Three Strikes, You're Devout

On my third attempt to see "The Passion of the Christ," I feared the movie might incite anti-Semitism, however I found everything about the film to be free of concern. At least, until the audience pelted the screen with Jujubes.

Spin City

Our washing machine stopped its circle of life. So, while we wait for parts and service, my wife and I returned to those wonderful days gone by, heading over to the launderette to update my unmentionables, the happiest panties in all the world, but you didn’t hear it from me.

The last time I recall paying by the load was in 1980 – not counting “Slam Dunk Ernest” (1995) – before Donna and I became one in marriage and dirty clothes hamper.

In my single days, I inserted either a quarter or 50 cents to spin an armful of soiled shirts and socks into “GQ” splendor. The price has soared to $1.50 or $1.75, depending on mechanical capacity and/or accounting errors (a k a coin gobbling).

The cleansing results, it seems, have also changed over the years. In the rumpled, devalued, pay-as-you-go laundry of the 21st century, I look less like I stepped from the pages of a rugged male magazine and more like something a John Deere tiller belched and shucked.

That’s okay, though. Donna watches HGTV and knows how to fashion me into a handsome planter among a nosegay of hibiscus. I get lots of nice comments everywhere I go, except I find my style to be easier to maintain when I avoid the near-sighted product testers in Wal-Mart’s garden center on Fertilizer Sampler Day.

In her spare moments at Washy Wash and Possible Stale Snax in Yet Another Threatening Machine™, Donna annoyed a few locals with what appeared to be her intrusive peep-eyes at those strangers’ laundry (see photo). She’d march up and down the aisles, raising the lid on each top-loader washer while humming “Pop Goes the Weasel.” We never mention her Jack-in-the-box compulsion.

As our clothes whirled and gurgled their debris and perspiration down the drain, I devised strategies to put my slice of the good Lord’s afternoon to high pursuits and bounty.

I couldn’t help but notice I got clearer reception on the ax-murderer-acting-all-ferrety-by-the-emergency-exit’s stolen motel towels than I get at home on Turner Classic Movies.

When host Robert Osborne didn’t appear at the end of the fluff cycle to tell me what I had just watched and how it related to C.B. DeMille, Miss Edith Head, and the fresh late Ann Miller, I paraded around the premises of this allegorical Ship of Suds, glad-handing and introducing myself to ye weary, fellow travelers.

“How do, Matey, awash your swabs and swaddling clothes,” I hailed with my lazy eye shut for grins. “I’m an All Free Clear Stainlifters Allergen Fighter myself. The li’l noble lady espouses Tide FREE of Perfumes and Dyes. You, sir, you no doubt be an Ultra Clorox2 for Colors man. Stain Lifting Action and Brighter Colors!”

Amazingly, more than one soul responded, “Move it, Chumwhiff,” we-uns gonna gits me a Spwite.”

I spent much of my wash-n-dry purgatory in the casino, playing the slots.


I was on a streak! I won every time.

Our interminable damnation and rinse at the coin laundry crawled to an end, although we’re still bickering over the motive. I say we ran out of quarters. Donna cites a waning desire to endure more Univision.

Such a shame, because they were funnin’ a review of that hit new movie, “Titanic,” with a man in a fright wig and comedy goggles reading goofy nutty wacky zany gags off cards. I laughed ‘til I got myself elsewhere, finding an hour of amusement impersonating a harmonica on a lint trap. I was pretty good, too, only stopping to spit brassiere fuzz during my “Petticoat Junction” medley.

We strolled hand-on-basket-in-hand back to the dorm to cram for the Poli-Sci pop quiz and eat pizzas. Next week, spring break!

My Religious Experience

I returned to the multiplex to see that new movie epic. I'm no theological scholar, but I believe there's either a misprint in my bible or the projectionist mixed up the reels. Nevertheless, I was thoroughly riveted by "The Passion of the Mooseport," and I'll be converting the next time I get to a meadow for the sacrifice of the Hackman.

Taste Test: Rice Krispies - The Cat in the Hat Recipe

I am a big fan of cereal. I eat a bowl with milk each morning, generally mixing three or four selections together. Today, it was oat bran, granola, cinnamon Life, and honey shredded wheat. Yum. I could eat cereal all day long. In the pantry, there are seldom less than a dozen boxes of crunchies waiting to festoon my spoon.

When I heard March 2 was Dr. Seuss' centennial, I foraged through the raisin brans and Froot Loops to find the vintage Rice Krispies we purchased in November. They are special Snaps, Crackles, and Pops, teaming up with that darn The Cat in the Hat for toasted rice goodness and Universal / Dreamworks big movie plug schlockiness.

I'd been saving this box of R.K.'s, waiting for a perfect occasion, mostly the shelf expiration date, so I could throw it away.

Since childhood, I have loathed Dr. Seuss and every crappy, unfunny thing he stood for. His writing is the easiest, feeblest sort of drooled garbage and your kids must, I say, MUST be on drugs or sugar binges to tolerate him. Do an intervention, parents, GET YOUR KIDS OFF DRUGS AND SEUSS!

I digress. I love the Rice Krispies, always have. Well, I ain't fond of the Snaps, but Crackles rock!

So, I thought I'd break down and try The Cat in the Hat recipe in honor of the birthday bore -- and make needed room on my shelf for silly rabbity Trix. Okay, Mr. Funny Puss, Mr. Comedy Cat, you, here's your chance to make me laugh with your hilarious breakfast munchables.

I'll be impartial. I promise. I will be a sport and give The Cat in the Hat Rice Krispies a fair evaluation. In fact, I'm rooting for this cereal to be the rib-ticklingest food feast of my slurpin' 'n' chompin' career. Man, I'm almost purring.

I sifted through the box for a puff in the shape of The Cat in the Hat. There were none to be found. I was cheated. I was misled. I'm really going to be miffed if these Rice Krispies aren't cat-flavored.

I chose a plump Krispy for the taste test. The little guy certainly looked amusing, and I savored its promise of spicy calico bobtail.

The Verdict: It don't taste funny. Or catty. Or chapeauy.

::::: Taste Test: Dexter's Mini Sandwich Cookies | Taste Test: Scooby-Doo! Baked Cheddar Crackers

"Come Back on the Third Day"

I tried to see "The Passion of the Christ," but the ticket lady was agnostic. She didn't know if the movie was showing or not.

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.