Fast Forward

Questions for Mike

1. What one thing are you most looking forward to today?

To finish these questions so I can get back to my drugs. I carve happy gnomes out of solidified Pepto-Bismol.

2. What one thing are you most looking forward to over the next week?

The Oscars! I enjoy feeling superior to that ragtag herd of degenerates. I also like looking at cleavage.

3. What one thing are you most looking forward to this year?

When the Oscars' production numbers are over, I'll have an entire year to relax before the next production numbers bring me down to a palpitating pool of sequiny misery and Debbie Allen.

("And now, to perform the fifth Oscar-nominated Best Song, Reba McEntire and Jesus with The Vienna Boys Choir under the direction of Michael Jackson, from 'The Passion of the Christ,' here's 'Judas Got Game.'")

4. What one thing are you most looking forward to over the next five years?

The Olsen Twins' inevitable career move into "Playboy." I think we've all seen it coming. I don't need to see the photos. I just like smirking, "Told ya!"

5. What one thing are you most looking forward to for the rest of your life?

"Whatever happened to Rosie O'Donnell?"

::::: More: Ask Humor Boy -- Instructive. Entertaining. Nothing Better to Do.

The Passion of the Mike

The Gospel According to Durrett

Thou shalt not Hip-Hop. Love thy Bunny Hop.

Thou shalt have no god before Judge Judy. God has diplomatic immunity and a big stick and looks bad in a tie.

'Thou shalt not take thy name of thy Lord, your God, in vain, but feel free to ask, ''WHACHOOTALKINABOUT, Moses?!''

Remember thy Sabbath day, to keep it holy, and to catch ''The Simpsons" on FOX. Next, see Liza Minnelli on an all-new "Arrested Development!"

Thy Combover.com comforts me for I am not one of them.

Thou shalt not kill, which is why I write so lame.

Go forth and multiply, but never ask a bobbleheaded goon to check thy spelling.

Reassess thy Charo. She's really quite talented.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house; thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, nor his male servant, nor his female servant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that is thy neighbor's. Batteries not included. Not applicable in New Jersey. Wednesday is Ladies' Night; one per coveter.

Thou shalt not steal. Forward thy links.

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. Thou shalt not bare false breasts on "Girls Gone Wild!"

Honor thy mother and thy father and my expired Blimpie's coupons.

::::: More: Holy Babble: Ask Humor Boy

We Remember Mamas

Danny Gallagher is a fine young man I find myself mentoring in the Big Smart-Ass outreach program. We go for long walks and meditation and giggle at dumshits.

It's my way of giving back to the community. I do it, as always, for the children.

Danny's catching me up on his family. I'd like to meet them. He writes of Mother: "She's one of those caring mothers who raised me in a warm, loving environment by summoning Azrael and his dominion of demons from Hell if my room wasn't constantly clean."

Good heavens. The lad and I are alike in so many ways. I have been summoned by Azrael and his dominion of demons from Hell. Usually, when they need a fourth for Pinochle Night.

I don't much enjoy those visits. I get a good hand. It's an apparition.

And they seldom wash their phantasms before raking through the Chex Mix.

Those guys just kill me, bringing me back to go fetch beer from the QuikTrip.

Let me forewarn you, Death is a cold, hard place. Plus, Mom's there to make my wraith put on clean underwear.

Snail Email

I'm in Email Hell today. Something's wrong with my DSL service. The messages are trickling in -- except for the spam. Oh, thank God, I'm getting my spam in a timely fashion.

And that's a good thing because the world is concerned about my penis.

My fans need to keep in touch with me, so it's important I receive their 400 penile posts every day after night, night after day, year after year. Earthlings care about MikeChicken and the nuggets.

In fact, I kid you not, in the past few minutes, a Hilda Lawson and an Alana Gaines of the Internet have written to me 22 times with appendage imperatives crying out such diverse subject lines as "Increase Your Penis Width" and "Doctor Approved and Recommended."

Ladies, ladies, I hear your anguish, but I assure you my penis is in good hands. We can handle it.

Stomaching Cats

Talking to acquaintances, the conversation roamed to our kitties. Proud parents are we.

Cats are superb companions and mine are respectful, too. They walk between me and the computer screen, but almost never step on the laptop -- well, ever since that ugly ampersand incident.

