Friday, December 30, 2005

Oh yeah we gonna sta

Since you asked:

For reasons only known to the Vodka soaked synapses that are firing randomly in my brain, I’ve taken lately to calling my sweet seven-year-old daughter, Ann Caroline, Gertie Winkerstine. It’s probably the same thing that makes me call my dogs Kasey, Beatrice Bittyboops and Wrigley, Mister Dudley B. Mugwumpers. (Have you puked yet?)

Anyway, since you asked, Ann Caroline wrote a poem based on a Christmas skit her class did about a Rapping Reindeer. She was proud of her poem when she finished so she showed it to me. The problem? Miss Gertie Winkerstine had written a poem about the Raping Reindeer. (I knew that Blitzen was trouble but I had no idea)

When I told her it was good but she needed another P, she looked at me funny and said;

“But, I don’t have to go to the bathroom.”

Badaboom, thank you, Miss Gertie Winkerstine will be here all week. Tip your waitresses.

Thursday, December 29, 2005

Oh yeah we gonna sta

Celebrities have made New Year’s Resolutions:

The next time she has Tom Cruise, Oprah is going to install seat belts on her couch.

Michael Jackson is going to use uncaffinated Diet Coke in his Jesus Juice.

Snoop Dog is going to wait and only smoke pot after six. No, better make that five, five seconds after he wakes up.

Paris Hilton is going to be more selective with the men she dates. She will only go out with handsome young Greek shipping heirs and guys who like toast.

San Diego Congressman “Duke” Cunningham vows to only accept bribes from legitimate defense contractors.

David Letterman is going to use the code words “Monkey Pants” to signal operatives to eliminate Pauly Shore.

Since you asked:
Have you folks seen or heard comedian Dane Cook? He has the highest selling comedy album since Steve Martin and he should. He is hilarious. Today I am getting his CD ‘Retaliation” and renting his movie “Waiters.” His appearance on Conan O’Brien is a riot. The guy is the closest thing to a comedy rock star we’ve had since Eddie Murphy decided to stop being funny.

I’ve been watching his video clips on his site and he is a genius at taking what we all think and are too embarrassed to admit and then wrenching it up to ridiculously hilarious. After listening to him for a long time here is a joke I would write for Dane Cook. Now this isn’t me telling the joke, this is my idea of a joke Dane Cook would tell:

What did your parents tell you when you cracked your knuckles? It will give you arthritis. Guess what? A study reveals that cracking your knuckles prevents arthritis. My parents also said that masturbating causes blindness; this means one more year of masturbating and I’ll have X-Ray vision. Two more years and I’ll be able to see into the future. Into people’s souls. By 2009 I’ll melt tanks with my eyes.

Since you asked, deuce
As we sprecken, I am typing to you while balancing on a big rubber ball. Sure I look like an idiot and somebody walking by might think I have the world’s worst case of hemorrhoids, but it feels good on the back and works out core muscles. And if there is one thing I am about it is multi-tasking. In fact, right now, while balancing on this ball and writing this, I am also sending encrypted messages to an operative in Afghanistan who is closing in on, well, I can’t say, but his name rhymes with O-salmonella Fin Bobbin’. Excuse me.

“Hey, dumbass, look in that cave. No, not that one. The one by the camel. Yeah. He might be in there. And stop running up the bar tab at the Kabul Doubletree. I’m serious, one more Goats milk and Kahlua and Vodka and you are paying all of your expenses, you got that, Double 0 Zero? Those White Allah’s are expensive, Mister Spy Guy. Oh, and lay off the Spectra Vision. There’s a new thing out there called “Penthouse”. Buy it.”

OK, sorry. Where were we? No, really, Dane Cook and one of those big bouncy balls. It’s the way to go.

Here is a new section all the good people here at a.L.B.b. like to call:

Lex writes Dane Cook inspired bits:
(Remember this is not Lex, this is Lex imagining Dane Cook doing this bit while Lex annoyingly refers to himself in the third person)

A buddy of mine was whining he couldn’t meet any hot women. As he said this, there was an incredibly beautiful girl standing outside just outside of the club smoking a cigarette. I said;

“What about her?” He said;

“Oh, Dude no, she smokes.” Then I said;

“What are you, gay? (Not that that is bad) but I said; “What are you, a fag? Yes, she smokes. Everyone knows that women who smoke throw down.”

It’s true. The greatest invention for single guys, before the “gamer” women were legally required to get a butt tattoo and expose their thong, was the smokeless office building. Women who smoke are forced to huddle outside in these little wonderful slut-packs; all you gotta do is cut the slow one out of the herd:

“Dude, her heel broke, get her.”

Then my buddy says,

“But I don’t like that smoky smell.”

Well, now I know he’s queer, not that I’m judging, but this guy has to be gayer than a tofu meatball. She smells like smoke? So freakin’ what? She is hot. If a girl is a gamer and she’s hot , I wouldn’t care if she smelled like a damn pig farmer. Smear some Vicks VapoRub under your nose, like in the autopsy in “Silence of the Lambs,” and take care of bidness;

“Oh yeah, baby, give me some of that pig farmer love, that’s it.”

