A little relief. Oh, and Steve Martin? You, sir, are boring.

My brain feels much better this week, thanks for asking. Not because I've finally invested in some pipe cleaners, but because I cleansed the Tucker Max from my mind with some good, decent reading. First with J. Maaaaaaaaaarten Troooooooost's "The Sex Lives of Cannibals," which is not about sex, or really about cannibals, but is about being a weird Dutch guy living on some tiny island in the South Pacific. You wouldn't think a book about swimming in tides of shit and running over dogs with your car would be uplifting and interesting and funny, but you'd be wrong. So wrong. Are you ok with living a life that is so wrong, and so incorrect? I feel badly for you, being wrong and all.

After that I read Steve Martin's teeny book of New Yorker Essays, "Pure Drivel." I'm a snobby, elitist prick, which you know from reading this blog. This is further reinforced by my love for the New Yorker, despite my deep, committed hatred for that particular city and many of its inhabitants. Because I'm a snobby elitist prick I quite enjoy the humor essays, and chuckle at their wit and whimsy.

So I was shocked (shocked!) when I realized, halfway through Steve Martin's book, that I hadn't laughed out loud. I laugh out loud at anything I think is funny, whether I'm watching TV, a movie, or even thinking funny thoughts all by myself in my office (note to office-working folk: if you laugh randomly, loud enough for people outside to hear you, they will start to fear you, and HR will begin keeping a file. Something to think about). So not laughing, at Steve Martin, of all people, was a concern. Not for myself, but for Steve Martin.

And why is it not Steve, or Martin? Why must it be "Steve Martin," always and forever? Discuss, and let me know your thoughts.

But I digress.

I realized - and this is something I should have realized long ago - that Steve Martin, star of the Jerk, the Man with Two Brains, L.A. Story, Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid, All of Me, and one of the greatest standup comedians of all time (up there with Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, and St. Thomas Aquinas) is not funny anymore.

And this isn't a recent development. He hasn't been funny since sometime in the 90's. It's like he decided to take his legacy and drag it outside by its hair, beat it to death with a rusty shovel, and leave it broken and empty in a ditch along the highway.

This was the experience I felt reading his book: here was I, looking to Steve Martin for funny and weirdness. I bounced in my chair, breathless with anticipation. And there was Steve Martin, reclining in a chaise lounge, one leg crossed tightly over the other. He had on a cardigan, khakis, and very expensive shoes. While he looked around the room for someone more interesting to talk to, he would let random sentences slip out of his mouth, like he was doing me a favor by acknowledging my existence. And this is what he said:

"I don't know if you know this, but I'm Steve Martin. Yes. THAT Steve Martin."

"So I was in Cheaper by the Dozen, and Cheaper by the Dozen 2, if that means anything to you. They were brilliant comedies. I know because I was in them. Me - Steve Martin. Prematurely white hair and all."

"I've written these...well they're trifles, really. I wrote them while sitting upon the toilet. Shitting, as it were. They're hilarious. The very fact of your not laughing proves you're an imbecile."

"That last bit? With the words writing the words? That's a metaliterary concept I adapted from Michel Foucault, who was jealous of my brilliance, and laughed always at my quips."

"I won't talk about standup comedy. I deconstructed it, rebuilt it, and ruined it for everyone else. Now all you have are my high- and lowbrows, what with the New Yorker bits, and the Pink Panther reboots.
"You're welcome."

"Could you get me another gin fizz? I'm Steve Martin, and I'm not quite inebriated. I like to be inebriated when I mix with the rabble."

"Do you have any young women I could deflower? I'm Steve Martin, and I don't date ladies over the age of 18 years, six months, and a week or so. I like to have my way with them in unspeakable ways, and have them thank me. 'Thank you, Steve Martin, and your lush coiffe of no-longer-prematurely-white hair.'"

"Yes, I am quite wealthy, thanks for asking. But that won't prevent me from making Pink Panther 3 - that's the one where I'll exhume Peter Sellers' corpse and eat it on film. They've offered me $20 million. I'm holding out for more. But I've written these - they're not comic manifestos, per se, but they will redefine the humorous arts for generations to come."

Sad.

He may know hookers, but he also knows international finance

Do you remember Eliot Spitzer? He's most famous for his love of dirty hookers, but he also was governor of New York.

Here's a reminder:



Mrs. Spitzer, by the way, is my nomination for saint. See how she totally didn't stab her pathetic husband in the brain, then dance over his expiring organs? Saint Silda, patron saint of patience and sleeping on the couch.

The fallout from Spitzer's impressively bad decision-making is ongoing. First, he cost himself a chance of ever running for President. He cost himself the Attorney General's spot in Obama's Cabinet, which might be a step fown from NY state governor, unless you consider that being governor of New York, your only responsibility is that Mike Bloomberg's morning quadruple espresso is delivered piping hot promptly at 7:14, as stipulated by the New York city charter.

Spitzer also cost himself any future victory in any argument with anyone, ever.

