In Poor Taste

Dear Egg Nog,

It's been a while since I wrote and I just wanted to touch base to express how I was feeling about you this holiday: Not good. Who do you think you are? Holiday or no holiday, a drink shouldn’t be spreadable. You haunt my dreams with your audacity to exist; not to mention your eerie non-resemblance to anything edible. And your holiday card? (Pictured above) Not since The Shining twins have I seen a more startling duo. You’re like a cup of barf with a dash of nutmeg. An oral enema. Drano. Could you be any thicker? If I wanted a glass of tree sap, I would’ve just made out with a Fir. You’re even stiffer than Pepto Bismol –- ironic because that’s your most popular chaser. And Egg Nog Light? How dare you. That’s like cheesecake light. A 980 calorie drink. Awesome. You may think you go down smooth -- and you do, if you consider a chainsaw wrapped in barbed wire smooth. Please, just quit it. The holidays can be depressing enough.

Sincerely,

Not a Fan

Arch Nemesis

Did you hear? There’s a shoe from Skechers that tones your thighs, strengthens your core, improves posture and helps you lose weight. Except, here’s the thing. It doesn’t. “Get in shape without setting foot in a gym” -- that claim puts the sketchy in Skechers. Only thing, you probably shouldn’t wear Shape-Ups while running or working out. Walking can even mess you up according to some medical experts. (You're not going to do that in these shoes, are you??) I'll tell you someone who won't be walking -- the people who are partaking in the class action suit that is steadily brewing. And having Joe Montana hock these? It’s just sad. My god, can someone please book this guy a celebrity appearance so he can stop doing...this? It's insulting my masculinity. Even you can’t make these fuckers look cool, Joe. Really, you can't.

Amazon.wrong

Hey friends, I’m sort of on the fence about something and was hoping you could help. Which of these books would you like for the holiday? Knitting with Dog Hair or I Am the Market: How to Smuggle Cocaine by the Ton, in Five Easy Lessons? Amazon.com is selling them both and I’m thinking you’d probably like to receive one -- or both -- from me. I know they’re both right up your alley, no pun intended. (I mean, who doesn’t love canine couture or smuggling a kilo of coke inside their rectum??) There's also a quart of wolf urine that has suddenly just become available. Hmmm, so difficult to choose. No rush, just let me know when you get a chance...

He Doesn't Always Drink Beer

Few ad campaigns inspire me to write for them for free. But over the last few years, this one has titillated me to no end. So, on that front, here are a few things you might not know about The Most Interesting Man in the World:

Homeless people give money to him.

His house help works pro-bono.

Every James Bond movie is loosely based on him.

Flop sweat is beneath him.

Fidel Castro mails him Cuban cigars personally.

His farts sell for millions on eBay.

He's never worn a condom, but surprisingly, lives disease free and without children.

When he plays poker, he never bluffs -- yet always wins.

When he sleeps with your wife, you're flattered.

I'm an Artichoke, Eat My Heart Out

Artichoke, who do you think you are? You may taste delicious when lathered up in a small farm’s worth of butter. But so much work. You may have a heart, but burying it beneath 68 layers of prickly leaves and a beard? That’s a prick move. Who has time for such foreplay – especially when the amount of edible substance on each leaf barely comprises the word “morsel.” You’re like the anti-Giving Tree. That tree gave everything. You? Nothing. A-hole.

Remember Five Minutes Ago

When did 9-year-old’s become nostalgic? After stumbling across this birthday card at the car wash, I was mystified. Why? Because you can’t get nostalgic when you don’t know what nostalgia is. You can’t fondly look back at a birthday – when it was yesterday. He just finished breastfeeding – and now he’s supposed to reminisce about it? Spare me the stroll down mammary lane. And, by the way, what a year to get misty-eyed for. 2001. Ah, such memories. The dot-com bubble bursting; the economy crashing; 9/11; the world ending. Fuck 2001. Let little Timmy focus on what’s important: like remembering where he put his Ritalin.