Remember, ladies, that wasn’t your sweet, sensitive Lex talking, that was Lex channeling the sanity-challenged wild man, Dane Cook. As us propheshional wrighterers know, it is a good excercise to get out of your head for a bit and write for someone else. It's a little thing I like to call: schizophrenia.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm schizophrenic
And so am I

Monday, December 26, 2005

Oh yeah we gonna sta

Hope you had a great Christmas. We did, thanks.

Since you asked:

Christmas Day-after ramblings.

Hard to believe that Tsunami was a year ago. That was so awful. Can you imagine? Over a year ago the idea of spending an exotic Christmas in Phuket seemed inspired. Wake up the day after Christmas, roll out of your mosquito net bed with a big ol’ ceiling fan and take a slightly hung-over walk on the beach with a hot cup of locally grown coffee while laughing with your loved ones only to turn and then say; “What do you say we go snorkeling after a big ol’ lobster lunch? Hey, what’s with the low tide? Cool. You see that dark line way out there? What is that? Fog?”

In a New York minute.

Does anything get accomplished by anyone this time of year? Me? I am going to workout and BBQ tonight and watch the last real ABC “Monday Night Football” with Dandy and Flawless and the vile, angry, fetid, bitter, greasy, surly, paranoid, ugly, trembling with the D.T.’s ghost of Howard Cosell. Even though he is dead many still consider Cosell currently the biggest A-Hole in television. And Saddam Hussein was in television.

They say people loved to hate Howard. I didn’t. I hated it. He was so loathful, so awful and so contrary and so full of himself and yet paranoid with insecurity that it was painful to endure him. And I am not even going to get around to that greasy weasel on top of his head. But they could have had Osama bin Laden in the booth and you had no choice, you had to watch. Not the case anymore. No, I am not one of the multitude of Madden bashers. The guy is great, and very sharp. And Michaels is a pro’s pro. It’s just that MNF is not compelling anymore. No offense to Country music fans, but MNF hasn’t been the same since that Hank Williams II theme song.

Dandy Don was awesome on MNF. He would groan loudly when the Cowboys stunk which they did a lot before they became “America’s Team”

How bad is the NBA in my book? The best rivalry of the year is on in the middle of a day when I had nothing else to do but watch Kobe’s Los Angeles Lakers versus Shaq’s Miami Heat and you would have had to put a gun to my head to make me watch five minutes of it. With tsunamis and hurricanes and suicide bombers, does anyone give a rat’s ass what pompous pseudo intellectual babble that multi-millionaire egomaniac Phil Jackson said to that egomaniac billionaire Kobe Bryant to inspire him to at least look like he’s trying?

Has anyone told the NBA that it is dying? And how is it possible that the WNBA is still around? Do you know anyone who knows anyone who has ever even thought about watching a WNBA game? Bless their Title IX loving hearts, but the players don’t watch the games.

What killed the NBA? Don’t get me started. But an entire last ten drafts of overly entitled selfish spoiled jerks who demand an unprecedented amount of respect without giving any respect hasn’t helped. NBA commish David Stern catered to these unmarketable rude imbeciles and now he is paying for it.  Never, in the history of human endeavor, has so much respect been expected and yet so little deserved.  

But I haven’t given up on LeBron James. He seems like the real deal. He’ll have to be. But that NBA dress code of Stern’s? Laughable. Why not varnish the deck chairs on the Titanic instead? Put a tie on a warthog. Fair is fair, if a hard-working and pure-for-the-love-of-sports league filled with talented and dedicated and under-paid athletes like the US Women’s Soccer League can fold, why shouldn’t a league loaded with out-of-touch rich di*k-heads, like the NBA, fold? Imagine never, ever having to listen to Bill Walton’s nasally Jolly Green Giant sounding “That’s horrible” ever again? It is almost too exciting to think about.

Ann Caroline is very excited about getting her fish for her new fishbowl. She is naming one Nemo and one Manchester after her local soccer club. In fact, Manchester also has a last name: Manchester Ivanhoe. So far the idea of naming a fish after her sainted father has not received much consideration.  

Currently reading “Marley and Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog.” A must for dog and Lab lovers like me. Marley and Wrigley were identical puppies. (Marley grew to be much bigger than is Wrigley) So far Marley is going neck and neck with Wrigley in the bad dog championship. True, Wrigley was never kicked out of obedience school, like Marley, but that is only because we knew not to enroll him in the first place.

Did Marley ever pee on the Christmas tree? I don’t think so. And maybe it is yet to come, but, on a cold rainy day, did Marley eat so much mud and then come inside, shake water on everything and – in the time it took a certain person to get towels to clean up said water - puke up the mud on the expensive Oriental rug, and then eat the muddy puke back up along with a sizeable chunk of that rug and then puke both chunk of rug and muddy puke back out again just for good measure?

Not that I have read.

But a certain Mister Wrigley Telluride Kaseberg sure has, yes siree. Maybe I should write a book: “Wrigley and Lex; Deep Affection Mixed with Furious Anger at the World’s Most Senseless but Ridiculously Sweet and Adorable Clumsy Beast.”

“The New York Times” Best Seller List is wetting itself with anticipation.