"Did you pay the electric bill, Eliot?"
"Actually, Silda, that was on your pile of bills to pay."
"Oh that's right, I'm sorry. You're too busy writing checks to more hookers. Don't worry, El. I'll feed, clothe, and love our children. Go pay some disease-ridden sex slave 20 bucks to pee on your bald ugly head."
"Yes dear. Sorry honey."

Man, Spitzer family dinners must be awesome.

Another consequence of Spitzer's indiscression is a run of really annoying, mildly offensive David Paterson parodies by Fred Armisen on SNL:



Why I added it here I'm not sure. Maybe because I've been slack on my video clips, and I felt bad. To compensate with something actually funny, here's the Upright Citizens Brigade, and their Bucket of Truth.

Upright Citizens Brigade

Bucket of Truth

Joke of the Day
Stand-Up Comedy

Get Funny Ringtones
More Funny Videos

Anyhoo, David Paterson is annoying and nowhere near as impressive as Eliot Spitzer. As a country, we lost some serious brain power when he had to resign and retire to a life of constantly being reminded of his love for dirty whores.

Fortunately, all that time being ignored by his wife and family have left him with some free time. And evidently he's putting it to good use, by writing to us from beyond his political grave. Spitzer's been writing for Slate.com, and it turns out he still knows what he's talking about.

It's a shame that we should lose his expertise simply over some silly misunderstanding about adultery and prostitution. At least he paid his taxes, right? That puts him one up on half of Obama's Cabinet. Plus, he hates corporations, and if we're going to do this socialism thing right, we need people who know how to hit companies right in the financial testicles.

And Spitzer knows a thing or two about testicles.

So here's my suggestion to Obama. On your desk, you've got the red phone for national security emergencies and late-night pizza deliveries (Bush's contribution to the speeddial list), your white phone for Congress, your green phone for Treasury, and your pimp phone for Canada, America's bitch.

I suggest adding another phone - your double-secret Dirty phone, for getting calls from disgraced experts. Douglas H. Ginsburg. Tom Daschle. And Eliot Spitzer. That way, we can still benefit from their knowledge, while you get deniability about your relationship with them.

And worse comes to worst, you can always have Secret Service shoot them.

I love the 4...th day at the DNC

How did David Strathairn get the nod to narrate Obama's biography video? Is it because he was so great as a blind guy in Sneakers? Or a guy who loved to watch chicks play baseball in A League of Their Own?

Right, the whole Edward Murrow thing in Good Night & Good Luck. Now it all comes together.

Michelle and Barack are a cute couple and all, but who goes to a community meeting on their first date? Cheap people, that's who. That would have been a dealbreaker for me.

Woohoo, student loans! Give it up for Pell Grants!

This may be the wrong night to ask this question, but I'm really curious: who is more defined by the prominence of his ears, Barack Obama, or Stephen Colbert? Is Colbert's whackjobness attributable to that rogue appendage? Seriously, it's trying to escape his head.

I have to apologize, I didn't really focus on the biography video. Solely based on the music, though, Obama's life was really depressing. I didn't know they had black kids in Dickens novels. Maybe pick some Kanye or Presidents of the United States of America, something to get the booty shakin'.

Thank Hillary Clinton? Check. Bill? Check. There, that's done. Now let us never speak of them again.

Again with the licking of the lips! Where's the Bert's Bees sponsorship when you need it? Or would that put Obama too close to the Big Wax lobby?

Clock it - just four minutes of positivity before the first knock on the Republicans.

"8 is enough." I loved that show. Makes for a good chant, too.

I'm not ready to take a 10% chance on change - now that's a buuuuuuurrrrrn.

The problem with bringing up the "nation of whiners" quote is that McCain can quote Obama directly - not his proxie - on how people are "bitter," and thus cling to "guns and religion."

I don't get the whole "footage of TV screens" thing. Doesn't CNN have access to those feeds in Maryland and Times Square? Watching TV watching TV is just weird.

Hooray! Real, substantive policy!

10! 10 years to wean ourselves off Middle Eastern oil! Which would be more impressive: Kennedy's man on the moon prediction, or energy independence? It's damn close, that's for sure.

Um, Barack? Ixnay on the eanclay oalcay and uclearnay owerpay. Not exactly the crowd to talk up Big Coal and Big...what, Uranium? Big Atom? Big Nuke? We've got to come up with some cheeky reference to the nuclear power lobby.

Whoa whoa whoa. The whole point of being a Democrat is so I don't have to worry about personal responsibility. If you're going to start making us do stuff, we're gonna, you know, not...do...stuff.

Un. Fucking. Believable. I know I'm supposed to keep up with the funny, but my sweet Lord this is an amazing speech. Did I say that Biden might be ready to speak on Thursday? After this, the bar is set way too high for anyone but Barack Obama to speak on Thursday. Obama's speech in 2004 was incredible, but this...wow.

David the commentator asked me what I have against John McCain, why I hate heroes. I had some good lines ready - I fear the elderly, he's been eating out of Bush's hand ever since 2000, that I want a president who knows where he left his car keys, let alone the difference between Shias and Sunnis.

