On Conan

If Conan O'Brien was a circus bear, NBC would be a pile of shit.

Who Would You Rather... Be Mauled By?

Last night on the HuffPo front page:

And, while the families are in our prayers, the question remains:

Which pet would you prefer to be killed by? Inquiring minds need to know.

Bend Over Shorty (Awards)!

The Shorty Awards are the best reason ever to throw your laptop out the window of your fourth story apartment, hopefully reaching the adjacent building and taking out an aspiring David Archuleta.

Maybe you don't know what the Shorty Awards are. That makes two of us. Briefly, which is all the time I can bother to waste learning about this farce, the Shorty Awards recognize the best Twat of the year. The Twats are nominated by category.

Above, you'll notice that David Archuleta, karaoke singer, is in the Top 10 of nominees in three different categories: Health, Food, Education.

This means two things: first, Twats have a good sense of humor and think the prospect of an Archuleta sweep is as funny as I do. It also means that every second someone thinks seriously about who deserves a Shorty Award, they are doing nothing other than contributing to the heat death of the universe (at best), or keeping jobless, health insurance-less, child veterans on the streets in winter (at worst).

I can't wait to hear about the winners!

Regan' and Stealin'

Cameron Regan is apparently related to the father of the modern Republican party. TMZ reports that this kid went to jail the other day for screaming profanities at police officers. Once upon a time, he help a grifter steal some cars.

This prodigal grandchild should take a hard look in the mirror and be glad that he was not cursed with the vacant, hateful stare of his former progenitor, and get a job that doesn't continue to involve stealing cars. You've got a future kid. Move to the midwest and keep your head down. Stay away from Michael Steele and the tea-baggers, and you might turn out alright.

(photo: TMZ)

sexy healthcare

healthcare has never been sexier. it used to be a boring screaming match between newt and the clintons, but now we're treated to porn stars and tami-flu, all for the same low, low price of our dignity.

Hamid Karzai Sworn Into Second Term as Kristen Stewart

President Hamid Karzai began his second term as brooding teen superstar Kristen Stewart, on Tuesday. The swearing in marks a watershed moment in a contentious, often violent chapter in contemporary history.

"In spite of the will of the Afghan people, and absence of coherent reason I will continue as to proudly hold office as the pouty, teenage girl you have all come to love," Karzai said.

Karzai's second term as the young Stewart does not have wide support, even among the teen idols Twilight cast mates.

Robert Pattinson said, "Frankly, it's a transparent bid for attention, but I couldn't care less."

The brooding ingenue herself refused to speak to reporters for this story.

ze frank on afghanistan, briefly (video)

Back in the day, watching The Show enlightened me to the potential that lay in the audience of web content. ze frank, The Show's creator, now does a video series for TIME magazine online. If you haven't seen those videos in awhile, revisit them. His new show is starting to reach the great heights of the old one. Very, very good stuff.

you

this site isn't much, but I have a lot of fun making stuff that you enjoy.

thank you for reading and sharing these last few days. it keeps the site fun for me.

I spent most of the day figuring out audio embedding options for the site. Jon Allen and Joel Van Haren are getting eager to start producing more audio pieces, so hopefully we'll have that soon. Forewent fun for tech research today. Someone has to do it.

thank you, again, for coming back and reading.

Fort Hood

You should already know, by now, that a terrible tragedy has occurred at Fort Hood. Many are dead, and families have been crushed. There is no humor here.

Sexy Threesome/War Dead PSA

The television show "Gossip Girl" is set to air an episode with a sexy threesome. Parents are outraged. Some people think there are more important censorship issues over which to become incensed.

A public service announcement follows.

the day in lessons

There were many lessons learned today, by a host of different folks.

Mayor Bloomberg learned that you can win them all, but to do so, you have to change the rules of the game, and live with perpetual disdain from even your supporters.

Corzine learned that it doesn't pay to make fun of fat people, especially when you are an unpopular governor in a state full of angry fat people.

Mainers learned that putting human rights up for a vote rarely protects them. Or rather, never protects them. Fuck you, Maine. Pass the joint and kick a gay guy in the teeth. Why not?

Cleveland learned that when a rapist neighbor's house reeks of rotting human flesh, the cause may in fact be 10 decomposing bodies, and not plumbing problems at the candy factory. Good work, Cleveland.

