Here's a link to a site that will calculate (in some top secret manner) the worth of your blog.

So, how much is YOUR blog worth?

For several years now, I've enjoyed reading Bill Simmons a.k.a. The Sports Guy at ESPN.com

Simmons is a 30-something Boston native that had his own website and a cult following in New England before getting hired by ESPN and getting national exposure and still having a cult following. He also spent a brief time as a writer on "The Jimmy Kimmel Show." I'd link to that but since I can't watch it in a top ten television market, then you can't click a link to the show's site from here.

Anyway, the guy's columns are amazing. He writes in depth (and by in depth, I mean often in excess of 4,000 words) about the NBA, pop culture, sports movies, current hot button topics, fantasy sports, or anything else he can think of while gabbing with his boys or watching endless hours of television.

(He's also now a published author of the book "Now I Can Die In Peace.")

Anyway, beyond his columns, he also frequently runs a column called "Mail Bag" where he (take a guess here) posts emails he's received and answers them in the column.

I frequently chuckle out loud while reading his stuff, and the mailbag's always worth a chuckle or two more. But last night, while reading the current installment, I had two moments where I not only laughed, but I laughed so hard I was gasping for air. So much so that the wife had to come check on me. I then, of course, read them both to her and she did the same thing. Especially for the second one.

Without further adieu, I bring you my two most recent favorite mailbag entries:

Q: As a new father (and especially the father of a girl), you should watch out for the following fantastically horrific trick to play on a buddy with a new daughter: The next time you're in Vegas and end up in a gentlemen's establishment, buy the new father a dance, only pay the lady friend a little extra so that during the dance, she tells your buddy her name is [insert buddy's daughter's name]. If you watch your boy, you will be able to tell the exact moment at which she reveals her "name." Yes, I am going to hell.
--Bucky, Houston

SG: I would have found this e-mail 20 times funnier one year ago. But it did get me thinking ... do certain names predispose women toward becoming strippers? Like, if we had named my daughter Tiffany, Amber or Desiree, would that have dropped her "becoming a stripper" odds from 100,000-to-1 to 75-1? What happens if you name your daughter "Cinnamon" -- does she just start stripping right out of the womb? Or do all strippers have normal names, only they adopt relatively real-sounding pseudonyms when they start working at the gentlemen's establishment? I wish somebody with an MIT degree and a giant stripper database could figure this out once and for all.

Q: What's the protocol when you're at a urinal in a public restroom and you can hear the uh, fireworks, coming from the stall behind you? Is it ever acceptable to crack a joke or is complete silence always a must?
--Big J, West Conshohocken, Pa.

SG: This happened six years ago, when my buddy Geoff and I were in a crowded men's room at Foxwoods and I dusted off the old "You show that turd who's boss, buddy" line from "Austin Powers." Brought the rest room down. And yes, I was just looking for an excuse to write the words, "brought the rest room down."

Take my word for it. You should read every word this guy writes.

After the four execu-weasels and Trump whore wanna-be's were fired (again...all four of them in one fell swoop), they all got into the same regular sized taxi. You know, the one that might seat three adults in the back, but only if one's a midget and one's anorexic?

Well, after dragging their little carry-on bags out of Trump Towers / Trump Plaza / Trump Look How Small My Penis Is Estates, they got in the cab.

The last 30 seconds of the show is usually dedicated to the shocked and saddened (and sometimes obliviously arrogant) fired employee giving sort of a final statement. I looked at the wife during that commercial break and said "What are they gonna do? Have each person talk for 7.5 seconds? This is gonna be great."

And when they cut back to the cab, no one said anything.

Not one word.

While funny, I was immediately driven to make a variety of suggestions for what one or all of them should or could have said in that situation.

Understand something here. In that setting and in that situation, a properly delivered line or shot over the bow of another contestant might earn one candidate entry into the reality television Hall of Fame. This was a big moment.

And as I mentioned before, they all sat there saying nothing, letting another chance of a lifetime slip through their oblivious fingers.

So with apologies to David Letterman, here is my list of things one of them (any of them) could have said to make that show ending the king of all reality show endings:


10)Who farted?
9) Did any of you guys tape "Survivor?"
8) Getting fired here is still WAY better than being on "The Apprentice-Martha Stewart."
7) George is gonna be so pissed that he missed THAT!
6) That Trump sure is a dick.
5) Well, that went well, don't you think?
4) So who's up for Scores?
3) Anybody want a blow job?
2) Ha Ha! You got fired!!
1) Hey everybody, I just farted.

If you didn't, you might have missed one of the ten best moments in reality tv history.

I didn't watch the whole thing. )I was busy reading some very funny stuff on the internet that I'll discuss in a later blog).

I'll assume that anyone reading this knows what "The Apprentice" is. If you don't, you and I are obviously not friends, so you can click on "Next Blog" in the top right corner and read about V1@gra or mort@g e lending or something.

Anyway, the two teams were tasked with maximizing sales in some sporting goods store. One team was given the golf department (even though not one person played the game or knew anything about it) and the other was given the baseball department.

Anyway, despite knowing nothing about golf, team one increased sales over 70% during their time period.

Team two decided to build a HUGE indoor batting cage and spent the entire time teaching kids to bat and to play baseball.

And they didn't sell dick. As a matter of fact, they sold less than dick. Their efforts resulted in a decrease in sales of more than 20%.

Anyway, the team that couldn't sell sporting goods in a sporting goods store was called into the boardroom. At the end of the initial boardroom visit, Trump lets the project manager bring one, two, and sometimes three people back in with him / her, and then one of those people gets fired.

Last night however, Trump changed the rules. He basically said that the PM sucked so bad, that the PM wouldn't get to choose who came back into the boardroom. Trump then sent three of the seven back to the suite and ordered the remaining four to return to the boardroom.

Once they returned, the lone woman (Jennifer N.) starts getting blamed big time. Now, I didn't see the rest of the show, so I'll reserve judgement on her in particular relating to the task. They clearly all sucked, and that should be that. If they've learned nothing more from previous seasons, they should all say the minimum unless directly attacked, don't interrupt the Trump, and let someone else hang his or herself.

That didn't happen. When attacked and blamed by the boys, she lashed back, blaming the PM. Everyone started yammering and interrupting and blaming, and even went so far as to say that Trump would be "making a big mistake" to fire them.

(Hold please. I'm watching the video clip of the firing at www.nbc.com)

Watching a girl suddenly go from professional to high school cheerleader is comical. Watching the men go from highly educated professionals to nothing more than a bunch of Bobby Bradys that just broke the lamp but can't tell the truth is almost worse.

Anyway, after all of the bickering, hemming and hawing, Trump said:

"Jennifer, you're a bright woman, but on this task you let the team down. You didn't sell. You failed. You didn't sell."

Jen: "You shouldn't fire me. That'd be making a big mistake. Do you think the project was run properly."

Other guy: "You failed, Jennifer. You failed. Period. Failed. Failed."

Trump: "Josh, I think you were a very very ineffective leader. Your decisionmaking was terrible."

Trump: "In this boardroom, we've never had a team lose so badly. You're all fired. All four are fired....Go home."


I would pay twenty bucks to see the cock punch look on all of those snotty elitest bastards' faces on a running loop. The three guys sat there convinced Trump would fire the chick, and in the end, they all got shitcanned.

If you're not familiar with how the show ends, the fired employee walk out of the building and get into a cab. However, this time, they all got into the same cab. The same cab!!

Stay tuned for my next blog of the day:

Top ten things someone in that cab should have said during the 30 second out shot.

After being terribly inspired last week, I've got jack shit this week. Literally. I think it's due to the exhaustion of this past weekend where we did everything except bring home a new baby. That's still a couple-three weeks out...hopefully.

I guess I could tell you about the shit for brains parents that we ran into at the local pumpkin patch / abandoned gas station Sunday.

See, they always have the same things around here:

pony rides
a jumpin' thang
a bunch of pumpkins sorted by size
a gazebo for pettin' rabbits

And inside the gazebo is a big-ass sign that says:

1) Children must always be accompanied by an adult
2) Don't let children handle rabbits unless children are seated.
3) Do not remove rabbits from enclosure.

Anyway, this family of fucktards walks in and is there about .000003 seconds before their little angels see the bunny house. They run over and the kids IMMEDIATELY reach in, pick up a rabbit, and bring it outside, where it promptly jumps from their hands, dives thru the fence and heads for the interstate offramp.

Now, I asked the attendant what the fee was for losing a bunny. Without batting an eye he says "Twenty dollars."

I ask "Is there a dumbass tax too?"

He answers "No, but there oughta be."

The only other cool thing I can think of off the top of my head is what we cooked Friday and Saturday, which were veal rib chops. Oh, and before I post any scrumptious photos, just shut your judgemental pie hole. If you eat any meat, then veal's no different than anything else. Just hush.

Here's a couple of shots of dinner...







Who wants to come over for some ribs or something this weekend?

Oh, and I do need to answer another of my "ask me anything" questions.

Recently I began receiving some emails regarding our 20th high school reunion and on one page, you can enter your current personal info, some photos, etc., and I did so.

I will not post a link here as there is horrid evidence of what appears to be blatant homosexuality in my past. However, I linked to my blog and got a comment / email from someone I hadn't talked to in probably ten years. I'll call him Toole.

He asks: Why does Molly stay married to you after all of these years?

In answer to your question Toole, she stays married to me for my physique, my money, and my great looks. Is that not obvious?

