Don't be that guy.

I always learn something new around holiday season. Last year it was "leaving your Hanukkah candles in front of your turbo-jet heater will not only blow them out, it may end up causing your rug to catch on fire."

The year before that, it was "always know your audience before you make a joke about Jesus" (My favorite? Jesus walks into a hotel with 2 planks of wood and some nails. He says to the receptionist, "can you put me up for the night?").

This year it was all about holiday parties. As a Jewish Communal Professional, and the husband of a liberated, working lady, I attended many holiday parties. Some where cheesy, JCC-based affairs where kids drew horribly on their own faces to win oily treats. Others were formal dinners for day schools, who tried valiantly to convince their parents and donors that everything was ok while we ignored the asbestos dropping out of the ceiling and into our salads. I'm totally sending Child there - he needs immunities, and we're supposed to expose him to stuff like chickenpox. Asbestos is the same thing, right? Just like mercury, and lead, and whatnot?

But in other settings, "holiday party" is a euphemism for "Christmas party." Don't patronize me, Christian coworkers. If I'm going to a party with a gigantic pine tree shoved into the corner of a living room, and there are stockings on the mantel, and red and green tissue paper strung up all over the place, and fat bearded guys in Coca-Cola red ho-ho-ho-ing over the Ipod, then even I know it's Christmas time.



Here then, are some lessons I learned while attending Wife's office "holiday that celebrates Christian traditions and Jesus" party:

- if you're going to make jokes about Christmas creep, don't wear a kippah.

- if you're going to wear a kippah, don't go around demanding gifts in Jesus' honor. "What, I'm Jewish, he was Jewish, we're like the same person!" doesn't work. Even if you've grown out a beard, and are wearing a robe and sandals. Even if you made your own crown of thorns. If you turn water into wine, then you should at least get first crack at the Christmas tree cookies.

- Don't refer to the holiday as Xmas. It's weak. And it makes baby Jesus cry.

- Tell funny stories about your spouse to her/his coworkers, but not the one about how she stripped her way through PT school. Because some people will remember that gem through their drunken haze, and will ask her about it at work. Which segues nicely to...

- Don't be the first one at the party to get drunk.

- Don't be the first person to take your pants off.

- Don't be the first person to suggest swirling some Ecstacy into the punch and "letting nature take its sexy, sexy course."

- Always hold on to the car keys. That way, no matter what you do, even if you get locked out of the house, you can sleep in the car.

- Don't compare male PTs to nurses. They don't appreciate that.

- Don't compare male nurses to dainty ladies. They have no problem hurting you in front of your spouse.

- Always thank the host. Especially if she's your spouse's boss. And she was nice enough to help you retrieve your pants from the bushes out front.

- If there is a Yankee swap, hold off on loudly mocking the scarf that looks like it was knitted by a blind arthritic thumbless freak. It was probably made by a coworker.

- If you don't like what your spouse ended up with at the end of Yankee swap, don't challenge the male nurse to a wrestling match for the Barnes & Noble gift card. You will lose.

- If you do take your pants off, remember to wear underwear. Ideally not a leopard print thong.

I found these lessons to be useful. If you feel they will ruin your good time, feel free to ignore them. Just remember: flowers can only make up for so much. Ignore enough of those rules, and you may have to shell out for jewelry. Maybe even real gold.

A quick update on the No Fear Player of 2008 - Old Rambling Man made a good case (albeit not in the Comments) for honoring Congress, but I don't like handing out awards to multiple people - trophies are expensive, and I'm trying to save up for some real jewelry for Wife so I don't have to sleep in the car anymore.

So your No Fear Player of 2008 is... Sarah Palin! I have to say, I'm giving this to her in honor of her becoming a grandma, and also because I appreciate her efforts in setting back the Republican Party a good 12 years. So thanks, Sarah! Good luck with the whole Alaska thing.

Sad. Happy? Happy.

I've been reading a lot of depressing news lately. Like this. And this. Or how about this nugget? And Obama... Jesus, man, did you drop your balls in some hotel on the campaign trail, and then forget them on your way out the next morning? What the hell?

And don't get me started on this. Go have sex with a close relative, you 95-year-old hick.

But then I thought that you guys don't come here for the whining, and the tears, and the temper tantrums.

So instead I'm featuring Simon "the best excuse for nepotism" Rich, and....

THIS:



You're welcome.

Just let me laugh in peace, you fascists!

I have a problem.

No, you know what? Screw that noise. I don't have a problem: all of you have a problem. I simply am more attuned to the daily joys of my life.

Here it is. When I think something is funny, I laugh. Is it a crime? Why must I bear the witheringly arched eyebrows of fellow coworkers, or Wife's bemused smile? Look, if we're going to watch Weekend at Bernie's, then I'm going to laugh. Andrew McCarthy is HILARIOUS.

Friends have said that, unlike me, they don't laugh out loud at the TV when no one else is around. What is that? I need an audience to giggle at The Office? Well, I have plenty of people around me at work, and they don't seem to appreciate my barely concealed laughter. And pretending I'm coughing doesn't really work unless my fellow attorneys think I've contracted the famous - and endangered - whooping cough. I can't speak for all of them, but there are at least...two? Three? that aren't complete morons.

But what, you may ask, am I laughing at at work? Aren't I spending interminable hours reading medical journals and e-mails between German biochemist lovers? In fact I am, and none of that is worthy of chuckles.

So I have to sneak the funny in through my headphones. I stole I mean paid for the download of Stephen Colbert's book, and let me say, he's a funny man. So funny, in fact, that he makes me snarf my apple juice. If, you know, I drank apple juice. Which I don't. Because I'm not 6.

Finally, there is the third category of things which I find side-splitting - the jokes I make to myself. Silently. In my head. Wife has the Dalai Lama's patience with this little idiosyncrasy because you know what? I happen to think that I am a laugh riot. A thrill ride of comedy, if you will.

I know. None of this supposed hilarity actually makes it here, to where you're trying to read it. I'm sorry about that. If, though, you lived inside my head, you would be laughing non-stop. Because therein I connect all the useless knowledge I have compiled, and much of it is quite humorous.

An example. Right now, Jon Stewart is interviewing some old political writer. He reminds me a little of the old guy from The Wedding Singer. You know, the one who makes fun of Adam Sandler's friend? Challenges him to a fight? Great tiny scene in a decent movie.

See, right there? I laughed out loud. But you couldn't, because you weren't in my head. And that's the upshot - the party? The one you're missing because you're too busy doing whatever it is you do? It's all up in my dome. You know you want in.

So, you know, get on that.

