BWAAHAWAHWAHWAH, TORN SLATTERNS AND NUGGET RANCHERS



Tough movie premiere for Kevin Smith's "Cop Out." The critics have been brutal and the theater manager made Smith buy two seats.




Carly Simon has revealed the first name of the subject of "You're So Vain" is David. Wow, that would be so cool, if only this was 1972.

This is perfect timing, I am going to use this "You're So Vain" David information and go back in my time machine to 1972 to use it to impress Megan Delaney and try to get to second base. Thanks Carly.


What a brutal year for Tiger Woods. One minute you're winning and getting Gatorade dumped on you, the next thing you know Gatorade is dumping you.

Wooooo Hooooo

Two French Canadian broadcasters are under fire for saying flamboyant US figure Skater, Johnny Weir, should take a gender test. That is awful. Although Weir does make Adam Lambert look like Larry the Cable Guy, it's homophobic to suggest a gender test.

What, me worry?

NBC is under severe criticism for airing Olympic ice dancing preliminaries instead of the US hockey upset over Canada. Give NBC a break, it’s not like they ever made a programing mistake before. Right Jay? Right Conan? Right “Joey”?


Since you asked:
The latest rumor from the "Chicago Sun-Times" is Nike is considering dumping Tiger Woods. Let’s put that in perspective; Nike stayed with Kobe Bryant during his rape trial; Nike stuck with Michael Vick during his conviction and prison term for dog fighting, and if Nike had sponsored OJ Simpson, my guess is there would still be a line of Nike Air Double Murderer shoes available in stores near you.

If there is even a hint of veracity to the Nike-dropping-Tiger rumors, noted author Dan Jenkins is right, Tiger’s image is, to use the Southern expression, graveyard dead.

When asked to comment about the dropping-Tiger-rumor, a Nike official issued a "No comment." That is the corporate equivalent of an NFL owner supporting his coach 110%. In other words, a death sentence.

Truth is, knowing Nike as the "We have never, ever made a mistake" self-righteous cult that it is, they probably won't fully drop Tiger. But I am sure they will slink off and cower away from featuring Tiger as their flagship athlete.

At Nike, like most sports-related organizations, loyalty to their athletes is absolutely The most important thing. Right until the split-second loyalty costs them money.

We waitin' on our score in the kiss and cry room, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers



Russian figure skater, Evengi Plushinko, continues to whine about not winning the gold medal; today he announced he his now calling his silver medal a platinum medal. As a result we are now calling Plushinko: Flushstinko.


Four Oregon football players have been arrested in one month; the program has no choice but to exact strict disciplinary measures, or change their name to Florida.



Wildly flamboyant men’s figure skater, Johnny Weir, has detailed his difficult time growing up. Well, at least Weir didn’t get teased because his last name rhymed with a pejorative term for gay people. Oh, shoot.



Golfer John Daly is endorsing a line of underwear called Slix. Really? Slix? Was the name Skids already taken?



Golfer John Daly endorsed boxers called Slix that Daly says are the most comfortable underwear ever. This is clever marketing because, after a 250 pound man has walked 18 holes on a hot golf course, who doesn’t want to think about his underwear?



Last night NBC aired mostly Olympic ice dancing where the contestants await their score in “The kiss and cry room.” This is not to be confused with our family room when my wife and daughter insisted I watch ice dancing, that was, thanks to me, “The hiss and sigh” room.


Doctors say the current colon cancer screen test doesn’t go far enough. They recommend a procedure that goes deeper into the colon, in fact, it goes so far into the colon it has to be administered by the IRS.

Since you asked:

Dear People who go out of their way to tell me they hate things I like:

For whatever reason, probably to let me know how much cooler they are than me, which has to be one of the easiest things to be in the world, people feel compelled to express to me, directly or indirectly, that they hate things I happen to like very much, namely, A, The Eagles, B, Jay Leno, C, Bob Costas.

