Thursday, April 14, 2005

What we might be up in here is a wee bit “tetched” with the fever, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

Oops, he did it again . . .
Britney Spears has announced she is pregnant. Out of habit, her husband, Kevin Federline, denied that the child was his.

Well, at least that’s something
Authorities suspect the Wendy’s chili finger may be connected to someone who lost the tip of their finger to a leopard bite in Las Vegas. The good news is that Siegfreid can now give Roy his finger tip back.

Poor Jimmy
A new study from Canada revealed that parents treat their talented kids better than their less gifted children. This explains why there aren’t a lot of people praying to Jesus’s younger brother, Jimmy Christ.

Not very P.C.
The conclave is deciding who to pick as Pope. There has been some talk that they may pick somebody from Asia. The problem with that is the insurance premiums on the Pope mobile would skyrocket.

You would hate to see that
Chicago Cubs manager Dusty Baker, a deeply spiritual man, rubs holy water on player’s injuries. You can tell Baker is very religious, he’s been praying that none of the players hurts their groin.

Irony Mike Tyson
Iron Mike Tyson has announced he will return to the ring on June 11 to face tomato can Kevin McBride. The reason Iron Mike wants to return to boxing? Tyson is $38 million in debt. Tyson is so broke he had to change his name from Iron Mike to Scrap Metal Mike.

Hey, this is my side of the street walking
Producers of “The Simple Life” are looking for a new co-star for Paris Hilton to replace Nicole Richey. Apparently the two don’t get along anymore. Paris feels Nicole is hording in on her skankiness.

“American Idol” Ryan Seacrest is getting a star on the Hollywood walk of fame. And he is going to be honored at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, but instead of imprinting his hands and feet in the cement, Seacrest will imprint his knees and lips.

In addition Seacrest’s star will feature a picture of a closed closet door.

Jacko ain’t the only Whacko
Witnesses to the Michael Jackson trial seem to question the accuser’s mother’s credibility. For example, there was the time she tried to sue Jackson claiming to have found a finger in a bowl of the Neverland chili.

At the Michael Jackson trial, the accuser’s mother says she was told her performance in a video was unacceptable because she didn’t say Jackson cured her son of cancer. Seriously, who’s going to believe Jackson can cure cancer when he can’t even re-grow his own damn nose?

Since you asked:
The start of the most boring conversation in the world? “I had the weirdest dream last night.”

Anyway, I had the weirdest dream last night. It might be the fever talking.

I’d been temporarily hired for a writing project that took me to this wild somewhere-in-Central-Coastal California town that had been specifically built for entertainment folk. It was quirky beyond words, a sort of Bohemian, Spanish, funky, circus-like functioning art colony/commune where performers, writers, musicians, painters, actors, directors all worked, lived and played together to inspire and support each other in the hopes of creating something great. You could practically smell the oil paint, Paella, red wine, green tea and the desperation of insecure egomaniacs. And the Vodka. You could really smell the Vodka.

The standing rule of this nutty berg was that the big shots helped the struggling artists, either by giving them advice, a job break or by paying bar and restaurant tabs. It was funny in that, just as you’d expect from human nature, the struggling artists were dying to appear as big shots and the big shots were dying to be as conspicuous as possible.

As I was pretty much an outsider, it was an interesting glimpse into the high adrenaline, and over-the-top drama of the lives of creative people who live from project to project in the; “What have you done for us lately?” world of art and entertainment.

At one point in the dream I was talking to Sheryl Crow. She seemed really nice. Of course, I could tell she dug me. And, to my wild excitement, I discovered the project I was working on turned out to be connected to none other than David Letterman his own bad self. (Although I saw the big guy off in the distance in a crowd, I couldn’t seem to get to him. I wanted to ask him for a leather “Pants” jacket)

That’s when things started to fall apart, as they will do sometimes in dreams. My excitement in writing for Letterman sent me scurrying to the phone to tell my parents. Then I suddenly remembered that my parents were no longer alive. Then I found out I was not writing for Letterman’s show, but for some low-priority pilot that was on the backburner of Dave’s production company “World Wide Pants” and that the pilot was more than likely to be dropped.

At the current rate, the dream was about to descend into the “I have a final exam but I can’t find my drawers” status when I decided to take the reins, sit back and enjoy the eclectic carnival atmosphere. Not shockingly, I headed to the nearest Topas bar. Guess who was there? My girl, Sheryl Crow.

That’s when I woke up.

My lovely wife, Virginia, had let our craziest of the two Labradors, Wrigley, out of his crate and the big Wrig promptly jumped up on the bed landing directly on my crotch.

One minute you’re eating shrimp with Sheryl Crow, the next a dog jumps on the boys.

Welcome back to the real world, Lex. Welcome back to the real world.

And still no messages from the Vatican.

(Polite applause)