Out of Fashion

Rule 1: When you go to pick out a tie, maybe don't choose the one with all the Swastikas on it. When Byron Scott showed up to Cleveland Cavaliers media day wearing this little number, it understandably upset a few people. Who's supplying his wardrobe, Mel Gibson? And what, was the one with the blueprint for 9/11 still in the cleaners? In all fairness, Scott likely had no idea what was affixed to his neck. After all, he just a lost a war for Lebron and now has to lord over a team that will likely suck to the n-th degree. On second thought, maybe he's trying to get fired -- because wearing Nazi paraphernalia in front of hundreds of reporters, yeah, not smart.

Farewell Greg...

Today, The Morning Roast lost one its great inspirations. Greg Giraldo knew how to blindside you with a joke in a way few do. To honor of his passing at the tender age of 44, here are a few of his gems from past Comedy Central Roasts:

"Mario Cantone, you're the only guy who takes a stepladder into a glory hole."

"John Stamos, you were married to my favorite supermodel, Rebecca Romjin O'Connell."

"Pam Anderson, watching your sex tape was a whole new experience for me, because up until then, I'd never seen anyone get gonorrhea before."

"Hasslehoff, you're such a drunk, when alcohol does its taxes, it lists you as a dependent."

Genius.

And his last performance may've been his best. RIP, my friend.

Three Feat

You don’t get to have a ring ceremony until you’ve won something. When LBJ, D-Wade and C. Bosh did their finest Apollo Creed impressions from Rocky IV before an arena full of celebratory Miami Heat fans, they forgot one key detail: Being 0-0 is not grounds for a ticker tape parade. I know it’s easy to get swept up in the hype when you sign the star of The Decision, but just remember, Ivan Drago doesn’t do circle jerks. Win a game. Then, a ring. Until then, keep it in thy collective pants. Sincerely, The Los Angeles Lakers.

Gag Complex

When someone asks you ‘who you are wearing?,’ the answer should never be Arnie Morton. Sorry, Lady Gaga, your MTV VMA protein pack was rare perhaps -- but not well done. (For what it’s worth, though, I did think the prime filet beret brought the whole ensemble together quite nicely.) And the infinite wardrobe changes? That’s a dick move reserved for Oscar hosts. First you’re a turkey; then sheet metal; then prime rib. We get it. You like to play dress up. Just do me a favor, when you end the night wearing the entrails of Clarabelle as shoes, please just assure me it's organic.

Smug Shot

Why can't Paris Hilton take a horrible mug shot like the rest of us? Is there not one camera she's ever told to fuck off? I expected a little more Phil Spector, but instead got a L'Oreal ad. She looks like she just arrived on set to shoot her next sex tape, One Night in the Can. After seeing her latest expose, I couldn't help but think: That's the look of a girl who just blew everyone in the paddy wagon. Last time Paris regaled the jail cameras in 2008, she emerged from the slammer raving about her prized pic saying, "I think I have a really great mug shot." Really? Is that why you keep returning to take more? I've never had to take one personally, but if I did, it would probably look something like this.

I’ll Have the Carcinoma on White, Please

Mortadella, what the hell are you? That is, besides utterly mortifying? I ask because I prefer not to eat something that looks like it threw up all over itself. Here’s the thing: Lunchmeat shouldn’t have the consistency of John McCain’s taint. Or be crunchy. So please mortadella, stop bitch slapping me through the deli counter window. The experience is like being at the Miss Universe pageant – before Lisa Lampanelli shows up wearing a thong. Tasteless and ill-advised. Just say what you are, okay? Nitrites, rat droppings and whatever else can be jammed into that sleeve. Make no mistake, charlatan, you're fucking bologna.

Pad Choice

Pad Thai: If you could add just a bit more oil into your recipe – that would be great. It’s not enough that you induce three-day food comas. Or that while eating you, my cholesterol shoots up like Courtney Love at a rave. It’s more the pool of regret I feel in my soul after snarfing down a plate of you. Don’t get me wrong. You taste amazing. But so does a brick of fudge. And you don’t see me jamming that down my gullet on a weekday “lunch” whim. Just call yourself what you are: 1000 calories of self-hate. And PS. Since when did a pile of nuts become a garnish? Seriously. Nuts? Fuck off. And take your fat-filled Thai iced tea milkshake with you.

