Adam Baldwin's older brother, John, was in the posse that never was*

Whatevs, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers.


A new study reveals men are not as good in bed as we think we are. In an equally enlightening study, breathing is better for you than not breathing.


A new study reveals men are not as good in bed as we think we are. Guys, you might not be as good in bed as you think you are when, during sex, your woman yells out your dog’s name by mistake.

Guys, you might not be as good in bed as you think you are when, during sex, your woman yells out her vibrator’s nickname by mistake. “Oh, Thunder Dan.”


The woman running for Delaware Senator, Christine O’Donnell, has a new TV ad where she closes with; “I’m not a witch. I’m you.” This is better than their first idea: “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too.”


A new study reveals men are not as good in bed as they think they are. This study was done by the center for the Department of Understanding Humans, or DUH.

Since you asked, bully edition, 2:

Sorry regular readers if you’ve heard this one before, but all this news about bullies reminds me of my bully experience as a child.

My four-year-older brother, John, who turned out later to be gay, but was really just a horribly awkward and clumsy kid, both socially and physically, was bullied unmercifully. It was gut-wrenching to watch. Everybody gets teased, hell, if a girl was pretty and a boy handsome, they got teased for being handsome and pretty.

But the abuse my brother endured went beyond the pale. Two neighborhood thugs, well, thugs for suburban Chicago anyway, Tom Berger and John Carney (no relation to the awesome NFL kicker) a year younger than my brother John, three years older than me, were particularly hard on my poor utterly harmless and defenseless brother John.

At one point I stood up to them. As John’s younger brother, it broke my heart I had to defend him, but, although my brother and I never got along, I couldn’t take their hitting him anymore.

Well, that was fine with the bullies, they decided to beat me up instead of John.

Although three years younger, I was about as big as they were, so they considered me fair game. And that’s what they did. I was about 9 and they were 12 and, if they saw me in the neighborhood park, they came over and punched me in the stomach, arm or back. Nothing bloody, nothing in the face, but it hurt.

One day my grandmother Rodgers was visiting from Louisville and she saw me riding my red Schwinn on the sidewalk with Tom Berger and John Carney in-tow alternately slugging my back. When I got home, my shocked Grandmother asked who those awful boys were. My matter-of-fact reply;

“Oh, those are the boys who beat me up.”

To this day when I hear the word terrorist, I think of John Carney and Tom Berger. For about one year, it was truly terrifying for me to leave my own house. At that time I felt like the loneliest and most frightened kid on the planet.

But, as I grew taller and the bullies didn’t, the beatings magically stopped. In fact, we were able to maintain a rather friendly détente. We all wordlessly decided to pretend nothing happened.

Six years later, a wet and cold early spring late afternoon in my sophomore year in high school where, that fall, I had distinguished myself by scoring 22 touchdowns for the sophomore football team, I was walking past the neighborhood park that was across the church and kitty-corner from my house on the way into town. The same park that constantly reminded me, every day for six years, the bullies had beat me up there on a regular basis.

As I recalled those beatings, who was walking the other way? None other than my former nemesis, John Carney.

High school had not been a success for John Carney, his acne was bad and he dropped out to work at the gas station. Oily and greasier than ever, Carney was walking home after his gas station shift smoking a cigarette. We exchanged pleasantries. But then, oddly, John Carney stopped to chat and reminisce:

“Hey, football star, remember how me and Tommy (Tommy Berger, had long since moved) used to beat you up in this park? Man, that sure was fun. We beat the hell out of you.”

The five-year silent détente was suddenly broken. John Carney was taunting me in a spiteful way while pretending to be friendly. Now, even just 15, I was bigger than he was at 18. The scrawny John Carney wouldn’t dream of hitting me, but, reeking of Marlboro smoke, motor oil and body odor, he was blatantly relishing the fact he used to punch out that little, scared kid who was now a big football player. It seemed to make him feel proud.

“Yeah, I sure do remember that,” I said. My face was getting hot. Before I knew what happened, I laughed and said;

“You used to do this to me all the time . . .”

And I wound up and under-handed punched John Carney as hard as I could right in his solar plexus.

John Carney doubled over, his feet came off the sidewalk “Rocky” style, the wind rushed from his lungs and he collapsed on the sidewalk like a marionette with its strings cut. Then he rocked in the fetal position unable to breathe, his face a bright-red tearful frozen imitation of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.”

