Why I Want To Renew My Wedding Vows

I was reading an article in the paper this morning about wedding planners. No, not becuase I have a fondness for floral arrangements or frilly dresses, (although me and heels? Look out sister!), but because I happened to know the planner being profiled. Her husband used to own the package store up the street from my house. And while I may have been kidding about my fondness for high heels, (or not), you can bet I'm not kidding about the proximity of a package store to our home being a major selling point. "No roof? Fuck it, I'll just walk up and get some beer." While the article was really fascinating to anyone who cares about brides getting hysterical about rain storms in July, a population segment that does not include me, I couldn't help noticing a small article accompanying the profile.

It seems that Ashton Kutcher is starting another series, this one with six improv actors crashing weddings. The crashing will be videotaped and then shown on some low-life channel, probably MTV. Remember when they played music on that channel. Me neither. Anyway, so now I want to renew my vows as part of an elaborate plan to "Punk" Ashton Kutcher. He can videotape my bride crying as his crashers act more and more obnoxious, and then my company can tape me beating him to death with a shovel.

I'm thinking Spike TV would definitely buy that. And I can't think of a jury in the world that would convict me, unless I were dumb enough to publicly state my intent....

Shit.




Speaking of Spike, if you like vampires, (and hey, who doesn't?), I recommend watching Blade: The Series. I've been pleasantly surprised. Last night there was a really despicable villian who was dispatched by sunlight but not before having his lower jaw actually ripped off his face and then shown to him. Now there's satisfaction for the audience. I tell you, that's quality TV right there.

Another Reason To Get Tattoos

I have a tattoo of a charging tiger on my arm. Like most people, I am proud of this art and will show it off at the least little excuse. Which is actually pretty stupid if you think about it, since I had about as much to do with how it turned out as the canvas did with how the Mona Lisa turned out. But I'm shallow and will undoubtedly continue to show it off.

Two of my friends, a married couple who will, for obvious reasons, remain nameless, want to get tattooed. First one for each. I introduce them to the artist that did mine, and last night I got a call from the husband to let me know they have an appointment, etc.

The following conversation takes place:

"Well, we're both going to get a diving falcon, but they'll be slgihtly different. I was going to just copy yours, because every time my wife sees it she gets all excited. I swear, if you had that thing tattoed on your cock she'd have sex with you."

There's just no appropriate response to that.

On a totally unrelated note, does anyone know of any tattoo artists with no standards? And some really, really, really, good pain killers?

It's Like "The Warriors", Only Gayer

I was reading about a gun buy back program in our paper today. $200 gift certificates from Target if you're interested. Syd could probably clean out an entire store with her armory. Although I think Mississippi has a program where they give you a $200 certificate if you DON'T own a gun, good towards the purchase of a howitzer at a local Army/Navy store.

Ordinarily, this wouldn't be the topic of much humor, but towards the bottom the author credited an alderwoman, Joyce Chen, "whose ward was plagued by bicycle gangs", with pushing the initiative.

I'm sorry, bicycle gangs? As in kids creating mayhem while riding their bicycles? I'm sorry, but I can't get the image of that newspaper kid in the John Cusack movie, (the name of which escapes me), riding around yelling "Two dollars" and waving handguns. And if you actually shot a gun while riding a bike, wouldn't the recoil blow you right off the bike? Do they wear helmets? How about tight pants and brightly colored shirts? Are they all taking EPO and blood doping products? Who the fuck joins a bicycle gang these days anyway? Don't the other gangs just beat the crap out of them for kicks?

These questions will keep me up for at least five minutes tonight. Which is probably five more minutes than it held your interest.

Bad News For The God of the Dead

No not Ozzy Osbourne. Some of you may have noticed over the last week or so that astronomers were on the brink of adding at least three, and possibly as many as 200, new planets to the solar system. The other alternative was to disappoint literally dozens of Pluto fans and kick Pluto out of the planetary system. But early last week Pluto was safe.