Hopefully you'll read this and either email me again or give us a call. We're in the book. If you can't pick me from the small pile that share my surname, the old man's still the only Floyd I know.

And I know there's a medical explanation for the syndrome we affectionately refer to as "mommy brain." All the blood the baby requires really has affected my wife's cognitive abilities. However, Wednesday night was the best example so far of how this problem is affecting our marriage.

The wife and I were laying in bed watching "Cheap Seats" on ESPN Classic. If you don't know the show, it's a show similar to Mystery Science Theater 3000, except instead of old movies they show old sporting events like the 1987 World Series of Poker or the 1977 Superstars Competition or whatever. You know, the hosts talk over the broadcast, make funny remarks and whatnot and they also include pauses for funny graphics and some skit work. Anyway, here is a picture of the hosts:


As we are watching, I made some remark about them being twins, and the wife says "I didn't even know that they were related."

Now, After a good ten minutes of laughing...alot, we talked about it some more and I said, "Don't you think they look a little alike?"

She replied "But one of them has glasses and a beard."

I shot back "They both have different kinds of beards, but come on!! LOOK AT THEM!!"

Here's another photo:

Oh yeah, and their names are Jason and Randy Sklar. And they say that at the beginning of every episode, of which we've seen about 100 together.

I'll give her a pass on knowing they're twins, even though she's seen them on comedy central too. But you can't tell me there's one person who looks at either of these photos and doesn't say to themselves "Those guys are brothers."

I may be wrong on this, but I doubt it.

Anyway, the dumbening continues...

(p.s. While googling for a photo after writing this blog, THIS is what I found. I hope they don't think I plagiarized. Hell, maybe I can sue them for stealing my idea. Of course, this column is about seven months older than mine. Oh well...if you don't tell anyone then I won't either).

Here's a picture of Lauren at the dentist. Apparently she did quite well, and only cried a little during the x-ray part, but I'm guessing that's because the wife couldn't go in there (due to the fact that she's carrying my seed and all). Other than that, she was super.



See, a couple of weeks ago, we got an "Ouchie Report" from school because she fell flat on her face on the playground and got a fat lip.

Then, a few days later, we noticed that her tooth was changing color.

Worried that it was permanent damage (or as permanent as damage can be in a baby tooth), we took her to the dentist.

All looks good. The discoloration may go away or it may not. She'll get another check up on it in two months. But for now, everything seems fine.

(except for what's now apparently referred to as Potty Training Regression. That means she's decided to pee in her pants anywhere from one to five times a day. Man, is that fun. I'm sure it's anxiety about the baby or just attention related, but gosh honey, can't you just ask me to play with you instead of peeing your way thru four outfits in a day?)

The following statement was provided by Amy (but edited by me so the names are right from my end):

Welcome to the first ever Blog Fest. Amy, (an internets friend of mine whose blog can be found here) and I have both been blogging for about a year, and we've decided to mix things up a little so that more fun can be had by one and all. Fun kicks ass. The idea of Blog Fest (or a blog off,
if you will - although, this is not a competition even though I will so kick Amy's butt) was to take one general, vague topic and each write a blog about it.

Welcome to Blog Fest #1: A College Experience


After talking with a fellow blogger, we decided to both write a story about college. Any story. I have many, but here's the one that came to mind.

It's the spring of 1989. Springtime in the SEC. It was April 28th, a Saturday, and it was a good day to be alive.

(I only know that level of detail because just this weekend I stumbled across some...ummm...documentation of this day).

I was at Auburn University nearing the end of my third year (10th quarter), we had a totally kickass condo, I had reconciled with my high school sweetheart (and now wife of 13 plus years), and we were looking forward to another summer in a college town with a shitty paying job but enough beer and pizza money to have a great time for three months.

Anyway, my three roomates were members of Fraternities (Two were members of Sigma Phi Epsilon and one was a member of Beta Theta Pi), so my opportunities for drinking and band parties were extremely good almost every weekend. It was like friends with benefits. Only without the gratification of guilt-free sex. Of course, guilt-free drunken blackouts with a musical background were pretty fun too...

So, it was Saturday and we were all kinds of fired up because there was a double bill at the Sig Ep house: The Producers were opening for The Violent Femmes. Holy Shit!! Culture comes to Mayberry. Two truly (at the time) big acts coming to our little hick college town. And at a house where I had pretty much free run to do what I wanted...almost like being a pseudo-brother. WAR EAGLE!!

Weighed down by the coolers containing the trainload of beer we planned to drink, we headed out for the show. The other good news was that, due to some snafu in housing, my girlfriend lived in the married students area of campus. It was full of Asian grad students that cooked alot of funny smelling stuff, but it was big with a separate kitchen and bedroom and was about two short blocks from the Sig Ep house.

Our plan was to ride toghether in Robbie's car and park right near the old lady's place. That way, if someone could drive, the car was close, and if no one could drive, we'd either crash at her place or get one of her neighbors to drive us home.

The show was great, if not a little fuzzy in the memory thanks to our binge drinking. We had a great time, and when it was over, about 5,000 people left the Sig Ep house headed for home.

The crowd was so easy-going and satisfied that no one cared that an occasional beer was shook up, opened, and sprayed up and into the crowd, leaving many covered in wasted nectar but happy nonetheless. (For the record, the main one doing this was one of my drunk-ass roomates).

We walked the 100 yards or so to Robbie's car and started taking inventory.

"Alright...who's okay to drive?"

Robbie: safoi poqg asd aioah hrcjexdfvi uj.

Chris: NO WAY DUDE!!

Jon: blah blah I miss Stephanie.

Wife: I don't think that's a good idea.

Me: Uh....nope.

So I addressed the group. "Folks," I said, "I'll mosey down to the old lady's place and see if Kerry or one her other neighbors can drive us home."

And off I went. I left my happy band of totally shit-faced friends. I was walking tall and proud, if not quite crookedly, safe in the knowledge that we'd made the right decision and instead of driving drunk, we'd be getting a sober ride home.

I got to Kerry's place and knocked a few times, and got nothing. It was about midnight-ish, so I figured that they may have been asleep.

I then knocked on another friend's door. Same thing. No answer.

I then figure that Kerry might have been asleep but would still love to drive us home, so Iwent back upstairs and knocked some more.

And that's when I noticed my very pronounced shadow on the door in front of me.

I thought to myself "Why on earth can I see my shadow so brightly and in such a pronounced manner?"

That actually went thru my noodle as "Hey!! What the fuck is THAT?"

I spun around a little defensively and saw...

Dun Dun DUHHHHHHH!!!!

There parked in the middle of the street was Officer Friendly shining his Q-beam on me.

Officer Friendly: "What are you doing?"

Me: "I was trying to ask one of my girlfriend's friends for a sober ride home."

Officer Friendly: "So you're drunk?"

Me: "Uhhh...yeah."

Officer Friendly: "Come down here, boy."

Me: "Ummm....okay."

Now, at the side of his car, he goes from Officer Friendly to Officer Shitass.

OS: "Give me your ID."

Me: "Okay."

OS: "Your birthday's in July?"

Me: "Yep."

OS: "So, you acknowledge that you've been drinking? "

Me: "Why else would I need a sober ride home?"

OS: "And you won't be 21 for a little over two more months?"

Me: "You got it."

OS: "I'm charging you with public intoxication and consumption by a minor."

Me: " But I recognized I was drunk and we decided to find a sober ride home. There are over 5,000 people one hundred yards away piling into cars loaded and hitting the roads, and you've decided to ticket the one guy that decided NOT to drive home drunk?"

OS: "Put your hands behind your back."

Me: "Fine."

So off we went. Me and my not exactly lanky 6'3" frame cuffed and stuff courtesy of the city police.

This is where things went a little shitty.

The cop headed in the opposite direction of the jail, which confused me.

Me: "Why aren't we headed to the jail?"

OS: "I've got some other places to check."

Me: "Why wouldn't you just take me to jail?"

OS: "Shut up."

Me: "mumble...mumble..."

About an hour later, he asks "What station would you like to listen to on the radio?"

Me: "I don't care. Whichever one's playing 'Hurry up and take me to jail.' "

OS: "snicker..."

Asshole.

Meanwhile, that same hour's passed and my beloved was asking "Hey, what do you think's taking him so long?"

My roomates collectively were saying "Awww....he's fine. Fuck this. Let's just go. He's probably walking home or got a ride already."

Of course, my woman knew better. First, I wouldn't walk to get the mail if there was a ride available. Second, why on earth would I bail on the sober ride without telling them? I wasn't blacked out. If I were blacked out, I'd probably have been passed out, and they'd have sent someone else to get us all a fucking ride.

So they all pile in the car and my roommate Robbie drove home. Yes, the Robbie that couldn't see an hour earlier.

I'm not blaming him. We all would have done it. 4,000 other drunk asses doing the same thing at the same time. It's just ironic that while I was wondering why my decision to not drive drunk had landed me in the pokey (or was about to) my devil-may-care roomies were probably offering other drunks rides home in exchange for beer (which it turns out they were actually doing).

Anywho, Officer Shitass FINALLY decided to take me to the jail. Now, it's about 1am following a band party attended by 5,000 people. You can only IMAGINE what the police station was like.

I noticed that there was a brown line painted on the wall all the way around the room at about six and a half feet high, and I wondered why. I soon found out.

It was so full, they didn't have seating for everyone awaiting processing, so the walls in the secondary room were lined with guys facing the wall and their hands above that line.

Nice. Why not drip some water on my forehead, you facist fuckheads?