But you know what? Fundamentally it's about presence, and ability. Barack is presidential, and John McCain is not. Barack Obama has the wherewithal, the intelligence, and the integrity to succeed at the most powerful job in the world, and John McCain does not. John McCain is a war hero, no question. But Barack Obama is the next commander in chief.

But if Obama ends up giving us more empty rhetoric, and doesn't accomplish anything, I will rake him over the fucking coals. And they won't even be clean coals. Dirty, polluting coals, sprayed with plastic and Saudi Arabian oil.

Two men enter, one man leaves: Phil Hartman vs. Will Ferrell

For some reason I was watching Elf last week. Maybe because it was on. Maybe because I was hiding from In-Laws. Who knows. Either way, I'm not usually down with Christmas, being one of the Christ-killers and all, but I'm ok with that movie. Is it because of Zooey Deschanel? She plays her part, certainly. But really it's all Will Ferrell. And then I remembered a conversation I had in college, while he was still on SNL.

The question was: who is your better Everyman, Will Ferrell, or Phil Hartman? This was obviously before Will Ferrell became WILL FERRELL, but still, he's got a bit of that regular Joe appeal. He's awkward, his body is funny looking, and we know his body is funny looking because he has no issue whatsoever with letting the world see it. And then encouraging the world to giggle at untoned hairy chest. Plus he had Adam McKay as his own Cyrano, writing amazing characters and lines for him.

But Phil Hartman... Everyone who loves the funny loves Phil Hartman. He was plain, and brilliant, and dumb, and clever, and he did high comedy, and he did impressions.

Here, look at some clips of these magnificent comedic gods. And I know I forgot Robert Goulet, and More Cowbell, and Colon Blow. And I would have Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer but Lorne Michaels can sometimes be a douche, and there's no footage online that I could find in 10 minutes' searching. Let us also not forget Kap’n Karl. Alas, no video, but you should find it and bask in the glory of Phil Hartman as a saucy seacaptain, and pre-public masturbation Pee Wee Herman. But anyway, some highlights:

Phil Hartman, Frank Sinatra:




Newsradio: Real Deal Bill McNeal



The Simpsons: Troy McClure



Lionel Hutz, attorney at law



So I Married an Axe Murderer.





Will Ferrell, Perfect Cheer



Celebrity Jeopardy



Ron Burgundy, you magnificent hunk of mustache



Ricky Bobby



Mr. Mugatu



Now, because of his evil, whorish wife, we'll never know the kind of leading man career Phil Hartman would have had on the big screen. But I think he'd have been glorious. Will Ferrell, for all his above-mentioned regular...ness, is totally whacko. You can see it in his eyes. Phil Hartman, though, he could play anyone. Sea captain with a love for some painted-up french chick? He's your man. Radio personality with a god complex? Phil Hartman redefined the standard office blowhard. The only person who's come close since is Dwight Schrute, and even Rainn Wilson has a little too much Will Ferrell in him.

I freely acknowledge that this is some Freedarko-style argumentation, all potential over actualization. But if I want to cast a mild-mannered accountant who's sick of everyone calling him "Numbers," and eventually leads his office in a coup over the regional manager, I'm going with Phil.

Unless he has to get naked for some reason. Then it's all Will Ferrell.

No time for love, Dr. Jones!

Harrison Ford is the paragon of American manhood. Smarter than John Wayne, more able to read ancient runes than George Clooney, not less attractive to women than his wife, like Brad Pitt. Better looking than Humphrey Bogart. Hairier than Bruce Willis. Not as whiny as James Dean. He has smaller ears than Will Smith (what? They're like wings for his head. That's not normal.). And he aged monumentally better than Sylvester Stallone. Sure, give me your Steve McQueens and your Robert Redfords and your Paul Newmans. I retort with two names: Han Solo; Indiana Jones. Neither of them had to eat 50 eggs, did they?

And for this we have to suck it up and thank George Lucas. Without him, Harrison Ford would be just some extra in Apocalypse Now. Well, maybe he'd have a movie career, but it might be more D.B. Sweeney-ish (Harrison Ford, starring in Cutting Edge 4: Wheelchairs on Ice! Catch it!).

So it is with a grim determination that I ignore the cutaways to freaked-out gophers in the new Indiana Jones movie. I adamantly look past Shia TheBeef swinging from vine to vine with his new monkey pals. And I swallow hard, and applaud the inevitable alien plotline.

Why do I do this? Shouldn't I be raking this 2 hour "thrillride" over the coals, trashing the waste of Cate Blanchett, rolling my eyes at the 1980's-style Soviet bad guys, banging my head against the obvious Indy-Mutt connection?

Spoiler digression - none of these are spoilers. If you can't predict any of this from the preview, you are either Child (who is 5 months old), or an Amish farmer. And if you're an Amish farmer who's been watching the Indiana Jones preview, you're going to hell.

