My Recent Confessions and Observations on Twitter, Where Everything Must Be Said in 140 Characters or Less

I like to work ahead. I'm busy prepping my post-Christmas let-down....

Headline: "3 million bees found in Miami home." Well, it is the Bingo capital of the world.

I'm always relieved at restaurants when my server says, "Enjoy your meal." Otherwise, I'm at a loss as to how to proceed.

Just in: "Dentist accused of ripping out woman's unpaid dental work." Ahh, the bridge to nowhere.

The worst part? After, he said, "Bite me."

I'm in a panic. I need a time machine set for 1978 -- and hurry! I've got a new shipment of Karl Malden nose jokes....

Headline: "Man charged after allegedly passing gas toward [police]." On what charge? Faulty fuel line? Tailquiffing? Blattery? Cop a fluffy?

Traffic headline: "Chicken Truck Fire." All ended well when nearby gravy tanker mashed potato truck.

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100 Things About Me #159

Neat, The Beatles
At the height of the initial blast of Beatlemania, a mostly forgotten six-minute musical documentary was paired with an unrelated film, "Flight From Ashiya." For many Americans during the spring of 1964, "The Beatles Come to Town" was the lure to the movie theatre, not the standard issue WWII action feature, starring Yul Brynner and Richard Widmark.

The boys' release, according to The Internet Movie Database, is a "Pathe News Technicolor short showing The Beatles in concert at the ABC Cinema in Manchester, Lancashire on 11/20/63."

I remember sitting in the front row of Atlanta's Emory Theatre, sandwiched between school chums on a happy Friday night in April. It was a much anticipated event to see the mod mop tops upon the big screen and in color!

First, however, and sadly, we had to endure the 100 prop-engine-lagged minutes of "Flight From Ashiya." The delay was interminable for a bunch of unruly 12-year-olds wired on fizzy drinks and Milk Duds.

(There may have been contraband Bazooka gum, also. What happens in my mouth stays in my mouth.*)

We soon found ourselves devising an alternative plot during the war movie to survive the inconvenience of watching it. The adlibbed rewrite was pretty good, too, and provided hysterical ongoing commentary.

In our version, desperate soldiers were flying around Europe, racing the clock and catastrophe, searching for a men's room. There was a lot of nerve-racking suspense -- and explosive giggles.

Anyway, we couldn't have cared less about the picture. We were waiting for The Beatles' to come "here" to sustain us, as we faced the long months 'til August and the arrival of "A Hard Day's Night."

What a time.

A fabmost bit of all right.

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Related: "100 Things About Me #128: The Flab One Meets the Fab Four"
100 Things: #1 | Previous | Next

*Excepting bubble inflations, where applicable.


Triumph Over David Blaine

Last time, you'll remember, Morty insulted a hummingbird.

If his hijinks brought joy into the heart of at least one feline, maybe one person, a shut-in, perhaps, then his work will not have been in vain -- for he's a nice cat.

He can't meow that about some dogs....

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Cat photos: Where's Morty?

Morty's bird-watching.

He's especially annoyed by hummingbirds. I heard him meowing, "Hey, learn the words, moron! Get a teleprompter! A cue card chick! A hymnal! Something!"

The cat's been listening to the Rickles CDs again.


'My Dad's Got Restless Legs'

Continued From: "30,000 Dominoes"

I've mentioned "domino stunts make me nervous." In this video, being nervous makes a domino stunt.

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Look Here! Look Here! Look Here!

Yesterday, yes, only yesterday, I wrote:

"I was not pleased to see the Disney machine's continued commercialization of the Hannah Montana wig."

And today, I see:

I rest my case. Bailiff, book 'em.


Mope on a Soap

I was not pleased to see the Disney machine's continued commercialization of the Hannah Montana wig.

Not only were there Hannah Montana Cleansing Body Bars, but the new product also commandeered valuable shelf space, banishing my beloved The Fat Guy From "Borat" Cleansing Body Bars from the store.

I went home empty handed to squeeze out lingering Oil of Goulet Body Wash Plus Crème Ribbons and relax in a tepid Ann B. Davis Bubbly Bath with a bobbing Jerry Mathers Rubber Beaver.