Screw you and your delicious, buttery popcorn

I know you've all been wondering how my fantastic job is going. Whether it's the German e-mails, the medical journals, or the fascinating, mute coworkers, it's a constant battle not to swallow my monitor. So before I jet off to exotic Watertown, Wisconsin for Lady Liberty's birthday (don't forget to get her a present; I'm sending edible undies), I thought I'd treat you to some of my daily excitement.

Quick tangent: I have learned it was recently Canada Day. Well la-di-frickin-da. I hope all you folks up north had fun talking aboot the great history of your fine country, eh?

- 200 people on a floor, 1 water cooler. I'm not good with the arithmetic, but I think it's fairly predictable that those numbers make the "cooler" part a sad joke. If you're not going to offer us benefits, at least give us ice trays.

- Behind my half-cubicle sits an older man. At his semi-desk he has a footrest, an oscillating fan, and sundry personal items. He sits in an exquisite leather chair that reclines almost parallel to the floor. I don't know where he got it, I don't know what he had to do to get it. But I do know he's absolutely right in taking it with him when he leaves at night. If he leaves it...just once, that's all I need. I'll sit like a king!



- I'm diligent with throwing out holy socks. But what's the rule on the elastic? How far gone does it have to be before I have to throw them out? Does it matter if they're dressy or white? What if they're really long, so even if they sag they leave no blinding-white calf exposed to the world?

- There's a guy sitting next to me who looks like John Hodgman. Hey, there's another! Wait a minute...



Was that just a flimsy excuse to post footage of people funnier than me? Maybe. You'll never know.

- People who microwave popcorn at work, and don't have the decency to make enough for everyone, should be beaten with shovels. And I don't even like popcorn. That buttery aroma, though...it does strange things to me. I smell it, and I want to kiss Orville Redenbacher full on the mouth. Is that...is that just me?

- Not to fixate on a single topic, but office chairs that don't recline should be collected and burned on a pyre. There should be an evening of joyous revelry to celebrate the event: interpretive dance, jugglers, and bad coffee. Does it not sound glorious?

- The reason, then for my reclining chair obsession: someone stole my chair. The armrests were measured perfectly with my arms, it reclined easily, and had no weird stains. There it is, being used three half-cubes down on my left. That lady better watch her back.

- You know what? The lady chair-thief? She looks like John Hodgman too! Maybe it's all the fluorescent light...

- Today I had the pleasure of going through someone's personal e-mail. This individual decided to send the same document to twenty different people, in twenty different e-mails. Does he not know about cc'ing? If I ever have the pleasure of making his acquaintence, I'm going to poke out his eyes with my pinkie.

- I learned something. Ordinary inconvenience + wildly excessive response = joke, but does not always = funny. Discuss.

- Honestly, which is worse for you - Cheetos, or Snickers? Because that's all that's left in the candy machine. Well, that and trail mix. But I'm neither a sheep, nor am I from Vermont. So nuts to that.

- Happy birthday, America! For your 231st I'm wishing you a new president: a Muslim elitist effete Commie peacenik who won't wear a flag, salute a flag, or do anything but burn a flag unless he uses that awesome symbol to wipe his ass after a huge bowl of hummus and baby's blood.

Either him or Barack Obama. Whichever.

As the song says, they're everywhere

I want to talk to you today about what's under the Fancy Pants: underwear. Everyone wears them, yet somehow they usually don't come up in polite conversation. Unless you're a precocious three-year-old, in which case it's more polite to talk about your Underoos than it is to tell the story of when you caught Mommy and Daddy "wrestling."

I could go all different ways with this topic. I could talk about how they have become optional, or the glory of the thong, or something along those sexy, sexy lines. I could even wax nostalgic about the aforementioned Underoos. I always loved Spiderman. I think I actually have those somewhere...

Instead I'm going to talk about the boxer brief phenomenon.

A young man's undie evolution proceeds thusly: diapers, Underoos, tighty whities. From there things branch out. Some people stick with the traditional whites. Others move on to boxers, or as Wife calls them, "useless shorts." A few - this number, according to scuttlebutt hearsay and locker-room gossip, is rising - move on to the leopard-print manpanty. But more and more guys are finding a middle ground with boxer briefs. I'll make the joke again: neither boxers nor briefs. Discuss.

For a long time I wore only boxers. It certainly helped that for years I wore clothes that were 2 sizes too big, convinced that my growth spurt would have to come eventually, right? Wrong. Instead all I have are pictures of myself looking like Tom Hanks after he turns back into a little kid in Big. Which would have been fine if I was a rapper, or 12, or a 12-year-old rapper. When you're 21, that look doesn't really attract the ladies. But I needed room for my boxers, and my junk (see Appendix: Offensive Mental Image #1). There's a...freedom that boxers allow, a liberation that stops just short of the notorious "freeball." And since this was a time before the upskirt shot gained prominence, I kept everything double-wrapped.

Then I got to law school. There I learned the importance of clothes that fit, and how pants are supposed to shape and cup the buttocks (see id.: Offensive Mental Image #2). But it's hard enough tucking in shirts (yet another upcoming sartorial post). Add the bulk of unwieldy overwashed cotton, and all of a sudden your hip-ass-groinal area begins to look a giant donut.

Please note that I refrained from making the easy sexist joke about a middle-aged lady's extra-wide hips. Because I'm all about political correctness.

So Wife, then going by Girlfriend, suggested boxer briefs. I admit I was skeptical, and a little frightened. Except for swimsuits, I hadn't worn such tight undergarments since I was seven. I worried about heat, and sweat, and constriction, and the "coal-diamond" effect (I worried my nuts would be compressed into a single ball, with which I could both cut glass and set in a lovely ring). Then there was the other problem: boxer briefs are sort of the San Francisco treat. But I'm a liberated guy, and it only took me four or five years to overcome that issue.

I've gotta say, though, that they've come in handy. My ass looks fantastic - or so Wife says - and the goods are protected, even cradled (see id.: Offensive Mental Image #3).

But I'll never totally forgo boxers. For one thing, there's the flap issue. When you need...access, boxers are a hell of a lot easier. One of the most awkward acts to perform in a men's room is to reach into your pants through your fly and start jerking around (no pun intended; I couldn't think of another word for "jerking"). And some boxer briefs don't even come with a flap; you have to find another...exit strategy.

I think the most pressing question is, "What the fuck, guy? I come here looking for the funny, and instead I get a barrage of sausage imagery! How about a warning next time?" Well you know what? That's 2 questions and an exclamation, so I'm not going to answer your rude question. What do you think of that?