Forget the fact that all three of these disparate things have one thing in common: there is nothing to hate about them. Maybe your tastes lie elsewhere, you have better preferences for other bands, comedians and sports announcers. But to go out of your way to announce you hate something that is practically utterly unobjectionable in almost every way, and that you know I like, speaks volumes about you. And what those volumes say have only one common theme: you are a pain-in-the-ass.

So thanks for identifying yourself ahead of time so I didn't have to.

Let's take the Eagles for example. (Oh, goody, because you haven't probably gone a whole month without prattling on about them)

Be quiet, inner tirade.

Yes, I have a love/hate thing going with the Eagles, but that derives from deep feelings of betrayal when MY band turned into exactly what they fought against being: a soulless corporate brand name. And that happened when they fired Don Felder.

But I still appreciate their music. Why wouldn't you? It is great voices singing catchy melodies in perfect harmony to well played guitars, bass and drums. Sure, most rock critics, like Lester Bangs, hated the Eagles, but Lester Bangs was the first to admit he was a freaking goofy weirdo.

Ever since "The Big Labowski" hipsters think it's cool to hate the Eagles because the Dude hated the Eagles. Did they forget the Dude is an utter stoner/loser? Lord knows, I loves me some his Royal Dudeness, but he is not portraying the harbinger of good taste. He drinks white Russians for the love of god.

You know who hated the Eagles? Punk rock fans. Have you listened to punk rock lately? It holds up about as well as avocado shag carpeting. Yes, it seemed rebellious and cool at the time, but punk rock, when heard with the clear ears of years of perspective from simply a musical standpoint, clearly sucked harder than Paris Hilton in the Judge's chambers trying to get a reduced jail sentence.

Some of the "pioneers" of punk rock, now senior citizens, laugh and joke in documentaries about how their bands didn't know how to play their instruments. And they didn't care.

Yes, I get the Eagles and Jay Leno and Bob Costas all fall under what I call the Hootie and the Blowfish syndrome. That is when something becomes so popular, the kids who were unpopular in high school, but now wear their unpopularity like a flag desperately believing it declares them cool, proclaim their hatred of said popular entity, thus making them feel even cooler. This is also filed under the "Any and all things hated by Janeane Garofalo."

Just look at how she spells her first name and you get some idea what a pain in the ass Janeane is. I bet she makes a big stink when people don't pronounce it the exact odd-ass way she want it pronounced. "Jahh aahh nee aaan. What a tool.



All Praise the Decathlete

Kudos to the sports world for recognizing the cross-over benefits of the incredible power-to-weight ratio, speed and and athleticism of Decathletes. At the winter Olympics many of the top Bobsleighs have Decathletes as pushers. Their combination of size and speed and make them perfect to push the sled and their size then acts as ballast to increase the speed and inertia down the hill.

Believe it or not, in the Sixties, Hollywood was the first entity outside of the track world to recognize the unique talents of Decathletes. Instead of just hiring cowboys for stuntmen, for action movies producers noticed the physical toughness and naturally muscularity of Decathletes translated perfectly as stuntmen. Gold and Silver 1960 Olympic medalists Rafer Johnson and CK Yang got work in the movie business. Believe it or not, '76 gold medalist Bruce Jenner had the inside shot at the role of Superman before Christoper Reeves. That was before they discovered Jenner couldn't act his way out of a wet paper bag. This was many years before Jenner's steroid inflated muscles deflated like a Macy Thanksgiving float shot by a gun and plastic surgery turned him into looking like a deranged lesbian prison warden.


The NFL has signed many Decathletes to be hybrid tight end/wide receivers. Their size, discipline and toughness make them amazing special teams players and blockers, and their coordination and speed make them great receivers.


Plus it never hurts a team's chemistry to inherit an athlete who knows what it feels like to train hard for six hours a day.

At the Vancouver Winter games the ice dancing pairs wait for their results in "The Kiss and Cry Room." Don't confuse this with our family room where I was forced by my daughter and wife to watch ice dancing. That's called "The Piss and Moan Room."