I got stuck behind the door that led to Gen-Pop (general population for those of you that don't watch OZ) and proceeded to wait while every few minutes getting hit in the back with the pull handle from the door.

At the same time, my roomies and my woman had made it safely to our home after providing rides to two or three other drunk-asses, in exchange for beer.

My beloved immediately grabbed the phone book, hustled upstairs and started looking up the numbers for various jails.

One of my roomates (Chris) came in and asked what she was doing.

She answered: "He's in jail. It's been two hours and even if he was crawling he'd be home by now. I'm not mad. I'm not upset. It is what it is. Now I just want to find out where he is so we can get him out."

Can you even ask why I love this woman so much?

While I was standing behind the door with my hands up waiting for the earlier detainees to be processed, I heard a woman at the desk say "something...something..." and then I heard my name.

"What the hell?" I thought.

Then I heard it again, only she was saying "Phone call for TMLSB!!"

Amazing. The love of my life had found me by phone before the local gendarme had found the time to process me.

She explained that she wasn't mad, she was glad I was okay, and she understood why I was mad at Officer Shitass as well as more than a little jealous of my "walks thru raindrops" roomate.

She also explained that they had told her she could come bond me out at 8am. She was going with Chris and Robby to get the $163 it would take to make that happen Sunday morning and she told me she loved me.

Buoyed by my love for this angel on earth, I happily sat thru being booked, printed, and sent thru the line to pickup my WWII Army Surplus reject blanket and my piece of fabric with about a handful of lint in it meant to be my pillow (folded in quarters, mind you) and followed the nice guard who was leading me to where I would sleep for the evening.

Now, I wasn't scared. I had previously been an overnight guest of the Bay County PD in Panama City, Florida (and fuck you too, Redneck Riviera), so I wasn't a rookie at this. I expected one of those Barney Miller like Lockups with 30 guys in it, including the one guy sleeping all by himself in the corner covered in his own vomit.

Except this was different. I was led to a cell that was like the 20 or so other cells that faced in towards a kind of a small empty room. The cell doors were on the outside of the perimeter. Hopfully you're getting this visual.

Apparently, the drunk tank was full or over-full, so they were throwing our naive asses into cells with actual criminals for the night.

Oh no.

If the cell was a clock, the door was at 6, the toilet / sink was at about 8, the steel bunk beds were at 10, the view out thru bars to other cells was at noon, and the desk area was at about 3.

Here's where I'd also like to offer up a hearty fuck you to the asshole that invented the stainless steel sink/shitter combo. There's nothing quite like the thought of brushing your teeth while your cellmate is taking a big messy prison food shit connected to the same piece of stainless steel.

Anyway, I look up and see a guy sitting on the bottom bunk. I nervously ask his name (which I have since forgotten). He asked if I was one of them drunk college boys. I said I was.

I then asked "What are you in for?"

His reply: "I'm being transferred to Mobile. I'm serving eight to ten years for trafficking cocaine."

Oh no. Oh God no. They've put me in a cell with a guy that's got nothing better to do than practice putting a knife in my ribs or stealing the pure and blessed sanctity of my anus.

He motioned up and said "That's your bed."

Then he did the darndest thing. He offered me a cigarette.

I immediately said "Sure," and then thought "Am I his bitch now? Oh shit. What have I done?"

I jumped down off the bunk to reach for the open pack of Newports and noticed there were only three in there. This guy was giving 33% of the smokes he had. That was quite cool and very unexpected. I offered my sincere and repeated thanks.

About that time some guy started babbling and whining and crying. Actually crying. He then started blabbering about how he was an SAE and if his brothers didn't get him soon...blah blah blah."

I felt like a little trouble, so I started yelling and screaming, calling him the biggest pussy I'd ever come in contact with and told him that was why no one wanted to join his faggoty fraternity.

This elicited a great response from the rest of what I assumed were actual criminals. (Not that being publicly intoxicated as a minor aren't two very serious crimes. Just say no to drugs, kids).

I felt better and was suddenly tired, so I told Michael Clarke Duncan's twin brother that I was going to sleep.

And did I ever sleep. I slept quite a restful sleep in fact, which was extra surprising considering I'd pissed the upper bunk sometime in the middle of the night.

When I was awakened by some asshole shouting my name (okay, it was the guard calling my name because I'd been bonded out, but still) I was crabby and sort of aware of my surroundings but groggy.

Think back to my description of the cell. If I were now exiting, the toilet thingy would be at about 2 o'clock.

As I jumped down, I noticed that Mr. John Coffey was already sitting at the desk (hopefully not waited to beat me to death for peeing on him). I thanked him for the smoke and then promptly noticed feet attached to a body laying on the ground next to and kind of around the back of the toilet.

(sidebar: I don't know about any of you, but I wouldn't like to sleep on the floor around my own shitter, but I can assure you I would certainly NOT like to sleep on the floor next to the toilet in the jailhouse).

I asked my roomie "Hey, how'd he get there?"

He answered: "Well, he was trying to steal your pillow and blanket and weasel you out of the top bunk, so I stood up and recommended that he find somewhere else to sleep. When he said there was nowhere else, I told him to sleep behind the fucking toilet."

Me: "You did that for me?"

Him: "Yeah. Didn't seem right. After all, you were in jail first. Same reason I got my bunk and got to let you have the other one."

Hmmm. Apparently there ARE some laws in the big house.

I finally got out of the cell, thanked the man, and headed for the lobby to find my roommate Robbie and my beloved waiting for me. One had a Mountain Dew and the other had a big bag of breakfast from McDonalds.

The wife said "I'm not mad. I love you. It's no big deal," and my roommate said "I'm only here because you bailed me out when I got busted."

I hugged the wife, high fived the roommate and we headed out to the car.

Oh, one more thing. As if I was even entertaining the possibility of going to court so I could defend myself, the city of Auburn scheduled my court date on the same date and at the same time as my Accounting Final, so there was no fucking way I could do anything except forfeit the forfeitable bond / fine, which is all those cocksuckers wanted anyway.

Hell, if Officer Shitass had just asked me for the $163 bucks, this whole story would be about two sentences long.

Then again, how fun would THAT have been?

Later that day, I returned to the lockup and took that fine gentleman a carton of Newports. I know it didn't change his life but I hope it told him how much I appreciated his generosity.

(Oh, and that paperwork I stumbled across earlier? That was the ticket for PI and consumption by a minor. My dad recently gave me a bunch of crap from my college years including report cards, meal card bills and most importantly....that ticket. Thanks dad).

This entry is a bit self-indulgent, so bear with me.

Some of you might not know who Bill Hicks is or, more accurately, was. Bill died of cancer in February of 1994 at the unbelievably young age of 32. He had spent his youth drinking, smoking, doing drugs and questioning everything. However, he quit drinking and taking drugs in 1998 and had quit smoking by 1992. It's ironic that he died of cancer so soon afer giving up all the vices of his life because he realized that he "might be here a while with this..."

Bill Hicks was a stand-up comedian, but more importantly than that, I think he was a revolutionary and an intelligent voice that could make you think and question things rather than just talk about dropping ice cream and getting laid like other comedians of his time. He was a genius, albeit a troubled one, but his words, despite being 11 years old and older, ring remarkably true and accurate today.

Anyway, I was recently reading through an interview with Bill, and it made me think that there were some things in that interview and in his stand-up act that were worth relaying to an audience that might not know of Bill's talents. Here are a few quotes courtesy of this site.

Here's a bit about freedom of speech...

JOHN (Interviewer): I think the big secret is if you actually seem to give a damn about people and you actually have a certain amount of anger about the way things work then you have to be stopped.

BILL: Precisely. They want to keep problems unresolvable and they want to keep people helpless and hopeless. This Bosnia-Herzegovina thing is a classic example. All the pundits are so "HOW CAN AMERICA OF ALL PLACES... AMERICA THAT STANDS FOR CIVIL RIGHTS... [chortles] keep drinking beer... uh, STAND BY AND LET THIS CARNAGE CONTINUE." This carnage has been happening for thousands of years. I don’t know, I think we’ll let another week go by until we commit people over there.

JOHN: So do you get any intelligent opposition?

BILL: No, it’s fairly stupid unfortunately. I’d love to debate people. That’s why these letters from these preachers in England, while they are absolutely idiotic, help me formulate my own stance and I think it’s important to be able to know what you’re doing and why. It’s good but it gets a little tiresome explaining the concept of freedom to people. It would seem you wouldn’t have to after a while. Freedom of speech means that you support speech--particularly that speech that you disagree with--otherwise you don’t belive in freedom of speech, you believe in what you believe and then you’re a fascist. It’s just semantics at this point, there’s no theorizing at this point. Get a dictionary.

Christianity has a built-in defense system: anything that questions a belief, no matter how logical the argument is, is the work of Satan by the very fact that it makes you question a belief. It’s a very interesting defense mechanism and the only way to get by it, and believe me I was raised Southern Baptist, is to take massive amounts of mushrooms, sit in a field, and just go, "Show me."

On the subject of the police...

BILL: What is this show Cops? What is America getting off on? Why don’t they have one called Stormtrooper. "Hey, they’re bustin’ down doors without warrants. I love America. We’re the greatest country in the world. We have freedoms."

JOHN: Yeah, in one episode of Cops, the cops break into this guy’s apartment, he runs out the door and leaps over the ledge except they’re on the second floor. He breaks his leg and they’re all standing over there going, "Well, looks like he broke his leg."

BILL: Yeah, I love that stuff. "Ya, havin’ fun?!" I saw one where they pulled a guy over and he had a heart attack while they were abusing his rights to search and seizure.