Nice Wainscoting

A few months back, someone complimented me on my wainscoting. After thanking them profusely, I quickly bee-lined to a Webster’s to look it up. There I discovered: It’s the lowest three feet of an interior wall. Interesting. But I need to ask: Who named this? And could it sound less like what it is? Because in my brain, wainscoting is a Beatles lyric. An Irish accordion cover band. A rainy town in Scotland where everyone speaks with a lisp. A forgotten friend from elementary school who oft got pummeled to the ground – Wayne Scoting. Why do we need so many letters to simply describe wood? It’s bewildering. Also too long a word.

Bigfoot's Carbon Footprint

Bigfoot's carbon footprint: Bigger than most or just average? I’m just wondering because I’m getting the distinct feeling we’re getting sidetracked with all this climate change talk. Can someone please ask the questions that matter? In terms of conservation, is Bigfoot doing his share? Is he composting? Has the hirsute beast gone to mulch? He may live in the forest, but how green is he really? We can’t let this fleet of foot furball fly under the radar. Oh and on an unrelated front, this Gulf oil spill...yeah, not good.

Bonus “Uncut” Features

Want to watch a movie? Sure, let me just quickly open this DVD. Oh wait, that’s not gonna happen. Why? Because someone at the douche factory decided DVD packaging should be harder to crack than The Da Vinci Code. (Seriously, not one vulnerable crease?) Unfortunately, my son watching me battle this box isn't going to be entertainment enough.

One shred of loose plastic, that’s all I ask. And please, make sure that once I do finally penetrate this outer cloak of injustice, there’s an equally impossible strip of adhesive across the top that not even Edward Scissorhands could open.

Oh, wait, there’s already one? Perfect.

Go Puff Yourself

How bad for you must a clove be to demand a warning label -- that's as big as the headline? I'm an ad man, and I must say the 48 pt font only gets used on the rarest of occasions. Are these cigarettes bad for me? I'm not really getting the message here. Oh wait, the warning label is bigger than Joe Camel's junk -- that's not a great sign. Here's an idea: Just own up and put a picture of Phillip Morris doing the grim reaper from behind on this ad. It's more honest -- and still won't make me want your product. Somebody just kill cigarette marketing once and for all. Because this ad...it's just insulting.

Touch & Go

I love the Internet. I love that I can log on and two hours later, forget why I logged on. And I especially love that I can Google “Denver” and eventually find not one, but two, eHow descriptions about joining the Mile High Club. I’m not much of a club person, but it’s good to know “darkness is the preferred medium for membership.” Also that I should "Brag about having sex on an airplane to [my] friends" as Step 7 states, if I get lucky at 30,000 feet. Here’s the thing: I feel pretty confident anyone Googling this matter probably won’t be a card carrying member of this exclusive group anytime soon. In fact, anyone seeking out advice on this topic is probably more likely to be this guy -- who was much more interested in a Mile High rub. The saddest part? Poor “Nookie” is the happiest anyone’s been in coach since 9/11.

You're Fired

Hey, street fireworks guy. You’ve ignited my passion once again -- in addition to a string of seventeen sad sparklers in a row. You put all your limbs at risk -- and for what? Our amusement? Really, no need. Your willingness to take it to the streets after most have gone to sleep inspires. Most people bring back a token sombrero or an illegitimate child from their spring break trip to Mexico. You? You came back with a boatload of illegal explosives. And trust me, there’s nothing people like more than you setting things ablaze in their front yard to commemorate the holiday. But don't worry. You’ll always have a small audience of neighbors at your show -- if just because they don’t want you to accidentally blow up their house pet. So, kudos, freelance fireworks guy. Much like your program, I hope you do not flame out long before your time. See you next year. I’m sure.

