Poached eggs with corned beef and barley hash and an avocado spread on home-baked bread. Tomatoes for a refreshing note.
Cleaning out the fridge is how I make my best recipes.
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Clutch and love have been good to me, but only Clutch stayed when I ran out of money. Here are two articles written by Brett Smiley and made visually ghastly by me.
Six Swagfied Products to Add Some Style to Your Life
How Will Your July 4th Party End?
When I wrote this, I'd been dumped for all of of half a week, and my very old dog (who later died that year) was 130 miles away. All I wanted was to get out of the house I'd been sitting in with freelance and shattered expectations for the last few days and walk along the waterfront with a dog. For money.
And I swear to you, that pit bull lay down in the street and refused to go towards the shore. She insisted we head towards the more populated Bedford Ave.
Anyway, a pretty good dog. I hope she found a loving home.
Asylum New York had me hang out with a brindle-colored pitbull to see if sketchy pick-up artist techniques actually work. I'm pondering an entire series, including wearing a stupid hat and having my nephew run up to strange women and say "You look just like my dead mommy!"
Can I tell you a secret? I just wanted to walk a dog. It's been a rough month. I would have adopted Mango in two seconds if I 1) didn't belong to a labrador in CT already 2) were allowed to have a pet in my apartment, and 3) had enough money to feed myself, let alone a giant pit bull.
Everyone knows that women love men with dogs. But what if you don't have the time, patience and willingness to scoop excrement off the sidewalk with a plastic bag every day for the next 7–10 years? You "borrow" a shelter dog, take it for a walk, and then return it a couple hours later.
That's what some unscrupulous singles are doing as a means to meet women, according to the New York Post. But does it actually work? I decided to test it as unscientifically as possible.
I swing by BARC (Brooklyn Animal Rescue Coalition) on a breezy Tuesday evening. My companion is brought out, a barrel-chested pit bull mix named Mango. A ball of herringbone muscle explodes into me with all the reserve of a pinball, leaps up to eye level, and begins harmlessly nibbling my arm.
"She likes to chew," says the next fellow in line, who's been here before. Sweet -- she ignores personal boundaries and has a harmless fetish. This dog is going to make my quirks look good.
Keep reading to see if Mango made a good wingdog.
To test Mango's skills, I've barred myself from starting a conversation unless the dog makes an opening for me. We're trying to gauge how much interest this pooch can raise, and it wouldn't be right for me to distort the experiment with smooth opening lines like, "You know, I can eat an entire slice of pizza in one bite. What, this? Oh, it's a dog ..."
I plan to take Mango west to the park where there's always someone enjoying the view of Manhattan, but after a few steps she shows her best trick: passive resistance. When Mango doesn't want to go somewhere, she drops flat on the ground, daring you to drag her in full view of the people who just entrusted her to your care. I count on them to forgive my gentle nudge, since their dog is now prone in the middle of the street.
She has no problem staying upright when we venture northeast, which is where all the dames are, so that's one point for the dog. Before long, we're caroming down Havemayer, Metropolitan and Driggs, but what women we pass don't give Mango much of a glance. The ones who do are escorting feebler canines and avoid my awesome pit bull. Here's a rule: If a dog weighs under 10 lbs., it's a cat until it proves itself otherwise.
Mango and I drag each other onto Bedford Ave. with no female interaction; it's clearly time to give her a push. We encounter a cute brunette and her dog Zoey, so I ask her permission to let the dogs meet and greet. They sniff each other's intimate parts while I take the more subtle path of inquiring about Zoey's breed, given her unusually large ears. Things are going so well, I'm about to introduce myself, when something makes Zoey snap. The suddenly snarling pup gets pulled away from us. I decide this is not Mango's fault, because to admit so would be admitting my dog is as charming yet socially inept as I am.
Bedford is definitely the spot for this ploy, rife with people getting home from work or going out to dinner. Finally, women are admiring the dog, and one shapely blonde even throws an arm out to pet Mango, but is instantly gone. I stop a couple of girls in leather jackets and Ray Bans, and ask them to take our picture. Opportunity is there if you're willing to make it, but I've already kept Mango out past curfew.