Shocked by what I had done, I stood there in horror and waited for him to breathe. In what seemed like forever, he finally sucked in a loud, raspy breath which was followed by the loudest little girl-like screeching scream I have ever heard.

When I was convinced he probably wouldn’t die, I scurried into town to get away from his screaming and sobbing as good Samaritans ran to his aid. It was shocking for me to see a grownup, to me anyway, crying and carrying on in such a pathetic manner.

When I got home with whatever I had gone into town for, probably a Snickers and a “Mad Magazine”, I ran up and hid in my room. This is how a murderer must feel, I remember thinking. My guilt was horrible and, worse, there were going to be serious consequences. Outside of a sport, I had never intentionally tried to hurt someone. It felt terrible.

All my life my parents had driven into me the fact I was bigger and stronger than most kids and it was incumbent upon me to be careful. It didn’t matter to my parents that John Carney was three years older, I was in epic trouble for hitting someone smaller.

Sure enough, my heart sank as the phone rang, I ran outside of my room and leaned over the balcony as my Mom, in the kitchen downstairs cutting carrots and onions for dinner, answered the phone with a puzzled:

“Why hello, Mrs. Carney, what’s the matter?”

Rumors of alcoholism and infidelity had followed Mrs. Carney and she was not famous for being nice. So it was strange for my Mom that she called.

I hung over the upstairs railing straining to hear each of my mother’s curt and succinct replies to what seemed like screaming coming from the other end;

“Uh huh, uh huh. You don’t say. OK, calm down. Really? Why that’s awful. Is he going to be OK?”

I could hear her voice ice-over in controlled anger as only Mom could do. This was going to be worse than I thought.

And then, amazingly, my Mother said;

“What am I going to do about it? Well, Mrs. Carney, I’ll tell you what I am going to do about it. I am going to do exactly what you did when your son used to pick on my Alex when he was just 9. Absolutely nothing. You have a nice day, now, you here?”

Click.

(Mom could get real Louisville-like and Southern- polite on someone’s tuchus when she wanted to twist the knife)

Bless her heart, Mom had my back. To my utter surprise she had known all along about the bullying I had endured six years before and it must have almost killed her to do nothing, but she also must have felt I could deal with it.

Sure, there was the stern lecture about how John Carney could have gotten seriously hurt and I could have gone to jail, etc.

From that point on, whenever I was on one side of my Elm street, John Carney found his way to the other. We never spoke again. The terrorist was now utterly terrified.

There were rumors Carney was forming a coalition of the mechanics he worked with to form a posse* for the revenge-the-revenge attack. Nothing came of it. The other mechanics weren’t very big either. (One was John Baldwin, the older brother of successful actor, Adam Baldwin, of “Full Metal Jacket” and now “Chuck” fame. (No relation to the Baldwin brothers)

The moral? Who knows? Maybe its bullies are cowards and shrivel and go away when confronted. One thing I do know is being the victim of a bully is terrible, it is all-consuming, it is torture both mentally and physically, but being strong and standing up to a bully, even after six years, well, that can feel pretty damn good.

Maybe that is what these kids who get bullied have to do.

Awwwww, look at dese guys right here, dey awful cute is what day was

Why aren't they making them like Bob Mathias anymore?

That’ll be the day, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers


The failed Times Square bomber, terrorist Faisal Shahzad, received a life sentence. So now instead of getting 72 virgins in heaven, in prison he is going to be de-virginized 72 times. (I.e., they're gonna eff the ess out of his bee)


When Florida police discovered a bag of rock cocaine hidden in a man’s buttocks, the man denied the coke was his. The police gave the man a chance to change his story, but he was a real a-hole about it.

Florida police discovered a bag of rock cocaine in a man’s buttocks, upon hearing this, Paris Hilton said; “That’s a hard way to chew gum.”

If you have a laptop computer on your lap, you can develop a skin rash from the heat. To which Bill Clinton said; “Yeah, that’s how I got that rash on my crotch, from my laptop.”

When Florida police discovered a bag of rock cocaine in a man’s buttocks. It is the first reported case of crack-on-crack crime.

Twitter CEO Evan Williams has resigned, Facebook founder, Mark Zuckerberg has an unflattering movie coming out and Microsoft’s Bill Gates is giving up $60 billion. This has to be the roughest time to be a computer nerd since the UN failed to recognize Klingons as a nation.

