Laugh at these jokes or this puppy will not get a tummy rub . . . oh, yes he will, come heres widdle guy

We gonna top doggy this here froggy, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers


The good news is King Tut has arrived in New York. The bad news is he is having an affair with his wife’s sister.


Larry King’s son’s former Little League coach was having an affair with Larry’s wife. You can tell your wife is having an affair with your Little League coach, when she refuses your advances for sex by yelling “Strike three, you’re out.”


In Connecticut, a man who was having a feud with the woman next door placed a phony ad from her on Craigslist claiming a bored soccer mom wants rowdy sex with as many men as possible. The man was charged with sexual assault, harassment, and with placing a really funny ad.


How is this for ingratitude? Yesterday, we celebrated Earth Day while, in Iceland, Earth is asking us to pull its finger.


Two more women have claimed they were sexually harassed by former action star, Steven Seagal. The good news for Seagal? He will play the lead role in “The Ben Roethlisberger Story.”


A sheriff’s office in Lake Tahoe thought a 61-year-old meth addict had a bomb in his anus. It turned out to be a vibrator. When asked why he had a vibrator up his rectum, the suspect replied: “I am a 61-year-old meth addict, why wouldn’t I have a vibrator in my rectum?”

So they dropped the charges of carrying a really concealed weapon.


Sandra Bullock’s husband, Jesse James, is undergoing sex rehab. In sex rehab they determine if you’re a sex addict. But Jesse doesn’t consider himself a sex addict, he prefers to think he has a bad case of restless penis syndrome.


Seven Eleven is launching their own beer called Game Day. Game Day is a much better name then their first idea for the name of the Seven Eleven beer: Face it, Your Life Sucks.


In New York, a couple abandoned their three-year-old boy in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Shame on them, that is a horribly dangerous thing to do leaving a young boy so near to so many priests.



Since you asked:

Rick Reilly wrote a great article in “ESPN” magazine “What a Day at the Masters” highly praising Phil and Amy Mickelson and taking a few pot shots at Tiger Woods.

To his credit, Reilly has never liked Tiger and was happy to express it. He was writing a book on golf titled “Who’s Your Caddy” and Tiger was – what a shock -- rude and unhelpful, and Reilly tore into him for it.

Now that Phil Mickelson is everybody’s hero, and deservedly so - I have always been a huge “Lefty” fan, he is beloved in his hometown of San Diego - writers besides Reilly finally have the guts to rip Tiger Woods and declare what a jerk he has always been from day one.

Here is my question: where were these guys when everybody was still kissing Tiger’s butt? Of course some writers are attempting a tour of the high road by praising how loyal and devoted and dedicated a father and husband Phil Mickelson is, but we all know they are really taking aim at Tiger in a not-so-subtle way.

But, until now, was Nike such a bully and Tiger’s entourage so vindictive that it actually frightened the press from exposing what a nasty tool Tiger has been all along? Or are the golf writers just plain whimps? Me thinks it is a combination of both.

Nobody needs an immoral scoundrel, like Tiger, to compare to me what a great guy Phil Mickelson is. I’ve seen Phil up close and personal around town in restaurants and such to know he is a genuinely nice guy. So why did the press protect Tiger for so long? Sure, they hid behind praising Tiger’s golf game, but nobody had a problem pointing out how great Barry Bonds was at hitting home runs and that he treated bat boys like dirt. Why didn’t we know that about Tiger?

When the amazingly huge machine that is the 2008 US Open grinded through just two miles from my house at Torrey Pines, it left in its wake countless stinky rumors of how cheap, rude and sullen Tiger Woods and his entourage was with the all little folks: No tips, no smiles, no autographs, no appearances, no interviews, no pictures, no gifts of balls, tees hats or shirts, no jokes, no smiling, no graciousness nor any evidence of class whatsoever.

Meanwhile Phil Mickelson was doing all of that stuff and more.

Why didn’t anyone write about the awful Tiger back then? Did Tiger really have to get exposed for short-putting every bimbo in a cocktail waitress skirt for the press to grow a pair to write about the sleazy Tiger? You don’t turn into a hated scoundrel in one errant Thanksgiving drive.

Make no mistake, I do not contend to judge Tiger on my high moral horse based on his many and tawdry affairs. What happened there is between Tiger’s conscience and his wife, Elin. No, why I hate Tiger is because he and Nike so shamelessly and insincerely tried to spin our ability to forgive, and then he so utterly blew his cover.