All in all, a pretty average day.

Forty Ounces to Freedom.

When you think about it, a forty is a pretty darn economical way to drink beer. You wouldn't think so, I mean, who can really drink that much beer in a sitting. Alcoholics, that's who. Or thirsty people, in a pinch. My point is that the forty in my fridge from dinner last night has a screw cap. I just poured myself the first glass of the day, and the damn thing is still carbonated. Can you beat that? A forty ounce bottle of beer is like a six pack, but for only $3. Sure, you're missing a good thirty ounces from the six pack, but you're also not spending the $7 to get them.

I'm not going to delve any deeper into the math. It's pretty plain. I'm a frugal genius, and you should thank me for forging this path for you. In lieu of thanks, I will accept forties.

Also: Congratulations, Mayor Bloomberg on purchasing another mayoral term. It should turn out to have been worth every dime. Here's to four more years of governance, and probably four more, and four more, and four more.

(don't forget to share. my thanks spring eternal.)

Vote, but Don't Gloat.

It's an auspicious day. People are heading to the polls, but very few of them, and fewer still know why. Many people will arrive at the elementary school or community center today and know only one thing: that they are here to be counted. It's a better kind of counting then simply filling out the census alone in your room, the late summer evenings calling to you, you, stuck under penalty of law to finish, just finish the damn thing. A lot of energy is put into informing folks about what they are voting for, but never enough. It can never be enough.

Most voters today will simply choose their position randomly today. They might know the difference between a Democrat and a Republican, but they sure as hell won't know the difference between any two candidates today, let alone how they feel about a referendum on a water treatment facility. Today, voters will enter the voting stall, close their eyes and hope for the best.

And why not? We only have two years to go until the Mayan apocalypse, and they days aren't getting any longer, now that winter is around the corner. If you must vote, do, get out there and cast a ballot, no matter what the outcome. Just participate, damnit. But, please, if you see a thin man looking jealously at you as you cast your vote, don't flaunt your right. Maybe he hasn't established residency yet, and is responsible for his own disenfranchisement. You don't know his situation. It could happen to anyone. Just, please, be sensitive.

maddie davies pays a visit, van haren has a toilet emergency

maddie davies is a humorist living in Brooklyn, and a good friend of mine from back home in the States. the following is the first installment of an occasional series of dialogs between the two of us. we're fishing for both new readers and happy typing. looking for bites.

s: maddie, can you read me?

m: yes. do you think that the yanks will win the world series?

s: the yanks are like jocks flushing the nerd phillies heads in the toilet.

m: I had a funny idea for a sketch today involving how there's always a telephone by the toilet in hotels.

s: if you could only call one person before you had a serious toilet accident, who would it be?

m: alive or dead?

s: dead.

m: jesus cause i'd want to know if this is really what he had in mind when he invented the toilet phone.

s: he'd probably just answer in a riddle. you should keep in mind that jesus is alive, but his number is unlisted.

m: the number he gives out is fake, too. it's for a bakery in Queens.

s: I know that bakery!

(maddie writes over at yourpopquizkid.blogspot.com)

attention fortune five hundred marketing directors.

I'm going to devote this post to monetizing my blog, which is constantly suggested to me by a tab in my browser, below which I type. To that end, if you are a representative of a company that would would like to purchase some valuable internet real estate, please send me a check, and I will scan a hand drawn logo of your company onto my computer and upload it into this post.

this just in: big event, little brain.

When you are desperate to get something into the ether, and nothing interesting has happened to you personally, it makes good sense to talk about the events of the day. Attack the big idea and your reward will be a minimum of four hundred words.

Unfortunately, the big ideas today are all things that nobody really cares about. There's the mayors race; you know, that Bloomberg guy? I could also discuss the war in Afganistan and the fallout around a general running point in the cover up of a murder. Or, if I was feeling really slick, I could talk about the economy, and how not everything is coming up roses. For instance, it still costs a lot of money to do pretty much anything, these days.

It's unfortunate that these are the memes of the day, not for the obvious reason that they are all dire in their seriousness, but rather that I'm not qualified to intelligently discuss any of them.