Anyhoo, I can't do any of those things. Perhaps other critics will just add this to the abominations of the three Star Wars prequels, but I can't even bring myself to hate George Lucas for those. Because he made Star Wars. And Empire Strikes Back. And Raiders of the Lost Ark. And he made Harrison Ford. And he gave Mark Hamill his 15 minutes. And he gave Kevin Smith a reason to live. And he put Carrie Fisher in a metal bikini. And he made snakes scarier than Nazis.

So what did I think of the new Indiana Jones movie? In all, it was pretty sweet.

Finally, some decent manly advice

For too long I've wandered in an androgynous desert, wondering what it took for me to be worthy of being called a man. Obviously it's not enough to have the basic biological "junk" - are there not women trapped in men's bodies? Indeed there are - I've seen them on Jerry Springer, and various websites. And, with today's ruling by California's state Supreme Court, it certainly means less now than it did yesterday that I'm married to Wife, by all accounts a real honest-to-goodness lady. I thought that maybe fathering Child would do it. I was wrong.

Finally, there's a website that will teach me how to be a man. Actually there are at least two (which is what I came up with in my limited three minute research Googling), but this one actually looks funny, so I'm only going to rip on The Art of Manliness blog.

First of all, manliness is not an art. Unless that art is fingerpainting, or maybe whittling dildos (dildoes?). I'm not going to argue that some men were pretty famous for their art - your Picasso, your Cezanne, your Sammy Hagar. But just as manliness isn't an art, so too is art not quite manly.

I should probably say, when I said "First of all," all the way over at the beginning of the last paragraph, that may have indicated the start of some sort of list. Sorry, I was totally leading you on. I guess if I spent some time with the Art of Manliness I could probably come up with dozens of quality jokes for your reading pleasure, but it's late, and I'm lazy. So you only get the one thing above, and then this.

This website is noteworthy today because they've decided to list the 100 most vital, most manly books to own and read. And if you haven't noticed, I've gotten all snooty - or at least, more snooty - about the whole reading thing lately. So I really have no choice but to offer some criticism. Huh. I guess you get your list after all. You happy now?

- There's a LOT about Teddy Roosevelt. Personally, I think it's more manly to
fight a world war without getting off your ass (FDR);
be the only person to ever use nuclear weapons in combat (Truman);
create the country with your bare hands (Paul Bunyan - I mean George Washington);
have an affair with your slave (Jefferson);
have sex with Marilyn Monroe (JFK, and possibly Eleanor Roosevelt);
get shot while watching high class the-ater after having saved the country from devouring itself (really? fine, if only for symmetry: McKinley. Dullards.)
But that's just me.

- If I remember correctly, Catcher in the Rye, while one of my favorite books, was about a whiny upper class twit. And I think that's just the kind of man we all want to be.

- "The pitfalls of being the best looking chap around?" Aside for grossly abusing the word "chap," someone obviously has not read The Picture of Dorian Gray.

- If you're going to choose a manly book by Tom Robbins, you choose the one about the lesbian with the gigantic thumbs (Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, for those of you looking for something to read).

- All sorts of books about capitalism. Hey, the unfettered acquisition and accumulation of material goods is pretty guy-ish, but you know what being a man's really about? Sharing. Get the Communist Manifesto in there!

- The Young Man's Guide, the Dangerous Book for Boys, the Boy Scout Handbook... I'm sensing a theme here. A theme of laziness. If I read those books, then what the hell do I need the whole list for?

- I wish I could come up with something pithy about Steppenwolf, but all I can say is that it's just not that good of a book. Eh.

- If you were going to choose an instructional manual written by a woman, would it be a chaste tome written in the 15th century, or would it be How to Make Love Like a Porn Star by Dr. Jenna Jameson?

- The only manly list The Hobbit belongs on is one of "things to carry if you want to get beaten up after study hall." Survey says... dingdingdingdingding!

- Ernest Hemingway deserves two spots on the list. Hell, you can be a big strapping man if you read nothing else (you may end up shooting yourself in Idaho, but whatever). James Jones? Not so much.

- Why are so many books on the list (Into the Wild, The Hatchet, Robinson Crusoe) about running away? I thought that was, you know, cowardly. But what do I know.

- The Moby Dick blurb: "If you ever find yourself on a boat in search of a savage beast, and you encounter a boat that is looking for some of their missing friends that seem to have been attacked by that same whale that you are looking for, take a minute and think. Cost: Possibly your life. Benefit: You kill a big whale. AND you get some serious props."
Yes. Because the book is really only about hunting the whale. That's why it's a classic. (Bullshit call: I haven't actually read it.)

- Hamlet? He could be the wussiest Shakespearean protagonist, second only to stupid, shortsighted Romeo, or even third, behind whipped MacBeth. King Lear, perhaps? Titus? Julius Ceasar? Those are some manly men.

- I hadn't realized that Robinson Crusoe was about loving normal, unconventional, mediocre life. But then I thought it was about the discovery of a really crappy themed restaurant.