But I will leave you with an interesting bit of trivia. The guy who wrote the first song in Juno also wrote this song, which is a much cooler underwear song than that "thong thong thong" crap. Barry Louis Polisar, ladies and gentlemen!

Contrary to popular belief, there are no leftover pygmies

Living with the In-Laws is...an experience. Everyone has their own idiosyncrasies, and I certainly don't begrudge them theirs. In fact, sometimes their unique habits can lead to exciting adventures. For example:

Mother-in-law is afflicted with the hoarding gene. She has thousands of foil pans, sauces and dressings that go back to Wife's infancy, and a veritable mountain of plasticware. But her true packrat genius reveals itself in her freezer. She is of the "starving children in Europe" generation, so nothing left over is ever discarded. God help you if you throw out that chicken - throw some mayo and pepper on there, and you've got yourself a salad! Leftovers are poured or forked into a burpable Tupperware, sealed with plasticwrap, zipped into a freezer bag, and labeled for future generations. In 8,000 years, when crawdads will have replaced us as the dominant species on earth, they will glean from the ancient writings that within this frozen receptacle was stored several hundred gallons of "Brisket (Passover)," "Brisket (regular)," "Chix soup (boneless)," and "farfel (matza)."

We commoners throw stuff in the freezer haphazardly, and pray it lasts more than a couple of months without getting freezerburnt. But with Professor Father-in-law's engineering ingenuity, food lasts for years in the In-Laws' home. And with the labeling system, Mother-in-law knows exactly what she has, and where it is.

This information is sometimes not shared with the rest of us, however. On Friday I was sent down to the icy depths to retrieve a certain poultry dish. Was it on the bottom shelf? On the door? No one would say. So I packed a headlamp, two pairs of long underwear, a goosedown jacket, GORE-TEX gloves, moon boots with removable crampons (it's a real word, and has nothing to do with vaginas. Look it up if you don't believe me), and seven pairs of wool socks (my tosies are sensitive).

I kissed Wife and Child goodbye, opened the hermetically sealed freezer door, and tromped inside. Within I found a barren wasteland reminiscent of Hoth, or Milwaukee in January. Swirling winds hurled needles of ice at my face and loins. Snot froze on my upper lip.

After wandering for a few hours I found the first of many leftovers. These were remnants of this past Passover, so I knew to I had to delve deeper into the ancient Maytag. The turkey I was looking for had been stored just before the turn of the century, in honor of the Y2K-caplyse. The only information I had to go on was that it was marked as "Y2urkey," and it was "somewhere in the back, near the cocktail weenies." By this time I'd been hiking for most of the day, and I decided to set up camp near a block of ancient cholent. I hacked off some of the kishka outcropping, and settled in for a cold, dark night.

Many storied journeys into undiscovered lands include the appearance and invaluable guidance of secret natives, hidden tiny men and women with wings or pointed ears or forked tongues. When planning for my trek I just assumed I'd find some prehistoric leftover Yeti, or an ancient shaman who worshipped (or worshiped, depending on your browser's spellcheck) the forgotten stack of pancakes on the top shelf.

Instead all I found was Tupperware and plastic bags. My eagerly anticipated meeting with ancient peoples turned into a boring-ass journey into myself, with plenty of time for self-reflection and meditation on the fact that I was walking through a freezer looking for turkey. After many hours contemplating this truth, I learned this: I really don't like climbing into a freezer full of prehistoric leftovers.

Maybe if I'd brought more socks I'd have felt differently. But my toes were icy, so I'm bitter. From now on, Mother-in-law can search her own hidden stores for dinner.

Long Island ≠ Jewish

Last night, after a long day of playing pickup ball with octogenarians and avoiding In-Laws' questions about my professional intentions as to their fair city, I settled down to enjoy Night of Too Many Stars, a Comedy Central special to raise money for Autism. No, I don't know what the connection is, and no, I'm not going to make a joke about it. If you want that sort of humor, read Kissing Suzy Kolber. Seriously. Stop reading this crap. Go there.

I give the whole phonathon a B+, for the effort. They had a ton of stars, you got to see Tina Fey groped by some corporate flack, and Sara Silverman did that version of Amazing Grace where she harmonizes with her vagina. So that's something, I guess.

There were really only two parts of the show that grabbed my attention and shook it like a colicky baby.

The first was Chris Rock and Steven Wright, doing each other's material. Steven Wright did surprisingly ok - it was funny hearing him say "cracker" in ebonics, and it turns out that you don't have to scream Chris Rock's jokes in a grating whine to make them work.

No, the weird thing was hearing Rock do Steven Wright's jokes. I'd heard them all, and to see Chris Rock attempt a deadpan was unnerving. His persona is all inflection and emoting, whereas Wright may as well be a paralyzed wino, mumbling and drooling at passersby. Steven Wright's jokes, or bits, or missives, or whatever, are truly unfunny when told by someone else. I don't think Chris Rock got more than a sympathy chuckle for any of the jokes he told, while Wright got plenty of laughs doing Rock's material. So the question that kept me up the rest of the night is this: Is it that Chris Rock's stuff is just universally hilarious, or that Steven Wright's material is so wrapped up in Wright's persona that, unless you try and impersonate him, you'll never get a laugh trying his set?

The last thing that got to me was Rosie O'Donnell's set. Evidently, now that she's been booted from the View, and Donald Trump has moved on to perfecting a new combover look, she's bored. And lonely. And the lesbian jokes just aren't hitting their marks anymore. So what does Rosie decide to do? She checks out Kabbalah. And wouldn't you know it, but Long Island + Kabbalah = Jewish! So she can do a whole host of jokes about schmoozing with Pearl and Gitty, and say words like mishpucha, and now she's Ethel Merman.

Listen, and listen good, Rosie. Drop the Jewish jokes, and back slowly away. Just because you're large, have brown hair, and sound like Portnoy's mother doesn't mean you get to mock the Tribe. If you watched the thing, it was like a bad homage to the Seinfeld "Anti-Dentite" episode. She puts on a red string, and then gets to pretend she also knows how to make matza balls? Absolutely not.

Rosie O'Donnell is not only a lesbian, she's also Irish Catholic. She's been on the View. If she can't make comedy gold out of that wealth of material, then she should stay off the stage. Which, I think, would work for everyone involved.

Now I'll have even more to confess

Today the Vatican announced that they had come up with some more sins.

I don't know what they mean by "genetic manipulations," or whether "drug use" includes alcohol and smoking, but I had some other suggestions for sinful behavior that might draw some more attention to what is already a supercool, ultrahip religion:

- Insulting the Pope's hat. I'm sure the big guy is sick of having to wear it, and even more annoyed with people calling him "Penis Head" behind his back. Come on, that's not just me, is it?