I follow local politics, but I'm empty headed enough that the only impression I have of either candidate amounts to memories of fonts on litter in my apartment complex. The war in Afganistan is so forgettable, Hillary Clinton (did you know that she is the Secretary of State?) forgot to bring it up on her recent trip to Pakistan. As for the economy, as far as I can tell there was never any real problem, and there still isn't; except the no jobs thing. And people hiding their cash from sunlight. Besides that, it's all good.

I'll get back to you soon. I'm going to look for some content. Be right back.

Edits are for Pussies.

If you're one of my loved ones, sorry I haven't been in better touch. I live in New York now, and I have work. I'm managing to keep my head above water, which is more than can be said for a lot of smart folks. In other words, I know how fortunate I am to be blogging, even though I have work in the morning.

Speaking of work, I was offered a strange project a couple months ago, that I have yet to follow up on. I should work on that. Resident genius: if you're reading this, please pick up the phone when I call. If you do not, I understand.

It is somehow freeing to be typing directly into the christforsaken textbox inside this internet browser. It feels like I'm commenting on a facebook link. I'm sure my grammar is suffering for it. Fuck you grammar police. I went to your academy, I knew how to spell, but that was not at one o'clock in the morning, and your gestapo bullshit will get you nowhere. Save it for the office coffee break; late night, we make our own rules.

Rule number one: don't click on everything you see on buzzfeed. Case in point: although I was delighted to see an image of a thousand men crammed into a flatbed truck, I was disappointed to see a woman inserting her fingers into a fashion purse designed to resemble an open vulva. These links were on the same, Bob Saget friendly page. Old Saget, not new Saget, you dig?

And disappointed would be the wrong word. Embarrassed is more fitting. I was embarrassed to be looking at that picture while my wife sat next to me. But then, at least I was not alone, no?

More things: my sister in law is here, and she brought her boyfriend. Today, they ventured farther out into the Atlantic Ocean, than I will ever go. They went to Long Island, like deep into Long Island. This is a place I do not have the capacity to fantasize about. Not that I would, but I can't even imagine it. I guess there are nice hiking parks, and strip malls west of those parks. Also there is a labratory where they x-ray brain samples for free, but that means nothing to you. Forget I said anything. The brother of the esteemed boyfriend is also worthy of great esteem. We all shared dinner and it was amazing.

Yesterday was Halloween. The whole damn country reveled in having an extra hour this morning. Some waiters, who fancy themselves writers, took notes inside a textbox and posted it for people to read. And the dog slept, and the wife worked, and nobody went to work groggy in the morning.

Golden Retriever Raises Tiger Cubs as Her Own (VIDEO)

Just shut up and watch the puppy nurse the tigers.

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

A Cleaner Mud

One recent Sunday, one of those Sundays that you want to freeze in time - it’s so beautiful, temperate and peaceful - we settled into a long walk around our picturesque downtown neighborhood. We embraced an idle pursuit, and at the same time poisoned the well of rage I hoped to drink from later in the walk. Sometimes a useless exercise is surprising filled with meaning.

We were walking the dog. Walking is my primary source of exercise. Not power walking, but rather something approaching a brisk meander. Usually I’m with my dog, and if I’m lucky, my wife Keely will come along. We’re both busy people, so when we’re together we like to take things slowly to give us a chance to soak it all in and live in the moment. Also, I hate running on concrete with a blistering passion that approaches madness. Keely is no great fan of the sport, either. So, walking it is.

We brought the dog with us and spent sometime in the park, where Keely scolded me for curating an emerging gut, and then suggested we go for some ice cream. Although the mixed message was not lost on me, I decided to let it slide in favor of a cone of butter pecan.

I waited with the dog outside at pizza place in our neighborhood that has the good sense to double as the only ice cream parlor in the vicinity. Keely went in and ordered our cones. Ice cream is, of course, frozen and Keely was slow to return. I sat on the patio catching some rays and cuddling our poodle.

Across the street a man was sweeping with vigorous resolve. I caught him out of the corner of my eye, which was not hard given his large size and scurvy grooming habits, and assumed he was generously sweeping the walk in front of he and his neighbors apartments. How nice, and how grateful his neighbors will be! As I turned my head to admire his selflessness, I was greeted with an enormous plume of dust in my face.