Thanks for Comin' Out...Goodnight!

Rainbow, you are so arrogant. You're like the celebrity cameo of natural phenomena. You make an appearance for a millisecond -- and then disappear for god knows how long. I snapped this picture of you last week in Hawaii -- and yes, your radiance was captivating. Then what? Gone. And to do what exactly? Rest up? Rainbow, even waterfalls have the dignity to stay around seasonally. You? You’re over it. Thanks for the breathtaking image, really, but I won’t hold my breath ‘til our next encounter. And btw, has anyone ever scored a pot of gold at the end of one of your luminescent bows? I’ve yet to read the headline, “Rainbow Sets Scuba Diver’s Family Up for Life.” For all the good press you get, how about a bullion every now and then you unbenevolent prick. You taunt me with your beauty. Now, off with you. The next millennium's right around the corner. Better get some sleep.

Penny Saver

I’ve witnessed some brilliant business plans in my day, but you take the stale, inedible Hostess cupcake, 98-Cents Store. Not only did you manage to fill people’s coffers with oodles of items they didn't need, but you also undercut your fiercest cross-town rival by a cent. Genius. And now I read that you’ve closed the door to your bargain basement for good? It just doesn’t make any sense. Was it the fact that nothing good in life costs 98-cents? Or the fact that, oddly enough, you also sold saunas for $1,500? 'Cause I know when I buy a napkin, I often tack on a hot tub for good measure. How could you shutter? I just don’t get it.

Cop Out

Since when did intimidation leave police work? While attending Game 2 at Staples Center on Sunday, I couldn’t help but notice the presence of our great LAPD officers working Chick Hearn Lane -- on Segways. One question: When did our men in blue all become Paul Blart? I applaud them for being so green, I do, but is this the impression we want to make on Boston fans who've been liquored up since leaving the womb? This is the city that gave us The Departed -- and we give them Ponch and Baker-lite? How do you accidentally taser a Paul Pierce fan from an electric vehicle? Or subdue a Kendrick Perkins fan -- just for simply being one? Call me old fashioned, but if this series goes to a 6th or 7th game, nightsticks and motorcycles are called for. I’ll even take a cop on horseback leaving piles of stank in its wake -- should a Rasheed Wallace fan plummet into it. Now, let’s man up, protect and serve, and steal the last one in Boston. And please put the Tonka toys away.

Rude Beach

Speedo Guy, you’ve got some stones. And not because you've put them on display for us. Because you could’ve gone to the nude beach, yet you respectfully declined. You think that “suit” from 1986 still turns heads? You’re right, it does. Away. You’ve single-handedly killed Smashball rallies; stopped whales from beaching; and once, even prevented the tide from coming in. Everyday’s your coming out party, my man -- which is why, thanks to you, so many choose to stay in.

May I interest you in something a little less revealing?

Baby Fat

Isn’t smoking supposed to thin you up a bit? When I stumbled across this video of a two-year-old Sumatran, I was appalled by its contents. How is it that a toddler who reportedly throws down two packs a day -- still tips the scales at “too much?” He’s addicted to smoking, he's put the work in, yet still retains all that excess milk fat. It’s just not fair -- he’s earned a little weight loss. Not that his clueless parents ever take notice. This kid’s dad says, "He looks pretty healthy to me. I don't see the problem." Hasn’t he watched the video? His son has breasts. He might need a bra before he’s out of diapers. I know why this video is so viral: It totally debunks the cigarette-as-diet-method myth. Oh, by the way, can someone tell me why this kid's smoking?

Bad Call

You know the guy who calls everyone he knows while attending a major sporting event? Here's the thing: Not a fan. I know it can get lonely in a stadium with 50,000 people. And I know meeting upstairs is out of the question. But drunk dialing with runners on first and third and nobody out? It makes me want to bitch slap you with my big puffy finger.

