass commercialism, thereby sticking it to the muthafuckin' man!! Go me! Go USA!!

Subject: if i wanted to send you something...
Date: Thu, 7 Apr 2005 10:23:11 -0700
From: "*********, Laura"

...let's say a book, to which you might have a strong blogger reaction, where would I send it?

Laura *********
Marketing Coordinator


Subject: Re: if i wanted to send you something...
Date: Thu, 7 Apr 2005 14:16:28 -0700 (PDT)
From: "American Mastodon"
To: "*********, Laura"


Thanks for considering me as a possible shill to help you sell books, but please realize that there are precious few people who read my site. In fact, I'm just a guy who enjoys writing zany things now and then with the hope of giving my friends a nice hearty chuckle at work. I'm sure you'll be able to cull a few people who will have a "strong blogger reaction" to the book you're responsible for marketing, but unfortunately, I'm not your guy.

If you still feel as though you'd like me to read the book, or future books, please go ahead and forward them to:

My Arse.

The American Mastodon

The American Mastodon, fanboy, pictured above, preparing to fight his imaginary war and vanquish his imaginary foe, looking totally stoked for battle.


Would you believe me, dear readers, if I told you that today, while surfing the 'net, I came across a humorous news article? One that put a smile on my face and gave rise to a quiet chuckle? Oh, internet. How I love thee. (softly strokes monitor, drools on keyboard)

This particular news story (click here if first link doesn't work) is straight out of Balti, aka B-Mo, pka Baltimore, the city by the sea, where a disgruntled Best Buy shopper decided to pay for his car stereo's instillation with - and only with - $2 bills. All $114 dollars of it. 57 bills. Pretty funny. I mean, if he really wanted to piss them off, he would have paid in pennies, right? But this is better, because he's using currency that is somewhat archaic but still legal tender. Kind of like saying, "I want to punch your face right square in your ugly maw - but instead, I'm going to remove my leather glove and swipe you gently across the cheek. Huzzah!" Only thing is, Best Buy didn't find it so funny. As a matter of fact, they got downright mean about it, foregoing the classy "Nice one, chief. You got us right good," and skipping directly to the, "Sir, please come this way, where you will be handcuffed to this here pole, and where you will wait patiently as we call in the Secret Service, because it is our attempt to embarass you and your godforsaken family, you miserable sack of shit, you pile of crap."

I say, Go America, Go!! Leave no rock unturned in this dangerous post 9/11 world.

On a personal level, this reminds me of yet another story involving strippers. Whilst in New Orleans, a friend who could not attend sent with the bachelor of the trip an envelope full of $2 bills, the intent being that he could go out at night and tuck $2 bills into the tiny garments of inumerable (or until the $80 ran out) exotic dancers. The strippers, not used to getting $2 bills stuffed into their nasty little thongs, would be intrigued enough to pay undivided attention to the stuffer of bills in the hopes of acquiring more ("I need me more of them $2 bills from that funny-looking fella over there, he must be famous or something, he makes his own money just for hisself, what a creative little guy, holla!")

If I remember correctly, which I'm sure I don't, the plan did not work as hoped. Apparently, strippers care less about odd currency than they do about taking money of all kinds from men of all kinds at all times, in all situations. I should be mad at them for not understanding the subtelty of our humor, but they are strippers, and as such, can do no wrong. Sigh.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005


You can now find the link to my new favorite blog, THIS IS MY COMPUTER BLOG, under the "Blog" heading to the right.


If I had a child, or a number of children, or if my nephew lived closer to me than he does, or if he were old enough to understand what "words" were, or if I were a preschool teacher, or if I were in a state of authority over any children in any way, however small, I would impart upon them all the wisdom I've accrued through the years. As a man who has faced myriad trials and tribulations, and conquered them, I don't think it's self-indulgent to admit that I've got a pretty good idea how this crazy world works, and that I've got a few ideas as to how to go about navigating through it. I'd pop a squat in my Shaker-style rocking chair, pack a pipe full of soft tobacco and PCP, throw on an old cardigan, sit them all around the fireplace, and let fly with the stories from the war, the fishing boat in Alaska, the time I sold a gaggle of camels for a harem of women outside Dubai, and then, in hushed whispers, let them in on a couple of life's most essential facts: that necessity is the mother of invention, and that strip clubs are awesome.