- Dwarf tossing. Simply to make it more exciting. Adding the extra rush of offending the Lord might really make it take off as a sport.

- Not tipping. Wife insisted I include this, having worked in the service industry and suffered from terrible tipping practices. "It's 20%, or you may as well throw your drink in your waiter's face, because that's what you're doing anyway."

- Double parking. All you New Yorkers are going to hell.

- Witchcraft. I know it's already a sin, but it's a popular one, and Catholics can renew their ongoing feud with the Wiccans. For we Jews, it's always fun watching the Church persecute some other undeserving group. Two religions, both flamboyant and edgy, with heavy emphasis on cloaks and dog collars? This will be so exciting we could sell tickets.

- Marital sex. And yet procreation is still a prominent commandment. Try and unpack that, believers.

- Metaphorical cannibalism. "Blood and body of Christ?" That's wine and crackers, people. It's a wussy copout, and real cannibalism is a new daring way to win back the youths who are always looking for the Xtreme!

- Loud music. Just because you're reaching out to the kids with one hand doesn't mean you shouldn't smack them down with the other. Remember, you're the Catholic Church.

- Going to Mass in jeans. It's just rude. Jesus would so not appreciate it.

- Long hair on men. Admittedly Jesus looks a little too hippy-ish in hundreds of old paintings, but no one is confusing him with some 12-year-old with nicer curls than Salma Hayek. Especially not any priests. Cut them some slack, would ya?

- Wimples. You're married to the Lord, you're not dead. Show off that holy hot bod. Who doesn't love sexy nuns?

Texas. Ohio. The Lady vs. The Brother

I was set to do a write-up/liveblog of the results tomorrow night, but I realized that would be a waste of time. Between CNN, MSNBC, Fox, WE, WB, ESPNU, and Nickelodeon there will be about 45,000 analysts picking apart the exit polls, and as original as my fantastic wit can be, there might be some overlap. So tonight I'm violating the principles of time and space and the internet, and liveblogging it now.

8:30 - CNN starts its coverage, and 17 former student club treasurers are offering their take on what to expect in Ohio and Texas:
Anderson Cooper says that the economy will be the biggest issue in Cleveland, while Galveston worries about immigration.
Wolf Blitzer, his beard cultivated in the shape of ancient Gaelic runes, is adamant that pets rights will play an underrated role in people's last minute decisions.
Christiane Amanpour blazes her sultry eyes from a dimlit newsdesk, and proclaims the secret to be the pheromone advantage held by Senator Obama.

9:00 - the polls close in Ohio, and MSNBC calls the state for hometown hero Dennis Kucinich. The diminutive politician is unavailable for comment, as he's already given up the race to take his chances on the dwarf-tossing circuit. In his first heat, he finishes a disappointing third.

9:12 - Brit Hume uses the word "promising" to describe John McCain, and Sean Hannity promptly lays him out with a 2X4 he has stashed under his jacket. Watching off-camera, Ann Coulter completes her portrait (oils on sheepskin) of Rush Limbaugh, naked, riding an Arabian steed across a brilliant green vale. It's glorious.

9:25 - Keith Olbermann counts down the top 10 most evil people in Texas, topping off his list with Daniel Day-Lewis' character in There Will be Blood. "Just because he's dead doesn't mean his sinister legacy doesn't live on in the hearts and minds of the soulless oilmen of today. Dan Patrick, if you're listening, I'm less of a man without you. Come back to me, and we'll spit snark over this crazy thing they call 'democracy.' Dan! DAAAANNNNNNN!"

9:34 - Bill O'Reilly: "Well, early numbers favor Senator Hussein Obama, despite unconfirmed reports that he's molested Christian children as part of a terrorism instruction series he leads at his mosque in Chicago. Also, from sources who wish not to be named, and may or may not be affiliated with her campaign, Senator Hillary Clinton has consumed the heart of her husband Bill, as part of her attempts at swaying the gods who rule over the Texas panhandle. Folks, this is just another example of liberal communist extremists trying to subjugate good Christian folk with their progressive hoo-doo."

10:00 - CNN calls Ohio for Obama, and Chris Matthews has to go change his pants.

10:06 - Exit polls in Dallas put Obama ahead by 346 votes. Geraldo Rivera, in horribly accented Spanish, stands in front of a polling station and asks a young Hispanic woman who she voted for and why. "Geraldo, stop calling me at home. If you come near me again, I'll mace your eyes until they melt. Oh, and your mustache smells like rotting bananas." As Geraldo turns back to the camera, he smirks and says "obviously she's voting for Hillary." Anderson Cooper is not amused. His hair, however, is immaculate.

10:20 - Fox News comes back from commercial to find Dick Morris massaging baby oil into Gretchen Carlson's perfectly toned delts. Gretchen informs us that winos outside a Qwik -Stop in Austin are predicting a Clinton sweep of the border counties.

10:45 - Tim Russert is grilling Mark Penn, Clinton's campaign manager:
Russert: Tell me I'm your mama. Say it! SAY IT!
Penn: ok, you're my mama. Can I have my wallet back now?
Russert: First, let me tell you why tetherball moms are upending CNN's predictions about today's primary.

11:05 - Chris Matthews, tears streaming down his face, calls Texas for Senator Hillary Clinton. "Are you happy now, you blond fascist! What do you have against Barack? Can you not see his beauty? His life-affirming smile, his ears large enough to carry all our prayers? At least acknowledge that he has the legs of Abraham Lincoln. And you think you can do a better job as president than Abraham Lincoln's legs? What hubris, woman!"

11:10 - Rhode Island and Vermont have also evidently held primaries, but no one cares.

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?

Why aren't arms good enough anymore?

This is my last week before an impossibly loud midget who doesn't speak English will explode through the bottom of Wife and into my existence, preventing me from sleeping past 7 am for the next eighteen years. And even then, I'll be used to getting up so damn early - hell, I'll probably have a regular squash game with Conroy and Fitzpatrick down at the club at 6:30, Monday Wednesday and Thursday. Which is worse than you think, because Conroy cheats, and Fitzpatrick won't shut up about his lawn. So hoooray for that. 

Anyhoo, I've learned many things these past few months. The first thing I learned is that there is no stork - that story is complete crap. Or maybe I'm the stork...I'm not sure anymore. 