Occasionally, they will pretend to claw and cover kitty litter onto my keyboard when I'm about to publish an online article, scattering pens and Post-It notes all over the desk. Oh, how we do cut up!

Kelp and Morty keep me company throughout the day. Morty is the baby, three (Kelp, 17), and he has a nasal irregularity. He snores when he sleeps, so that helps keep me awake when I'm faking I'm a writer.

When Morty is up and on the prowl, he snorts a lot. We, of course, call him "Snorty" as a nickname, and recently have taken to "Mortimer Snort."

Yelping finicky pusses are a universal problem, according to our group. What to feed them?

"Salmon Fancy Feast," I proclaimed. "Food of the Gods. It brings cat world peace."

We've been buying minced -- gotta be minced, a law by the citizenry of the feline kingdom -- We've been buying minced salmon FF since 1980 in its singular color-coded tin. Whenever my wife and I stroll through the supermarket, "What else do we need?" is a common refrain. One word says it all: "Orange."

"Not good," said neighbor Sheila. "That's solid protein, not good." She shook her head and pawed a whisker.

"Huh?" I choked. "Lindsay lived 20 years and Kelp is 17. Fancy Feast is their absolute favorite 'wet' entrée and was almost always present at meals, alongside a bowl of dry food. Next thing you're gonna tell us is to make them give up cigarettes."

She agreed, reluctantly, dry food can be a nutritional dietary supplement and suggested we try several moist food products recommended by her veterinarian.

I shook my head, stifling the urge to bite her on the back of the neck and tussle to the floor.

"We've found once they've had Fancy Feast, they never go back," I said. "Those canned scientific foods, that's tossed away money. My cats will not eat it. Days go by and they'd rather starve. The dry versions are a little more palatable. I like Bleu Cheese with mine."

"Bye," she hissed, slinking away. Sheila can be so catty.

::::: More Morty: Gopher Break | A Kelp and Morty Christmas - Six photos.

Sh(all)ow Business

A Ray Taylor of Atlanta, Georgia writes, using a pseudonym:

This weekend I watched two movies, "Lost in Translation" with Bill Murray and "The Music Box" with Laurel and Hardy! Both movies had me crying, but for different reasons. Is there anyway I can get back the time I spent watching "Lost in Translation"?

Cosmo Topper

Boy, thank you. "Lost in Translation" is SO OVERRATED. At best, it's routine. It has a few grins, provided by Bill Murray's personality, and none in the script. The flies are swarming over the Oscars.

"The Music Box" is the film that made me choose between the piano and heavy lifting. My back brace says, "Hi!"

Speaking of showbiz, I saw the Elvis and Cher impersonators, plus the actual taxidermied Wayne Newton visit "The View." I guess I'm ready to head on out to my cemetary.

The Mail I Get

A Bob Walker of Wichita, Kansas writes:

Hey, Mike, before you rotate your dimples, could you play more Barry White on your site?

No.

To which, Bob responds:

May a day old bread truck backfire mold on your hood ornament.

I just had to get that off my chest.

By the way, day camp was fun, but I miss my mommy.

To which, I respond: May Justin Timberlake out your pastry squirter.

Emission: Impossible

Valentine's Day was impending. I had hopes of maybe mamma in her 'kerchief and I in my cap all settled down for a long winter's tap.

So, I spent the past week on a home improvement project, installing a novelty machine in the bathroom.

I believe in practicing safe sex, even at those times I'm not practicing.

With the condom condo screwed to the wall over the sink, ready to dispense, we embraced and entered Valentine's Night--

There's never anyone around with change for a dollar when we need them. Next year, I shall make it a priority to keep coins nearby.

Our amorous carnival of sheer passion and assorted oils and linguini and disco caterwauling was interrupted, called on account of quarters.

Ironically, there would be no rubber match.

My darn luck. And she was Morse-coding our sea shanty, too.

Super Boob

Phew! It's been a long day. I spent all of it surfing the Internet for my About site, tracking down parodies, jokes, videos, and cartoons lampooning Janet Jackson's premeditated faux pas at Super Bowl XXXVIII, where Justin Timberlake ripped her clothes to reveal a publicity-seeking mammary.