Now, I know that the two may sound incongruous, pushed up so close together like that, but believe me they are not. The good people of Erotic City, a small dance studio in Boise, Idaho, know exactly what I'm talking about, and I'd bet dollars to donuts that you do, too. In an effort to get around the Boise city ban against nudity, this family dancing establishment decided to host 'Art Night', a weekly event where club patrons are given sketch pads and pencils while the dancers are totally nude.

Say what you will of its immorality or corrupting influence on the pulpy, soft brains of our youth, but I say that this is American ingenuity at its finest, and though I may stand alone, I applaud it, albeit, unfortunately, at this time, just for a couple more minutes, with only one hand. (I'm drawing!! I swear!!)

All is not peachy, though, dear readers. Cause there's a danger in loving stripclubs too much, and it's sad when you know it's your heart you can't trust, and there's a reason why people don't stay where they are, because seriously, if Jumbo's ever did something like this, you wouldn't really have to wonder where I was.

Because I'd be there.


Just want to write a quick thanks and congratulations to the good people of Kansas who gloriously, and in their great wisdom and courage, voted to add a ban on gay marriage and civil unions to their state constitution.

As a result, Kansas will now be spared from the hail and fire mingled with blood cast upon the earth, a great mountain burning and cast into the sea, a third part of the sea becoming blood, men dying in the bitter water, locusts, four angels bound in Euphrates loosed for 391 years, then there's the horses and the heads of lions whose mouths are, you know, issuing fire, smoke and brimstone, and then, when the mighty angel comes from heaven clothed with a cloud and a rainbow upon his head, face as the sun, feet as pillars of fire, a little book in his hand, setting his feet upon the sea and earth, crying out as loud as a lion roars, and the seven thunders uttering all their voices, the angel lifting his hand to heaven and declaring that time shall be no longer in the days of the seventh trumpet and that the mystery of God shall be finished, with voices in heaven saying that the kingdoms of the world will now become the kingdoms of our Lord, and that He shall reign for ever and ever, and the twenty four elders fall on their faces and worship God, saying "we give thee thanks for your power and reign, the nations were angry, your wrath has come, the dead shall be judged, reward unto thy servants the prophets, and to the saints, and them who fear your name, small and great, you will destroy them which destroy the earth," then, I'm telling you, man, when that happens - man, Kansas is gonna be real happy that they love God so much.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005


--Is four years a long time?
--It's half a boy's life.
--(shakes head in amazement) Half a boy's life.

Some thoughts on Paris, Texas:

1) Best movie ever? High on the list.

2) Was Nastassja Kinski the most beautiful woman that ever lived? I could make a convincing argument.

3) Harry Dean Stanton - awesome in that gruff but sensitive uncle kind of way, but better than Richard Farnsworth? Fuck. Total toss-up.

4) Wim Wenders. Can this be the same guy that made Million Dollar Hotel? Can it really?

5) Ok, ready? Good - ok, name a better avant-garde playwright/actor/short story writer than Sam Shepard. Take your time. Keep thinking. No, seriously I've got all day. Well, I'll move on to number six, but you keep thinking.

6) The scene where Travis and Hunter walk from the school to their house on opposites sides of the road? Slightly better than all of Citizen Kane.

7) Finally, and most importantly, why don't I wear cowboy boots?


I wonder if someone will make a bracelet in this guy's name. Somehow, I doubt it. Unfortunately for him, he never lost a nut, won a fancy bicycle race, or left his wife and kids to fuck a famous chick. What a douchebag.

Peter Jennings, pictured above, has one too many testicles to be adored by stupid Americans.


I have a few things to say, and I don't care if offense is taken, if weapons are drawn, if threats are made, or if hearts are broken. These things I'm about to say are true, and the truth, as you well know, will set you free. And if for some reason there is something inside you that doesn't cotton to freedom, then maybe you shouldn't be reading this blog, maybe you should go see how nice they have it in Red China, or go to an old Soviet republic and ask the old folks the pleasantries of the gulags.