The most recent thing I've been taught is that there are dozens, nay, several billion different methods and apparati for carrying a baby. I thought the Swedes, with their Baby Bjorn (it's BJorn, dammit, not BYorn. ENGLISH, people!) were the pacesetters in this industry, but it turns out they're not so great, those gigantic, blond bastards. Aside for the standard B-Giorn there are pouches, and slings, and wheelbarrows that can be wrapped around you, and chairs that can be clamped, via titanium bolts, into your spine. Evidently one is supposed to have a variety to offer your child, because certainly a pygmy who can't see past its nose can determine that a sling is better for its itty bitty spine. And in its place I'm supposed to make a decision about this? I can't even decide if Fetus is a boy or girl. Sure, science tells me that the decision's already made, but it also says that it's natural for babies to pass through vaginas. Does that sound like the sort of thing right-thinking people accept? No, that sounds like some crazy witch-doctor shit. 

So we're copping out, Wife and I. We're getting the pu-pu platter (haha! Chinese food is funny!), and going with the Swedes, and the hippies, and the Japanese. Because nothing is too good for Fetus, except college.

The secret scourge of winter

In these frigid times people complain about snow, and sleet, and bitter winds that seep through cracks and crannies into their very bones. Then there are the attendant illnesses and maladies, from the sniffles to walking pneumonia (also the boogie-woogie flu, but an outbreak hasn't been reported since the late 70's, and hopefully will never be heard from again).

None of these affect me too badly. Being from Wisconsin I never really feel alive unless it's 20 below, with swirling wind and lake-effect snow. And as a guy I refuse to admit vulnerability or weakness, so as far as any of you know I never get sick. 

There is one other hidden aggravation, one that doesn't come up in polite conversation, unless it's a discussion between two fifth-graders. It causes no small amount of discomfort, and is almost completely unexpected; a silent killer, if you will. I'm referring, of course, to static electricity.

We recently got a new couch (for free! Yay Jewness!). Slowly but surely we're tenderizing the cushions so they're perfectly cushiony, and the best configuration for the two of us to nap comfortably at the same time. So far it's matched up quite well against our old couch. Except for one small, itsy-bitsy problem.

Every time I sit on it, and get up, and touch something or someone, I get a nasty shock. I've seen the tiny bolt of electricity shoot from my finger to Wife, or to a fork, or to the microwave. There is no remedy, no preventative measure to protect me. I'm at a loss. I can't not sit on the couch: it's my couch. But now I can't go from my couch to the kitchen without inflicting upon myself some substantial pain. 

I want to love my new couch, I truly do. But this is really pissing me off. So I may have to light it on fire. And then not only will there be no more static shocks, but our apartment will also be much warmer. There's something to say for that. 

Where's my kerosene?

That was close

I've been publicly humiliated before. There was the Passover dinner when I showed up as Jesus, the weekend my sophomore year of college when all my pants got ruined in the wash, along with all my non-leopard print bikini underwear, of which, honestly, there's like one pair - I don't know what it is I love about the leopard g-string, but it makes me feel...special.

But narrowly missing embarrassment? That's a new one on me. I don't know what it says about Senator Mitchell's staff's investigative skills, but I can't believe my name wasn't on that notorious list.

Did I just do that good a job hiding it? I'll admit my fastball doesn't sink like it used to, and my changeup has gone from filthy to merely unkempt. But look at my forehead! It's eight inches tall! Ben Affleck wants to know what product I use to cut down on the glare. Vince Vaughn is worried I'm going to cut into his acting opportunities (don't worry, Vince, no one can be as satisfied with themselves as you are).

And the bacne - let's just say I'm not allowed to turn away from Wife anymore. I have to back out of the room so she can convince herself my back looks fine.

The worst is that I've lost my testicles. They tell you horse steroids will make your jewels shrink, but did you know that African elephant steroids are available in any convenience store in Thailand? Mix that with some essence of squid duodenum, and you've got yourself a .650 on-base percentage. And nothing in your cup, but ask Barry Bonds, he knows it's worth it.

So thanks, Senator Mitchell, for leaving me off your list. I'd send you a campaign donation, but a sudden onset of roid rage compelled me to break ever writing implement in my house. Stupid penmanship, that'll show you!

Similac is Hittite for Satan, don't you know

I hope you all enjoyed the video "Gigantic Boobs and Your Baby." My name is Jody Nipple, and I am here on behalf of your areolae. There is nothing better for your boobs than the heavenly process of breastfeeding. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar, and a killer of Christ. I know some of you in this room are thinking about limiting breastfeeding to the first couple of months of your child's life, and then switching to formula. If that's your plan, that's fine, but I can save you some money, and a whole lot of hassle.

There's a Planned Parenthood branch around the corner. Go in, ask for the Similac Special. They'll take care of that pesky fetus right away, and you can go back to running over the elderly in no time.

For the rest of you, I'm here to answer your questions about the glories of breastfeeding. If you're not too weak-willed, you can follow my plan for feeding your child in the only natural god-given manner right up until they have to take their SATs - after all, the AAP doesn't see any sort of dropoff on the benefits of breastfeeding your child over an extended period of time. And since you'll all be staying home with your baby, as I did, you won't have to waste money on those vile pumps, or even clothes for your child. After all, skin to skin is the most effective cure for eczema, colic, diaper rash, and the croup.

Wait, some of you are going back to work? Get the fuck out of here, right now. Does it look like I'm joking? I don't cater to abusive parents, who think that leaving the house is hunky-dory. I didn't leave my apartment from 1984-1996, until I stopped breastfeeding my oldest, and even then they had to pry her from my maternal deathgrip. I'll be showing you how to properly clinch your fingers in the second hour.

Where are you all going? You can't ALL be going back to work. What does "cost of living" mean?

Fine. I suppose I can modify my class to accommodate your dangerous lifestyles. I don't know why I'm bothering, your babies will all be dead in three months, anyway. If you want to pump, make sure your child always gets the Mommy's Milk Breast Replica, a harness for your partner to wear when you're out snorting blow and flashing your business at young men. That way at least one of you will be a mother to your child.

I was a wet nurse, a dry nurse, a delivery room nurse, a doula, a substitute lactater, a nurse practitioner, and head of the nursing glee club at Mass General for 76 years. You think you know more than me, with your books and terrified expressions? You want your kids to leave you? To go away for school and not ever call you? What are "separation issues?"

If you have any questions, just yell them out. Unless they're about formula: those questions will be answered with my trusty "Mother's Helper" kneecapping bat. So, let's begin, shall we?

A little random fandom

Watching Demetri Martin on the Daily Show last night, it occurred to me why so much of my writing turns out bitter and angry, and not sufficiently surreal, not adequately absurd (also without enough alliteration. Gosh I love words that share first letters).