In 2006, Delaware Senate candidate, Christine O’Donnell said she had classified information that China was attempting to takeover the United States. Apparently China’s plan is to hire non-masturbating witches to put a curse on us that will make us lie about where we went to college.

The FDA has approved Kapvay, an ADD drug; I read about it on Wikipedia after I Googled it from a tweet I got from an e-mail in a poke on Facebook. Wait, what were we talking about?

On “Sixty Minutes” Bill and Melinda Gates announced are going to give away $60 billion dollars. $60 billion gone like that. It’s as if they were the CEO of Citigroup, Governor of California and the United States Postmaster General rolled into one.

To celebrate the cancellation of his divorce from Heidi Montag, Spencer Pratt shaved off his ratty beard with a buck knife on YouTube. When asked why he was such an idiot, Pratt declined to answer, he was busy trying to find his instructions to operate his Snuggie.


I tell ya, (adjusting tie) this economy is bad. Today I saw Lady Gaga wearing a dress made out of Hamburger Helper. (fanfare)


Since you asked:

As a proud former Sam Adams UCSB coached decathlete, just when I thought Bruce Jenner couldn’t become more of an embarrassment, he does. Forget for now the fact that, due to botched plastic surgery, Bruce looks like a mean old lesbian prison warden, Jenner’s appearances on “Keeping Up with the Kardashian’s” is off-the-hook odd.

“I don’t want my wife with another man;” Bruce admonishes his wife Kris, who resembles a mean old male prison warden.

Not to be indiscreet, but what does Bruce care? Rumor after rumor after rumor has it that Bruce is, well, more you-know-whater than a tofu finger sandwich at a Tony Awards party. OK, so those are only rumors, Jenner still appears like the nightmare house guest who won’t go away.

Despite the flagrant cheating of putting on 40-odd pounds of steroid muscles from 1972 to his gold medal in 1976, Bruce Jenner was a phenomenal athlete as my buddy Mark O’Snickity Snake pointed out. Steroids can’t propel you to a 4:12.6 1500 meters.

But doesn’t the man have any shame? A segment of Jenner’s on “Late Night with Conan O’Brien” was uncharacteristically vicious by Conan mocking what an embarrassing infomercial shill, corny huckster and sad sweater-wearing Hollywood wannabe Jenner has digressed. And Conan didn’t even bring up the all plastic surgery. Conan just hammered Jenner relentlessly and Bruce seemed genuinely happy to be the brunt of the jokes. Why? Because he was on TV.

Bob Mathias and Jim Thorpe are spinning in their graves.

"Jersey Shore" Snooki signs lucrative book deal. In a related story, Ernest Hemingway has just shot himself again.

Look out, everybody, it's a stand up paddle board surfin' daaawwwwwg

We do the do to the two, doobie, doobie do, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers



A US drone missile killed five suspected terrorists who were German nationals. Two of the men were Asadullah M. and Shahab Dashti. As German names go, not exactly Hansel and Gretel.


Philadelphia Eagles QB, Michael Vick, may be out with a rib injury. “Gosh, I hope Michael Vick is OK.” Said a really sarcastic talking yellow Labrador named Ernie.


There will be two Justin Bieber dolls available this Christmas; but it turns out one of them is just an old, leftover Moe from the Three Stooges doll.

I saw a commercial and thought, wow, Sarah Jessica Parker is in another big movie. Then I realized, oops, no, it’s an ad for “Secretariat” Sorry, my bad.

There’s a movie coming out, “The Social Network” about the founder of Facebook, Mark Zuckerberg, and the computer experts who helped him. It has intrigue, drama, betrayal and lots and lots of guys not getting laid.

Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag are not getting a divorce after all. Good news because if two phony people from a fake reality show’s sham marriage can’t work, what chance do we have?

The State department has issued a terror alert for Europe pleading for travelers to be vigilant. I think I speak for most when I say if I was any more vigilant I’d be a certified paranoid schizophrenic.

In Britain, a man found a dead mouse baked into a loaf of bread. You got to give the bakery credit for trying, they pointed out the mouse was gluten-free.

The New York Jets Braylon Edwards scored a touchdown against the Buffalo Bills on a nice drive. And here’s the good part, Edwards didn’t get a DUI during that drive.