Not so fast. Pluto, (named after the Roman God of the Dead and Really Cold Places With Elliptical Orbits), is back on the chopping block. Apparently most astronomers are rebelling, to say nothing of school systems faced with the prospect of some over-achieving little bastard bringing in a 200+ styrfoam ball solar system dioaram and taking up the entire gym for the science fair. They've come up with some new definition that bounces Pluto as a planet and reduces our solar system to a petty 8 planets.

There are a couple of ramificantions. Most importantly, Alkelda will have to rewrite her "Planet Hopper" song. Second, everything you've ever known about astrology and your sign being in the third house of Pluto, two doors down from Neptune and take a left, is and always has been wrong. Which actually changes nothing because astrology is bullshit anyway. And third, they need a new name for Pluto and Pluto-like objects. They were going to call them "plutons", but then the geologists got their knickers in a twist because they already use that terms for some kind of volcanic structure. Can't you just picture that geek slap-fight? Wedgies and tittie twisters for everyone.

So now they might call them "Tombaugh objects", for Clyde Tombaugh, the guy who first discovered Pluto and started this whole mess in the first place. Nice going Clyde.

Dick.



Could this possibly be the nerdiest post ever? Seriously, should I submit it somewhere?

Behind Every Silver Lining...

there's a dark cloud.

This week on my arrival at work I wandered into the kitchen to deposit my lunch in our community refrigeratr/ongoing attempt to recreate the origins of life. Posted on the cabinets is a sign reminding us that our internet use is monitored and that all sites we visit are recorded and reviewed. So I'd like to take this opportunity to say hell to our compliance officer and just point out that when I said I worked for a "thieving bunch of cocksuckers", I meant that in the positive sense of the term.

It's That Time Of Year

More on baseball. Granted I don't spend a lot of time on sports here, but I am a sports nut and I do follow baseball with the sort of fanaticism usually exhibited by Mormon missionaries faced with a hard-drinking atheist. So we're going to discuss more baseball today. Specifically Little League baseball.

As you know if you've been reading over the last few months, (at one point I predicted this blog would die a little noticed death within three months. We're clearly living on borrowed time here), I coach Little League ball and my son is a pretty good player. But I draw the line at the Little League World Series. At one time there was nothing wrong with it and I'd probbaly hope my kid would have a chance to play in it at some point. But now I don't think I'd let him. You might ask why. Or you might have gotten bored and wandered off by now. On the chance you haven't, I will say that the reason I probably wouldn't let my son play on a World Series oriented team is that I see no reason for kids that young to play baseball games that are televised across the world. There are limits ESPN, try to recognize them. No kid needs that kind of pressure.

But if there ever was a kid who could handle that kind of pressure it would be the kid from Saudi Arabia who stands 6'8" and weighs 255 lbs. At age 13. Surprisingly, his favorite sport is basketball. Can't imagine why. If I were the coach of the opposing team, my pitchers would be instructed to throw four pitches in the dirt every time he got up. Not because I'd be afraid he'd hit a home run, but because I'd be afraid he'd hit a line-drive right at one of my players, and then we'd have to stop the game and bury that kid's corpse right there in the infield. And that's a real morale killer.

But here's my favorite Little League story from this year's version. Apparently a couple of nights ago the team from New York is coming from behind and has pulled within one run. ESPN, in their infinite wisdom, actually has live microphones on the coaches, because, really, what could a 13 year old say that would possibly be offensive to anyone? So the coach is giving some "win one for the Gipper" speech and one of his charges pipes up with "Yeah, c'mon guys we just need one fucking run!!" The coach apparently slapped him for it. I hope it was his own kid. Good times I tell you. Good times.

When In Rome

As you may know, I am a Yankees fan. Right back at you Shelli.

If you pay attention to sports, you will know that the Yanks, this weekend, had to play five games in four days against their heated rivals, the Red Sox. Through the first four games the Red Sox, I am pleased to report, played much like a minor league team and have lost all four games while giving up about 12 runs a games and issuing so many walks that I have started to confuse their pitchers with grade school crossing guards.

