Friday, September 16, 2011
This is not, but looks like, Miss Golden
Oh please, Fabreze can handle these, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers
(My mantra at laundry time)
The FBI is investigating the hacking of naked photos of actress Scarlett Johansson on her phone; now why would the FBI become involved with such a trivial case? Oh yeah, naked pictures of Scarlett Johansson.
The best part of the FBI working on this is knowing that obviously there are no more terrorists in the world.
There is a new smart phone app that connects people who have to use a bathroom to people’s homes. You’ve heard of Match.com? This is Light-a-Match.com.
The Dallas Cowboys lost to the New York Jets, 27-24, due to two last-minute turnovers by Cowboy QB, Tony Romo. Romo hasn’t choked that bad since he was dating Jessica Simpson and she asked if her jeans made her butt look big.
A New Mexico state trooper, in full uniform, was photographed having sex with a woman on the hood of her car. He clocked her going 50 in a 30 mph zone, then she clocked him going two minutes in a ten minute zone.
McDonalds is opening 700 restaurants in China. “This is the best news I’ve ever heard;” said China’s dogs.
I’m still thinking about the Republican debate. Newt Gingrich has as much chance of winning the election as his wife, Calista, has of ever blinking again.
I’m still thinking about the Republican debate. Is it just me, or does Rick Perry look like a guy who still thinks it’s cool to say Groovy?
The makers of Twinkies, Hostess Brands, hired financial advisors due to hard times; who designed the Twinkie? Why is it a flesh-colored tube with white cream inside . . . oh my god, there goes that fond childhood memory.
Despite it being a strong democratic region, former New York Rep. and junk texter, Anthony Weiner’s, seat was won by a republican. That’s what happens when you show everyone you’re a dick.
Since you asked:
They say that all comedians come from troubled childhoods. To that I say, aren’t all childhoods troubled? By that I mean everyone thinks their family is the craziest in the world, including me. And I know I had wonderful parents in Bob and Ann Kaseberg.
But my brother, John, had an extremely contrary personality, I had a strong personality as did both of my parents and frequently not everyone got along. In fact, the fights between me and my brother were toxic and meant to do real harm. To this day, I firmly believe my brother had a form of autism, that is how little he needed people or relationships.
But I had a wonderful childhood by all measurements. There was love, affection, humor, support emotionally and financially. And yet I still remember feeling red hot shame at how crazy we were. And how terrified I was of people finding out how crazy we were.
Our next-door neighbors used to joke about how all-American we were. My Mom and Dad were both attractive, healthy, popular, successful people, my brother John was a tall, well dressed and smart kid and I was the big high school football and track jock who tirelessly chased cheerleaders, if not always fruitfully.
My Mom fixed great dinners every night where we all sat and conversed. The only time I got to eat and watch TV at the same time was when my parents were out and we had a babysitter. We went to church, we played games, we had fun. And we grew up in one of the wealthiest – albeit on the “poor” side – towns in America. And our school system was second to nun.
Oops, I mean none.
Was I aware that there were families crazier than ours? Of course. Namely my entire Mother’s side of the family which had more than its share of drama and booze. And even in the over-protective leafy suburb of Winnetka we knew about fathers having affairs, and mothers having drinking problems.
When I was in the Boy Scouts selling Christmas trees door-to-door, one neighbor opened the door at noon on Saturday in his red and black checkered bathrobe. He was so drunk he could barely stand up and he could not talk.
Selling those Christmas tree tickets is proof that childhood memories can be a two-headed beast. On the bright side, I sold enough tickets to win a ticket to a Chicago Blackhawks game. My Dad, a sales manager, could not contain his pride.
On the dark side, a woman who was a close family friend, came to the Christmas tree lot and screamed curses in my face for five minutes because I had neglected to tell her the lot had moved from across the street from her house on Tower Road to a couple miles away at New Trier High School.
17 years later at my Father's funeral, when this lady came up to give her condolences, her ugly tirade at me was all I could remember.