- Everyone I know who read The Pearl in high school was bored to tears. Even the men. How did Tom Clancy get left off this list? Robert Ludlum? Those are manly writers.

- The Great Railway Bazaar? Do trains even exist anymore? And could we get them back? I don't know if you guys heard, but gas is getting a little pricier these days.

- The Island of Dr. Moreau? I liked it better when Conrad wrote it and called it Heart of Darkness.

- The Maltese Falcon, The Long Goodbye? I really can't argue with these. Quality picks.

- Finally, some glaring omissions:
Raymond Carver - the manliest, saddest modern man.

George Plimpton, Paper Lion - pretending to be a professional football player takes gigantic testicles, which, last I heard, is a manly prerequisite.

Jonathan Swift, Gulliver's Travels - the greatest satire ever written. I have no idea who he's mocking, but he totally nailed them.

Nelson Algren, The Man with the Golden Arm - so what if he lost Simone de Beauvoir to Sartre, he's still awesome.

Hell, how about de Beauvoir? Maybe some other chicks, and some non-white guys: Ellison, Rushdie, Morrison (female AND black!).

Julius Lester, Look Out, Whitey! Black Power's Gon' Get Yo' Mama! - for the title alone.

And has there been a book in the past 20 years that's worthy? No? Then go back to your Klan meeting. I'm just saying, it might tickle you to know that women and minorities have written books. I swear. You should check them out.

Thunderdome: Brett & Jumaine vs. Jables & KG - sexy time all around?

A few years ago an acoustic rock duo exploded onto HBO, sending rock and sexy mansweat spewing everywhere. Jack Black and Kyle Gass, united as Tenacious D, used hair metal as a weapon against evil, and a dangerously powerful aphrodisiac (how many power duos have no problem sucking on toes?).

Then, last year, a shot was fired across their overweight bow. Out of New Zealand, the 4th-ranked digi-folk parodists duo Flight of the Conchords proclaimed that looking like Andy Samberg and loving David Bowie makes you the nuts.

Now, for the first time anywhere, we who Wear Pants pit them against each other in the Thunderdome. "Two men enter, one man leaves."


Origins:

The D: spawned from the pits of Hell and vomited upon this land in LA, where they play small clubs and fight about whether cock pushups make you ready to rawk.

Conchords: Fom New Zealand, which is awesome, because the only other things from New Zealand are Peter Jackson, hobbits, kiwis, and sheep. Lots of sheep. So it's fitting Brett & Jumaine moved to Brooklyn.

Advantage - The D, by a nose (New Zealand is cool, but Hell is hot.)


Appearance:

The D: jolly fat men who wear white socks pulled high. JB's hirsuteness (hirsute-ity?) makes up for Kyle's baby-like absence of hair. Like Donal Logue in The Tao of Steve, their girth does not prevent them from wooing the ladies.

Conchords: Andy Samberg, without the weirdly thick neck or Jewish nose. Hipster uniform, as required by Brooklyn residency statutes. Jumaine has fantastically thick lips, stretching from his chin almost up to his indie-rock plastic-framed glasses. Brett wears sweaters.

Advantage: The D, because you need extra calories if you're going to bring the rock. And because KG, if he lived in a place with snow, could pass as a snowman. He's a double scoop of vanilla on twin popsicle sticks.


Vocals:

The D: quality harmonies, and surprising range for the round mounds of sound. Add that to Jack's Dokken-esque roar, and they're pretty versatile.

Conchords: Jumaine can hit the lows and the highs, and Brett's just all over. Plus, there's the kiwi accent, and the Pants Wearer loves accents.

Advantage: Conchords.


Music:

The D: focusing on the rock, they do what they do well. But beyond an occasional love ballad about the D and the double team, that's about it. Their secret weapon is Dave Grohl, who shows up to play drums. But this is a 2 on 2, so he doesn't count.

Conchords: From hip hop to folk to Marvin Gaye-esque protest ballads about love being like cellar tape, they can do it all. Plus, their Bowie in space is better than Bowie actually being in space. Dig that.

Advantage: Conchords


Shows/movies:

The D: The show was great, and had the benefit of great cameos, like John C. Reilly playing Sasquatch. Disadvantaged because their show was only 15 minutes long. Made up for it by making a movie, but it kinda sucked. The Pick of Destiny will forever sully the memory of the D on screen.

Conchords: haven't made a movie, but their show is amazing. Their support cast - manager, obsessed fan, random building guy - is also a whole lot better than the D's. Could not, however, exist or flourish without the D having blazed the trail before them.

Advantage: Push


Secret identities/powers:

The D: AKA Wonder Boy and Nastyman. How about the power of flight? That's levitation, homes. And killing a yak with mindbullets? Telekinesis, Kyle.

Conchords: Hip Hopapotamus and the Rhymenocerus. The Hip Hopapotamus - his lyrics are bottomless. The Rhymenocerus raps about reality, like there ain't not party like his Nana's tea party (hey, ho).

Advantage on powers: The D, in a blowout.
Advantage on hilarity: Conchords, because New Zealand sometimes trumps all.