It’s like why I hate Hillary Clinton. I do not hate Hillary Clinton for saying, when asked why she wasn’t content to be a house wife, Hillary snapped;

“I suppose I could sit around home baking cookies and serving teas.”

When the baking-cookies-Moms exploded in angry resentment, at the next press conference, Hillary showed up with – you guessed it – cookies and tea. That’s why I hate Hillary. Well, Tiger took the cookies and tea and threw them in our face, that’s why I hate Tiger Woods.

Granted, Tiger has been very Michael Jordan-like in his angry bullying of the press. Imply anything not great? No Tiger access. But come on, sports press, grow a spine.

Wanna know how I know Tiger Woods is, as the great Dan Jenkins wrote, graveyard dead? Thanks to that sage, wise, all-knowing and seeing 11-year-old, Ann Caroline, my lovely daughter. We pulled into the parking lot of the Mad Greek’s restaurant in Primm, Nevada, on our way to Brian Head, Utah. When we got out of the car, above us on a 30 foot wall of a Casino was the giant image of Tiger Woods looming over everyone.

When Ann Caroline saw it she simply burst out in loud and uncontrollable laughter. That is how much of a punch line Tiger Woods has become.

Tiger’s new and improved nice guy image fell apart like a wet paper bag in a monsoon during the Masters. The guy is, was, and will be a flat out foul-mouthed jerk. Period. Some people are jerks. Tiger is one of them. Good. Like I said before, we never really had a guy to hate in golf. Vijay Singh and Colin Montgomery are merely unlikable at best.

Even after proving he was sleazier and hornier than a drunken syphilitic goat, we were ready to take Tiger Woods back into our hearts if he just provided a modicum of modesty, regret and decorum at the Masters. We sports fans are a forgiving people.

And Tiger blew it like a volcano in Iceland. Tiger Woods “John Edwards” blew it. Tiger Woods “Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt” blew it. Tiger “Rod Blagojevich” blew it.

Now I truly hate Tiger Woods, I truly do. And good.

Hating Tiger Woods makes golf a whole lot more fun. Sports needs bad guys. Well, maybe we don’t need one as bad as Oakland Raiders owner, Al Davis, but we need bad guys. We need bad guys even when there isn’t a bad guy. In the glory days of Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, you had to hate one of them even after it turned out both were great guys in vastly different ways.

Same way with Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris. Sadly, it turned out both were great guys, but everyone, myself included, a very young boy at the time, I hated Maris because the press hated Maris. The press can be wrong, but the players are not. The players loved Maris. The players on the PGA tour could barely hide their contempt for Tiger and the press was happy to write it off as professional jealousy. Sports press, Tiger isn’t the only one who really blew it.

Sorry Schnike, err, I mean Nike, we the people and the press have decided, once and for all, that we hate Tiger Woods with a passion. It will be good for golf. Maybe not so good for Nike’s bottom line, because nobody is going to buy Tiger’s stuff, but it will be good for golf. So maybe, Nike, you can use the voice of Tiger’s dead image in your next shameless commercial?

Now, on Sundays, the good guy is wearing black and the bad guy is wearing red.

Just bite it, Nike.

Don't look now, but it's a surfin' dawwwwwwwwwwwg

Don’t dawg a dawg, dawg, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers


Due to the volcano in Iceland, thousands of foreigners are stranded at the airport in Paris; they have not showered; they have not bathed, they are extremely cranky; they have been named honorary Parisians.


The NFL has suspended twice-sexual-assault-accused Pittsburgh Steeler, Ben Roethlisberger, for six games. Or as Ben calls six games: 42 lap dances and 32 massages with happy endings.


An England a surgeon mistakenly removed a patient’s testicle. Boy, that surgeon has some balls.
And the patient, Camilla Parker Bowles, is furious.

An England a surgeon mistakenly removed a patient’s testicle. And once you remove testicles, you can’t put them back. Just ask Tiger Woods.


Shaquille O’Neal’s estranged wife, Shaunie O’Neal, claims Shaq used to scare and intimidate their kids. Here is a parenting tip: if you don’t want your kids to be frightened of their dad, make sure he isn’t over seven feet tall, 300 pounds with a size 24 foot.


A police office in Lake Tahoe was evacuated when it was believed a suspect had a bomb in his anus. Turns out it was a vibrator. For the love of god, Andy Dick, get some help.


Scientists in the UK have developed an embryo with the DNA of one man and two women; they say the person will be able to stop and ask for directions, it just won’t follow them.


In New York, 30,000 doorman are threatening to go on strike. Most of the best apartment buildings in New York have doormen. In the rest of the country, to open a door, we use these things we call: our hands.