And to make things even better, I was able to go to the game at Fenway last night, when the the Yankees tied the game in the 9th and then won it in the 10th, thereby ripping the hearts out of Boston fans everywhere, showing them their still beating hearts, and then throwing the damn things to the floor and grinding them to little bits of cardio-blobs.

Naturally I showed up for the game wearing my Yankees shirt, because I can't get enough of being told how much I suck or what a douchebag I am. Hey, it's their stadium and as long as the Yankees win, it's all good. Although my brother and I did get thrown out of the bleachers once after a fan threw garbage behind him, hit my brother in the face, and seconds later found himself wearing a beer. The heated discussion that followed, which may or may not have involved fists, did nothing to resolve the controversy as to whether or not the Treaty of Versiailles made WWII inevitable.

At any rate, I thoroughly enjoyed the four Boston fans next to us last night. There was a rain delay of about an hour, so by the 4th inning they were unbeleivably shit-faced. One of them was beyond obnoxious, screaming "GIAMBEEEEEEEEEEEE" everytime Jason Giambi came to the plate. Or at least every time until Giambi hit a 3-run homer; then he was quiet. For some reason her also felt compelled to yell, (and I swear on my kids I'm not making this up) "Freedom" and "I am William Wallace" at the top of his lungs. I checked; it wasn't Mel Gibson, although he may have been just as drunk as Mel was when he was pulled over.

The guy next to me was less obnoxious but possibly more drunk. He kept telling me he was OK with my wearing a Yankees shirt "as long as you're cool", (dude, if I wasn't cool my 8 year old could knock you down at this point), and advising me that he and his friends paid $330 each for their seats. Wow. My friend paid $42 and gave me a ticket. I win. He was also chewing tobacco and spitting it into a cup. I watched him miss two consecutive times and hit his own arm.

The worst part of the night was having to leave in the 8th inning because the Boston subway system, (the "T" for those of us in the know), was going to stop running at 12:45. What kind of major league town shuts down their mass transit system at 12:45 on a game night? While it was fun to listen to everyone groan when Derek Jeter tied the game in the 9th, I would have much rather actually watched it.

Oh, and to the guy next to me who promised he wouldn't call Jeter a homo? He makes $18 million a year to play baseball and you just spit tobacco on yourself not once, but twice. I somehow don't think Jeter really cares if you yell "HOMOOOOOOOO" at the top of your lungs all night long.

Just, for God's sake, take the tobacco out before you do it.

Sometimes, It's Just Too Easy

I was reading the paper this morning and noticed a small article about an expected delay in the start of construction of the George W. Bush Library.

Because he's not done with the coloring book yet?

File Under "No Shit"

This afternoon I'm in line at the gas station, getting ready to assume the usual hands around ankles position now necessary to fill up my gas guzzling Honda. That's right fuckers, I drive a Japanese car. Why? Because I hate America, that's why.

Actually, it's because I could afford it and it should last 200,000 miles before I have to buy another car and it was built in Ohio anyway, so there.

But that isn't the point.

Nope, I'm in line behind a woman. A woman wearing cut-off jeans and a wife-beater tank top. No bra, and while this is occasionally enticing, in this case it just made me feel sorry for the tank top fabric, which was clearly worn out from fighting a losing battle with gravity, much like her breasts would ahve been if they hadn't given up that fight about three yeasr ago, and much like you surely are after reading this run-on sentence. Seriously, in high school English that's -5 right there.

She's not in line to pay for gas, which did explain the Camaro parked askew in front of the entrance. Done up in basic black except for the gun-ship metal gray, (grey?), hood. No, shockingly she was just running in to grab cigarettes and, of course, a handful of lottery tickets. I fucking hate getting stuck behind people who have a list of tickets to get, but can't read the names so they have to point them out to the clerk. And the clerk is from Pakistan, (he really is. I'm reporting him to the FBI, because I know he has access to thousands of gallons of gasoline), so he doesn't understand her, which in this case isn't his fault because I've lived in this country all my life and have 19 years of schooling and I can barely make out the words she's trying to grunt, so the whole transcation has to turn into a series of Helen Keller like grunts and pointing until Ms. White Trash '06 has exchanged a handful of crumpled bils for some bright and shiny tickets.