At the Vancouver Winter games, over 100,000 free condoms have been handed out in the Olympic Village. The most shocking part? One condom was actually used by a guy who is a Curler.


TMZ is reporting Tiger Woods has switched to an Arizona sex rehab facility; apparently there just weren't enough hot babes in the other one.


Since you asked:

L.T. released by the San Diego Chargers. This after being promised by Chargers owner, Alex Spanos, he could retire when he wanted to as a Charger.

Although I am not a huge fan of L.T. - he lost me by brooding on the bench with his helmet and visor on - it stopped shocking me how crappy Spanos treats his players. As a gym-nodding pal of kicking great, John Carney, who Spanos personally went out of his way to screw, it is criminal how Spanos lies and goes back on his word over and over again.

From the first day of his ownership, Spanos treated San Diego legend Dan Fouts like Fouts owed him money from a bad poker bet.

So it is with exceptional pride that I say I got Alex Spanos to scream obscenities at me longer and louder than just about anyone in my life. And that is saying something.

In 1986, when I transferred from Wall Street to work with Shearson in La Jolla, I had to start building up a retail client base and somehow I got Alex Spanos's office number. Some poor secretary - who I am sure he fired after - told me that Spanos wasn't in because he was at the Charger's practice facility. As assumptive as I could, I asked for that number and, to my shock, she gave it to me. Poor woman.

So I called his number at the office/trailer that was on the UCSD practice field, and asked for Alex Spanos. When I was informed by one of his assistants Spanos was on the practice field - who I am also sure Spanos fired - I told him I was a stock broker. He must have assumed I meant Mr. Spanos's stock broker, and I didn't feel the need to correct him, so he yelled out on the field for Alex Spanos to come in and take the call from his stockbroker.

No lie, the practice was so close, I could hear coaches whistles and pads hitting and players grunting.

Breathless from running all the way in from the practice field, Spanos barked:

"What the hell's the matter?"

I said;

"Mr Alex Spanos?" When he suspiciously said yes, I launched into my sales pitch;


"Mr. Spanos, I have just moved here from Wall Street and I am interested in building an exclusive clientele of only the top and most respected investors in San . . ."


Spanos started screaming:

"Why you motherf@@@er, I thought this was my stock broker, you c*cks*ucker, you got some b@lls, how dare you take me off the practice field, you son of a bitch, I am going to rip you a new a$$hole you miserable piece of sh*t . . . "

Like in a movie, I was holding the phone away from my ear and squinting at it, amazed he was so loud. It went on like this for quite a while. When Spanos finally asked me for my name and company so he could personally have me fired, I manned up and did what I had to do:

I gave him the name and company of the stock broker currently dating my ex-girlfriend.

Ain't I a stinker?

Yo, ask not . . .

More Olympic insights.

The US men’s hockey team beat Canada 5-3. This was not as big an upset as 1980 when our US amateur college kids beat the best professional team in the world, the Soviets. This time our NHL multi-millionaires beat their NHL a-little-more-multi-millionaires. But it was an upset.


The US men’s hockey team beat Canada 5-3. This was not as big an upset as 1980 when our broke-ass spaghetti-and-beer-swallowing amateurs beat the aged-steaks-and-vodka-swilling Soviets. This time our grilled-swordfish-and-chardonnay-eating millionaires beat their crab-and- filet-mignon-with-a-really-expensive-cabernet eating multi-millionaires. But it was an upset.


Since you asked:

There is this funny and nice soccer mom we know who has this incredible crush on David Beckham. Sure, I thought, I can see that. Good looking guy, great body. But, when my daughter first got into soccer, I didn’t follow soccer much, so I started to pay more attention. That is when I first heard Becks speak. Oh my word, he was a chimney sweep cockney on helium. His wife, Posh Spice, has a lower voice.

When I teased the soccer mom about this she said; “Oh, no, we have an agreement, when we are together he doesn’t speak. Uh uh, hmm, honey, no speaking. Nope. Shhh.”