The Chicago Cubs are already four games out of first place and playing below .500 %. Some Cubs fans are already saying: “Wait ‘til next 12 month cycle of Prozac.”


Since you asked:
Saw “Crazy Heart” As Leon Helms of The Band once said of New York City in “The Last Waltz”, “That there is an adult dose.”

Whew, I loved it, but parts were tough to watch. It sure didn’t sweet talk anyone to death. Normally this isn’t my kind of film, but my love of outlaw rock knows no limits.

Jeff Bridges doesn't make this film, he IS this film. Didn't use to be a Maggie Gul, Gyllau, a Maggie fan, but I am now. She is also rocking quite the body. Wasn't much of a Colin Farell fan, but I am now. And Robert the D. was awesome as always.

Living in Santa Barbara in 1978 to 1981 I was a witness to this great meeting of music, time and place. At a time when I had UCSB Sigma Chi fraternity brothers swooning over Ronald Reagan and wearing their Polo shirts under their Oxford polo button down shirts with both collars up, reeking of Polo cologne while wearing their Vaurnet sunglasses in class, cowboy hats, jeans and leather boots sure looked good to me.

And a lot of the stars lived in and around Santa Barbara. And they loved to play at the County Bowl where I worked briefly as security. I’ll never forget when we were screening purses for weapons - and finding lots of them and a lot of drugs, which we were obliged to let them keep - at the front gate before the Waylon Jennings concert, I heard a deafening roar and looked up to see every security guard’s worst nightmare: 20 chrome-chopped motorcycles of Hell’s Angels roaring up. Panicked to death, I looked over at the head of security, a fairly- young-for-a- retired policeman, and he was waving the Angels through to go and park backstage just as pretty as you please.

Turns out the Angels were mostly nice as hell. Later we would find out the Hells Angels were the leading supplier to rock stars of good quality and quantity cocaine. This explains Altamont.

And often you would walk into bars around State street and Joe Cocker would be singing drunk off his ass. (Joe once bought my Dad a bloody Mary by accident at brunch at the soon-to-be-mentioned Cold Springs Tavern) Once we walked in on a heavenly jam duet with Kenny Loggins and Emmy Lou Harris.

But the best/worst was at the venerable old rustic and wooden stage coach stop bar, Cold Springs Tavern. My buddy, Mike, was the bartender and he looked the part. He looked exactly like Robert Redford in “Jeremiah Johnson” beard and all.

Mike invited us and a few of his buddies to drink for free and listen to the Captain Crunch and the Deep Cross Cowboys, a local band that specialized in country songs with obscene lyrics, like “It’s Hard To Say I Love You” (When You’re Sitting On My Face)

CCATDCC were actually really good and we had a great time and headed back down the mountain to our Isla Vista beach front apartment. (Two of us were waiting tables for Sunday brunch the next day at the Elegant Farmer) The next morning we walked out on a half-drunk, half-awake Mike, who just staggered in as he was sleeping on our living room couch the entire summer, and he mumbled with his eyes closed;

“Oh, why did you leave? Why in the hell did you leave?”

Apparently right after we left, fresh from an L.A. studio session, into the bar strode Jackson Browne and a truly inebriated Joe Walsh and a likewise Jimmy Buffet, and apparently they played, sang and jammed in this cozy log cabin bar all night. And, this being the Eighties, they had a guy with them who was freely dispensing to the bar patrons a mysterious powder that enables folks to stay up all night. We then remembered we had passed their limo when we drove down the mountain road.

Oh well.

By the way, any rock/country/outlaw band looking for a grill chef/comedian/harmonica player for your next Western tour swing, I can be had for merely session musician rates. Can grill me a mean tri-tip, tell a belly-hurtin’ joke and play a tear-jerkin or boot stomping solo or fill on harp.

Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Haaaaaaaaaaaw.

Oh yes, it is time to get our harmonica on

I see my light come shining, from the West unto the East, any day now, any way now, I shall be released, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

-The Band "I Shall Be Released"




This week on “American Idol” it’s “Idol Gives Back” where they donate money, food and clothes to the needy. It was nice, Sanjaya’s manager at Dominoes donated 50 pizzas.



Post Master General, John Potter, warned Congress the Post Office could go broke. Potter was earnest about the message so he sent it to Congress via e-mail, fax, Federal Express and UPS.



At a Philadelphia Phillies game, Matthew Clemmens, an obese and loudly vulgar male from New Jersey, was arrested for intentionally vomiting on an off-duty cop. Clemmens was charged with assault, disorderly conduct and impersonating the Washington Nationals.