But even that isn't the real point, because before she got to the head of the line, (which gets longer as the prices go up; I suspect it's harder to keep enough chnage to break the $100 bills), she got a phone call on her cell. The following is the actual conversation, as barely deciphered by me

"H'lo"

"Hey"

"Nuttin', jus' gettin' a pack a Marlburro" (she left out the lottery tickets, probably so she doesn't have to share the winnings)

"Cupla minnis. Whuder you doin?"

And when she uttered this last line I thought to my self, "Well, no shit"


"fixin' the trailer?"

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

by Limpy

As you may recall, (and if you don't, just look down), we went to New York City this weekend. Without any kids. So we had no curfew, didn't have to stay sober, and were under no obligation to spend any time in Toys 'R Us or FAO Schwartz. Woo-Hoo!

So we took the train in, walked a few blocks to the hotel because we were traveling light, then saw Spamalot, which is very funny and you should all go run out and see it right now. I also met one of the actors from "Deadwood" at the show. Deadwood is on HBO and probably the best show on TV at the moment. Seriously. So much better than the Sopranos, who I think are just going through the motions til they can end the series. At least they did last year. Anyway, I go up to this guy, tell him how much I like the show, shake his hand and go back to my seat, thn turn around to watch the three poeple he'd been talking to grab pens and papers to get his autograph, because until I came along they apparently didn't know who he was. Nice guy though, very approachable.

Then we went back to the hotel and you should just mind your own business.

Next day we get up bright and early and go down to the financial district, then walk back up to the hotel, which was on 44th. Had breakfats in some little hole in the wall in SoHo. Stopped at the Museum of Sex. While we're in there a friend of mine returns a call I made the night before asking where a certain bar was. I tell him where we are and he says, without missing a beat "Oh, do they still have my balls in a jar there from when (insert ex-wife's name here) cut them off?"

They don't by the way, but they do have a certain chair prominently displayed that my wife wants me to buy. Think of a vibrator combined with recliner combined with a dentist's chair. Now stop thinking about it because you're a disgusting pig.

Then we went to Ann Taylor where I was able to sit in chair and doz off while my wife ably lightened my wallet. Finally get back to the hotel where the wife takes a nap and I go across the street to the Scottish pub and drink and watch the end of the Yankee game. I tried to have dinner there, but couldn't sell the wife on haggis.

For dinner I took another friend's advise and went to Rosa Mexicana. I liked it, my wife didn't. I will say this; if I pay $12 for a margarita, it damn well better be in a bigger glass then what I got. I don't care if it is NYC, let's tip that elbow a little higher shall we? Good guacamole though. Incidnetally, the first night we ate at a BBQ place on 44th called Virgil's. Go there. Now. Seriously.

After dinner we saw Chicago, which neither of us liked.

Now at this point I owe a giant debt or gratitude to jmeped, for telling me that Hogs & Heiffers was the inspiration for the movie "Coyote Ugly" My wife has wanted to dance on that bar ever since she saw the movie. And thanks to jmeped, she has. Several times. I would also like to thank our craziest cab driver of the trip, Ahmed, for getting us there in record time. I seriously found myself counting down the blocks and thinking "if we live for three more blocks we'll get there" And we did. Upon arrival, we realized it's a hell of a lot smaller than the movie version. We stayed for several hours and in between dancing hung out with this couple we met, Carrie "like in the movie", (maybe not the line I'd go with) and Kyle. They're going to Maine this week for vacation, where Carrie is hoping to get engaged and and Kyle is hoping to see a moose. I told him where he was guaranteed to see a moose, and my wife told Carrie a couple of techniques to guarantee she's engaged before they come home. So good luck to them.

Then we went back to the hotel and you can just move along now, nothing to see here.

Sunday we had breakfast in bed and then headed for home, tired and sore.

