Hope you had a good seven-four, is what I’m sayin’ Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers
Breaks the record
*Takeru "the Tsunami" Kobayashi of Japan won his fourth straight Nathan's Famous hot dog-eating contest at Coney Island broking the record by downing 53 1/2 dogs in 12 minutes. That breaks the previous wiener eating record set by Paris Hilton at her 21st birthday.
Spider Hole Man
*Saddam Hussein had a new suit in court, he was tan, thin, hair and beard trimmed. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the Saddam got a queer make-over.
Did you see Saddam Hussein in court? He looked pretty good. Yeah, I guess they had to use that Ronco ear-hair weed whacker on him.
Did you see Saddam? He’s tan, he’s groomed, and he’s thinner. Why, it almost looks like he’s been staying in his Palm Springs spider hole.
Not a big seller
*According to Glamour magazine, the latest trend for women is to have words tattooed on their rear ends. The least popular female butt tattoo: “Warning: Object in this tattoo may be larger than it appears.”
Not often, is what I’m sayin’
*The Los Angeles Dodger’s Eric Gagne’s save streak ended at 84. Gagne blows a save as often as Mandy Moore gets mistaken for Michael Moore.
She don’t lie, she don’t lie, she don’t lie . . .
*The National Enquirer claims the Mary Kate Olsen’s real problem is cocaine. If that’s true, that’s disturbing. It’s like hearing that Tinker Bell has been hanging out with Courtney Love.
*John Kerry has picked John Edwards as a running mate. And this just in, Dick Cheney picked George Bush as his running mate.
And Saddam Hussein has picked Baghdad Bob as his running mate.
Svetlana Feofanova of Russia became the first woman to pole vault 16 feet, clearing that height Sunday at a track meet in Iraklion, Greece. The only woman who has gone higher is, well, Courtney Love.
Can’t say it
*Stephen Ames won the Western Open golf tournament. The Western Open was sponsored by Cialus, and, since it was sponsored by the erectile dysfunction drug, Cialus, the announcers could not use the putting-phrase: never up, never in. (Thanks to Mark “Snake” O’Connor)
Since you asked:
My wife, Sweet Virginia, has officially taken her gas-lighting (From the Ingrid Bergman movie “Gaslight”, meaning intentionally driving someone crazy) to the next level.
There are two things that really drive me utterly insane: When someone is late for no reason, and when people get in my way when I am trying to cook.
Last night, I thought, since it was a beautiful California night, to honor the great Santa Maria style BBQ, of my college days at Santa Barbara: olive and herb marinated tri-tip – the roast beef part cut low for grilling – grilled to a perfect medium rare, sliced and smothered in fresh salsa and served with ranch beans, a tossed ranch salad and sourdough biscuits. Cabernet, to accompany, of course.
My daughter – aka the Stinker - was at a gymnastics class (unlike Mia Hamm, our Olympic gymnasts don’t have much to worry about from sweet little A.C.) and she needed to be picked up promptly at six p.m.. As a result, I cleverly timed my grilling so that I could do the lion’s share of the cooking when my wife went to pick up said Stinker. (Love that Virg to death, but she has this intuitive ability to always stand in front of wherever I need to go to cook. Allen Iverson can’t defense someone like she can defense me when I am cooking)
Exactly when Virg should have been getting ready to leave to pick up our daughter, with my roast freshly sizzling on the grill, Virg suddenly decides that now is the perfect time – I am not making this up – to clean out the entire refrigerator. Not only am I fuming that she will now, of course, be late, but it is the one spot that blocks me on the way to everything: the grill, the TiVo’d “Tour de France” the stove, the sink, the stereo and, worst of all, the wine.
The entire time she was completely, totally, and amazingly in my way, but also, for every second she was in the way, she was also late to pick up our daughter. A two-fer. Ding, ding, ding. Winner, winner, winner. You have to admire that type of planning. Might have tossed an extra glass of wine or two down the ol’ gullet to counterbalance the soaring blood pressure.
What with my wife stepping up her gaslight game, there is a good chance that I will qualify for a mental asylum by my next birthday, August 15th. (Mark your calendars) That or Betty Ford.