At a Philadelphia Phillies game, Matthew Clemmens, an obese and loudly vulgar male from New Jersey, was arrested for intentionally vomiting on an off-duty cop and his 11-year-old daughter. Yo, New Jersey. You want comedians to stop making fun of you? Ya gotta stop stuff like this.



It should not be surprising the Pittsburgh Steeler, Ben Roethlisberger has been charged twice with drunken sexual assault. The letters in Ben Roethlisberger spell: Sir Rebel Beer Thong.



Tiger Woods announced he will play in the Quail Hollow Championship next week in Charlotte. Gosh, I can’t imagine why Tiger wants to get out of the house these days?



George Washington has racked over $300,000 in fines from books he borrowed – and never returned - from a New York library in 1789. The library wants the books back, one is the only original copy they have of the biography of John McCain.



Boise State is getting rid of their ugly blue turf field, the bad news is they are replacing it with another ugly blue turf field. This is the field where ducks crash on it mistaking it for a lake. Now don’t confuse this with the field where the Eagles crash, that’s in Philadelphia



John Edward’s mistress, Rielle Hunter, is set to go on Oprah. And John Edwards is trying to get on Bonnie Hunt, not “The Bonnie Hunt Show” he’s trying to get on Bonnie Hunt.



The Chicago Cubs are three games out of first and playing below .500%, but don’t worry, Cubs fans, it’s too early to panic. Five, four, three, two, one, OK, you can panic now.



Did you see how cold it was Sunday in Chicago when the Cubs lost to the Houston Astros 3-2 in the tenth inning? It was so cold the Cubs fan weren’t just shaking with frustration.




Since you asked:
It is easy to see why some people hate “American Idol.” Our family happens to be fans. I mean, it exposes a lot of people to a lot of great music and it is great drama, even when it is awful. And it is fun, we all sit together and critique what is happening.

One point I got a little stern with my lovely wife and daughter because I felt they were being too critical.

“Unless you’ve performed in front of people, it is easy to sit back and be negative,” I self-righteously reminded them.

Then one contestant really blew it and, after a pause, my 11-year-old Ann Caroline announced:

“I’m sorry, but that was poop on toast.”

It is interesting how some songs work and some don’t. It made me notice how some great songs can have a dozen versions of them, like my favorites, “Pancho and Lefty” “Angel From Montgomery” “Crazy” “People Get Ready” “Yesterday” “Hallelujah” “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”

And other great songs cannot ever be replicated. They belong to the artist that created them alone:

“Honky Tonk Woman” “Layla” “Stairway to Heaven” “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” “Maggie Mae.” “Heart of Gold” “Gimme Three Steps”

There are many great artists and brilliant song writers who really don’t have great voices. That, if I were a contestant, would be who I would zero in on. But, even though his voice isn’t classic, Neil Young songs don’t generally work for other people. But Bob Dylan is in the same category, but his songs are covered better than his versions, especially “Knockin’ On Heavens Door.” Dylan diehards would argue this, but they would be wrong.

That’s why “AI” contestants should pour over the records of someone who is a great, great songwriter, but only a good singer.

Now I love John Hiatt, and I go see him whenever he is in town, especially at Humphries by the Bay. But his voice sounds way too much like mine for him to be considered a great singer. He is a soulful singer. That is precisely why so many of his songs have been such huge hits when sung by somebody else. Bonnie Raitt’s “A Thing Called Love” and Eric Clapton and BB King’s “Riding with the King” are two good examples.

And I can’t even count the number of artists who have had hits with John Hiatt’s “Have a Little Faith In Me.”


One of those "AI" contestants should stick their nose into the song catalog of one of the most underrated bands of all time: Badfinger, and go to town.

Another way to go would be to use great songs that most people have never even heard. Being a huge blues fan, there are a ton of artists that most folks wouldn’t know from monkey-do. Junior Wells, Little Walter, Howlin’ Wolf, Jimmy Reed, Slim Harpo. The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, Led Zeppelin all made billions working on this premise.

Hell, one of the most underrated artists of all time I saw a bunch of times in a club in Evanston and he is listed by Eric Clapton as one of his favorite guitarists, Luther Allison, has great songs. The only reason my man Luther never had a hit is it was against his DNA to jam on a song for less than six minutes. Not conducive to radio play.

After Casey James very stiff and lackluster performance, would somebody please tell him to do the White Stripes (Jack White) “Seven Nation Army”?

Tear into those power chords on your guit-box and sexy that bitch up, Eagle-lookin’ Dude.

