Teardrops on the city, bad Scooter searchin' for his groove, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers


You'll never guess who picked the big Louisville upset. Charlie Sheen. Not that Charlie knows hoops, he just likes the name Morehead State.

Is it just me, or does this West Virginia coach, Bob Huggins, look like the only guy in the steam room not wearing a towel?

Is it just me, or does this West Virginia coach, Bob Huggins, look like the guy who picks his ear with his car key and looks at it?

Is it just me, or does this West Virginia coach, Bob Huggins, look like the guy who doesn't switch his fork to the other hand when eating a juicy steak?

Is it just me, or does this West Virginia coach, Bob Huggins, look like the guy getting his shoes shined at the airport while smoking a cigar and reading "USA Today"?

Is it just me, or does this West Virginia coach, Bob Huggins, look like the guy who shakes your hand way too hard and then it reeks of his cologne?

Is it just me, or does this West Virginia coach, Bob Huggins, look like a guy who takes the bacon and the sausage at the breakfast buffet?

Is it just me, or does West Virginia coach, Bob Huggins, look like a guy who likes to wash his Lincoln Town Car while wearing a white tank top t-shirt while smoking a cigar?

Is it just me, or does this West Virginia coach, Bob Huggins, look like the last guy you want to follow in the airplane bathroom?

Is it just me, or does this West Virginia coach, Bob Huggins, look like a guy who says "I don't want any crap" a lot?

Eric Clapton & Sheryl Crow - Little Wing

One of my favorite songs covered amazingly. David Sanborn up and done gets ballistic on his sax tuchus. Jimi said he wrote it about the Monterey Pop scene, but the myth/rumor is he was devastated when he heard a groupie had been killed and wrote it about her, but didn't use her name because he didn't want the family hurt or hassled.


That was a one-way ticket to Funky Town, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

New research reveals there is a condition - like tone-deafness - that is beat-deafness: the inability to keep a musical beat. Its medical term is: Caucasian-itis.

Due to pressure from mental health officials, the NCAA is going to rename March Madness to Spring Charlie Sheen-ness.

You either get into the March Madness bracket betting or you don’t. I told a woman in our office that I have Gonzaga in the semis and she filed a sexual harassment charge against me.

Last week, Charlie Sheen stood on a rooftop screaming and wielding a machete while drinking red liquid from a bottle labeled “Tiger Blood.” This week, Charlie’s going to throw bananas at a dwarf, lick a duck and then barbeque a bowling ball. After that? Things are gonna get weird.

Even after the Fort Wayne, IN citizens voted for it, the city will not name a building after former mayor, Harry Baals. “We don’t want the city to be a punch line of a joke” said Fort Wayne spokesperson, Seymore Butz.

In Florida, a dolphin went berserk, jumped out of the water and crashed on top of a boat hitting a woman who sprained her ankle. The woman and the dolphin are fine, but authorities had little choice but to name the dolphin Charlie Sheen.

The minor league hockey team Bakersfield Condors had a “Charlie Sheen Night.” It was a great promotion until all the fans burst out on to the ice, chopped it up and snorted it.

New research reveals there is a condition - like tone-deafness - that is beat-deafness: the inability to keep a musical beat. Or as it is otherwise known: being white.

Look out, everybody, 'cause it's another surfin' daaaawwwwwwwg.

My new buddy, Mick, that rascal

They gonna drop a D in the punchbowl, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

We’ve been gone for a week. Has Charlie Sheen done anything weird?

In Mexico the world record for barefoot waterskiing was set at 150 miles an hour when he was towed by a helicopter. In addition the man set a world record for the number of times he screamed; “Ouch, my feet.”

Charlie Sheen’s last webcast was truly hard to watch. What on earth could Charlie be taking that makes him so excited and jumpy?

In West Virginia, a DSX train slid off the rails. Luckily nobody was hurt, but when that train flew off the tracks it was a real Charlie Sheen.

After 26 years the space shuttle Discovery is being retired. Truth is, after so many trips into space and back, the Discovery is looking a little Charlie Sheen-y.

There is no word as of yet as to what effect this tsunami will have on Charlie Sheen.

This week, Charlie Sheen appeared screaming on a roof top wielding a machete and drinking a red beverage labeled Tiger’s Blood. And after that things got weird.

The rumor of Cap’n Crunch cereal being discontinued is not true. “Wow, I am so happy the rumor of Cap’n Crunch cereal being gone is not true;” said nobody who isn’t a candidate for diabetes.

Lindsay Lohan turned down a plea deal in her jewelry theft case even though there is a video of her stealing the necklace. That is the stupidest thing I have heard since Charlie Sheen did anything.

Newt Gingrich blamed his marriage-ending-affair on his love of country. Let’s be clear, his affair was for the love of country, with an O and an RY, right?

Charlie Sheen called his co-star, Jon Cryer, a turncoat, a traitor and a troll. Sheen went on to add Cryer is also a towel, a tailgate and a tyrannosaurus.

Charlie Sheen announced he is going on a tour that is pro-women; and besides having stabbed, shot and beaten wives and hookers, when you think of Charlie, you think pro-women.

TMZ reported that, upon news of the tsunami coming to California, Lindsay Lohan evacuated her beachfront house for a tall hotel. So Lindsay Lohan is safe, finally some good news for the people of Japan.

It is tragic, there are people in Japan who have lost all contact with their family and friends, lost their jobs and had their lives destroyed. Or as Charlie Sheen calls that: Duh! Winning!