OK, there may have been something to see.

A good weekend and again my thanks to jmeped for helping my wife to accomplish one of her goals. And Syd? Shooting heroin and being a drag queen for a night isn't that bad.

You're Left To Your Own Devices For A Bit

We're going to NYC for the weekend, without children. This may be the first time in 8 years that I've been to Old Wormy and not gone to a Yankee game or The Bronx Zoo. Frankly, I'll be happy to stay in the hotle room and drink for 48 hours, but I'll probbaly have to go shopping at some point. And food would be a good idea too. Suggestions gladly accepted.

I leave you with this conversation from yesterday morning.

Wife: "So what are you doing tonight? Besides me."

Me: "Well, now I'm calling in sick."

Have a good weekend.

And Somewhere Mel Is Ordering Two Of These

I saw an article in our local weekly, (a frequent source of my musings), on the latest iPod developments. The OhMibod is a vibrator which is designed to synch up its "beat" if you will with the music being played on the iPod. Sort of brings new meaning to the phrase "getting off on the music". I'm not sure what the recommended bands are, but I am certain Anne Murray isn't on the list.

Smoke On The Water

Today's front page news story, (which should give you an idea of how slow things were yesterday in CT), is that one of our largest employers, Electric Boat, is going ban all tobacco product use by its employees within a year. Ordinarily, I'd hav no problem with this; I don't smoke, I don't like smelling like cigarettes, and the allure chewing tobacco has somehow escaped me. But I can't help thinking that if I were in the Navy, and I was on one of the fine submarines that EB builds, I would want to know that it had been put together by someone who's hands weren't shaking from nicotine/tobacco withdrawal.


Apparently the newspaper isn't the only one having a slow day.

I Begin To Detect A Pattern Here

This weekend, while motoring about running errands and burning fossil fuels at a rate of $3.23 a gallon, I yielded to my children's piteous requests for McDonald's and went through the drive-thru. Upon completing our order, (we got free fries! Woo-Hoo!), I am heading towards the homestead when the following takes place.

Daughter (Upon Examining Contents of Happy Meal): "Aw, I got a boy toy."

Wife (In front seat and under her breath): "Shit. All I got was a Filet-O-Fish"

Son (To Daughter): "It's a toy car, you can play with it anyway"

Daughter: "It's a Hummer. Hummer's are for boys"

Wife (To Me): "Don't you say a word."

Like You Wouldn't Have Done The Same Thing

Let me begin by saying two things. First, I was advised last night by interested parties that I can tell this story. Second, this entry contains adult topics which may not be suitable for all readers. Please use your own judgment and proceed with caution.

That should guarantee everyone finishes this one. And no, Pud, Lil Sis and Brighton, it does not involve pre-op transvestites.

Last night I am working somewhat later than usual, as I am planning on going to a concert. Concert probably isn't the right term, it's more of a big block party with a lot of bands. You can hop from bar to bar and stage to stage and check things out as you wish. No charge for the bands, food and drink is coming out of your wallet. There are two problems with my plan. The first is that it's about 93 outside and with the humidity the "heat stress factor" is rumored to be approaching 867, or roughly the surface temeprature of Venus. I've gone outside a couple of times to check and it's really unpleasant. The good news is that the temperature is expected to drop in the evening. The bad news is problem two, the reason for the temperature drop is the series of large thunderstorms that will roll through the area until well into the night. Not something conducive to outdoor concert going.

So I'm in my office doing a little work, keeping an eye on weather maps and grooving along to Liz Phair singing "Jealousy." Let's have a listen shall we?

"Imagine me behind your eyes/and then what did I see/I saw hips/I saw thighs/I saw secret positions/that we never tried/I saw jealousy"

Great song. Thanks Liz. Where was I?

Oh, right. So there I am, be-bopping along and minding my own business. Cue ringing phone. It's mu wife. She wants to know if I've decided to go to the concert.

Me: "I dunno. The weather's looking pretty bad. I'm not even sure if the bands will be able to play"

Her: "So you're coming home?"