"Look, I am waiting to catch the bull crap that is about to come from my mouth."

What to the what to the what, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers?

Porn star Joslyn James claims she got pregnant by Tiger Woods twice. Not surprising, the letters in Tiger Woods spell: Dog sires two.

In Philadelphia, an obese, loud and vulgar male from New Jersey, Matthew Clemmens, was arrested for intentionally vomiting on an off-duty cop and his young daughter during a Phillies game. The New York Mets are recruiting Clemmens to serve as a model of class and comportment for their fans.

The good news is the Boise State ugly blue turf is being torn out. The bad news? It’s being replaced by another ugly blue turf. That’s like eliminating a terrorist member of al Qaeda and replacing him with a guy from the Taliban.

Since you asked:

You know what I love about John Edwards? There there is nothing I don’t hate about John Edwards. That is what.

This hatred came long before we found out Edwards lied about his bastard child with his gold digger skank bucket whore, Rielle Hunter, (she announced she doesn’t like the name mistress, so the Lex-dude abides) while cheating on his dying-with-cancer wife, Elizabeth. (With all due respect to the ill, she is no prize either. Reportedly quite the Lady McBeth shrew) Oh, and Edwards financed his bastard and whore with campaign money. He could go to jail for that.

It’s not about politics, it’s personal. From the first time I saw Edwards’s little dimpled cheeks and his teeth whitener smile under his $1,000 hair cut while wearing his $10,000 suit, I wanted to slap the snot out of his smug too-tan cutesy choirboy face.

Look, politicians are all lying cheating dirt bags. We know it, we generally can live with it. But when one of those dirt bags runs on the image of being the perfect father and husband and then we find out he is a lying hypocrite, we want to bring them down. We brought Edwards down.

Good job, us.

And it’s not jealousy over good looks, money and power and women. John F. Kennedy had all the money, power and cheating hot girlfriends a man could have, and I am a huge fan of the JFK. No, its because Edwards is such an obvious fake, phony, charlatan, con artist.

No matter his wealth and success, deep down Edwards is what he has always been: a sleazy scabby-knees ambulance chaser. He just happens to be a good scabby-knees ambulance chaser. So good Edwards has personally managed to raise our medical costs by billions of dollars while getting fat-stupid-rich in the process.

Is there anything more fun then when an utter scum bucket, like Edwards, gets what is coming to them? Agreed, it’s not OJ Simpson, Tiger Woods or Bernie Madoff fun, but it is fun.

Edwards reminds me of several scumbag characters I worked with in a top La Jolla brokerage firm. The endless supply of old rich people in La Jolla attract slick-looking immoral con artists, and I worked with one who actually stole half-a-million dollars from his rich Greek clients and lost it in Las Vegas in one weekend. And he wasn’t the worst. Four stock brokers who worked in my office in La Jolla, including that guy, eventually did time in prison.

And they weren’t the worst.

By far the worst was this big time stock broker, whose name rhymed with Spike Stargis, who dressed impeccably, his suits and pin point cotton shirts were tailor made, he had a gorgeous house near the beach in Del Mar, a gold and diamond Rolex, he drove the nicest and cleanest hand-detailed dark blue BMW convertible you’ve ever seen and crewed on the fastest sail boats in California. He was a tan, slender, good-looking guy with sandy hair who smelled of the most expensive bay rum cologne, dated the prettiest women and ate at the best restaurants and hung with the fastest crowd at the Del Mar racetrack; he was charming, quick with a laugh and a joke as anyone you’ve ever seen.

The problem?

He was also a full-blown racist, foul-mouthed sociopath and a herpes-ridden perverted sex-fiend degenerate gambler alcoholic cocaine addict who sincerely enjoyed and even laughed about stealing retirement money from little old dying widows. He used to secretly tape his sexual conquests - clearly without their knowledge - and show them to his pals during poker games. (He also cheated at poker) His utter immorality and lack of character was as contemptibly sadistic as any evil dictator in history, Hitler and Stalin combined. He just lacked the stomach to actually commit murder because he was also a coward.

Back in those days it was easy for me to judge somebody simply by what they thought of Spike Stargis. There were far too many who were, like him, so totally shallow and vain all they saw were the outer trappings of looks, success and apparent good taste.

Anyone who could judge character at all knew Stargis was the moral equivalent of someone who greased themselves all over with rancid rat fat in order to more easily slide down into the sewer and hump a dead alligator.

Like John Edwards, Spike Stargis never did prison time, but he should have. But Edwards still can.