I spend too much time reading about sports.

Is there no more bitter population than sports fans? Read Kissing Suzy Kolber. Read With Leather. Sure, there's nuttiness there. But mostly it's couched in furious bitterness, especially towards Boston. Not that its fans are undeserving, but they're not worth the obsession. Sure, I hate annoying Red Sox fans, and the Patriots are simply disdainful of the normal boundaries of excellence on the football field. But come on, people! Wouldn't you rather enjoy watching Steven and Stephen yell at each other?

Or checking out what Demetri Martin has to say about wearing white? I know I do.

In all fairness, though, there is FreeDarko, successfully bridging the gap between highfalutin nonsense and professional athletics. See, e.g., their preview of every single NBA player.

So from now on, we're going to do a little more batshit insanity, a little less road rage. Unless the Bears continue their sucking. In which case I will sneak into Cedric Benson's house in the middle of the night, and smother him with his My Little Pony pillow. He may sleep the sleep of angels, but when he dies he'll spend eternity with Satan. No-yardage-gaining son of a bitch.

Another Leon and Max adventure

– You look terrible.

– Well you’d look worse, if you’d just been in a fight.

– Oh my god Max, someone beat you up?

– Did I say that? No. I clearly said I was in a fight.

– I don’t know how clear it was, your cheek’s all swollen and – are you missing a tooth?

– Three. But you should see the other gi – the other person.

– What do you mean, person? Wait a second: did you get beat up by a woman?

– Leon, what did I say? What did I say? I said I’d been in a fight. And yes, with a lady. Well, not so much a lady as the Whore of Satan, with her fat ass and ridiculous bangs and– well.

– Oh man, that’s hilarious! You got beat up by a girl! You must be humiliated!

– You’re an ass, Leon.

– Whatever, at least I didn’t get kicked by a woman. I can’t get over it! Whoo, let me catch my breath. So, did you cry? Did she beat you about the head and genitals with her purse? Were you mesmerized by her jiggling bosom as she pummeled you?

– I told you, I wasn’t beat up. It happened to be with a female, but yes, I’d say we were fairly matched, what with her polished claws and stiletto heels. She was like some sort of tarted up chicken.

– It was a retired grandma, wasn’t it. Did she whack you with her walker?

– What do you know? Were you there? You can ask anyone from the parking lot that day. The police officer said he’d have done the same thing.

– Of course, of course. So what you’re saying is she was black.

– What? Oh, ha ha. No, she was this WASPy little…whatever. Vicious. She’s probably eaten her children.

– Please, Max, you’ve got me on the edge of my seat. I’m a child on Christmas morn. With a heart that skips and throbs I wait to hear of your epic brouhaha. What happened?

– Leon, please. Suffice it to say that I won’t be shopping at Target anytime soon.

– Actually, Max, that does not suffice. It is not, in fact, sufficient. Kindly relate your tale of woe.

– Tale of woe? I kicked her ass, Leon.

– Max, I would say that anytime you are in a situation that seems to require hitting a girl, there is a little, maybe a just titch, of woe.

– For her maybe. Fine. So I’m at Target to buy a toaster, because Susie decided it was the quickest way to dry off her hamster, and I don’t know if you know this, but charred rodent is a bitch to clean.

– Was it Sir Gallahad or Little Fairy Francis?

– Um. Can I tell you how awkward it is that you remember the names of my daughter’s hamsters?

– You don’t know, do you.

– It was the one with brown spots.

– You’re the best father ever, did you know that?

– Do you even know where your kids are?

– No. But one day I shall travel this great land, hoping to see some vestige of myself in the face of a busboy in a diner in Little Rock, or a high school quarterback in Racine. Maybe a nun in Jackson Hole.

– Have you really been to all those places?

– Remember when I was a roadie that one summer?

– No, if I recall correctly you were the only one in the neighborhood who had your own van. You were a chauffeur for a summer. Did Quails of Adonis ever actually get a gig?

– They mostly played parking lots. But they were in front of venues, sometimes. But buildings and stages could never fully contain the teeth-gnashing, seizure-inducing Sturm und Drang that was the Quails. Anyway, so you’re buying a new toaster…

– Alright, fine. I buy a new toaster – which is great, by the way, I can cook everything from steak to toast, so I don’t have to touch our oven, because that particular appliance is possessed – and I’m walking to my car when I see this…woman repeatedly slamming a stroller into the driver door.

– That’s odd. Didn’t she have anything better to do?

– Okay…she’s doing it as she’s taking her kid out of the car. It’s part of a process through which she is transferring her baby from the stroller. The collision of stroller and minivan is strictly incidental. Why would…never mind.

– Maybe she was OCD, or something. I don’t know, Max, women are crazy. Plus you threw down with her, maybe she’s actually, you know, certifiable.

– … Moving along…. So I go up to her, and I say excuse me, could you stop ramming my car. And she turns to me with what I can only describe as complete shock, as though it never occurred to her that the object impeding her stroller’s progress was a car, that this minivan could be owned by a genuine person, or even that there were people who owned cars.

– Hmm. What did that expression look like?

– This:

– Oh. Wow. She really was surprised, then.

– Didn’t I just say?

– Yeah, but, you know, there’s bound to be some exaggeration.

– Do you want to hear this or not?

– I’m still waiting for why she kicked your ass.

– We’re right there. She gets over her shock, and says “I am so, so sorry. Are you ok? Does your pussy hurt?”

– Well, that escalated quickly.

– I just…I was speechless. She’s got a baby in one hand, helping a toddler into of her car with the other, and she just stepped up and gets in my grill, like she wants to start something.

– Did she really, Tupac?

– I have to say, Leon, now that I’ve been in a fight, I kind of see where all that aggression comes from. Rappers, they take it right from the streets, and put it into their songs.

– I’m sorry, have you been living in a cave for several years?

– No, but now I FEEL it.

– Of course you do.

– Damn straight. So getting back, I still haven’t said anything to this tramp, and she’s smirking, and says “oh, does your wife not let you talk to other women? Or maybe your husband? Is that it? Are you just afraid of our entire gender? Is it the menstruation that freaks you out? The tampons?”

– What is wrong with this lady?

– Well that did it. So I come back to her with “Sorry, ma’am, I was just wondering how you fit all that junk into your pants. I didn’t know they made ass girdles.”

– And Max comes roaring back!

– I felt I had regained some ground.

– And then some. Is that when she sprayed you with the contents of her whup-ass can?

– No. But meanwhile she’s still got the stroller between me and my ride.

– You realize you can’t call your Dodge Caravan “your ride.”