We return to BARC, unburdened by the phone numbers of Brooklyn beauties, but we had fun. Walking a pooch might not open doors with all women, but it's a great way to approach ladies with other dogs, often at 35 mph.
I drew rappers as Transformer versions of their luxury rides for Clutch, because, no, that sentence won't make any more sense tomorrow. Not my best illustration work compared to the Clooney caricature that ran this weekend, but it was a very small window of time between day job and other obligations, and I actually had to push back a Cracked column. Brett Smiley did the writing, and I did the late realization that I barely drew any Transformers as a child.
Also, those heartless hinds at NYPD arrested the Moustache Man, a.k.a. Moustache Madcap! They came to my site a couple months back by googling him, alas. He worked the same few sites, so it was probably a matter of time, but there goes my one delight on the subway. It's sad to see his work (and his self) arrested.
On the other hand, maybe like Daffy Duck, we'll see him jumping down the street hooting, "I'm doin' beards, now!"
Moustache Man Joe Waldo, if you ever read this, email me and I'll buy you a drink at your favorite seedy bar.
New piece up at Asylum: If the Oscars Were Honest, starring gobs of Photoshopped movie posters.
Sunday is Oscar night, and while that means nothing to anyone who doesn't read gossip magazines, we still can't escape their buzz. So we know that the categories and winners aren't exactly straightforward. As the film industry dislocates its shoulder patting itself on the back, we have some suggestions to bring honesty and awesometicity to the Academy Awards:
First, we have Best Actor. Deserving nominees can't compete with the tabula rasa that christens itself Nicolas Cage. An ordinary Best Actor statuette doesn't capture the undiluted dramatic power of Cagedom. We propose a new category: Best Overwrought Nicolas Cage Performance.
Keep reading for more of our own awards and posters.
Milla Jovovich also throws herself into every role she takes, be it terrible action movie, terrible horror film, or terrible indie comedy. Did you know she trained three hours a day for months prior to Resident Evil: Apocalypse? Why? There are Taco Bell commercials with better plotlines than that train wreck. There needs to be an award for Best Milla Jovovich Performance in a Movie That Didn't Deserve Her Commitment.
Then there are the supporting roles. We all know the winner's never judged on just the role that he's nominated for, and these categories are where Hollywood likes to reward the larger context. That's why the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor Dead or Near Death goes to...
Actresses as a whole face a tougher challenge than actors; there's an entire industry devoted to tracking their body fat. The rule of thumb is if a beautiful woman does something, it's pop, but if an unattractive woman does it, it's art. Therefore we're creating the Best Artificially Dowdy Actress Drawing Attention to Her Acting Ability.
Look, we're not saying most action films are transcendent statements of human suffering. We're just saying if 90 percent of everything is crap, then so are most films that only college professors own on Blu-ray. The award for Most Pretentious Film People Are Afraid Not to Admire goes to...
On a similar note, there's a category for Best Foreign Language Film. The winner's usually pretty good, even though the category implies an inferior English-language flick wins Best Picture every time. The fact is, American audiences just don't have the mental software to enjoy a lot of stories outside our frame of reference, so why not re-brand this Most Incomprehensible Foreign Film?
Speaking of foreign films, how come a remake of one is the only time Martin Scorsese gets his due? Let's be frank, this category should be Best Director Who Isn't Martin Scorsese Even Though Martin Scorsese Is The Best Director.
They've never explained what makes the Best Animated Film separate. Is it the quality of animation? Or is it just a great film that would get its butt kicked in the other categories because cartoons are perceived as kid stuff? The best stories of the century have all come from one studio, so let's just re-name this one Best Pixar Film and Live-Action Is Lucky It's Stuck in This Category.
It's easier to make an audience cry than it is to laugh, but there's still no respect for the clowns in the Academy's hall of heroes. It's time to come clean and recognize Best Picture That Should Have Won Best Picture but It's a Comedy.
And, of course, a special award must go to the people who walk the red carpet. Let's have a Best Performance by an Actor Pretending Not to Be Disgusted With Melissa & Joan Rivers.