As I gagged and teared up, I could see through my burning tears that the man, who I had quickly deduced to be a resident of the recovery center in front of which he toiled, was not cleaning the walk, but in fact sweeping the street. He had lost patience with the relative speed of the city’s street cleaning crew and had taken it upon himself to walk in the gutter and vigorously disperse of all accumulated dirt five feet out into oncoming traffic and into my face. I thought about stopping him. And yet…

I think it’s important for people to feel useful, even when they are clearly pursuing useless goals. Many addicts, serious addicts to heroin or booze, when they kick the stuff you’ll find they’ve taken a cultivated approach to smoking cigarettes. They might not analyze this new habit the same way I do. You might hear them talk about taking things one day at a time, and living in the moment; making a change today that will lay the groundwork for a better tomorrow for which they cannot plan, lest they slip up and back. And I know that they are sincere and make difficult choice after difficult choice, often for the rest of their lives, and they should be applauded. I applaud them.

But I also notice the plume of smoke. I carry one with me regularly. Smoking is disgusting, but tolerated. An intentional sandstorm in my direction, kicked up by a contemporary and recovering Sisyphus, even if therapeutic in the extreme; this is simply intolerable.

I hacked, I wheezed, the tiny dog laughed (or was he crying?) and I could not shout at the man over the din of traffic and was not prepared to deal with the consequences of confrontation, now that my wife had returned and placed an ice cream cone in my hand.

As a thin layer of dust settled on the ice cream, Keely whisked me away, and I left the sweeping many to avoid the oncoming traffic and move the dirt around. To ease my need for retribution, I thought about all the good he was doing toward finally creating a cleaner mud, for all of us.

May Day, May Day!

Sometimes, you’ve just got to get a little scared, don’t you? We’re a generation particularly used to fear. I use the term generation loosely, considering many of my readers are of some considerable years older than I. Not to out any of you, but you shouldn’t be embarrassed about your age anyway. Getting a little bit baggier and more cynical is nothing to be ashamed of, rather celebrated. Just look at Andy Rooney. People love him.

As I was saying, your friends and family are all going to lose their jobs, or retire in their nineties, if their lucky enough to avoid dying of swine flu.

I don’t know how anybody gets sleep anymore.

It used to be a pointed and specific, if irrational fear that bound us together as a society, as neighborhoods even. We used to simply fear the brown looking guy who seemed disgruntled driving his car directly into our favorite neighborhood pub, potentially blaring frightening and strange sitar music from his stereo.

Ah, how I long for the good old days.

Today, after my second cup of coffee, I’m gripped by the prospect that my credit union will disappear with all of my money, but not before flipping me the bird and killing my dog.

Our fear has suddenly become more generalized. Crisis is around every corner. And yet, more of than ever feel like our country is finally headed in the right direction. What’s up with that?

Perhaps we like being generally out of our minds with fear. When all we had to fear was terrorism, we got antsy, started some wars, started calling the non-emergency police line on stray dogs, and refusing to go to controversial movies. Now, that the entire world is slowly spiraling to decay and apocalypse, things can finally get back to normal.

…

Please forgive this brief interruption, I just heard something monumentally stupid on the radio, and felt like I really must share it with you. I just heard an expert being interviewed by that Joffee woman (what kind of name is that, anyway? James or Coffee, pick.). They were talking about pirates. The expert said, without irony, that pirating operations need caterers for their boats. Caterers. Now, I know that everybody needs to eat, but on the open seas (not that I’m particularly qualified to comment), I’m pretty it’s standard to call them cooks. Maybe galley cooks, if we’re being generous. A caterer is an artiste that goes to a farmers market, fills her basket with beautiful and freshly harvested vegetables, then gives you a massage after cooking you a meal that gave you a glimpse of nirvana. A galley cook opens a can and proceeds to threaten you with a knife. There’s a difference.

…

This fear is really starting to get the better of me. I haven’t left my house for days. And for some, this might simply be troubling because we’ve been having some particularly nice weather lately. Those people can be considered generally oblivious to the kind of paralysis others of us are more familiar with.

For instance, as I type this sentence there is a take out container wedged into the small of my back that should be causing me a great deal of pain, considering how long I’ve left it there, but the numbing that I’m experiencing in that area is preventing me from feeling much. I would move, but there’s another just to my left and I feel like moving wouldn’t do much good.