Web sites are atwitter, adding Janet Jackson boob material to their pages. Here are a few of the spoofs I've collected: The Janet Jackson Teat Tape (the actual halftime show video) ... ''Michael to Janet: You're an Embarrassment to the Family'' ... Janet Jackson's Boob Cartoons ... ''John Ashcroft Detains Janet Jackson's Right Boob'' ... ''Madonna Mad About Janet Jackson's Exposed Booby'' ... Jay Leno, David Letterman, Craig Kilborn Janet Jackson one-liners ... ''Janet Jackson Intentionally Exposes Herself Unintentionally'' ... ''Britney-Jacko to One-Up Justin-Janet Stunt'' ... ''Broadcasting Chief: 'It Was Outrageous and Awesome''' ... ''FCC Chairman to Nail Janet Jackson'' ... Janet and Justin's Top 10 Excuses for ''Peek-a-Boobie'' ... ''The Daily Show With Jon Stewart": ''Teatgate 2004'' ... ''Janet Jackson's Breast Brings Inspiration'' ... ''Miss Jackson is Nasty (and Breast in Show'') ... ''Ashcroft Buys Blue Drape to Cover Janet Jackson's Breast'' ... ''Breast of Mass Destruction'' ... ''FCC Chief to Personally Handle Janet Jackson's Breast Issue'' ...

I would've done more, but I'm out of milk.

::::: Go: Breastgate: Janet Jackson Humor or Bust

Heave-Ho Ho Ho

Mike bids farewell to the yuletide tree.

There's a joke going around about the Super Bowl halftime show. People are wondering if Janet Jackson's boob saw its shadow.

Oh, I love the jolliness, but, seriously, the next morning, February 2, our Christmas tree did not see its shadow, so I took the beauty down six weeks early.

Mike removes his cherished Wienermobile. It is time. The mustard has hardened.

We always try to nestle the Christmas ornaments snug in their boxes and back into the shed by March 20. That's my birthday and we've got a schedule to keep here, people.

We reclaim the space in our living room for the Mikemas kudzu. Living in the South, we insist on a regional flair during the birthday festivities.

Mikemas, 2002: Morty peers through kudzu from atop his perch on the TV console. Like any cat, he loves to jump and hide in the holiday vines.

By the way, we're in talks for licensing Mikemas celebration franchises, so put those Christmas trees in storage now. We may be coming to your town.

Generally, without water and setting our total electric heat to 90°, the kudzu is swift to die after Mikemas. We see the sofa peep out around May 11. The ottoman is usable June 4. The Great Sweep the Crib Weekend ("Bekudz We Care") is set for the first Saturday in August. We're off Monday and Tuesday. The Christmas tree moves in the next morning at 9, 8 Central. Feliz Navidad!

Weekend Hipsters

Friday
We saw Wendy Liebman perform at a club.

The stranger across our table saw me. It was creepy. She kept staring at me. I'm not used to that kind of attention. I was eating with my mouth closed. My legs were crossed. My nose was clean. The caribou antlers were in the car on the hat hook. My shirt of thorns was fashionably tucked under a quilted sweater of Bounce® Gentle Breeze dryer sheets, "all the softening and static control protection of Bounce® with a crisp, light freshness of clothes dried in a cool breeze," as promised by Procter and Gamble, who did not compensate me for this endorsement, ingrates. My chest tresses were professionally thatched. I don't know what she saw in me. Quit it, lady. She's still thinking about me. Quit it, I say!

Saturday
From the transcript of an actual conversation:

Wife: (Proud to be showing me a new white laundry basket with an indentation on one side for comfort when holding it next to the waist.) Look at what I bought. It's called ''The Hipster.'' I love it!

Mike: Well, I'll start making you some dirty clothes, then.

Sunday
At the multiplex, I watched "Along Came Polly," "Teacher's Pet," and 20 minutes of "Looney Tunes: Back in Action." Meanwhile, Donna beheld "The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King."

I couldn't endure her movie. I enjoyed the LOTR trilogy up until those stoopid walking, talking trees in part two. What's with that H. R. Pufnstuf junk? Where's Witchiepoo? Sheesh, I exited the Frodo flick never to return.

I insist films be realistic, like, say, "Teacher's Pet." It's about a dog who wishes to become a human boy, except the mad doctor fails to adjust for dog years, so the mutt is transformed into an adult. That's logical. The numbers add up. I'm a man of science.

::::: Wendy Liebman's Official Site