The same thing just happened to me at the Winter Olympics.

Oh, my word, (yes I know I am saying oh my word a lot) ice dancer Tanith Belbin was a cross between my biggest crush in grade school, Karen Dean, and my biggest crush now, Heather Graham. And with an “I am the kind of trouble who enjoys having men fighting over me in a bar” nasty combined with country club elegance.

Then Tanith opened her mouth.

Oh my word, dogs whined a block away. All that was missing was her cracking gum while studying her split ends and her voice would have been as annoying as Dottie Morganstern in Sixth grade. And Dottie sounded like a cake mixer screeching and chattering on top of an old chalk board.

It reminded me of a story about when I moved to New York City from Santa Barbara.

When I went to college in Santa Barbara – a town rife with attractive people anyway – the college girls were the most attractive. And the most attractive of the UCSB college girls were the sorority girls of Delta Gamma and Pi Phi. There wasn’t less than a solid eight in either house. And not just gorgeous, but smart, nice, funny and - especially when compared to the pretty girls from my hometown - surprisingly easy going and down-to-earth. (The girls from my hometown had too much of a Martha Stewart/ "Stepford Wives" thing happening) And these Pi Phi and DG girls were mostly the girls who were our fraternity, Sigma Chi, little sisters; they hung around our apartment/house and, um, were the women whom we, uh, “dated.” Cough.

It was, in a word, awesome. Turns out I didn't realize just how awesome.

So when I moved to work on Wall Street a couple years later after graduating, of course I fully intended to continue dating girls in my comfort zone, women who looked and acted just like the women at Santa Barbara and, believe me, there were plenty in New York city. The problem? It turns out I wasn’t anywhere near their comfort zone.

Don’t get me wrong, I was in shape and was sporty-jock OK-looking (My mom, rest her soul, claimed I looked like the original Brawny Paper Towel lumberjack guy complete with porn mustache, but she was my Mom and biased), but the beautiful New York women seemed to be looking for nothing less than John frickin' F. Kennedy Junior: One, underwear model looks, Two, famous and, Three, wealth beyond description.

Seriously, I was aww'ight, but strike three for the broke-ass Paper Towel guy.

Thus began what I tragically refer to as the summer (sex) drought of ’83. In one deft move from Santa Barbara to Manhattan, I went from Warren Beatty to Warren, the mentally-challenged brother in “Something About Mary.”

No lie, I may as well have been asking women in fancy Manhattan bars;

“Have you seen my baseball?”

And then one day when my buddy Hondo and I were working out at the weight room at the Downtown Athletic Club after work, guess who waltzes in? John Frickin’ F. Kennedy Junior, his own rich-ass, gorgeous, famous buffed-out self.

Of the twenty or so guys in the relatively small weight room, I was probably one of two or three people who even knew who the hell he was. The other bond traders and brokers, including my buddy, Hondo, couldn’t have cared less. Besides arriving with a body guard, John-John looked shy and a little apprehensive, like we were all going to rush him for an autograph. (Which I thought of doing, as I was a full-blown Kennedy-phile like my mother)

Every bit as good looking in person as on TV, as soon as JFK Jr. noticed we basically ignored him and kept working out, he immediately relaxed and let down his guard. We - me and Hondo - were working out on the bench press and JFK Jr. asked nicely if he could work in - as is the protocol in gyms around the country. Next thing I know, I am spotting on the bench press the kid who saluted his father’s flag-draped casket twenty years ago.

The next thing I noticed was exactly what made the Kennedys the Kennedys: World class public relations manipulation.

The Kennedy patriarch, Joe Kennedy, was an absolute master at spin control. He was the Irish Al Capone. No lie, he was a bootlegger who worked closely with Al Capone. But Kennedy bought a Boston bank for a cover and posed as a Wall Street tycoon and everyone, except the thousands of business victims he ruthlessly left in his wake, believed Joe Kennedy’s brand new upper class image.