I digress.

Here is what I have to say. And when I say "have to", I mean "am obligated to" and when I say "say" I mean "shine this bright light that I've found into the darkest corners of this doomed world."

1) Michael Penn's music is the natural result of a desire to fuse the sounds of Bob Dylan and The Gin Blossoms.

2) His album Free-For-All is the most underappreciated of the nineties.

3) His song Long Way Down is the most underappreciated of the nineties.

4) The video for Long Way Down is the best of the nineties.

The talented Penn brother, seen here looking coy.

Monday, April 04, 2005


Blogger has been unkind to me today, and for that I ask for your forgiveness. I know that you need me; I understand the extent of your cravings for my words - I am the sun's first rays after an Icelandic winter and you are the widow of a good man - I am the Astropop and you are the overweight kid down the street after a game of capture the flag - I am the Grateful Dead t-shirt and you are the cable repair man - I am getting really tired of this bit.

Here's a link to a great article about the proper way for a man to shave his face. Men, if you've been around enough of them, I've found, enjoy talking about shaving. They discuss their opinions of the best razors, the best cream, the best technique. Any man who uses an electric razor is, with good reason, frowned upon and cast out of his circle of friends and made a pariah, justifiably. Much is made of foam or gel; three blades or four; with the grain or against; cold razor or hot. What this article presupposes is that the whole modern enterprise is faulty and the time is high to return to the badger hair brush, the tub of cream, and the double-edged blade.

Call me a fop if you wish, a dandy if you must, but I like Mr. Greenberg's suggestions and I plan on taking some of his advice. One would be a fool to not even give it a go, especially after lines like this: if you’ve never lathered up in the morning with a fine English shaving cream that smells like fresh-cut violets, limes, or lavender, then you are truly missing out on one the great manly pleasures of all time.

If you see a man walking the streets of Southern California with the sweetest, softest damn cheeks you've ever seen, don't think twice, it's alright.

Sunday, April 03, 2005


Pope's Dead

VATICAN CITY, April 3 -- His pale, folded hands intertwined with a rosary, Pope John Paul II was laid out inside the papal palace on Sunday, a reminder that if you become a priest, you'll never have sex. As one of history's oldest virgins, the pope reminded the world that there is joy to be found outside the realm of the sexual, though not nearly as easy to find, and not nearly as exhilirating.

The pope, adhering to strict conservative Catholic doctrine, also never jacked off. Man, I bet his balls hurt.

The death of this incredibly old virgin lowers the world total of virgins over the age of 80 to just three: Wilford Brimley, whose children were sowed by the seed of another man; Estelle Getty, whose children were the result of divine birth, and Christopher Hewitt, whose popularity rose as the star of television's "Mr. Belvedere".

Friday, April 01, 2005


...when the temperature is well above eighty, and the humidity is significant, that I wish to Hell I didn't have "the urticaria". It also makes me pine for the days before I gave up deodorant and showers.


The more things stay the same, the more they stay the same. Below are a couple of recent headlines that failed - spectacularly and with great panache - to surprise me in the least.

1) Mugabe's Zimbabwe Government Accused of Election Fraud

Have you ever owned an aquarium with fish? You know how it gets really dirty and gunky and every once in awhile you've got to change the water? Well, did you ever let it go for too long and all the fish died and then stuff started growing on the sides and you tried to clean it but still, you just couldn't scrape all of the crap off, and even though you left it in the hot summer sun to completely dry out for a few days, it still smelled so awful, I mean incredibly pungent, and you just figured that at that point it was worth more to you to just go ahead and spend the $20 on another aquarium instead of monkeying with this one anymore? Sigh. Yeah.

2) US Soldiers Arrested for Columbian Drug Plot

This is just like the movie Three Kings, except these guys didn't save anyone's life, and instead of smuggling gold, it's cocaine, which is basically the same thing, apart from the fact that people die from cocaine, but still, I'm sure that these guys are just as rakish and charming as Ice Cube and George Clooney.


Well, I still think we should give her the MIP award or something.

"Now the time has come. I put two bullets in my gun. One for me, and one for you. Oh darling, it will be so beautiful."