Me: "eh, I'll probably hang here for another hour and see what happens. The band I really want to see doesn't go n until 10 anyway"

Her: "Oh"

Me: "Why, what's up"

Her: "Well, you know me, and you know I'd never ask you not go out but..."

Me: (Sigh) "What's going on?"

Her: "well, I don't know how to say this"

Me: "Just say it" (takes a soon to be regretter sip of cherry Coke) (That's a hint)





Her: "The batteries in my vibrator died and I need you home right now"

Me: "PLBBBBBTTTHHHHHHH!!!"


I wonder how the concert was?

With Friends Like These

Story time kids, gather round.

I was reading our alternative weekly paper the other day and was distracted from my usual search for pre-op transvestite submissives by an article on a woman's first car, a 1964 Porshce. It got me thinking about the cars I've had in the past, (none even close to a Porshce, although some close to 1964), and then that reminded me of a joke one of my friends pulled on me.

See that? Here in Limpyville, you not only get to see the results of the Creative Process, you get to see the actual Creative Process itself. From searches for pre-op transvestites to stories about cars. All easily explained. You won't see that kid of quality just anywhere folks. Although apparently if you look in the back pages of the Advocate you will see 82 pre-op transvestites.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Anyhoo....

I got my first new car back in 1994. I was graduating law school and the early 80's Buick I'd been nursing along was clearly ready for a hospice rather than another tune-up. I took my life-savings, a whopping $1,000, down to a local Saturn dealership and bought a car. It was green and had four doors. Might have been an SR-1. I asked about a trade-in and they laughed. I think I got them to take the Buick without charging me for the towing.

When buying the car I had two conditions. I didn't want a white car, (they're a bitch to keep clean, plus white is boring), and I didn't want air-conditioning. Truth be told I wanted it, I just couldn't afford to extra $25 a month it would have cost. Let that be a lesson to all of you out there; if you're going to go to law school, try to graduate in the top part of the class, not the bottom part. Sure years later you can laugh at all the nerds who have burned out and had heart attacks, (although that is in really poor taste, what's wrong with you anyway?), but up front you can't afford to air condition your car.

Two weeks later I arrive to pick up my car. My friend Mike drives me over, because by this time I've set the Buick on fire for the insurance money. I'm kidding. As far as you know.

A word about Mike. I am not a small man. I am not a passive man. But Mike is a really big, really aggressive man. This is important.

We get to the dealership and my salesman comes out and says he has bad news. They checked my car when it came in that day, but there's damage to the undercarriage and he can't release it. But they can let me have a white car, with air conditioning.

They'll charge for the air conditioning.

My response was something along the lines of "are you out of your mind" Mikes response was more along the lines of "you highway robbing cocksuckers" I demand to see the manager. Manager backs up the salesman. Mike offers to talk with both of them out back. I offer to take my business elsewhere. The salesman says he can understand why we're upset, ("rabid" would have been more accurate), but will we please come into the back so he can show us the damage and prove they're not liars.

We go in the back, mostly because we know they have tools back there that we can use as weapons, and there is my new, green, air-conditioned car, with balloons, and my wife in the front seat. Also there is my friend Shawn, who had set the entire thing up. He had called the dealership and arranged to have them set me up. Still one of the best pranks I've ever seen. I could have killed him, but instead I just bowed down and conceded I'd been had.

Years later I kidnapped his dogs the day he was supposed to return from his honeymoon. His wife hated me for that, but Shawn said privately, "Dude, (he'd lived in northern CA for a few years), totally respect that."

Another Great Leap Forward for Women's Athletics

Danica Patrick's meltdown during a race this weekend was one of the funniest things I've seen, and had to set back women athletes about 15 years. What an idiot she is.