JOHN: Laughing at him?

BILL: Laughing at him. He’s havin’ a heart attack and they’re like, "You havin’ fun?!"

JOHN: "He’s dying HUHHUH."

BILL: And all the people at home, I guess, are supposed to think, "He’s got to be dying... let’s watch him die. GET A CLOSE UP!" It’s really quite frightening how dehumanized we’ve become.


On Texas and our culture's need to see/read about/watch stories about celebrities (which I enjoyed immensely)...

BILL: How does Houston feel about having that moral empty sack George Bush residing here? That’s gotta be depressing.

RAMÓN: Man, you’re talking about the city that had the Republican convention. I mean, you’d watch the news and they’d be doing a piece on "Officer Bob and his happy horse" but for anyone who was there, that was the most frightening thing to see. These people were beating the shit out of anybody. Houston took it and loved it.

BILL: I was telling someone else today, how if you control the airwaves, you control perception and people’s minds. For instance, the perception of Houston. I don’t care if it’s a manned space launch to Mars in the year 2023--when the national news goes down to Houston, they’re gonna cut to these old people two-step dancing. I’ve lived here my whole life and never seen these people. I was in a punk band when I was 13. What is this? Some kind of intergalactic space flight Hillbilly Hayride? Houston is the fourth largest city and someone is controlling the idea that Houston is this redneck hillbilly enclave. Like you were saying: "Look at the police doin’ a fine job." [pantomimes cop with person in head lock] Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! [stops struggling] "Smile officer." [smiles, waves, continues struggle]. A perfect example for a Chomskyesque book would be the 51-day siege of spin control, changing stances, and outright lies at the Waco compound.

JOHN: You just watch that stuff and you can’t believe its happening.

RAMÓN: What I liked was how the three officers’ lives were worth more than anyone else’s lives.

BILL: Exactly. I loved when they did the kids. The psychologist goes, "We asked the kids to draw pictures of where they lived and here’s a picture of one of them." It’s a house with a beautiful rainbow over it. That’s very nice. " And I said, ‘Is that all?’ and the little girl thought about it, picked up the crayon, drew little dots on the roof. And I said, ‘What’s that?’ and she said ‘Bullets.’ We’ll be right back." Well, wait! Whoa! Wasn’t it the ATF who shot those bullets? Heeeey! If I had to draw my childhood home, it would be a dungeon. They looked like they were living pretty happily up there.

RAMÓN: The big thing is the concept of cult versus religion.

BILL: Sure, that’s what I wanted to point out: What’s the difference between people following David Koresh and people following George Bush into the Persian Gulf War? See, the media didn’t confront any of these issues. Every time they interviewed somebody leaving that compound it was: "You have to understand the Seven Seals... We’ll be right back."
Wait a minute, go for it. Give Koresh a camera. What are the Seven Seals? Explain it. I’m all ears. I’ve got nothing but time. I think you’re fascinating. Could ya, while you talk, just play a couple riffs on the guitar, cuz this is just great. The rockstar messiah? I’m in! Count me in.

RAMÓN: The other great thing about that was how the media loved the idea of being held at bay just like in the Persian Gulf War. They couldn’t get any information and they took whatever the ATF gave ’em. Which is not what the media should be doing. They should be in there trying to get that story.

BILL: I’ll tell you the ultimate message of the Waco siege. Here’s the message and here’s what they wanted to convey both subconsciously and consciously: state power will always win, do not question authority, and no matter what your motives we will paint you as a bogeyman and destroy you all the way to the point of burning you down with your children in your own home. Any questions? Media: "No questions." That’s the message.

JOHN: How do you keep from losing your mind and becoming another post office guy?

BILL: Actually, It’s so dark and fascinating that I wanna see it to the bitter end.

JOHN: You just might too.

RAMÓN: Do you think that the reason people don’t get alternative points of view is because the media doesn’t allow for rational argument? Especially in television, which is the main media form in the US.

BILL: Oh precisely. It’s not supposed to provide that, it is there to sell products. That’s what it’s there for. There’s no truth search, it’s not on, it ain’t happening. It’s in fact frowned upon. Look, we live in a time so indoctrinated right now to believe that the only things we value are fame and money. Those are the only two things this culture values. If you’re not famous or rich, what do you really have to say? You lost. We live in a time so odd that a plea for sanity comes off sounding like sour grapes. "Can’t we all love each other?"

"Yeah, LOSER! You wouldn’t feel that way if you were driving around in this car." KEEP DRINKING BEER.

You know what I mean? It’s phenomenally perverted, man. Lie upon lie upon lie. The media has no interest in the truth. Like Dupont with that commercial. With the guy? "He lost his arm in the war and thanks to Dupont..." And this fucking pathetic gimp is paraded around. Excuse me, but wasn’t it Dupont that made the bomb in the first place?


And here's something about "Orange Drink" and Rush Limbaugh...

BILL: In England I got an offer to do a commercial for "Orange Drink." Isn’t that typical fucking UK?

"What will we call it?"

"We’ll call it Orange Drink."

Anyway, they offered me really good money and I said no, and they’re like, why not?

RAMÓN: Don’t you ever sit there and go, "Well maybe just this once."

BILL: That’s what they want you to do: sell your soul just once--the rest is easy. I think it would be very phony of me to do a commercial. Plus I really don’t want to do it. I’m trying to make this statement and uh..."Yes, after I try to subvert the public to a new way of thinking, I get parched! That’s why I drink Orange Drink."

RAMÓN: Here’s one last question. Rush Limbaugh.

BILL: "Ya, know Rush has got a point. I know it’s not to your liking, but once you see the subtext that he’s a fat guy with a small pecker and he hates black and brown people and ultimately..." You know he looks like one of those gay guys who likes to sit in a tub while other men pee on him. You ever get the impression that he’d love to be surrounded by Bush and Reagan with them just urinating on him while Chuck Berry films it and somehow the Earth just spins out of its axis and we free float through space?

JOHN: But there in bliss.

BILL: In total bliss! We’ve freed ourselves from this total gruck. Ahhhh... and Stallone will play him in the film version...

JOHN: Everything is locked into place.

BILL: It’s like this wonderful cosmic massage. Ahhhhh... So, when do we start this interview?


There are many links to some great Bill Hicks stuff. I strongly encourage you to pick up his performance stuff to listen to in the car...without your kids with you. It's brilliant and timeless and scary at the same time.


Since this is self-indulgent, I don't care how long it is.

Bill was also pulled from his 13th appearance on the Letterman show just prior to airing and replaced by someone / something else. He was pulled because CBS' standards and practices pussies decided that the material was "objectionable."

Here's a letter Bill sent to The New Yorker about that situation:

Dear John,

Here is the material (verbatim) that CBS's standards and practices found "unsuitable" for the viewing public in 1993, year of our Lord. These are the "hotspots"I believe were not mentioned. I'm going to include audience responses as well, for it does play a part in my thoughts on the incident which will follow the jokes. Jokes, John: this is what America now fears - one man with a point of view, speaking out, unafraid of our vaunted institutions, or the loathsome superstitions the CBS hierarchy feels the masses (the herd) use as their religion. I'm feeling good. The set I've prepared has been approved and reapproved by Mary Connelly, the segment producer of the show. It is exactly the same set that was approved for the previous Friday, the night where I was "bumped" due to lack of time. It is the material that I am excited about performing, for it best reflects - out of all the other appearances I've made on the show - myself.

Bill: Good evening! I'm very excited to be here tonight, and I'm very excited because I got some great news today. Iíve finally got my own TV show coming out as a replacement show this fall!

The audience applauds.

Bill: Don't worry, it's not a talk show.

The audience laughs.

Bill: Thank God! It's a half-hour weekly show that I will be hosting, entitled "Let's Hunt and Kill Billy Ray Cyrus".

Audience bursts into laughter and applause.

Bill: I think it's fairly self-explanatory. Each week we let the Hounds of Hell loose and chase the jar-head, no talent, cracker-idiot all over the globe till I finally catch that fruity little ponytail of his, pull him to his chippendaleís knees, put a shotgun in his mouth and "pow".

Audience continues to applaud and laugh.

Bill: Then weíll be back in '94 with "Let's Hunt and Kill Michael Bolton".

Audience laughs and applauds.

Bill: Yeah, so you can see that, with guests like this, our run will be fairly limitless.

Audience laughs.

Bill: And we're kicking the whole series off with our MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice, Markie Mark Christmas special ...

Audience laughs and applauds.

Bill: And I don't want to give any surprises away, but the first one we hunt and kill on that show is Markie Mark, because his pants keep falling around his ankles and he can't run away ... Bill mimes a hobbling Markie Mark.

The audience laughs.

Bill: Yeah, I get to cross-bow him right in the abs. Itís a beautiful thing. Bring the family. Tape it. It's definitely a show for the nineties ...

Audience applauds.

At this point I did a line about men dancing. Since it was never mentioned as a reason for excising me from the show, let's skip ahead to the next "hot point" that was mentioned (by the way, the joke about men dancing got a huge laugh).

Bill: You know, I consider myself an open-minded person. But speaking of homosexuality, something has come to my attention that has shocked even me, Have you heard about these new grade school books for children theyíre trying to add to the curriculum, to help children understand the gay lifestyle. One's called Heather's Two Mommies and the other is called Daddy's New Roommate.

(Here I make a shocked, disgusted, face.)

Bill: Folks, I gotta draw the line here and say this is absolutely disgusting. It is grotesque, and it is pure evil.