Like this old-timey letter I wrote for National Lampoon, in which a vintage fellow writes his mother from California to inform her that he's found the nude actress he's going to marry.
I just find the contrast between pornography and old-timey correspondence with an extra serving of politesse funny.
(bumped from Sunday because they moved it to the 18th)
I mighta went a little too deep and dark with the satire on this one, in that it's at times more pure satire than comedy. I assure you it's hilarious if you read it at 3 a.m. with all your fears laid bare before you. That said, I saw Green Lantern tonight, and it taught me the only thing we have to fear is having our souls ripped shrieking from our bodies.
Also, I'm not sure why they changed the title to "Stuff I Won't Have the Balls to Say," since I'm saying it, but I get that it grabs more headlines than "A Father's Day Letter."
Another Asylum article, and it's all about nostalgia, which I'm told is popular among the man-children who populate the internet these days. Kneel before your one true god, retro-pop devotees! KNEEEEEEEL!
And it was fun to write.
But even better than that is the matchup between the toughest fictional females in pop culture. I'm an objective analyst in such matters, or you would have seen Veronica Mars triumphant.
Official article below!
This wonderful snowball fight between Princess Leia and Lara Croft got us wondering who'd win if these two ladies actually squared off (or curved off, rather) in real life. Then our stunted pea brains wandered and we found ourselves pondering who is truly the toughest woman in pop-culture history.
Before we knew it, we had a sort of March Madness for gladiatrices on our hands ... and in our geeky hearts. Because there's just something awesome about a woman who could kill you, but doesn't.
Read on to see which pop-culture babe is the baddest ever, and please let us know if we've left anyone out. Xena, anyone?
So far, so vicious. But let's see what happens when the pairings get a bit more unpredictable.
We're down the final two fights now, composed of our heartiest heroines.
And it all comes down to this: a clay goddess versus a steely mortal.
Moustache Madcap swept this whole family, then proved Green Lantern's ring is powerless against Sharpie.
You're a true American hero, MM.
Yes, it's a very Cracked article, but we leaned on things science has learned in the last 100 years about technology and psychology.
Moustache Madcap is a better songwriter than you
And don't gripe at me about how some of these were remade for your crappy platform. I'm talking here about games that truly deserve a second chance in our new wireless, body-language reading, super-graphics consoles.
A long time ago, there was a heartwarming Nintendo game full of potential, despite the limitations of the 8-bit system. We're speaking, of course, about "Wall Street Kid." Wall Street's still cool these days, right?
No? Good, because the Wayford/Majesco reinterpretation of "A Boy and His Blob" is a much better example of what we're talking about. Boy feeds Blob jellybeans, Blob turns into useful shapes according to what flavors he eats. The new version is gorgeous, accessible, and heartwarming -- in all ways an expansion of the already-fun original's potential.
The only catch is it has made us hungry for terrific recreations of NES titles that were greater than the 8 bits that went into them.
Click through to see some cult classics that deserve a second shot at life on a high-tech console.
"Super Dodgeball"
If ever a game were meant for Wii, it's the hilarious sport of chucking a ball two dozen different ways at someone's head. Imagine how great it would be to lob custom missiles at your family based on your actual windup and pitch instead of pressing button combos. Bonus points to whoever invents a Nerf peripheral for actual clobbery.
"Battletoads"
A terrific sense of humor, a broad variety of attacks and the ability for players and enemies to attack their own side make this one of the most beloved NES games out there. America needs a "Battletoads" game in a 3-D environment. Do it for the troops.
"Paperboy"
Before there was "Grand Theft Auto," there was "Paperboy," a thin excuse to wreak as much havoc as possible in your neighborhood. The question is, now that there is GTA, why can't we use its engine to dodge lawn mowers, beehives and the occasional Grim Reaper? Come on, Atari, why don't you collaborate with Rockstar on something beautiful?
"Skate or Die 2"
Despite its clumsy handling and messy graphics, "Skate or Die 2 "was raw fun. The Tony Hawk series also left the ramp to thrash urban terrain, so take the skateboard peripheral from "Tony Hawk's Ride," ditch the glitch, and graft sleek gameplay onto a punk skateboarding adventure. "Skate or Die 2" was much more engaging than its predecessor, so use its story and bizarre sense of fun to create some delirious anarchy.