This was a guy who was able to take his son drunkenly getting his PT boat rammed in two in the middle of the night, a bonehead move that would put every other Navy rat in prison, and turned John F. Kennedy into a full-blown war hero complete with the Navy equivalent of the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Now that is spin control.

Now I don’t pretend to know what Joe’s sons, John F. Kennedy or Bobby or Ted Kennedy were like in person, but we all knew how their touch-football-on-the- expansive- lawn classy; “This is daaahhmn good clam chawwwder” polished public images clashed with their drunken horn-dog ways.

The prior classy tone was the exact same tone and image that John Kennedy Jr. had just barely begun building and projecting on TV. Sure, he had been a bit of a knucklehead as a kid getting caught with pot at boarding school, flunking out of exclusive private schools, barely getting into Brown despite all the wealth and influence in the world and, at this time, flunking the bar exam a half dozen times.

But, in public, JFK Jr. had all of the good looks and class of both his mom and dad including the Brahman Boston accent. And he was a fairly adroit public speaker.

However, my impression of him up close in the gym?

May he rest in peace, but this JFK Jr. dude was a cross between John Travolta’s Vinny Barbarino in “Welcome Back Kotter” and a friendly chocolate Labrador Retriever. John-John wore a gold necklace on his hairy chest, a wife-beater T-shirt and he would preen and primp in the mirror, flex and openly admire his biceps, smack his gum, endlessly adjust his junk and ask repeatedly, in a thick New Yaaaahk accent;

“Howyahdoooin’?” followed by an awkward swat on the butt.

“Camelot”? More like this ‘moke was “Jersey Shore” but, way, way closer to “The Situation” than Lancelot. Don't misunderstand, especially considering his lineage, he was a perfectly nice and jovial guy. On the other hand, the mystery of why JFK Jr. kept flunking the bar exam vanished in thin air and was replaced by the mystery of how he tied his ties. (OK, that’s an exaggeration, but you get the idea)

Truth be told, JFK Jr. was acting more like a jamoke than normal when he worked out and let his guard down; I am sure, as we saw later with his “George” magazine launch and other ventures, JFK Jr. could pull the Kennedy polish and charm on at the drop of a shiny top hat. And his early demise was tragic.

Be that as it may, at the time, I thought if this guy was the gold standard for which the snotty Kir Royal-sipping east coast debutantes were unfavorably comparing and rejecting me, I suddenly felt vastly more competitive. No, I wasn’t as good looking nor was I remotely famous and nowhere close to as rich as JFK Jr.

But I could tell stories and make jokes that would have left this handsome John-John guy scratching his thick curly chestnut mane in amazed baffled confusion.

Speaking of the beach, with my new-found confidence, that very weekend, right on the beach after a house party in the West Hamptons, the drought of ’83 ended in a, well, bang.

“Ask not what I can do for east coast babes, ask what east coast babes can do for me.”

The moral of the story? Looks, wealth and fame can be deceiving, the true measure of a person is how they can tell - and appreciate - a joke.

But either way, it doesn't help if you talk like an idiot.

At the Vancouver Winter Olympics, Sunday featured the men’s Biathlon, which is cross country skiing interspersed with rifle target shots, not to be confused with the men’s figure skating which is ice skating interspersed with wicked fashion gossip shots.

You thought it was true love before? Julia Mancuso is a Stand Up Paddle Surfer, and . . .



Julia Mancuso reportedly likes it bumpy and rough, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers


In two separate surveys, Fresno, CA was named the drunkest city and the stupidest city. This explains why Fresno is going to award the key to their city to Andy Dick.

When asked to respond to the surveys Fresno is the drunkest and stupidest city, one resident replied; "Huh?" (hic).


Did anyone else notice that, during Julia Mancuso's ski runs, NBC analyst, Christin Cooper repeatedly said Julia likes it bumpy and rough? You can assume Christin was talking about the course if you want to, but I am not.