Something's Fishy

Fish in a jar? Really, gefilte fish? You’re the laughing stock of the ethnic food world. Do you even come from the sea? I’ve never heard a fisherman boast of his catch by saying: “Gee, Sal, the gefiltes are really biting today.” The one who’s not biting? Me. Even fasting rarely leads to your consumption. You wonder why no one consumes you outside of Jewish holidays? Because when someone has to lather you up in horseradish to make you palatable, you've got issues. And that gelatinous afterbirth you’re packed in? “Jelled Broth?” I mean, seriously, haven’t the Jews been persecuted enough?

Tic Tac No

Tic Tac Toe. XXOO my ass. Has anyone lost this game since age 3? If so, write me -- I want to know. This “game” needs to go away. Much like curling. It’s not fun -- it’s beneath me. Know what would be more interesting? Developing a nervous tic and stepping on a tack with my toe. Better than staring into the depths of nine empty boxes -- with no real hope for an outcome. And none of this cats bullshit. How does something with such fierce competition not have more of an international following, you ask? Good question. Because nobody ever wins. That’s why.

Chicken Belittle

You’re “running around like a chicken with its head cut off?” Really? Sorry to hear you’re so busy, but must you decapitate poultry to make your point? Just asking because this is an image that won’t be shook by late stage Alzheimer’s. I know you’re overwhelmed by your massive “to do” list, but I’d prefer not to have this fowl image ricocheting throughout my brain. Here’s an idea: Plan your week better and maybe together, we can spare a few lives. (Same goes for “beating a dead horse.” Just leave the carcass alone.)

SPF-Me

Recently, I noticed our beloved sunscreen industry managed to crack the 100 barrier. To that I say, “Kudos!” and cue the streamers. Just one question: What the fuck happened to 30? Or even 50? Was I just fooling myself? Or was that glorified baby oil? How overprotective can a skin cream get? The NY Times says the difference between the two is “marginal.” Can I trust that 100 will even do the trick? Or is 115 coming down the pipeline? Maybe I should I hold off like I did with the version one of the iPad. And, by the way, with 100…we should never have to reapply. Like, ever.

Dairy Err

Cottage cheese. How do you exist? You call yourself a food, yet you have the consistency of despair. How do you stand yourself? Your most common associations are with ceilings and thighs. At the supermarket, the cheese community has literally done away with you. Last I saw, you were slumming it with butter.

Your saddest truth? Rarely do you ever get eaten alone. You always need a mixer such as edible food. If I were on Death Row, and you were the last meal, I’d perish starved. Bon appetit? Never. Bon voyage.

MMA or PDA?

I’m sorry but can we just call this sport what it is? Male groping. Sure, every now and then some dude gets his face pummeled. But in between? It’s like watching two distraught brothers mourn the loss of a relative. Last mixed martial arts fight I saw was long on grappling -- short on pain. Felt like a bait and switch. Like ordering There Will Be Blood on demand and getting Brokeback Mountain. Am I watching a sport or an interpretive dance number for the legalization of gay marriage? If I want to see this much affection, I’ll go to one of these.

Strange Brew

If this is the best Milwaukee has to offer, I’m content never going there.

Leave the Poor Horse Alone

Can we please just retire this saying from our vernacular once and for all -- “Don’t beat a dead horse?” I apologize if I was redundant, but you need not punish me with the image of a horse carcass getting its ass kicked. One minute we’re having a nice a cup of coffee; the next you’re ear-fucking me with this little number. Spare me the graphics. Let me digest lunch. Don't force me to envision Seabiscuit getting beaten to a pulp by some 4’ foot jockey with a Napoleon complex.

Pain in the Ash

Dear Eyjafjallajokull: I know you haven’t blown off steam since 1821, but your timing here -- really not good. It’s Earth Day week and you’re sittin’ there venting, spewing carbons into our atmosphere, disrupting air travel. You’re crashing the party, man -- and from Iceland nonetheless -- a country, I think. Tens of thousands of flights have been delayed. It’s the worst disturbance to air travel since 9/11. And all because of you. Happy now? You even displaced John Cleese who had to take a 943-mile taxi ride from Oslo to Brussels. The cost? $5,100. Cleese let the volcano off easy saying, “I’m not in a hurry.” I will do no such thing. So not cool.