"River City Ransom"
There are a lot of games about two geeky gym rats beating their way through the streets to rescue someone's girlfriend, the President or the President's girlfriend. Usually they just murder everyone in town until they stumble across the right person. But the only one to make it even more fun than Double Dragon was this unrepentant thuggery.
"Kid Icarus"
This game was always meant for a 3-D world. Taking aim in flight is an activity just crying out for a dual-analog controller. Lovable lead character Pit has already been recreated for "Super Smash Bros." so throw in some trick arrows, and you have yourself a game.
Honorable mention: "Captain N: The Game Master"
Though never actually a video game, Captain N existed in between all Nintendo games. Imagine if all the languishing properties out there were licensed for one epic quest. You could guide the Captain through a world where each level is a better version of those '80s classics. And that, friends, would be the finest world of all.
What other classic NES games should be re-released?
Cause you're a nice kid and I like ya.
Issue #2: Omission (updates Fridays. Only eight more pages left!)
Usually from the POV of the floor.
I praise the queen of cocktails in this week's Cracked column, Martini-A-Go-Go! I have done all I can for this article, America. Now it belongs to God and His almighty liver.
I kind of doubt Hachette knew it was National BBQ Month when they released The Man's Book of the BBQ, since it was UK only. But I couldn't let the occasion pass uncommemorated, so that's why this week's Cracked column is dedicated to preparing meat for BBQ.
This may be the greatest Final Destination deaths flowchart anyone has ever made.
Don't tell my ma I wrote this Astroglide piece for Asylum. It'd break her heart to find out I'm having pre-marital comedy.
Shed a tear for the deleted one-liner, "Water prevents pregnancy; that why fish can't reproduce, right?" It were my fav'rit.
You may also notice I got some of the science wrong. Look again: I got the science FUNNY.
Lubricant! That magic potion that keeps your partner's orifices interested in what your body's talking about is mysterious stuff. It's water, but it's sticky; it's alcohol, but it dissolves. Here's a breakdown of how that bottle of Astroglide in your mom's underwear drawer works.
Lubricant! That magic potion that keeps your partner's orifices interested in what your body's talking about is mysterious stuff. It's water, but it's sticky; it's alcohol, but it dissolves. Here's a breakdown of how that 
Keep reading for a more detailed breakdown of what makes this bottle more fun than a Slip-n-Slide...
Purified Water
Awesome! Water prevents pregnancy, right? It turns out water is only in here as a medium for the good stuff. Sorry, should have told you that six weeks ago.
Glycerin
It's a sugar alcohol, meaning it's basically antifreeze for your private parts. It won't evaporate due to the friction of your conviction, unless you're the Flash. But even if you are, cross-country runners never get laid, so it's not your concern.
Propylene Glycol
If water is a universal solvent, what good is this additional solvent? We can only assume (incorrectly) from the name "propylene" that this is some kind of propellant so you can set new land-speed records for having to explain that you usually last longer. But seriously, propylene glycol, good job doing whatever it is you do.
Polyquaternium 15
Its chemical name is acrylamide-dimethylaminoethyl methacrylate methyl chloride copolymer. That's a lot of meth! So remember: Every time you're having sex, you're making good use of methane that would otherwise contribute to global warming.
Methylparaben
According to Miss Manners, it's polite to clean up before you stick your private parts in someone else's body. It's a respect thing. But also, there's a weird love triangle in nature between sugar, yeast and alcohol. Since glycerin is two of those, methylparaben is the bouncer that keeps yeast infections waiting outside.
Propylparaben
You'd think with all the alcohol inside, our nation's body cavities would be pickled for eternity. You'd be wrong. This ingredient is here specifically to act as a preservative.
So there you have it, a rough guide to smooth sex. Now that you know how all the parts work, you can brew your own at home. And then, when that fails, you'll know what to compare when you go shopping for the quality stuff.