Pause.

Bill: I'm talking, of course, about Daddy's New Roommate.

Audience laughs.

Bill: Heather's Two Mommies is quite fetching. You know they're hugging on page seven.

Audience laughs.

Bill: (lasciviously) Ooh! Go Mommies, go! Ooh! They kiss in chapter four!

Audience laughs.

Bill: Me and my nephew wrestle over that book every night ...
(Bill mimes his little nephew jumping up and down.)

Bill: (as nephew) Uncle Bill, I've gotta do my homework.

Audience laughs.

Bill: Shut up and do your math! I'm proof-reading this for you ...

Audience laughs.

We move directly into the next "hot point":

Bill: You know who's really bugging me these days. These pro-lifers ...

Smattering of applause.

Bill: You ever look at their faces? "I'm pro-life!"

(Bill makes a pinched face of hate and fear, his lips are pursed as though he's just sucked on a lemon.)

Bill: "I'm pro-life!" Boy, they look it don't they? They just exude joie de vie. You just want to hang with them and play Trivial Pursuit all night long.

Audience chuckles.

Bill: You know what bugs me about them? If you're so pro-life, do me a favour - don't lock arms and block medical clinics. If you're so pro-life, lock arms and block cemeteries.

Audience laughs.

Bill: Let's see how committed you are to this idea.
(Bill mimes the pursed lipped pro-lifers locking arms.)

Bill: (as pro-lifer) She can't come in!

Audience laughs.

Bill: (as confused member of funeral procession) She was 98. She was hit by a bus!

Audience laughs.

Bill: (as pro-lifer) There's options!

Audience laughs.

Bill: (as confused member of funeral procession) What else can we do? Have her stuffed?

Audience laughs.

Bill: I want to see pro-lifers with crowbars at funerals opening caskets - "get out!"
Then I'd be really impressed by their mission.

Audience laughs and applauds.

(At this point I did a routine on smoking, which was never brought up as a "hot point", so let's move ahead to the end of my routine, and another series of jokes that were mentioned as "unsuitable".)

Bill: I've been travelling a lot lately. I was over in Australia during Easter. It was interesting to note that they celebrate Easter the same way as we do - commemorating the death and resurrection of Jesus by telling our children a giant bunny rabbit left chocolate eggs in the night.

Audience laughs.

Bill: I wonder why we're so messed up as a race? You know, I've read the Bible - can't find the words "bunny" or "chocolate" in the whole book.

Audience laughs.

Bill: Where do we get this stuff from? And why those two things? Why not "goldfish left Lincoln logs in our sock drawers"? I mean, as long as we are making things up, why not go hog wild?

Audience laughs and applauds.

Bill: I think it's interesting how people act on their beliefs. A lot of Christians, for instance, wear crosses around their necks. Nice sentiment, but do you think that when Jesus comes back, heís really going to want to look at a cross?

Audience laughs. Bill makes a face of pain and horror.

Bill: Ow. Maybe that's why he hasn't shown up yet ...

Audience laughs.

Bill: (as Jesus looking down from heaven) I'm not going, Dad, no, they're still wearing crosses - they totally missed the point. When they start wearing fishes, I might go back again ... no, I'm not going ... OK, I'll tell you what - I'll go back as a bunny ...

Audience bursts into applause and laughter. The band kicks into Revolution by The Beatles.

Bill: Thank you very much! Good night!

(Bill crosses over to the seat next to Letterman's desk. )

Letterman: Good set, Bill! Always nice to have you drop by with an uplifting message!

Audience and Bill laugh. Cut to commercial.

Then closes the show with ...

Letterman: I want to thank our guests tonight - Andie McDowell, Graham Parker, and Bill Hicks ... Bill, enjoy answering your mail over the next few weeks. Goodnight everybody!

The audience and Bill crack up at Letterman's closing line.

... and we're off the air.

Bill Sheft, a comic and one of the writers on the show, comes up to me saying, "Hicks, that was great!" I ask him if he thinks Letterman liked it. Bill Sheft, whose other duties include warming up the audience and getting them to applaud when the show goes in and out of commercials says, "Are you kidding? Letterman was cracking up throughout the whole set."

Since I am a fan of Dave's and the show, it meant a lot to me that he enjoyed my work. The fact that it was over, and by all accounts went fine, was a huge relief.

After the show, I returned to my hotel and took a long hot bath. As I was getting out of the tub, the phone rang. It was now half past seven. Robert Morton, the producer of the Letterman show, was on the line. He said, "Bill, I've got some bad news ..." My first thought was that Dave had been chopped up and sauted by the mob cook. Robert Morton went on, "Bill, we've had to edit your set from tonight's show."

I sat down on the bed, stunned, wearing nothing but a towel. "I don't understand, Robert. What's the problem? I thought the show went great."

Morton replied, "It did, Bill. You killed out there. It's just that the CBS Standards and Practices felt that some of the material was unsuitable for broadcast."

I rubbed my head, confused. "Ah. Which material did they find unsuitable?"

"Well," Morty replied, "almost all of it. If I had to edit everything they object to, there'd be nothing left of the set, so we just think it's best to cut you entirely from the show. Bill, we fought tooth and nail to keep the set as it is, but Standards and Practices won't back down and David is furious. We're all upset here. What can I say? It's out of my hands now. We've never experienced this before with Standards and Practices, and they're just not going to back down. I'm really sorry."

"But, Bob, they're so obviously jokes..."

"Bill, I know, I know. But Standards and Practices just doesn't find them suitable."

"But which ones? I mean, I ran this set by my 63-year-old Mom on her porch in Little Rock, Arkansas. You're not going to find anyone more mainstream, nor any place more Middle America, than my Mom in Little Rock, Arkansas, and she had no problem with the material."

"Bill, what can I say? It's out of our hands, Bill. We'll just try and schedule a different set in a couple of weeks and have you back on."

Then Morton said, "Bill, we take full responsibility for this. It's our fault. We should have spent more time before working on the set, so Mary and I could have edited out the "hot points", and we wouldn't be having to do this now."

Finally, I came to my senses. I said, "Bob, they're just jokes. I don't want them to be edited by you. Why are people so afraid of jokes?"

To this, Morty replied, "Bill, you have to understand our audiences." This is a line I've heard before and it always pisses me off.

"Your audiences!" I retorted, "What? Do you grow them on farms? Your audience is comprised of 'people', right? Well, I understand people, being a person myself. People are who I play to every night, Bob, and we get along just fine. And when I'm not performing on your show, I'm a member of the audience for your show. Are you saying that my material is not suitable for me? This doesn't make sense. Why do you underestimate the intelligence of the audience? I think that shows a great deal of contempt on your part ..."

Morty bursts in with, "Bill, it's not our decision. We have to answer to the networks, and this is the way they want to handle it. Again, I'm sorry - you're not at fault here. Now let me get to work on editing you from the show and we'll set another date as soon as possible with some different material, OK?"

"What kind of material? How bad airline food is? Boy, 7-11s sure are expensive? Golly, Ross Perot has big ears? Bob, you keep saying that you want me on the show, then you don't let me be myself, and now you're cutting me out completely. I feel like a beaten wife who keeps coming back for more. I try and write the best material I can for you guys. Yours is the only show I do because I'm a big fan, and I think you're the best talk show on television. And this is how you treat me?"

"Bill, thatís just the way it is sometimes. I'm sorry, OK."

"Well, I'm sorry, too, Bob. Now I've got to call my folks back and tell them not to wait up. I've got to call all my friends ..."

"Bill, I know. This is tough on all of us."

"Well, you've got to do what you've got to do ... OK." Then we hang up.

So there you have it. Not since Elvis was censored from the waist down has a performer, a comic, performing on the very same stage, been so censored - now from the neck up - in America. For telling jokes.

"What are they so afraid of?" I yelled. "Goddamnit! I'm a fan of the show. I'm an audience member. I do my best shit for them ... they're just jokes." Here's this show I loved, that touted itself as this hip late-night talk show, trying to silence one man's voice, a comic, no less.

Apparently, many of my media friends, fans and supporters are also Letterman fans. They felt that this was a story that was newsworthy and expressed to me their own sympathy and outrage over what had occurred. Thursday came and went and still no tape arrived, so I took it upon myself to call Robert Morton personally. I asked why the tape hadn't arrived yet, and he said, "Um. I don't know if we are legally allowed to send out a tape of an unaired segment of a show."

I thought this had just come off the top of his head so I said, "Robert, I just want it for my archives, and my parents would love to see it," to which Morty replied, "I understand. I'll get you the tape. And let's work on another set for a few weeks from now."

"Great," I said, and hung up. To this day, no tape has ever arrived.

Since there was so much interest from the media, we decided to go ahead and do some interviews. One radio talk show I did, the Alan Bennet Show in San Francisco, had a live studio audience the morning I called in to be interviewed. The studio audience laughed at the jokes as I told them, and applauded the points I made about television after hearing the jokes. One person who heard the broadcast took it upon himself to write a stinging letter to CBS, chastising them for their cowardice for not airing my set. He quickly received a letter in reply which was then forwarded to my office.

Its contents were most interesting and added a humorous twist to the already black comedy that was unfolding. I have CBS's reply before me, and quote: "... it is true that Bill Hicks was taped that evening and that his performance did not air. What is inaccurate is that the deletion of his routine was required by CBS. In fact, although a CBS Programme Practices editor works on the show, the decision was solely that of the producers of the programme with that of another comedian.