Now, I am not trying to compare my growing up on the wealthy North Shore of Chicago to Richard Pryor growing up in a Joliet Illinois heroin-den whore house, just like I am not trying to compare my comedy to Richard Pryor’s, heaven forbid.
But as Bill Cosby’s incredible comedy albums taught me, no matter how great or how awful, we all have fond and bad memories of our childhood. And Bill Cosby grew up in the projects of Philadelphia with a fall-down drunk alcoholic father.
One girl’s name, Megan Hanson, is proof to me the power of both good and bad memories of fourth grade. The good memories were of her flaxen shoulder-length hair, her angelic/naughty pretty face and green eyes were proof that my crush on her was aptly named: my crush on her was so strong, I could barely breathe. Purely innocent, but overwhelming love.
And yet that name also brings a horrible memory of an evil school vice principal, a mean-spirited skinny little bald man who smoked constantly. Unfairly, I was sent to his office because I had pushed the object of my affection, Megan, down in the mud. (It was an accident, I was running down a muddy hill and slipped and bumped into her)
With the door of his office closed, he swore at me and violently shook me by the shoulders in an angry and sadistic effort to get me to confess I had pushed her intentionally. Which, I am proud to say, I never did. If I had admitted to it, I would have been suspended, which is what he clearly wanted.
It was my first painful lesson that adults could be both hurtful and evil. (In retrospect, I should have ran out of his office screaming; "Help, help, Vice Principal So-and-so took off his pants.")
With all my recent reminiscing about my childhood – probably due to a reunion coming up and our daughter turning 13 – it occurs I can almost pinpoint the biggest change in a person’s life. That almost overnight transition you make from innocent naive sweet childhood into that scary and hormone raging confusion of adolescence. And the frightening knowledge that there was no going back.
And I am nearly positive that nascent, life-evolving wild careening hair-pin life turn occurred while I was staring at Miss Golden’s legs in Seventh Grade English class.
Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhd she was hot.
Check out the chicken on Lex
Bone-in, skin-on thighs, marinated for an hour in peanut oil and a good splash of Mount Gay Rum and a squeeze of lime. (Good golden tequila could do)
Rub of garlic powder, Old Bay, salt, pepper.
Smoke with mesquite wood chips in the smoker-box over the direct heat, chicken on the indirect heat on the gas grill for one hour, about 350 degrees skin side up the entire time. Seared skin side down on the direct heat at the very end.
Because they were thighs and marinated, juicy, but great smoke flavor. The rum causes them to caramelize and no need for barbecue sauce.
(Who would have guessed my favorite chicken recipe would include the words, gay, mount, smoked and squeeze?)
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
"If you don't jump up and poop pink cupcakes after the flop, fold your sorry ass."
What I imagine R. Lee Ermey's advice on Texas Hold 'Em poker would be.
What I imagine R. Lee Ermey's advice on Texas Hold 'Em poker would be.
"Oh, come on, man, I'll be your Doug."
Dougie, Dougie, Dougie, Dougie, Dougie, Dougie, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers
A study claims women who drink moderately are healthier than women who don’t drink at all; Good news, guys, apparently it is healthy for women to have sex with ugly dudes.
It’s Monday night. “Are you ready for some football?” (This question is considered rhetorical in Oakland, Jacksonville and the general area of Carolina, wherever the hell that is)
Across the country, the tenth anniversary of the attacks of September 11th were marked by ceremonies of solemn respect, dignity and grace; of course, a few drone missiles shot up the butts of some al Qaeda dudes would have been pretty sweet too.
In Sweden, a moose got stuck in an apple tree because it was drunk from eating fermented apples. You know who else they thought was drunk? The guy who called to report a drunk moose stuck up an apple tree.
A study claims women who drink moderately are healthier than women who don’t drink at all; ladies, moderate drinking is not when you watch “The Apprentice” and think to yourself; “That Donald Trump is kind of hot.” That is immoderate drinking.