The winner: There is no winner, because the Pants Wearer is many things, but sometimes being decisive is not one of them. So there you have it. A tie. If I had a sister this is what it would feel like to kiss her. But given the joy that both groups provide the world, aren't we really all winners?

NBA All-Stars - where the Jason Kidd trade happens?

Random thoughts on the NBA All-Star game...

- Interesting which players shine in this game. Obviously there's Kidd and Nash, who drop dimes with loops and curlicues and drops off the backboard. Roy and Paul are just following in their footsteps. James and Howard, who add power to the flair of the 1s. But the Pistons? Wade? Their form serves function and function alone - if there is no real consequence, they're reduced to dutiful layups and 3's.

- Whenever Anthony and James are in the game, they go right at each other. The rivalry is a sight. What are the odds we ever get to see it in the Finals?

- Nowitzki should be on the team, but shouldn't be allowed to play. There is nothing pretty about his game. Even his jumpshot is all Prussion functionality.

- It's fun, and sad, watching guys who've never played with a real point guard flub passes. Roy dropping that bullet inside from Paul? Stoudemire would've held on.

- Chauncey Billups is a matchup nightmare, and a beast on the blocks. It is for these reasons and more that he should join the German Giant on the bench.

- What does Howard have against Yao? Is he playing defense against anyone else?

- Of course James would be well on his way to a triple double by halftime. The only thing I'm more excited to see is whether Paul can get to 20 assists. Lord he's good.

- Allen*, Sheed and Pierce are adding nothing. Wasn't there some sort of jumpshot showcase last night, something about 3-pointers? Sunday night is for slashing and driving, unless you're eight feet behind the line.
* - 4th quarter update: OK, fine, the 3 is compelling. Sometimes.

- Antawn Jamison? Really?

- Is the All-Star Game the essence of freedarko.com-style liberated fandom? Or a glorified playground game? And is there a difference?

- The problem with Kobe playing his 2 minutes is he killed in its infancy my dream lineup in the West - Nash, Paul, Deron Williams, Iverson, and Roy. What can I say? I'm a dribble and pass kind of guy.

- Would it be more interesting if the league suspended its rules about kicking for the game, just to see what Nash could do?

- Would the game be more fun if they cut out the 3-point line?

- Boozer and Nowitzki, two sides of the same uninspiring coin. Maybe Boozer should take a cue from Karl Malone, his predecessor in the post, and buy an 18-wheeler, maybe develop a cute free-throw shooting ritual.

- Is it too obvious to say that Kevin Garnett is the most vocal dad on his kid's pee-wee football sideline? Is he just as passionate when watching golf?

- Is it too much to ask for the 4th quarter to erupt into a monster Stoudemire - Howard throwdown showdown? I want to see them go one on one every time downcourt, just so I can keep seeing physics upended.

- Has anyone yet established which of the three is the better dribbler, Paul, Nash or Iverson?

- It's fitting to watch Billups school Nowitzki in the 4th quarter.

- Steve Nash has a lazy eye? And I hope to G-d he actually blew his nose in Craig Sager's hankie.

- Shaq's job in Phoenix is to convince Stoudemire that everyone he plays is Dwight Howard.

- Is Paul deliberately not passing to Nowitzki? And can anyone blame him?

- Oh, that's right. Wade = guts. Forgot about that.

- Are they really going to make the All-Star game end with free throws? That's it, 8.2 seconds to go, and I'm going to bed.

Rollo Horschmeier - the Urbans are coming!

Good fellow citizens in capitalism,

There is a phenomenon that, until now, I have been able to ignore. What happened over the weekend in South Carolina is but the most recent example of a certain kind of individual gaining prominence in our good land. As a staunch supporter of small town squares, neighborhoods in which one may sound out one's children with sparklers and a slingshot and not have to worry whether anyone might put out an eye, and of course cotton candy, these Urbanites threaten everything that is good and right in this country. 

If you have not encountered these gritty, citified masses, then you have not had to deal with their coarse manner, their off-putting commitment to being different, both in appearance and philosophy. Consider some of their more disturbing character traits:

 - Their music is often driven, nay, possessed, by carnal rhythms, and chanted in tribal formulae that hypnotize naive women and cause them to perform garish gyrations. Nowhere may be heard a banjo, or even a ukulele. 

 - Their manner of dress is sloppy, and unoriginal. Our sporting shirts and khaki trousers have been transmogrified into baggy wastes of cloth. Alternatively, they may dress in suits that are too short, too tight, revealing all manner of private sinuosities. Soon no doubt we shall see some Urbanite wearing some horribly mangled priestly vestments, designed only to shock and titillate. 

 - They have an unnatural preference for public transportation. Who doesn't prefer the quiet moments behind the wheel of one's own automobile, free from the smells and pressures of other people's filthy bodies? One might be inclined to suggest the taxicab as a happy compromise between the Urbanites and the rest of us good Americans, but again, there is the stench of foreign breath, and unknown spices and flavors. Disgusting.