Therefore, your criticism that CBS censored the programme is totally without foundation. Creative judgement must be made in the course of producing any programme, and, while we regret that you disagreed with this one, the producers thought it necessary, and this is a decision we would not override."

I did what I've always done - performed material in a comedic way, which I thought was funny. The artist always plays to himself, and I believe the audience, seeing that one person can be free to express his thoughts, however strange they may seem, inspires the audience to feel that perhaps they too can freely express their innermost thoughts with impunity, joy and release, and perhaps discover our common bond - unique, yet so similar - with each other.

This philosophy may appear at first to some as selfish - "I play to me and do material that interests and cracks me up." But, you see, I don't feel I'm different from anyone else. The audience is me. I believe we all have the same voice of reason inside us, and that voice is the same in everyone.

This is what I think CBS, the producers of the Letterman show, the networks and governments fear the most - that one man free, expressing his own thoughts and point of view, might somehow inspire others to think for themselves and listen to that voice of reason inside them, and then perhaps, one by one we will awaken from this dream of lies and illusions that the world, the governments and their propaganda arm, the mainstream media, feeds us continuously over fifty-two channels, twenty-four hours a day.

What I realised was that they don't want the people to be awake. The elite ruling class wants us asleep so we'll remain a docile, apathetic herd of passive consumers and non-participants in the true agendas of our governments, which is to keep us separate and present an image of a world filled with unresolvable problems, that they, and only they, might somewhere, in the never-arriving future, may be able to solve. Just stay asleep, America. Keep watching television. Keep paying attention to the infinite witnesses of illusion we provide you over "Lucifer's Dream Box".

The herd has been pacified by our charade of concern as we pose the two most idiotic questions imaginable - "Is television becoming too violent?" and "Is television becoming too promiscuous?" The answer, my friends, is this: television is too stupid. It treats us like morons.

Case closed.

And now, the final irony. One of the "hot points" that was brought up as being "unsuitable for our audience" was my joke about pro-lifers. My brilliant friend Andy posited the theory that this was really what bothered and scared the network the most, seeing as how the "pro-life" movement has essentially become a terrorist group acting with impunity and God on their side, in a country where the reasonable majority overwhelmingly supports freedom of choice regarding abortion.

I felt there was something to this theory, but I was still surprised to be watching the Letterman Show (I'm still a fan) the Monday night following my censored Friday night performance and, lo and behold, they cut to a - are you ready for this? - pro-life commercial. This farce is now complete. "Follow the money!"

Then I'll see you all in heaven, where we can really share a great laugh together.

Forever and ever and ever.

With love, Bill Hicks.


And to think...this guy died 11 years ago. Pretty prophetic, wouldn't you say?

Yesterday, fellow bloggist/blogauthor/blogette Ethel and I were talking after she had been re-reading some of my older blogs. She mentioned that she had re-read this one and said "we need to have one of those again."

Well Ethel, from your lips to Mark Burnett's ears. I read the following on WebIndia123.com today courtesy of Fark (the greatest and most entertaining source for news on the planet:

MTV reports Van Halen ready for CBS
Los Angeles October 20, 2005 12:01:13 AM IST


If CBS brings back its successful Rock Star: INXS for a second season, rumor has it the next band in line is California's Van Halen.

This summer's inaugural season was a ratings winner for CBS and a reputation enhancer for reality TV producer Mark Burnett -- and it gave INXS a new singer, a new hit single, an upcoming album and a world tour.

CBS has remained hush-hush on whether Rock Star will return next summer, but MTV reports if it does, look for Eddie and Alex Van Halen along with bassist Michael Anthony in the judges' chairs originally filed by INXS.

A band rep refused to comment on the report given to MTV by a source close to the show.
Van Halen certainly fits the mold -- a former rock 'n' roll powerhouse that has been floundering without a frontman since the departures of David Lee Roth, Sammy Hagar and Gary Cherone.


While there are many things that are funny (meaning sad) about this, I will focus on a couple of items:

First, Van Halen has been floundering SINCE Gary Cherone? Holy shit, folks. They've been floundering as Van Halen since the release of Diver Down back in 1982. Yes, they rebounded nicely with 1984, but Roth was on the way out shortly thereafter and for Van Halen fans, everything went tits up right there.

Oh, and if you want to know how insignificant this band is currently, their website's two most recent updates were some fucking wallpaper in February of 2005 and a "cool new multimedia player" released to the site in September of two thousand fucking four.

Thirdly, if you thought INXS was old, you should check out the geriatrics that are the remaining / surviving members of Van Halen.

Michael Anthony - Thanks to 30 years in this band, this 51 year old mullet-head is living in the body of a 71 year old bourbon-soaked bum.

Alex Van Halen - This 52-year-old was a decent rock drummer, but has spent most of his bitter life in the shadow of his more talented, better looking, married "THE" hot chick from the 80's brother. He's the guy that stands behind another guy and points and yells "YEAH!! What HE said."

Eddie Van Halen - He's 50 years old, but has been that old since 1989. In recent years he's been divorced by his perpetually hot wife Valerie Bertinelli, battled throat and / or mouth cancer (depending upon whom you believe) and endured hip-replacement surgery.

I don't know about you guys, but I think that the moment a rock band should stop is when their leader starts replacing joints not due to injury but old age.


Now, if we all cross our fingers, CBS will pick up this trainwreck of a show and I can assure you, this will make Rock Star: INXS look like Citizen Kane.

I'll be watching, of course. Will YOU?

Next stop: Rock Star: New Kids On the Block.

It seems that Mrs. TML decided to get into the game as well.

She asks: "If you were to measure my belly with toilet paper - how many squares would I measure?"

Now, this is a tough one. Obviously I love my wife dearly and would never intentionally hurt her feelings.

That said, I have always maintained that if this blog was going to be worth it's weight in bits or bytes or whatever, that I'd have to be honest, brutally so if necessary.

The question again was "If you were to measure my belly with toilet paper - how many squares would I measure?"

I have a couple of different answers:

1) All of them?
2) Is my guess confined to just one roll?
3) A Brazillian?
4) It's impossible to tell since between you and our 3 year old, we go thru so much toilet paper on a daily basis in this house that I'm forced to drive to Wal-Mart to take a shit.

I'll talk to you again soon since I'll have plenty of time to blog once I'm sleeping in the guest room...

Question number 1:

Warren asked "Have you solved the potty training accidents yet?"

Well Warren, it hasn't happened since I got home, so I think it's fair to say that my wife is to blame.


Question number 2:

Ethel asked "What color underwear am I wearing?"

That's easy, Ethel. It's October, you're home for the day in comfortable pajama bottoms lounging around your lair / home feeling fabulous, so I'm going to go with the fact that it's a trick question. You're wearing no underwear, and since nothing has no color, the answer is infinity...or something.


Question number 3:

Staci24 asks: "How many inches make up a football field, excluding the end zones?"

Well Staci, that depends. Do you mean how long is a football field in inches, or how many square inches is a football field?

I'll answer this several ways. A football field is 3600 inches long and 1920 inches wide (excluding the end zones).

That means the playing field is 6,912,000 square inches, or roughly 1.1019284 acres.

Now, quit worrying your pretty little head about stuff like this and start making out with a chick or two.

As some of you may know, I am friends with a number of other folks that blog out here in cyberspace. We met in various places, but mostly courtesy of teh internets. See, some folks talk on the phone and some folks have actual friends over to their homes, but I tend to do neither.

Anyway, I was talking to my friend Amy (not actually speaking to, but communicating via non-verbal electronic means) about doing some sort of wierd "Ask Me Anything" kind of interactive blog.

The premise is simple. So simple, in fact, that I am going to blatantly plagiarize Amy's blogged explanation:

I will answer questions left in the comment section of this entry.

There's no catch. If you ask something somehow inappropriate, or more importantly, not funny, I have the powers to delete said question. Insert evil laugh here.

Yes, you have to be a registered user to leave a comment on my blog. It doesn't really take that long to become a registered user. I figured it out, TML figured it out - how hard can it be, really? It prevents some of the spam. As does that stupid word verification thing. I apologize for that, but it seemed the only way to avoid spam in the comments.

Anyway, ask away. And remember, there are no stupid questions.

Only stupid people.

So that's the deal. Go to the comments, register, and ask me anything. I'll respond as quickly as time and a struggling potty training 3.5 year old daughter allow.

Do you ever wonder why it is that 99.999% of people keep their homes at the same or nearly the same government recommended temperature of 78ish degrees in the summer and 68ish degrees in the winter, yet they go batshit about the heat and / or air conditioning at work?

For example, I keep our house at 77 in the summer and 69 in the winter. My brother in law across the street keep his house around the same as mine in the winter but runs the a/c at about 64 degrees in the summer. When I go to his house in the summer and notice the difference, I don't:

- touch and / or adjust the thermostat
- criticize them for having the temp so cold
-ask them how they can NOT be cold because I am freezing
-complain every second I'm there, but refuse to wear a sweatshirt or appropriate clothing, knowing full fucking well that the house will be at or around that same temperature all summer long.

So why does that same common sense mentality not apply at work?

I work with more women than men, and the women are always cold. ALWAYS. It can be a billion degrees Kelvin outside, but as soon as they step into the building, it's "BRRRRR!! It is SO cold in here. Someone call the building management company and tell them to turn up the temperature."

What the fuck is that? If I'm cold, I put on a jacket. If I'm going to somewhere that I know is cold or at least seems cold to me, I'll wear an undershirt or a long sleeve shirt or a heavier shirt to make up for that.