Dessert Swine

Since when is “Pork” a fortune? Last night I had the misfortune of opening up this gem after the most anti-climactic Chinese meal ever. I’m all for inspirational messages, but upon receiving this sad scrap, I felt gypped. No “Great riches are right around the corner.” No “You're god's gift to humanity.” Just “Pork.”

And let's talk about the fortune "cookie" for a second. Worst dessert ever? Stale sugar wrapped in plastic stuffed with scratch paper? Hmmm, delicious.

Please go away. You haven’t been delicious in years.... and your Lottery numbers insult me. Eating you is like having sex with a condom -- unsatisfying and difficult to finish. I’ll take the almond cookie over you any day.

Masters Bait

Like most eyes, mine were glued to the Masters this past weekend -- because Phil Mickelson was back. Apparently, Tiger Woods was as well. In case you missed it, here’s some traditional Tiger-speak that amazingly did not make the CBS broadcast in wake of the scandal: Tiger’s on the prowl. Tiger’s in the hunt. Good to see Tiger driving straight again. Tiger’s really strokin’ it today. Tiger’s playin’ from behind. Tiger’s whipping his partners out there. Will Tiger have the stamina to finish? Tiger’s all tied up. Tiger hasn’t been in a three-way dogfight this good since that one he had with Jaimee and Joslyn. Tiger. What a player.

PETA Bread

Would a vegetarian eat these? Just curious...

Richard vs. Dick

Is your name Richard? If so, life must be hard knowing that at any point you could be downgraded to Dick. Richard’s a moniker that requires best behavior...always. Why? Richard’s a guy you can trust. He’s got plans; ambitions; a family of four and maybe even a trust fund. Dick? He’s a thorny fucker. Someone who was throttled as a youth -- and made worse for it. He's a guy who’s suffered comparisons to the male member his entire life -- and has ruefully fallen short. Dick’s one rung from the bottom. That's why he clings to the hope that one day Lady Luck will pay off -- and pay off big. After all, nobody really prefers to be called “Dick.” And if you do, you probably are one.

Sweeps Weak

What is curling, and why? I ask because, once again, these party crashers showed up at the Winter Olympics to masquerade their “skills" on the world’s top stage. Is it me, or this akin to watching a janitor sweep up after closing? Honestly, I’d rather watch women curling their hair. Even ice making. Anything else, really. And spare me all the yelling. What could you possibly be saying other than "Don't slip?" This 500-year-old Scottish "sport" has all the intrigue of doing taxes -- but no refund. What’s next? Sleeping in 2014? To think, I must wait four more years to ignore it yet again...

Color Blind

Have you ever paid attention to the perverse wordplay involving paint names? They range from cute (“Fluffy Biscuit”) to strangely geographical (“Jakarta”) to WTF (“Muir’s Pulpit”). Where did “Brown,” “Light Brown” and “Even Lighter Brown” go? And why do so many tell you nothing about actual color? Just witness “Wild Bunny,” “Crooked Street” and “Deep Mystery” -- an ironic name likely concocted by some prick at the Dunn Edwards factory. And “Sail Away?” Last I checked that was something you did -- not something you splattered across a nursery. The quintessential cake taker: “Remember the Alamo.” A deep red symbolizing the tears and bloodshed of 200 lost Texans? Nope. Just beige.

Jersey Snore

OK, here’s The Situation. Now that Jersey Shore's over, can we just call it what it was? Bad. I know it was a huge “hit” for MTV. And I know Snooki was just adorable underneath all the makeup and promiscuity. But I have to be honest -- this show lowered my WTL count. Will To Live. It was like The Sopranos without all that gooey stuff like plot and entertainment. It lowered the bar not just for TV -- but for humanity. It didn’t even have the intrigue of a social experiment. Social experiments are held together by more than just Aqua Net. And I’m pretty sure I contracted an STD just from watching it. Once. Now I hear it’s coming back for Season 2. That makes me want to fist pump myself in the face.