Since you asked:
I’m starting to suspect all of my friend’s college age kids are all the same people based on their Facebook pictures. They all purse their lips gangsta-style and give faux-gang finger symbols like the devil rock sign (thumb, first and pinkie fingers extended)

They seem to always drink heavily, usually out of red plastic cups and they all have token girlfriends who look like broke-ass versions of Kim Kardashian or Paris Hilton and boyfriends who look like broke-ass Eminems. And they grind each other. A lot. Think "Jersey Shore" but with a triple digit I.Q.

My UCSB college party pictures make us look like “The Great Gatsby” by comparison.

Who is Justin Bieber's real father?

That's right, Moe. I'm just sayin' I'm just sayin'.

Happy 17th anniversary to Lex and Virg, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers


Larry King said he wants to host “Saturday Night Live” Legally that’s a problem, the NBC attorneys aren’t sure if Larry King satisfies the live qualification of “Saturday Night Live.”

Lindsay Lohan has checked into another rehab facility. At some point don’t we stop calling it a rehab facility? Isn’t it in Lindsay’s case just an enabling outlet?

The first thing she asked when she checked in was: “What time is happy hour?”

It is still hot, I’m sweating like anti-masturbation candidate, Christine O’Donnell, being confronted with adult movie charges on her hotel bill.

President Jimmy Carter had to be hospitalized with stomach pains. But doctors say Carter is going to be up and insulting our other presidents in no time.

Twitter went down today. It was so bad Ashton Kucher had to actually talk to his wife, Demi Moore.

Millions of people were forced to pay attention to their work and their driving.

The San Diego Padres had a 6 1/2 lead on August 25th, but after a ten game losing streak and two home loses to the Chicago Cubs, the Padres are now two games behind the San Francisco Giants. This is the worst losing streak in California that doesn’t involve a Wayans brother.

They announced the wrong winner of “Australia’s Top Model” And they didn’t handle it well, they said; “Sorry, it was supposed to go to the girl who is way hotter than you are.”

Since you asked:

Now, I don’t want you folks to think I am crabby, it is just I like to use this blog to vent. And today I want to vent about things that are legal that should not be legal.

This comes from the fact that Congress finally got as annoyed as everyone else about how menacingly cranked up commercials are compared to the regular programming. They are going to make it illegal, but any right thinking person knew it should have been illegal years ago.

Smoking. This is a no-brainer, it kills people and costs the rest of us billions and billions. Screw the smoking industry, if they are in that business they deserve to be unemployed.

Ice Cream trucks. What was once a pleasant childhood memory is now a huge annoyance. There are way too many of them and they blast their music and hang out in playground parking lots. A drug dealer/ child molester could not invent a better job for their needs. With rampant childhood obesity, this is an easy step to cut out.

Talking on a cell phone in front of a captive audience. Go somewhere else, you’re not that important.

Loose subscription cards in magazines.

Any and all door-to-door solicitations besides one exception: Girl Scouts.

Any and all telemarketing calls and this includes charities.

Pop up ads on websites. Especially the ones that take you away from the website you want.

Business owners appearing in their own commercial. From Tom Carvel’s Cookie Puss down to that a-hole local bail bondsman, these are a national embarrassment. If you could act, sing or be funny, you wouldn’t be doing what you’re doing.

Advertising a business on twitter or facebook.

Notifying people about the games on facebook. Nobody cares about your stupid imaginary farm.

Telling people about your kid’s games in detail. (Yes, I am a huge hypocrite about this, but I will stop if others will. Unless it is a brief; “He hit a game winning grand slam” or “She shot the winning goal with one minute left”, if my kid isn’t on your team, I really don’t care)

Athletes thanking Jesus or God. Surely this has to be a violation of separation of church and state.

Waving at a TV camera while on a cell phone. Don’t you know what a douche-bag you look like? We sure do.

Wearing the jersey of a player who is younger than you are.

Loudly celebrating a score if you are a visiting fan. You can wear the gear, even clap and cheer when they score, just shut up and be polite. (A San Francisco Giant fan was obnoxiously standing up and waving his hat like he was trying to catch something in it when the Giants scored. Fed up, I finally yelled out:

“You had less to do with that run than that god-awful hat.”

The crowd cracked up and he stopped doing it for some reason


Good night for our 17th. Out to dinner at always cool and hip Pacific Coast Grill. Great steak. Then we had a drink at The Grand. Oh my word, not even two miles from my house and it is Hotel California meets Hearst Castle meets the Great Gatsby meets “The Shining.” It was “The Shining” because of how it looked, but also because it was almost abandoned. More people working there than staying there. And I had a wildly watered-down drink for $17.