For those of you who may have missed it, Danica wasn't having a good race. She pulled her car over, (or it stalled; I just saw the lowlights), and proceeded to have a full-on temper tantrum. Her in-car camera shows her beating her little fists on the steering wheel. She gets out of the car and beats said fist against her legs, then, and I shit you not, actually stamps her feet on the ground. Then she threw her helmet and some other equipment to the ground, but couldn't even do that right. There was no velocity behind the throw, and she looked like a five year old who was just at the ned of her rope and couldn't hold onto her toys anymore. And I know because I have a five year old and I've seen her do that.

Now, I don't watch racing, and I don't even regard it as a sport. It's driving around in a circle really fast, that's about it. If you've got the fastest car and the best pit crew, you'll probably win. But Patrick is probably one of the two best known female athletes in the US right now, and if she wants to be taken seriously as a driver, throwing a hissy fit on national TV probably isn't the way to do it. For christ's sake, kick the crap out of the car, but stay away from stomping your feet and beating your fists. You look like a five year old.

On the plus side, in an interview afterwards she did manage to avoid blaming the Jews. Unlike some well-known male-type folks who may have had trouble involving cars in the recent past.

Oh, Those Filthy Jews

In case you live under a rock, you might have missed the weekend's Hollywood excitement in which one of the ultimate A-listers, Mel Gibson, had a wee bit of trouble with the local gendarmes. Seems Mel decided to drive home from parts unknown after having consumed more than his fair share of alcholic spirits. He was "allegedly" clocked at 87 in a 45. Now, look, I'm not going to sit here and tell you that I've never driven home when I probably should not have, although I don't do that anymore and would urge you all not to do that either, but I can safely say that even in the worst shape I've ever been in, I have never, ever, gone 87 in a 45.

Mel was apparently, (or allegedly for you legal sticklers out there), clocked on the ol' blood alcohol test at .12, above CA's legal limit of .08. The only time I've taken a breath test was the night I passed the bar exam. Coincidentally, I went to a bar that night. The bar had a breathalyzer that you could use for a quarter. While I'm not sure how accurate that device was, byt the end of the night I was consistently blowing a .22. Also a middle-aged law firm partner, but I needed a job and we're getting off the topic here. And no, I did not drive home myself that night. My long suffering fiancee' took me home.

Now, the original topic was Mel's, (I call him Mel cuz we're tight like that y'hear), troubles with an apparent DWI. Bad enough to be an A-lister and get pulled over by the police while drunk and in a car. That's not good. So how could you make it worse? Well, you could start by resisiting arrest, try to escape, and then, of course, blame the Jews. According to the news accounts, Mel asked one officer if they were a Jew, then started ranting about how the Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world.

Which of course they are. I for one will never forget their work in starting the Korean conflict. And of course they were nearly indispensable in pushing us into Vietnam. And don't get me started on their role in the War of Spanish Succession. (Seriously, don't. I don't know anything about it.)

Now I like Mel Gibson and making fun of Jews as much as the next guy. If it wasn't for Mel, we wouldn't have great films like "Braveheart", which really is one of my favorites, and if it weren't for making fun of Jewish folks I couldn't accuse my pal Noah of unfairly using genetics to win at Monopoly. Which I really did one night at the same bar as the breathalyzer, although on a different night and yes, I did rip the line off from Stephen King in "It". Which is also one of my favorite books and the author of which was also pulled over fro driving while intoixicated, although as far as I know he didn't blame the Jews for it. As I recall, he blamed traffic cones and it's a funny story.

Mel's story isn't as funny, except to sick bastards like me. I guess is Dad is somewhat of a nut, thinks the Holocaust didn't happen, and Mel himslef is a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very religious guy in the Catholic Church. Although he seems to have missed a few lessons in his Cathechism about not saying stupid shit about others.

Now I'm still going to watch Braveheart and Lethal Weapon, (but not Lethal Weapon 3-4), and I'll enjoy them, even if I think Mel is a dickhead. But here's the best part. He tried to escape from the scene. Where was he gonna go? Can you imagine the officers at the scene? "Uh, Mel Gibson is running away. How will we ever find him? Let's hope someone happens to recognize him when he goes into hiding" Seriously, Mel, where the fuck were you going to go?