My Recent Confessions and Observations on Twitter, Where Everything Must Be Said in 140 Characters or Less

Headline: "Illinois woman accused of bartending in the buff." Madam, I pray you had the decency to blindfold the Shirley Temples.

Where are all the swizzle stick jokes when I need them?

That woman bartending in the nude adds new meaning to the term "nip it in the Bud."

John Adams and Don Rickles won Emmys. How sweet is that? They were roomies, you know.

The government in its divine wisdom has bailed out my finances. My piggy bank is full of bacon.

Things aren't going well in Congress. I think we all saw this one coming. Nancy Pelosi blinked herself into an "I Dream of Jeannie" episode.

I'm looking to inject modern thinking into my romantic life. No more spooning. Let's spork! Hey, baby, Swiss Army knife?

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Getting Sexy With Jim Gaffigan

We made the long trek to the Home of Waffle House, Atlanta, Georgia, to see Jim Gaffigan. As part of The Sexy Tour, Jim spoke on many topics, including these favorites: Hot Pockets, Waffle House (yesss!), and bacon.

Can't see the video? Try refreshing this page or visit Funny or Die.

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And to top off our special night, on the drive home, we went to Waffle House Wendy's.


What the Heck Was I Thinking?

Actual Messages I Wrote, Forgot, Then Found While Cleaning Out My Email Folders


I believe from the bottom of my heart that the child besmirches the good name of Stinky.


Haven't read the Thwacker book, but it's here in my room. On an impulse, I purchased Phyllis Diller's bio, "Like a Lampshade in a Whorehouse." The promise of Fang in a bordello -- well, I'm sure you understand...


I go out. Who would miss going to the exciting Dump?

I have to stay home all of the time, of course, until I can make enough new garbage so I can go revisit the Dump.


How Long Could My Big Brother Survive Chained to a Bunk Bed With a Velociraptor?

Out of the blue, brother Bob wrote to inform me he would survive much longer than me chained to a bunk bed with a velociraptor. The unspoken sibling ridicule and implied smirk were palpable.

He says he would lounge and linger for 63 seconds, compared to 28, my estimated time of departure.

I'm cuter.

Of course, Bob would fare longer. He'd make me sleep on the bottom bunk under the threat of noogies and the pitter patter of raptor.

I'm cuter.

Regardless, I will have to rethink my marinating in a nice Béarnaise sauce before retiring.

I'm cuter.


How Long Could I Survive Chained to a Bunk Bed With a Velociraptor?

Thanks for asking. I know you probably want to move on with your life, so...

Well, yeah. But it would take me 19 seconds to remember my lines and commence the cry like a little girl.

I think I'd fare much better taking him on in Parcheesi, especially if I got to roll first. Dibs on yellow.

And the Tic Tacs®. If I didn't use Tic Tacs® for the 37 years previous, I just might triumph.

The velociraptor would stump me on Sudoku, though, My legs and arms and head would be munched before I could count to nine.

Excuse the brag, but I'm kind of a feast. That would be a day I would not be proud of my chewy nougat center.

Or my party name, "Sweetmeat."


Aw, Hell, I'm Running for President

I've been on the campaign trail. Got me a $20 haircut and love chillun on the way. Vote for me!

Oh. And I'm for Change.


30,000 Dominoes

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Domino stunts make me nervous. Having to do all of that delicate set-up work would drive me crazy and cause an emergency ejection out of my skin. I can't even stack a sandwich without a sedative.

I've abandoned PB&J and eat P'nut Butter and Benzodiazepines.


Smack-Crazed Kitties

Morty at the Movies with Morty the CatLike any good parent, I worry about Morty's associations. Peer pressure amongst kids is almost too much to combat in the 21st century, especially when complemented by the power and reach of the Internet.

I found this pair of how-to videos on Morty's iPOD and, frankly, I'm disturbed. "Gigi Kills the Toothbrush" and "Pussy vs. Printer" will give the boy violent ideas. I may have to send him to his box.

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Cat photos: Where's Morty?

Morty spent Labor Day watching the "Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon."

He likes to see Jerry lead the band and Ed McMahon cough up the hairballs.


What in the Wide, Wide World of Sports Is A-Goin' on Here?