This all started a few weeks ago when the news started broadcasting pirate news twenty four hours a day. I found this disconcerting, to say the least. You see, I live in fly over country, and if my news providers deem a problem important enough to give it wall to wall coverage, I’m going to notice, and I’m going to care. That’s just the kind of person I am. So, when the big outlets started in on the pirate thing, I thought, oh god: pirates? But, I haven’t had to batten down the hatches, ever, for any reason! Why now? Why me?

I realized that the pirates had become so dangerous that suddenly they were dangerous to me, here, landlocked, in the middle of the country.

I locked my doors. Keely, my wife, wasn’t home yet, and I was sad for that, as the chain would not be coming off that door again. At least not for a few weeks, or until we dropped some sizable nuclear fire power in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

Oh god! I realized that I perhaps I wasn’t as landlocked as I had first thought. The Great Lakes. Normally, we think of these massive inland seas as convenient and humongous toilets, which they are, but they are also the most direct path to me for anyone interested in keel hauling me or my friends. Not a comforting thought. I said my internal goodbyes to my wife and family.

This all happened on a Thursday, when Keely is locked away in her studio for sixteen hours, coming up only for air and potentially a sandwich, every four hours, tops. She hadn’t heard anything about the pirates, so she was surprised when, upon arriving at our apartment, she found a dog that wasn’t ours tied to a pole and angry. I had broken my resolve to remain behind lock and key. A man would need protection, and my neighborhood has two great things going for it, regarding pirate protection, that can’t be found in most upper-middle class, Wisconsin neighborhoods: a hardware store and hundreds of stray dogs.

The pooch in point was not hard to find. I had a steak thawed in the refrigerator, and normally he slept just a few doors down the block from me. He would often be found pacing back and forth in front of an enormous yellow house, his owner nowhere in sight, the hulking German Shepherd himself off leash. I called him sweetie pie.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: if he can muscle up the courage to confront this stray dog, why is he getting so worked up about some estranged Somalian teenagers?

For many, the adage, “out of sight, out of mind” holds true. However, if I can’t see something, I know it’s out to get me. Period.

And, I was scared of the dog, but not as scared as Keely was in that moment. My phone rang. Should I answer it? If I’m on to long they’ll have my position, I thought. But I could see on the screen it was Keely, so I let my guard down; a moment to reminisce about all the great times we had together.

“Honey? Is that you? God it’s been so—”

“What the hell is going on? There’s a dog tied to our house. He started barking at me a block away. That neighbor is dead, dead!”

“I put him there.”

“You did what?”

“Oh god, you don’t know!”

“Don’t know what?”

“Sweetheart, I love you, but you’ll know soon enough. Goodbye, forever.”

I was startled by how quickly the muffled sound of the dogs bark was overpowered with the loud shattering sound of my living room window, so soon after ending the call. Keely knocked out the loose glass with her portfolio case and climbed in my sanctuary with frightening ease. If she can do it, than a teenager… I couldn’t bare to think of it.

She had tied a scarf, that she must have been loosely wearing over her décolletage, around her head to keep her hair from being tangled in the glass. She hadn’t managed to avoid the glass entirely and some blood was dripping from about her ankle, which she held in her left hand as she had kicked her foot behind her as if doing a quick stretch before the action. The illusion was that she had but one leg.

The illusion did not last. With the same injured foot she proceeded to plant and lunge, and I suddenly found myself on my back, more than a little dazed. Our toy poodle, Fritz, was licking my face. And as Keely forced me to hold still while I calmed down, I think Fritz began another activity in the region about my ear, but I choose not to remember it in great detail.

“What the fuck was that about?” She had a way of asking that simple question with a unique blend of anger, boredom and curiosity that I felt extremely comforting, and I mumbled, “Pirates,” in return as I promptly fell asleep.

I’m not certain how she managed to do away with the dog. I haven’t seen sweetie pie in a few weeks. Fritz is well. He’s starting to look a bit shaggy, which means I’ll have to take him to be groomed soon. I’m not looking forward to it. I haven’t shaken my pirate fear entirely, but it has been largely replaced by that more hulking, numbing, generalized fear that everything is being slowly flushed into a dark inland sea, never to be heard from again. I’d rather not go out, at least not for awhile.