Obviously there are the standard aversions to hard work, self-determination, and ponies, but these need not be repeated. Simply put, the Urbanites want to be paid by the government to wear their baggy or tight clothes, play their basso profundo music, and take their trains to smoky clubs where seditious plots and revolutions are fomented. It is incumbent upon us, then, to push back with our pure, snowy might, and vote against the insurgents. As a proper corporate citizen, my vote can only be fore Governor Romney, in all his robotic glory. Programmed for right, with that dreamy grin and perfect hair, Mitt is my man. And he's also the man for our kind of America. A non-Urban America. 

To the booths, ladies and gentlemen, and then on to the malls, and the big box retailers, and to Wal-Mart! Onward, corporate soldiers!

Ow, they broke my childhood's leg!

When I first heard of the new Knight Rider movie, I was excited, and nervous. And I saw this:



which made me even more anxious, because his name's not Mike, dammit, it's Michael. Show David Hasselhoff some respect, stupid car. But I thought certain things were sacrosanct, untouchable. Obviously the new KITT would be a Pontiac Firebird, and speak in a fey British accent that made you feel that your annunciation was sorely lacking.

I was wrong. The new Kitt is in no way similar to the old one.

How do they want me to react? Like everything is ok? As if I would understand that certain updates were necessary, and frankly if the new car was also going to be the same model that the new David Hasselhoff would also have to have a curly, flowing mullet? And who's going to replace Hasselhoff, the German Wonder, anyway? Who is sufficiently masculine? Who has the guts to put himself out there like this:



or this:



or this?



How do you top that? You don't. All you do is sully the memory, and my memory is sufficiently sullied. So when my child, who won't be able to speak when the new Knight Rider appears, but will question me with his/her eyes, wonders what happened to the old Knight Rider, I shall say to him/her, "I'm sorry, my child. Michael Knight got ripped on uppers and blow, and crashed KITT into an orphanage. Let us never speak of this again."

Take that, ColBERT

There are many, many things that dissatisfy me about our dear country right now. The quagmire in Iraq, the drooling idiot in the White House, the possibility of a Colorado-Cleveland World Series, my inability to grow a halfway-decent moustache…I am an angry man. And then I see this .Typical Colbert, always taking my ideas and passing them off as his own before I even have chance to make them up. Not this time, Steve-O. You think you’re running as a “Favorite Son?” (and I can’t believe it’s already up on Wikipedia!)

Allow me to introduce a true favorite son: Robert S. Atwahl IV, the Fancy Pants candidate for Leader of the Free World. A 6’5” blond Adonis, this hulk of a man has earned two Congressional Medals of Honor in the Coast Guard, graduated with the highest GPA ever from Princeton Polytech School for the Elite and Astute, and speaks Swedish, Mandarin, Farsi, and seventeen different African bush dialects. A P.H.D. in metapolitics, Dr. Atwahl lives in Middle, Nebraska, with his wife Jane and their seven children, Amber, Michael, Eric, Robert V, Isaac, Candace, and little Anastasia.

He looks just like this, except his eyes are green, not blue. He's also usually wearing a business suit.

Robert (“Call me Dr., dammit”) Atwahl made his money on the rodeo circuit, sending his winnings back to Jane and his brood. After breaking his hip for a world-record 19^th time, he decided to go into international finance, through the sale of “alternative methods of negotiation,” and large-caliber firearms. This provided Dr. Atwahl with real hands-on foreign policy experience, interacting with dignitaries from Congo to Laos.

Over the next few weeks you’ll be able to learn a lot more about the Fancy Pants candidate, his political platform, and which laundry detergent is the best to use when fighting global terror.

If you have any questions for Dr. Atwahl, send them to the Fancy Pants, and he will answer them, as long as they don’t relate to the Guam ‘76 incident.

This year I'm breaking down the Bears games, because I was too lazy to blog last year, when it really would have been fun.

First, I'd like to thank Bruce Babich for showing some stones and letting the D rush Rivers. If the other half of the team had taken time out of their busy schedule of sucking and fondling infants, perhaps San Diego wouldn't have walked off with an ugly, but foreordained win. The only quibble I have is the LT-to-Gates TD. That caught you off guard? Really? The pass from the running back who wasn't running very well, to the tight end who slept with Urlacher's mom and never called her again? That's a shocker.

I'd also like to thank Mike Brown's body, which, aside for the Sex Cannon's useless brick of a head, is really the only reason to doubt a return to the Super Bowl. What was that, Eagles fans? Your team can come back and play the "no respect" card when your boys remember to call a fair catch once in a while. Until then, we're the goddamn defending NFC champs, so shut it.

Bernard Berrian - run the route you're assigned, you short-bus-riding freakshow.

Sexy Rexy - I will never doubt your ability to get all of the ladies in the area pregnant. But I will doubt your ability to transfer the ball through the air to players on your own team. Knute Rockne called it the forward pass. Perhaps some of those newfangled doodads in the direction of the end zone, toward where one of your receivers is running? Just a thought.