Our Labor Day weekend was centered around a retro dusk-to-dawn show at a drive-in movie theatre. The program: "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure," "Blazing Saddles," "This Is Spinal Tap," "Kentucky Fried Movie," and "The Cheerleaders" (a last minute replacement for "Up in Smoke"). We had some laughs, some naps, and met some new skeeters.

I was reminded of the great promotional gimmick Warner Bros. employed for "Blazing Saddles" back in 1974. At select drive-ins throughout the United States, advance sneak previews of the film were scheduled with free admission offered to everybody arriving on horseback.

One of my regrets in life is I didn't attend the event. The sight of popcorn-chomping patrons on Paliminos parallel parked alongside speaker poles beneath the giant movie screen is an image I can only dream about, which I did the other night, saddled inside a Pinto.


What the Heck Was I Thinking?

Actual Messages I Wrote, Forgot, Then Found While Cleaning Out My Email Folders


Bob, take a cold bath and contemplate your Elvis chenilles.


Golly. Your very own recording in jet-setter vinyl -- and it's a 33 1/3! Basic black is so chi-chi.

"Miss Arlene Francis Presents Music Appreciation for the Home," a must for any sock ball. I have The Zombies' cover version.

Be sure to get your tux cleaned and top hat blocked, so you may listen in full high fidelity. For heightened enchantment, wear your monocle, maybe a cravat. Have your servant dust the dust cover and make that marvelous spinach dip the girls all adore. Order in extra Bugles!


What I Learned: Get yourself a gigantic tractor and run it into things. THAT'S comedy!


And Another Thing...

May Hulk Hogan do-rag your cantaloupe.

May Michael Phelps swim laps in your Olympic-sized navel.

May record high humidity warp your cardboard cut-out of The Dallas Cheerleaders into Brussels sprouts in a nice boots sauce.

May Lindsay Lohan pucker your carpet tiles mosaic of Ugly Betty.

May your email spam expand to include email asparagus and potatoes.

May your bow tie sag into the shape of a generally unsightly spastic colon tie.

May Victoria's Secret be You on her shun list.

May a near-sighted, off-key troubadour strum your varicose veins.

May Doc Severinsen spit valve your juice box.

May Popeye's forearms develop a slow leak "s-s-s-sss" and everyone thinks it's you.


Gimme a Break

To tell you the truth, there are some days I do not care to take the time to write in this journal. It's a hefty inconvenient hassle to word stuff, do all of that creating and crafting and such.

Today is exactly one of those days. I don't want to do it and I won't do it.

And if you don't like it, may your prostate doctor be a closet ventriloquist.

May over-sized wet-nosed hound dogs sniff your ever-present essence of chalupas.

May your favorite soup kitchen/laundromat ladle up a big bowl of Vegetables and Trousers.

May a brooding, disoriented hip hopper hop on your hip.

May the ghost in black of Johnny Cash narrate your medication regimen and beg for swag or a hit on Reese Witherspoon.

May The Brady Bunch force-feed you Marshamallows! Marshamallows! Marshamallows!

May Carlsbad Caverns go good just to ruin your visit.

May you never know the difference between stalactites and stalagmites and bullet bras.

May a plucky chipmunk burrow through your garden burrito.

May roving-eyed symphony musicians in unsightly stained cummerbunds gang-Debussy your date.



My Recent Confessions and Observations on Twitter, Where Everything Must Be Said in 140 Characters or Less

These ads trouble me. When, oh, when, oh, when did "a 4-hour erection" become such a bad thing?

What about my rematches for the west coast?

I'm living the charmed life. I went to the store tonight and found not one, but two distinctly different Froot Loops sales going on. Sweet!

I didn't see this one coming. I'm no longer allowed to two-hand scratch my scalp without wearing a bra on my elbows.

Shaking my head. Obama stumbled with his VP choice. He should have picked a man of action and change. He should have picked The ShamWow Guy.

Headline: "David Duchovny checks into rehab for sex addiction." Who knew? I check in for the Free Breakfast Buffet and, of course, the sex.

Just in: "61-year-old woman gives birth in Japan." Obviously, she didn't qualify for the senior citizen's dismount.

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