Since you asked:

Yeah, yeah, I know, there is nothing more boring than what follows the sentence;

“Boy, did I have a weird dream . . .”

But, in my dream, I was in San Francisco looking for a band to play harmonica with, and somebody told me Mick Jagger heard I was a comedy writer and a harmonica player and he wanted to talk.

So I get a ride to this amazing house on a mountain top that has a 360-degree view of the city and the ocean. Although a private home, it was built like a huge square hotel with four giant stories. Each story had huge twelve foot windows, but the interior was very old-school hardwood floors, oriental rugs, crystal chandeliers. The first floor was where all the bedrooms were, a bunch of people were crashed or milling about ala the mansion in the South of France in “Exile on Main Street” on massive luxury beds in elegant rooms.

Mick met me at the door as casual and nice as could be, and we took the elevator up to the top floor where there was a huge bar with a full blown party – with lots of hot women, I may add - in action. The floors seemed suspended in space because there was an invisible clear glass floor running all round the edge of each floor to the giant windows making it look like it was magically suspended on three sides in midair. It was so clear that a joking-around Mick suddenly pushed me off the oriental carpet edge and I thought I would fall four floors to my death until I stepped on it and saw it was glass. Mick just laughs and laughs with those big teeth and that squinty eyed-smile.

A friendly but utterly uninterested Keith Richards appears and disappears smoking a Marlboro with a guitar over his shoulder.

Mick is very normal and friendly and, although I am dying to ask if I could play harmonica with the Stones, we don’t talk music or comedy, just random conversation. I am struck at how normal it seems. He gives me crap, I give him crap. Jokes. Guys being guys.

Suddenly Mick announces he wants to head into the city for dinner. In my dream, I got the impression Mick was a very loose and spontaneous guy who ate dinner at midnight if he wanted to, but when he decided on something, his assistants better make sure the finest tables were reserved and cars or private jets were fueled and waiting.

Mick decided my ratty blue jeans, “got harmonica?” t-shirt and flip flops weren’t gonna cut it so next thing I know we are in a expensive, stodgy English clothing shoppe and a tailor is fitting me for a slick black pinstripe suit. Turns out Mick loves everything Mafia. He dresses like the Mafia, hangs out at Mafia hot spots, so we go to this old school barber Little Italy-style barber for a straight-edge razor shave and a trim. In the barber chair next to me, Mick informs me this is where two key Mafia guys were whacked in 1963.

Let me point out this was just a total cool-guy hang with no gay-vibe at all – not that there is anything wrong . . .

The late dinner is in this Italian dark smoky steak house and we are at a big table with a bunch of cigar-chomping Mafia big shots. They made me nervous, but they seem to entertain the hell out of Mick and vice versa. Mick was a fun guy to hang with, but I got the impression he got sick of people fast, so I remember thinking: enjoy this party while I could.

Next thing I know, machine gun fire exploded all around us.

Everyone at our table dove under the white and red checkered tablecloth tables, glass and bullets were flying everywhere, people screaming, windows exploding and lots of folks were getting shot and falling down dead. At first I thought it was a terrorist attack, then, when I peaked under the table cloth out the window, I saw the machine gun wielders out in the street were mobsters wearing dark suits and fedoras. Why would the mob hit Mick Jagger?

To my horror, I look over and there lies a dormant Mick Jagger; eyes closed and a steady trickle of blood coming from his mouth. My first reaction was very personal and natural: oh no, a cool guy I liked and who was nice to me had been shot, so I leaned over and checked on him, but I couldn't tell if he was dead. Then it occurred to me – as the bullets continued to tear the restaurant apart – if I lived, I would forever be known as the guy who let Mick Jagger get killed. This was something I did not want to be known for.

Shaking Mick's shoulder with great concern, I yelled like in an old army movie;

"Mick, Mick, you OK? Say something. Anything."

Although I was genuinely worried for Mick, truth-be-told, I still didn't want to get shot.

Then the gunshots stopped. There was dead silence except for the tinkling of falling broken glass. The smell of gunpowder filled the room.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, loud laughter erupted from everywhere.

The entire gangland hit turned out to be a complete hidden-camera hoax.

Mick sat up and spat out the blood tablet he had bitten in his mouth, ala Robert Redford in “The Sting” and wiped away the fake blood. Clearly proud of himself, Mick started guffawing at the chaos and panic he had caused all of us who did not know this was a giant "punked" prank.

Pissed-off and still juiced with adrenaline, I yelled at Mick;

“So this is what you f*cking crazy rich people do for fun?”

Jagger nodded unable to speak as he was doubled over with laughter. Boy, I was mad. Then, almost against my will, I slowly started to laugh.

Wiping the laughter tears from his eyes, out-of-breath-from-laughing, Mick tried to explain;

"Sorry, Mate, but you were the perfect mark. See, I've been planning this for months. Then you came along out of nowhere. You're a big fan, but not a star-struck bum-smoocher. And you're kind of funny and big. Just knew you would be great."

Mick burst into laughter, slapped me on the back and, in a dead-on dumb-guy American accent imitation of me, mocked;

"Mick, Mick, you OK? Say something. Anything. Duh eeee."

Glaring at him, I had a truly once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I took it: I flipped-off the great Mick Jagger with both middle fingers. Truth was, I thought this whole thing was fantastic.

And then I woke up.

Told you it was a weird dream.