A study reveals dolphins speak with the same speech patterns as humans. They transcribed one dolphin saying; “Seriously, do a few jump flips and those idiots at Sea World keep you in fish for the rest of your life.”
Despite signs stolen by vandals, a Minnesota town is going to keep a street named Stoner Ave. They are, however, going to change the names of Wasted Way and the High-As-Hell Highway.
The Cincinnati Bengals beat the Cleveland Browns 27-17. That is a great start for the Bengals, not only did they win, but, when they celebrated the win, only five Bengals got arrested.
Two fighter jets had to be scrambled to follow a Denver-to-Detroit Frontier Airlines flight because a couple had been taking unusually long in the bathroom. Turns out they were joining the mile high club. So he was not a terrorist and she certainly was not one of 72 virgins.
Since you asked:
As the old Southern expression goes, I have been places and ‘et in Ho’tels, Slats and Nuggifies, but I ain’t never seen what Tom Brady did last nicht. It was borderline scary.
Scary when you consider that playing NFL quarterback is the hardest thing to do in all of sports. Yeah, I know, it is hard to hit a 95-mph moving round ball with a round bat. But a lot more people can do that than can play quarterback well in the NFL.
Anyone who doubts the importance and difficulty of being a good quarterback did not see the highlights, or more accurately, lowlights of the Indianapolis Colts.
Last night, with the added bonus of incredible protection, Tom Brady stood there like a guy who is an expert-level video game player playing at the beginner level.
“Oh, the primary receiver is double covered? Great I’ll look to the next guy. He’s covered? No problem, where is my third choice? There is a one foot opening to throw it to him in one split second? No problem.” Zing. Touchdown. Walk off the field completely emotionless.
One could say Brady’s performance was surgical, but surgery requires dealing with blood. Brady’s performance was bloodless.
As things stand right now, barring injuries and bad luck, I cannot see anyone, including the Green Bay Packers, getting in the way of this Patriots team.
To paraphrase Peter Jacobson in “Tin Cup” NFL, you better start making birdies or you’re playing for second."
It is high time to play a feisty round of:
Four Heterophobes watch the Republican Debates:
Picture, if you will, four handsome mid-thirties gay men, nattily attired with a few pork pie hats, wire rimmed glasses, neatly trimmed goatees, sipping smart cocktails in a chic SoHo flat and watching the Republican debates:
“Oh, please, Mitt Romney, don’t hide behind your tennis sweater and yellow Labrador named Skipper, you’re too good looking to be straight, we know you’re gay.”
“He so is, and his life partner is that sexy Rick Perry. Your mouth says anti-gay marriage, but your eyes say drive me to Fire Island, Mitt.”
“Look at how cute Mitt and Rick are when they fight. They’re like our older friends, Terrance and Clifford. Remember how they fought over what to serve at their Tony Awards Party?”
“You have to admit, cucumber sandwiches are a bit gay-cliché.”
“Oh my word, how scary is Michele Bachmann? If her husband Marcus wasn’t gay before he married her, he certainly is now.”
“I’ve seen those scary Michele Bachman eyes once before, but where? Oh, right, it was when that homeless person fed crack to the wolf at the zoo.”
The entire four jump up from their seats and exchange horribly awkward fist bumps and high-fives.
“Poor Ron Paul, he looks like the gay son’s old dad who didn’t realize what he was getting into when he decided to go his son’s Cher Look-alike party.
“Look at Newt. He has as much a chance of winning as his wife has of ever blinking again. Seriously, I have seen porcelain Geisha masks that could move more than her face.”
“Who are you kidding, Stefan, you’ve worn porcelain Geisha masks that could move more than her face.”
“Stop it, bitch.”
“Oh, look, Mitt is all over Rick Perry again. Just get it over and kiss him, you tease.”
All four start a spontaneous chant of:
“Mitt, spank Rick, Mitt, spank Rick, Mitt, spank Rick.”
And scene . . .