Adam Archuleta - welcome. You're not worthy, but it's up to you to make up for Mike Brown's absence. That means guarding players like Antonio Gates, who piles up a bunch of undersized white safeties on his plate, uses them to sop up some syrup, and eats them for breakfast.

Tommie Harris - if you'd like, I'll bear your children. Just don't think you'll get to shoot through the neutral zone, getting to the ball before the quarterback, before any more snaps. Fumbles are great, penalties worthy of a strong punch to the kidney. It's my kangaroo court, and I'll hand out judgments as I see fit.

And now...Fred Dalton Thompson!

Tonight Senator Fred Thompson makes his candidacy for President official. I had an opportunity today to sit down with the Tennessee gentleman and ask him some serious questions.

So it’s official, then: you’re running for President.
Well, I guess it beats dousing yourself in rum and lighting up a Cohiba.
You sure about that? I mean, it can get pretty vicious. Now that you’ve officially entered the race, can you say exactly what concerned you most about immersing yourself in the campaign process?
This business will get out of control. It will get out of control and we'll be lucky to live through it.
See? That’s exactly why I refuse to run, despite the persistent encouragement from Wife to “get the fuck out of my apartment!” The reference to campaigning is implied, obviously.

First, I’d like to get your perspective on some of the pressing issues of our day. What’s your position on gay marriage?
If you two wanna turn yourselves into a greasy spot out on a country road somewhere, go right ahead. I don't give a shit and I don't think anybody else does, but you two monkeys are not going to do it on my racetrack.
Aside for referring to my partner Jorge and I as monkeys, that’s surprisingly reasonable. Jorge, you are a hairy beast, aren’t you, my little love monkey! Your campaign manager says that, while you can wile away the hours with your Erector set, what you really enjoy is playing with your Etch-A-Sketch.
Hopefully, we can build bridges, but we also have to draw lines.
How about showing some love for the Lite-Brite? It was the only light source I had growing up – my hippy parents thought the regular lamps, with their standard white bulbs were too racist, and black light was too trippy. It was a fair compromise, I think. Your promotional materials attribute your legendarily deliberate defecation policies to your Siberian heritage. I really have two questions here: 1) Who has a “deliberate defecation policy?” And 2) What exactly does pooping have to do with Mother Russia?
Russians don't take a dump, son, without a plan.
I suppose we all have our ways of honoring our respective heritages. The most pressing issue these days is the War of Terror. One objective in which your predecessor failed miserably was catching Osama Bin Laden. Despite repeated and seemingly half-assed attempts to locate and capture him, he’s still at large. Rumor has it you two were roommates in college. Why is he such a fuckhead?
Summer of his third year, he and his squad went down in a chopper accident in the Med. Bad - pilot, crew killed. That kid spent ten months in traction, another year learning to walk again. Did his fourth year from the hospital. Now it's up to you, Charlie, but you might consider cuttin' the kid a little slack.
I guess that’s fair. Plus, it’s easier to let his actions slide knowing we already smoked the true mastermind behind Sept. 11 – Sodamn Insane! Hell’s yeah, bitches! WOOOOOO!

Now I’d like to turn to more personal questions, so any potential voters can get a sense of what you’re really like, behind those massive, sweaty jowls. Seriously, do you want a towel, or something?
Is there any truth to the rumor that you were investigated for killing panhandlers with your massive bear-like paws?
Sometimes the good you do won't do you any good
Fair enough. Looks like you and Giuliani come out about even on that score. Watch out Rudy, all he has to do is publicly dump his wife, and he’s got you all wrapped up! Speaking of scummy New York – what’s your favorite sexual technique?
You ever heard of a "Japanese Inspection?"
That’s a new one on me.
You see, when the Japs take in a load of lettuce –
Senator, that won’t go anywhere pleasant. I’m not going to subject my readers to that sort of smut; let’s move on. I hear from Roy, your mailman, that your wife can perform the fabled “Chinese ping pong ball explosion!” trick. Can my friend Gary Pritchard and I come by and check it out?
You can forget about Pritchard. He's homosexual.
That doesn’t mean he won’t enjoy it. Are you sure, though? Gary? But he’s happily married! 3 kids! Huh. I'll be damned.
So will he, if you believe the Old Testament.
So you’re a Creationist, then? Interesting. Well, thanks for being so patient during this interview. I have to admit, this was the first time I’ve ever spoken with a presidential candidate, outside of Chris Dodd propositioning me behind a 7/11. How did I do?
There's a lot more to competence than a law degree and a modicum of courtroom skill.
Ouch. Even Dodd gave me an A for effort. Well, I appreciate your honesty. Also, I was wondering, and…you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but I’m trying to improve my hosting skills, and, well…what do you think of my veggie platter?
You can't have all carrots and no sticks.
More celery, huh? Good tip.

Thanks to IMDB.com and brainyquotes.com for supplying genuine words from Sen. Thompson. I’m sure he meant every word.