– It is what it is. That’s where I do my pimpin’.

– Did you climb over the stroller?

– So very carefully, as she’s looking at me, not with daggers – there are huge flaming broadswords shooting from her pupils toward me, with hacking and swinging motions – the succubus puts her baby in his car seat, takes the stroller, and slams it into my shins.

– Awesome. Sorry, Max, but I am in awe. Astonishing, this firecracker.

– But it’s not one of those tiny cloth and plastic and aluminum deals. It’s a Bugaboo, with full on off-road tires, and the little cowcatcher in front. And it hurts. I have matching bruises on my legs.

– So did you pop her?

– I’m too shocked to move. So she starts screaming “Get out of the way, cuntweasel!”

– Cuntweasel? That’s new. I like it. Cuntweasel.

– Leon? That’s a lovely cuntweasel jig you’re dancing there, but I’m going to finish the story now.

– Sorry, I’m listening.

– By now there’s a crowd gathering, because she’s shrieking like some meth-ed out harpy. I back out from between the cars, if only to let her pass, hoping she’ll stop jamming her SUV of a stroller into my shins. As soon as we’re out in the open, she hauls off and whacks me with her baby bag.

– I thought you said the baby was in the car.

– One doesn’t actually put – baby stuff. There was baby stuff in the bag. Diapers, toys, sippy cups, and somehow a very heavy, very substantial three pound weight.

– When are kids supposed to start working out?

– For her, Leon. Wait. Are you high?

– You mean right now? Maybe a little. A bissel. What, you want to fight about it?

– Funny. So the weight knocks out my teeth, and while I’m blinking away the whirling pretty stars she kicks me in the crotch.

– Oof. That’s uncalled for.

– There was a line, and she had crossed it. So I hauled off and clocked her, right in the baby maker. Bam, fist to uterus. She staggers back, and I pull myself upright, and deliver what might have been the greatest right cross of my nascent and short-lived boxing career. Knocked the bitch right out.

– Speaking for men everywhere, Max, I can truly say that you are the No Fear Player of the Day.

– You know it. What’s so funny?

– I’m sorry, I can’t get it out of my head. Cuntweasel. Genius!

It's That Time Again...

Bryce Withershire: We’ll get back to the intrepid woodcutters of southern Honduras in just a minute, but now we need to remind those of you just turning in that we’re seventeen minutes, thirty…three seconds away from the final hour of our fall pledge drive, and we need your help. Without you, our listeners, we’d be nothing: Janey Grimshackle would be out on the street, offering oral pleasure instead of the aural satisfaction she now provides.

Janey Grimshackle: Oh Bryce, you’re awful! But in all seriousness, without WSNB, your morning commute would be a soulkilling exercise in mankind’s basest and worst instincts. Sure, there are other radio stations on the dial, but do you want to be bombarded with more popular music, sports and local news? Where else can you hear about the U.S. Poet Laureate’s fascination with bathroom grout? Nowhere else. Don’t kid yourself.

BW: Operators are here, waiting to take your call. And as you know, this year there are generous donors willing to go dollar for dollar on all the money contributed by our listeners. On other stations, these corporate marketers would rely on expensive, elaborate commercials for which they’d pay thousands of dollars. But here on WSNB, all they have to do is contribute tax-deductible revenue that they can claim as charitable donations, and they get the sultry, dulcet tones of Janey Grimshackle reading ad copy on their latest male pattern baldness ointments.

JG: Well as you know, Bryce, Hir-sutrin has been shown in several studies to increase both coverage and density. But please remember, there are only fourteen minutes and thirteen – fourteen seconds left until our autumn fundraising is finished, and we still need to raise $186,752 before the end of the hour, when Lloyd Shawbridge hosts an all-new “Skyline” with Dr. Wilhelm Ossenbachfeis, who will tell us all what concentrated orange juice futures have to do with your Thanksgiving travel plans.

BW: I hope they won’t interfere with my flight to Bora Bora! But please, listeners, call in with your donations. We don’t want to have to skin this precious labradoodle puppy. Just a dollar a day, less than the cost of your soy latte, will allow us to keep bringing you poignant, heartrending stories like Amaretto Consuela Garcia-Mojito’s gripping tale of hardship and woe during her three hour ordeal in a Fort Lauderdale prison, which you can hear all about on Maxwell Bootle’s “Things Remembered.”

JG: One more thing, Bryce. As you go through your morning yoga routine, remember that Snuffy, our little ball of fur and energy is hanging in the balance. Don’t make him suffer just because you can’t make a phone call! We also still have twenty-four WSNB canvas sacks, perfect for food shopping, or drowning cats, or any of a number of common household uses. Oh, look at Snuffy! Isn’t he cute? Look at him wiggle on the end of that hook! Bryce, who gets to skin it if we don’t meet our fundraising goals?

BW: We’ve offered it to Shane Ferstwitter’s Home for Troubled Teens, and they’re now drawing straws to see who’s the lucky sociopath. But Snuffy won’t have to suffer at all if you act now. We’re down to the wire, folks, and we still need $185,514 in the next seven minutes to match our budgetary needs, and to make sure Snuffy doesn’t fall into the hands of a fifteen-year-old with a Swiss Army knife and no conscience. Who doesn’t want to help ensure that enjoyable programs like Long Duk Matthewson’s Sunday morning “Jazz Hands” can keep entertaining the dozens of avid fans it attracts? I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to get Long Duk mad.

JG: No one likes chemical burns, Bryce.

BW: Well, in the meantime, we have two minutes and nine seconds left, and we’re still well-short of our goals, so does Dennis want to start sharpening his – oh, he’s ready then.

JG: Oh, hate to stop you short there, Bryce, but it looks like we’ve got an anonymous guardian angel. Somebody must have a labradoodle at home! What a generous gift, with just seconds to spare! It’s ok Dennis, we’ll have you back, and maybe then you can gut something. Thanks to Bryce Withershire for joining me in the studio this morning. We’ll be back tomorrow with a new goal, and a new puppy. So Lloyd Shawbridge, what can you tell us about orange juice concentrate that we don’t already know?

Not two entries?!? Are you worthy? Eh, maybe

I try not to do multiple posts in a single day. Partially because I don’t want to exhaust the last three or four ideas I have before the end of September, but also because I’m fantastically lazy. But once in a while something comes along that demands immediate attention.

Right now is one of those times.

Ballooned Brother-in-law reminded me of this over the neverending New Year festivations, and it is incumbent upon me to share it with you.

As you may know, I read excessively. Really, it’s obnoxious, and it throws off the national average. I’m trying to cut down, but then, well, then this sort of thing happens.