Yet, when you come into the office, any time that scrawning broad in R&D decides she's a little chilly, her answer isn't to put on a goddamned sweater. It's to have the temperature adjusted upward in the entire office to her liking, and you spend the summer sweating your everloving ass off because you can't very well strip down to your underpants because it's hot.

And that's another thing. If you're cold, wear more clothes. I am not cold, so I've dressed accordingly. By turning the temperature up for you, you've made everyone else's choice of attire worthless. See, you can always wear more clothes if you're cold, but I can't wear less clothes because I am hot. Unless you like seeing a sweaty 240 pound guy in his boxers at the copier or sitting in the breakroom eating lunch.

That brings me to the issue of space heaters. Who on earth decided that it was okay to bring electric space heaters into the office? In my county, bringing any small appliances into the office is illegal for fire safety reasons. It's also against company policy to bring in small appliances and space heaters.

Company policy.

You know, the same list of rules that says you can't drink liquor at work, bring in firearms, sell drugs in the office, or sexually harass your co-workers.

Yet, for some reason, the reptiles (cold-blooded beings) in the office just arbitrarily decide that THIS particular rule / law shouldn't apply to them. So they bring in these hot boxes and run them on high all day long, not conisidering even for a second that the person whose feet are on the other side of the cube wall might be on fire due to their selfish heater tactics.

They also don't care that using those things greatly affects how the power grid in your office works. The cube blocks are setup with certain power requirements in mind, and those space heaters throw those assessments WAY out of whack and can often result in brown outs in the office or full-on power failures in entire offices.

All because someone won't buy a $20 sweater!!

I have even complained to HR about this in the past because the crazy chick that sat across from me ran a heater all day and I was sweating my ass off every day all summer. I asked her nicely to turn it off and to obey the company policy and county laws, and she refused. She even went as far as to say "when every other person is obeying every company policy, I'll obey that one."

Of course, this girl was sleeping with a married executive level employee (who also doesn't work here anymore), so I guess she didn't take too many of our company policies and guidelines very seriously.

So I went to HR to complain, and the three HR folks I went to ALL HAD FUCKING SPACE HEATERS!! Every one of them. Read that again. The people paid to inform the employees of the company policies and enforce them were all breaking the rule themselves. EGAD!!

Needless to say, when HR doesn't obey the company policies, not very many people will either. So I spent the next five months sweating my ass off thanks to my feet being in a kiln every day.

(edit to add and reiterate: The parties in question no longer work here. None of them).

It's also nice when you crawl under someone's desk to work on their computer and their spaceheater comes on a burns your retinas. Thanks alot for that.

So what is the solution?

It's simple really. If everyone dressed according to the climate in their office, this problem would never happen again.

See, I know you like your little mini-dress made of very light clingy material that is low cut and runs up to your mid-thigh. But you don't work outside on a patio tending a beerwagon at Senor Frogs. You work in a climate controlled office.

Regardless of how hot (or cold) the weather dork on television tells you it's going to be outside, the temperature in your office will be the same as it was yesterday and last week and last year at this time. If you'd dress like you know that information, we'd all be best friends and I wouldn't be spending the day mopping my brow.

This is my 200th entry since I started doing this. I guess I should have given some deep thought to this and committed to writing something cereberal and thought-provoking. Instead, I'm going to write about Eggtoberfest 2005 and having neighbors that may or may not be good for me and my marriage.

Oh, before I start, I wanted to say that of all the celebrity photographs ever taken that I've seen, I think this is my favorite. I am attempting to locate a copy to frame and put on the wall in The Man Room, but so far the only one I've found is one autographed by the guy that took the picture, and he only wants $1700 for it. Obviously, the search continues...


Saturday marked the second time the wife and I have attended Eggtoberfest, an outdoor extravaganza celebrating the joys of ownership and cooking on a Big Green Egg. Over 1,000 people were there with well over 120 BGE's fired up with people cooking on them and giving away samples all day. There was also free beer for those who were so inclined. (I was).

This one was way more fun than the last one, and I can't wait for next year's Eggtoberfest already. Here's me "working" over the 3 gallons of Brunswick stew we made. It was very well received.

Actually, I am considering entering it in next year's Chili Cook-off at Stone Mountain. I think it would rule if Mon's Stew could win at a big ol' fancy contest like that.


Oh, and this guy walking around with this apron on all day made me laugh quite a bit as well...

He drew quite a crowd, as you can probably imagine.

Oh, a big shout out to my nephew Nick for staying with us after his folks left for the day. We had a LOT of gear to get out of the fest area and he did most of it by himself. He also helped me move the 160 plus pound BGE I had bought across a mown field, down a hill, over some curbing, across a parking lot and helped lift it into the car. I simply could not have done it without him, and I'd have had to wait about a year for my turn if I was waiting for the overwhelmed BGE staff to do it.

Thanks man.

In the wake of the "dead deer on the front walk" mystery at my in-law's house across the street, I think this would be a really sweet Christmas decoration for their yard, or possibly even mine:


Oh, it turns out that the boy who we thought did the deed actually did, and he was "encouraged" by his mother to come over and apologize to the folks he was terrorizing. He brought along the other involved parties, and I hope they realize what a shitty thing that was to do to someone.

Also, I hope they appreciate the gravity of what they did and understand why shit like that isn't right or funny. Further, I hope they know that if anything like that ever happens again, regardless of who did it, we are going to assume it was them and act accordingly.

And don't think I'm kidding either, big boy. I'm not.


Anyway, upon our return home Saturday evening, we (okay I) grabbed showers, had a couple of beers and were figuring out what we were going to do. Our new neighbors (Stephen and Amanda) had invited us down to watch the UGA-Vandy game so I figured "Why not?"

After sitting in their totally kickass entertainment room complete with theater seating, UGA scored and our host said "everybody upstairs."

I figure "Okay...why not?"

Well, here's why the answer should have been not.

I followed the boys into the bar area and Stephen's pouring shots of Jaegermeister. It seems that they have a tradition of taking a shot each time UGA scores.

It is right then where I had the opportunity to make the right decision. The mature decision. The one a guy who's about to have his second child should make without even thinking about it...

So, after we took the shot, there was a round of high fives, and we all headed back downstairs to watch more of the game. UGA scores, we head back upstairs, take another (bigger) shot of Jaeger, and lather, rinse, repeat our way thru halftime and the third quarter.

It is here that the details are sketchy. See, when I got there, it was 7-7. At the half, UGA had scored twice more and two more times in the 3rd quarter. I was also helping myself to their Budweiser Selects as we rolled merrily along.

Sunday morning, the wife asked "who won?"

Simple question. My answer: "How should I know? I don't remember walking home although, to be fair, I know the game wasn't over yet."

Ouch.

Oh, and I realized later in the day that I'd left / dropped my phone at their house, so I got to do the day after walk of shame back to their house and hopefully make it look like my second visit to their house hadn't resulted in a blackout that would see me never invited over again.

"No worries," Amanda said. "You're welcome anytime".

Whew.

Oh, in case I hadn't mentioned it, I don't think having them for neighbors is going to do much for my relative level of maturity.

Thank God.

Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.

The Duggars have a family webpage. Before you click on it however, I want you to think about how much it will probably look like the wedpage Homer designed on the Simpsons a few years ago, complete with flying toast, the dancing baby, etc.

Here ya go

Now, I haven't looked at any of this yet, but I'm curious about how helpful the recipe page could be to mortal and sane families? I mean, do you just take their recipes and cut them down by to 1/12th or something?

Anyway, enjoy...

You're not gonna believe it if I just say it, so I'm linking to the story on CNN:

Here it is.

Yes. You read that right. Mrs. Duggar has just had her 16th kid in 18 years. Of course, she and her husband waited a few years to get started after she married Jim Bob...AT AGE 17!!!

Now, a couple of points.

Jim Bob Duggar? Really? Why do these necks make it so easy? The only name better that I know of in redneckia is the name of Tennessee's backup QB. His name's Jim Bob Cooter (I kid you not...look it up). I may buy his jersey if he ever plays a down.

Where does a gal grow a mullet like that in 2005? That's just awful. Is everyone else in her family blind or dead? I wouldn't let any family of mine be photographed like that even if they gave birth to a talking dog.

This statement was entertaining as well:

"We both just love children and we consider each a blessing from the Lord. I have asked Michelle if she wants more and she said yes, if the Lord wants to give us some she will accept them," he said in a telephone interview.

She'll be happy to accept them? Accept them? Maybe if she wasn't so accepting of things (like her husbands peenie in her hoo-ha) then she wouldn't be having to have this internal struggle about whether or not she wants more kids.

Oh, and as for the Lord deciding whether you'll have more children. You know, speaking as a guy who knows about this subject, the Lord also created latex trees, created the folks that invented latex condoms, as well as the folks that work at companies that make and sell latex condoms.

Maybe this is the Lord's way of seeing how stupid these folks really are.

Oh, and I would never EVER hire a guy named Jim Bob anything as my realtor, so I sure as hell wouldn't vote or him to be my congressman.

I'm thinking that if the electable talent pool where they live is so shallow and devoid of life, maybe me and my paltry brood of four should move up there, build us a big ol' house and run for gubment. I bet I could get some kick ass perks then.

Since I started this blog. I think it's gotten a little better, although that's debateable. It has expanded to include blogs for my daughter as well as the in utero offspring as well, referred to on the links bar as "Urchin 1.0" and "Urchin 2.0."

I hope this year sees the blog get updated more frequently, even it's just with some observational crap in between the rants and blather.