Ms. Fortune

Honestly, shouldn't she have seen this coming?

Prop Eighth

California’s long been a leader when it comes to the “green” economy -- so naturally, we’re trying to legalize pot to boost tax revenue. But come November, when the pot prop goes on the ballot, the question won’t be will it get the votes -- but the voters. Let’s face it, it’s a lot of work to get off the couch, put on clean socks, and punch a ballot. By 4:20pm. However, if the law passes, just think about the widespread health benefits for those clenching doctor’s notes at medical marijuana clinics. The college kids suffering from glaucoma. The curiously arthritic teen set. The motivated. One thing’s for sure. If Prop Eighth passes, at least we know nobody will abuse it.

Barack Obama: Job Searching?

I find it interesting that Barack Obama keeps his LinkedIn profile updated. In between leading the free world and revolutionizing health care, is our chief exec keeping his options open? Also strange: notice how he has zero recommendations for any prior positions. What's with that? He says he’s been a “U.S. Senator” and “President,” but who’s going to vouch for it? He even fluffs up a paper-thin “Summary” section with lovey-dovey stuff about family. Employers see right through that stuff. It’s quite possible he’ll never get a job after he’s done spreading hope and change throughout the world.

Condiments Exposed

Sugar In The Raw. I need to ask -- what inspired brainstorm yielded this product name? I’m familiar with branding, and you should never need four words to describe sugar. What, was “Sugar” too conventional? And what’s with the innuendo? Sugar In The Raw sounds indecent, stripped down, like it should be embarrassed by itself. Totally unrefined. Was “Sugar au naturale” also in the mix? Because we both know, there’s nothing sexier than sugar.

Not the Brightest Bulbs

To honor the monumental global achievement that marked Earth Hour, I ask: Is this the best we can do? One hour every year? What about the other 8,759? How can we defeat climate change in just 60 measly minutes? And don't most people go out on Saturday nights at 8:30pm anyways? If one hour of darkness is the key to shedding light on our impending doom, we'll all be swimming to work in 20 years. Every hour = earth hour.

Biden's F-Bomb

It appears our VP is working hard at generating street cred with the senile-and-over set. Yesterday, our country’s #2 opened the health care signing ceremony like he was on a used car lot, yelling into Obama’s ear: “This is a big f-cking deal!” Not only is he great with volume control, but Biden’s ability to shout large expletives at key times could make the Shit My Dad Says guy blush. Better than that was Obama’s response, which was to quickly ensure that the two large microphones in front of him were indeed on -- and broadcasting to a nation of millions. Kudos, Joe. At least you ain’t droppin’ no H-Bombs. (PS. Best part of the story? The T-shirts have already been made.)

Pop Art

There’s nothing like a 19th Century nip slip to stop traffic. A few weeks back, while crawling across a major LA artery, I found my gaze lingering too long on a streetlight banner advertising the new Renoir exhibit at LACMA. I support the arts -- but isn’t there enough imagery being hurled at us from the side of the road? Must we also see two-thirds of a French breast on our morning commute? Honestly, I could barely finish my text message. On a related note, I can’t wait to see the new Renoir exhibit at LACMA.

Where’s The 7th Layer?

To prepare for “Taco Night” last weekend, my wife and I went shopping for a few Mexican specialty dishes. One thing that caught our eye was a 6-Layer Dip. Six??? What the hell happened to seven? Has the recession caused everyone to scale back? Or is this the price we pay for shopping at Pavilions from time to time? I’ll tell you, the difference is palpable. It’s like eating air.

Feline Forensics? WTF.

I have cats. They've never done anything productive. Like, ever. When I read today that they're now foiling criminal cases, I almost coughed up a Cheerio. Did I miss something? How did they squeeze in forensic training between 23-hour naps? I guess somewhere between vomiting up fur and power washing their genitals, they caught a segment of CSI: Wherever. Now, back to bed with you Fluffy.