I refer to Ant Farm, by smart guy Simon Rich. His dad’s Frank Rich, and he got a two book deal before he graduated from Haaaaaaa-vaaahhd (sorry, Boston U insecurity requires me to refer to it that way any time it comes up).

2 excerpts have already been published in the New Yorker ("The Wisdom of Children" and "Hey, Look"), so you know it’s hyper-literate, and pretentious and quite possibly paddlin’-worthy. But it also happens to be hilarious. The kind of funny that makes you want to walk directly to your car and slam your head repeatedly in the driver’s-side door, if only so you might lose, via concussion, the knowledge that you’ll never write something so good. It makes me want to hunt this Simon guy down and punch him in the nads, then apologize profusely and buy him round after round of drinks.

Like Demetri Martin, he is a comedy wolf in indie-geek sheep’s skinny jeans.

So kudos, Simon. And damn you straight to hell. But mostly kudos.

Is it War? Are We at War Yet?

9 million more toys recalled for lead content, first strike capabilities

We are a privileged generation. When you've got your grandson on your prosthetic knee, and he asks you between languorous picks of his nose, "did you fight the Chinese, Grampa?" you'll be able to look him in the eye, and say, "first of all, it's Poppop. Second, hell yes I did.

"When they made their first strike, we were caught off guard. What kind of sick bastards use toys as weapons? But then it turned out they'd put lead in everything: our clothes, our shoes, our appliances, our little troll dolls at the end of our pencils. Which, incidentally, don't use real lead. Ironic.

"And when the great Chinese magnets came across the Pacific, we thought they were UFO's. Yokels grimaced, and took down their overralls for yet another anal probing. Nerds rejoiced, and danced awkwardly. But I knew better. I knew they were finally coming for us, we finally got to fight against the great Communist threat, and I was ready.

"We fought them in the playrooms, and in the pantries. We fought them in the classrooms, over tricycles and sippy cups. Sure, I saw awful, terrible things. Young man, you never, EVER want to see a melted, disfigured Polly Pocket.

"They tried to poison us with toxic metals, but we had more bombs. And now the 'Great' Wall is nothing more than a doorstop for America's renewed manifest destiny. Yee. F-in. Haw. Now go run and get your Poppop a bourbon."

And now for something original

Sometimes there will be commentary. Other times, like now, there will be funny. If you choose to hand out this application to potential exes, any consequences may not be traced to this website.

Breakup Application Date____________

Instructions:

Please complete all blanks: this office receives many applications during each scholastic term, and information can be lost in the file system/closet, behind rolling papers and extra bicycle tires. This is especially important in Section I, which may in fact include the reason for submitting this application in the first place. If that is the case, the applicant may want to consider whether completing the entire form, and submitting the application fee ($35 or the complete Freaks & Geeks series DVD) is worth the effort. If you require additional space, please attach an 8 ½ X 11 sheet of paper with any additions. Please do not wrap said paper around feces, spoiled pad thai, or any other potentially disruptive substance. Receipt of applications with that sort of additional material has resulted in vengeful posting of compromising photos and humiliating stories of questionable accuracy on the administrator’s Office blog. Please submit a copy of your original Relationship Application, and all materials related thereto, including pictures, your “Top Five Fantasies” essay, and notarized “Commitment to Excellence in Girlfriend-ness” affidavit.

I. General Information

1. Name: Last ________________, First __________________

2. Address _________________________________________________

3. Nickname, if any (does not include generics like Honey, Sugarlips, or Love of My Life) ________________

4. Phone Number ______________________

5. E-mail (required if applicant would like a response) _____________________

6. Date of Birth __________________

7. Height _______________________

8(a). Weight _____________________ (b) Seriously, Actual Weight _____________

9. Anticipated salary for the coming fiscal year ___________

II. Family Information

10(a). Father’s profession ____________________

10(b). If military, is your father stationed overseas? Y __ N __ (c) If not, please state the domestic base at which he resides, and the approximate time it would take for him to drive to campus _______________________________________________________

11(a). Number of brothers, if any, residing in state ___ (b) Athletic activities in which they regularly participate (includes any sports for which steroid use is customary; does not include golf or tennis) ______________________________________________

12(a). Does anyone in your family own a firearm, or other lethal weapon including, but not limited to, baseball bats, hockey sticks, Chinese throwing stars, cattle prod, mace (medieval kind, not spray)? Y __ N __ (b) If so, please specify past instances where family members have displayed an urge to use said weaponry against those who have “done the family wrong.” _________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

III. Short Answers/ Essays

Please answer either three of the five questions in the “Short Answer” section, or one of the three essay questions. Please note, however, that the application will not be considered unless applicant chooses to respond to Essay Question #3. Please submit answers either in type-written or podcast form; anything handwritten or longer than one page, size 14 type, will be filed in the closet and/or shredded for use in the hamster cage.

Short Answer Questions: Please limit answers to 140 characters, or the maximum length of a text message. No emoticons.

1) These reasons you have for ending the relationship – aren’t they, in fact, issues you’re dealing with that have nothing to do with me?

2) Did I cheat on you? Do you have any sort of proof to support such a malicious accusation, other than grainy YouTube footage? If not, aren’t we being a wee-bit paranoid? Couldn’t that be anyone’s penis?

3) What’s this really about?

4) Have you found someone new? Is it Jay from Carl Spackler’s Special Blend, my Frisbee golf team?

5) Please review the “Commitment to Excellence in Girlfriend-ness” affidavit you submitted with your Relationship Application. Explain the reasons for your deceit in signing the Commitment when you clearly had no intention of adhering to the duties and obligations stated therein. I mean really, can we both agree that this application could have been submitted months ago?

Essay Questions:

1) Analyze all the trumped-up reasons your mother and your friends hate me. Consider whether they have your best interests at heart; would your stuck-up whore of a sister really be ok with you being as happy as she pretends to be in her sham of a marriage? List the ways in which this relationship can improve, and detail your well-considered fifteen-point plan, if you think you’re so mature.

2) During your time in this relationship, you have failed to achieve many of your goals as listed in your Relationship Application. What have those failures taught you? Will you use that knowledge to raise your performance in future interactions, or will you persist in your vicious circle of unreachable standards and excessive, melodramatic responses when those standards are not met? Consider the ways your bitchiness impedes your path to contentment.

3) Is this application being submitted because you intend to “switch teams” upon ending this relationship? Please elaborate on the sundry ways your new paramour will please you carnally. The acceptance of your application will be more seriously considered if your answer is supplemented with pictures and/or movie footage.