Anyway, what brought me here this morning was this year's baseball playoffs.

See, the Braves lost...again. They made it to the post-season by winning an amazing 14th consecutive division title. No team's ever come close to that and no team ever will. It simply defies reason.

However, the cloud outside of that silver lining is that the Braves have but one World Series Championship out of those 14 seasons, and there are plenty of people that like to shit on that and complain and whine about it.

But here's the deal. If you don't make the playoffs, you can't win the Series. Period. So many people have gotten caught up in this 2nd place is first loser bullshit that they ignore the accomplishments that exist.

Another problem is and has been the bullpen. Except for 1991 and 1995, the bullpen has sucked ass. It's just a fact. Now, a very good starting staff and starting 8 can overcome that over a 162 game season, but 7 game series' are different and 5 game series' are WAY different.

I would just remind fans of this. At least the Braves get you there, even if the level of hope is minimal. But imagine your life as a baseball fan if you were a fan of the Brewers, Mariners, Giants, Cubs, White Sox, Expos, Royals, Twins, Devil Rays, Mets, etc. They don't even make the playoffs 99% of the time. How much fun do you think it is to start tracking mathematical elimination day every year like Cubs fans do?

Oh, and finding out that the Yankees had lost in the Divisional Series to the Anaheim Angels in five games made me feel even better about our plight as Braves fans.

See, the Red Sox lost quickly despite a 220 million dollar payroll. Why? No bullpen, no real chemistry, and the fact that Curt Schilling and Keith Fowlke probably gave away the rest of their careers to pitch down the playoff stretch last year. And yet Red Sox fans were already booing both of them this year. 86 years since they had a title and six months after their current one, and their fans were acting like ingrates.

The Yankees lost in five games to Anaheim despite a payroll that, including luxury taxes, soared above 300 million dollars. Oh, and did I mention that most of their current list of veterans are shit asses? I love the fact that George the lunatic gets to look around this off-season and decide whether to fire Torre (the best manager he could have for that cast of prima donnas), Brian Cashman (who would suffer from depression if fired because he'd miss blowing the boss) or any one of his coaches or scouts, while not even considering that, like Felix Sabates' efforts in NASCAR, throwing piles of money at problems or perceived problems is not always the best answer.

Remember, the Braves are now an AOL-Time Warner property and opertated with a payroll of around 86 million. That's not chicken feed but it's not competitive either.

I just wish folks could appreciate what we do have and know that all you can really do is get into the playoffs and things can go any which way. But if you're 15 games out in September, you're already cleaning out your lockers anyway.

Which would you rather have?

I got two tickets to the Falcons - Patriots game yesterday and invited a buddy to join me. The only stipulation was that he had to drive home since I did that duty last time.

One fabulous point was that Kurt offered to drive there (in my car) but I refused saying I didn't mind. However, when we got to the entrance of the parking lot, I reached for my wallet and found that...TA DA!!!! I had forgotten the damned thing. I had no license, no ATM card and no freaking money. That led to the totally expected "So Kurt, how many times am I gonna have to blow you to get you to buy my beers for the day?" comment.

We met up with a few of his / our friends in the parking lot for a few beers and blather before heading to the game.

These tickets were courtesy of my mother-in-law who works at Verizon. I (we) get great swag from her often ranging from t-shirts to sweatshirts to game programs from the Auburn football games to event tickets occasionally. I appreciate her even considering me when she gets them, and I very much appreciate the tickets themselves.

Anywho, we got into our seats at about 12:45, and shortly thereafter we met Dawn and Heidi, our two hosts for the day. They both work at Verizon and were our contacts / very gracious hosts.

There were other Verizon folks there but, for those of you that know me, you know that there's not a chance in hell I remembered there names even five seconds after we were introduced.

Kurt was sitting to my left and Heidi sat down to his left, with her husband Brent between them.
We found both Heidi and her husband to be very nice, sports knowledgable and VERY funny. We had a great time cheering for the Falcons and all the while laughing our asses off about everything from the skanks with the crooked ball caps in front of us with the messages across their asses to the douchebag behind us with the soul chip wearing the Jay Novacek Cowboys jersey circa 1993.

I don't think it's necessary to give a count of the number of adult cordials I enjoyed, but I will say that it was about the perfect amount. Kurt did NOT in fact require sexual favors in exchange for cold beers and Dawn was also kind enough to bring me a beer from the VIP area, and that was VERY much appreciated.

It's here that the day took a dark turn and burned it into my memory forever.

While cheering and high-fiving our way thru the third quarter, I noticed suddenly that Kurt was furiously wiping at Brent's leg and shorts (on the side that faced him, not his lap you perverts) and I noticed that there had been some spillage. Brent was saying "Dude, it's no big deal....it's just beer."

Only I knew it wasn't beer. I knew from Kurt's reaction that there was only one thing that he could have spilled on Brent:

Kurt had spilled his dip spit cup on a total stranger / the spouse of the woman who was our host and is my Mother-In-Law's boss.



When I leaned behind Kurt (who was still doing the wipe / damage control) and told Brent what had actually been spilled on his leg/pants/shoes, he made a face that he himself described later as one he thought he'd seen while watching "The Crying Game." Brent also spent a good deal of time in the restroom after that washing and rewashing his hands and wishing he could do the same for his brain.

Kurt was sufficiently apologetic and of course did the right thing by immediately buying the victim a beer, but man, that was high comedy right there.

Anyway, the Falcons got behind, came back, got behind more, came back, successfully hit a two-point conversion to tie the game only to have some shitty officiating and Tom Brady snatch away any chance at victory. Kicker Adam Vinatieri hit from 29 yards with 17 seconds left to beat the Falcons 31-28.

The upside is that the Falcons took the Pats (who've won 3 titles in four years) to the last 17 seconds despite horrific officiating and Michael Vick being on the bench. Matt Schaub proved that he's possibly the best backup in the NFL and a great asset to have being Michael Vick.

Oh, and one more thing. Heidi, if you're reading this, please don't let Kurt's actions get in the way of the budding romance your husband and I are sharing. I promise it won't happen again...

A week ago this past Friday, one of the strangest thing I've ever seen happened.

It was a little after 10pm on a Friday, the wife was asleep or nearly so, and I was in my office playing Madden 2006 (and kicking some royal ass, I must say) when the phone rang. It was my 15 year old nephew from across the street. He and a buddy and my 9 year old nephew were home alone as the BIL and SIL had gone to a fundraiser in a nearby town.

Anyway, the nephew asks "Did you just do something to our front porch?"

My answer: "Ummm...no, dude. I'm totally kicking everyone's ass in Madden 2006. Have you seen it?"

Nephew: "Uh no. But there's a dead deer on our front porch."

Me: Silence, followed by "what did you say?"

Nephew: "I said there's a dead deer on our front porch. Someone just threw a dead deer on our porch."

Me: "I'll be right over."

So I told the wife where I was going and headed out to take a look. But before I could see anything, it hit me. I was at the end of my driveway and the stink was so damned bad that I thought I was going to throw up. It was awful.

So I covered my nose and mouth with my shirt and continued on, only to find a doe that looked to be between 125-150 pounds lying ass-first hanging off the steps to their front porch. There was no viscera to speak of, so this deer had either died of natural causes or internal trauma as a resut of being hit by a car.

But what I did know for sure is that it fucking stank!! BAD!!!

Then came all of the "I don't know who'd do this" and the "why do you think it was one of my friends" or "what are we gonna do with it?"

Also, my 9 year old nephew was pretty freaked out. Enough so that, at one point, he came out front with his BB gun, apparently in an effort to protect his property from future Odocoileus virginianus assaults. (I looked that up just to sound fancy. I was looking for something like bovine or porcine or equine, but that'll have to do).

So the BIL and SIL decided to abandon their cocktail party / dinner and head home early to address the "deering." Upon arrival, the BIL was equally taken aback by the stench, but being the tough guy that he is, he grabbed a hoof and dragged that stinky thing to the curb.

I immediately cried foul, stating that I was "pretty sure it was against the covenants of our neighborhood to throw dead animal carcasses in the road, and that if he didn't remove it, I'd be forced to file a complaint. Oh, and that damn thing stinks anyway, but it's worse now that it's twice as close to my house as it was before, jerk."

So the BIL backed out the pickup, grabbed a front and back leg, and heaved it into the back of his shiny F-150 and headed on down the road abou a mile, where he unceremoniously threw the deer into the grass on the side of the road.

So with the source of the stank gone, it was time to start guessing at suspects. I decided that it was fair to rule out anyone with a car or SUV or any enclosed vehicle, as there was no way anybody would have put that sthinky shit in the back of mom's Toyota Camry or her Expedition, so narrowing it down to a pickup was probably the way to go.

I immediately thought of one boy with a maroon truck but was told that wasn't likely because that boy goes to church. WTF?

I reminded all involved that this was likely not one kid that did this, so we were looking for two or more in a now sort of identified black (looking) pickup truck. I told the nephew to think of anyone that had a truck or had a friend with a truck. I also advised him to not say anything to anyone about it or if he heard anything about it, but to tell his dad and myself only.

I figure that since

A: teenagers can't keep their mouths shut about anything, it shouldn't take too long to find out who did it.

2: Two sizeable grown men can probably scare the ever loving shit out of nearly any 16 year old boy, that my Uncle Todd and myself could have a little fun with this at the expense of the guilty party or parties.

It's been ten days and I'm frankly more than a little shocked to not know anything at this point. But believe me, we'll find out and when we do, it's gonna be fun...