Hey. It's 5:30 a.m. and I'm going to bed after Photoshopping tattoos onto half a dozen celebrities. I kinda wedged Community into this one because that show is fantastic, and the youth of today don't know what's good for them. Because that's what I do -- inform, educate, entertain, and get out of town with the money before the cracks show up. I expect edits since I never curb my feelings on The Jersey Shore, so the real deal is pasted below.
Also, will have a new Cracked column up for you by end of the day.
Hey, I'm writing for MTV Geek now, because Valerie D'Orazio is one quality lady, and she needs me to teach youse guys how to put cufflinks on a tuxedo.
Profile views on 3rd Ave L stop. I love how this guy or gal is still finding ways of amusing himself and me.
Haven't seen JimJoe up to much lately, though.
And a flight of bats shriek thee to thy rest.
In which our hero measures comedy in units of Diedrich Bader.
Over at Asylum Nick Nadel and I hammered out some Fakebook pages to show why the internet should stop asking Betty White for favors. Then we made that dream...a reality.
When Betty White hosted "Saturday Night Live," it meant Facebook had finally accomplished something other than detonating your privacy and making your junior high crush momentarily remember you.
But success has gone to the heads of Betty White's fans. Just punch Betty White into Facebook's search engine, and find scores of pages calling for her to host the Oscars, guest star on "Glee," and even star in her own porno. And, no, we're not linking to that, you sick bastard.
We decided to beat Facebook to the punch by predicting the five most ludicrous things Ms. White could be asked to do next.
Click through to see Betty's possible next moves.
(Click on each image to join the group on Facebook.)
Who doesn't want to see America's two cuddliest senior citizens joined in holy union? Surely the president can marry them even if they object, right? That's probably in one of the early Constitutional amendments.
A longtime animal supporter, Ms. White's natural next step might be eradicating a horrendous scourge. Since "Heroes" is already canceled, the likeliest candidate would be this epidemic.
Of course, there's more to America's favorite Golden Girl than terrible diseases that call into question to the existence of a beneficent God. A large part of Ms. White's appeal is her kindly nature. She can comfort a child with a skinned knee within five seconds of meeting him, 2.25 times faster than standard octogenarians.
A great deal of her comedy stems from the incongruity of an elderly woman sweetly uttering foul-mouthed obscenities. Let's take that a step further and apply her frailty to a grueling mission. Laughs galore!
Of course, once we've had enough Betty White to fulfill our heart's desires, there will be nowhere left to take our obsession with this fine lady ... except straight to the gutter.
In fact, maybe we'd all be better off if we just let her have a cup of tea with biscotti and an afternoon nap. You can't demand everything of someone who's given you so much.
Text by Brendan McGinley and Nick Nadel. Art by Brendan McGinley
Yes, that's a GrimJack reference I just dropped. I'm not above doing that. And Rue was alive when we did it, so that makes us...slightly less terrible people?
I drew 16 headshots for Andy Green's article on Clutch.
But you only count 15 because the Franz Josef dropped off the map:
Franz Josef -- You will marry a female body builder with an eye patch and a short temper
As seen on the left. But to the right, in accordance with his/her inspiration, Daffy Duck, "I'm doin' BEARDS now!"
The less I know about The Jersey Shore, the happier I remain
on 05.12.2011 at 11:07 amPosted In: Blog
Let's pretend I didn't just Photoshop the Jersey Shore cast into the Renaissance's greatest works of art to draw attention to their ill-advised trip to Italy. Let's pretend I didn't have to learn their stupid nicknames. Let's pretend I'm not buying your silence with some bonus material: a free picture of J-Woww as the Venus de Milo, which didn't make the cut, not being a Renaissance work or stored in Italy.
And since I know there's no way my original text will make it to MTV's page, it's below the cut.
Lots of Vitamin B, according to this Wikipedia-fueled analysis I did for Asylum. I apologize in advance to Science.
The makers of 5-Hour Energy Shot claim it delivers all of the rush with none of the crash that accompanies high-sugar energy drinks. So what's in there to keep you alert?
The makers of 5-Hour Energy Shot claim it delivers all of the rush with none of the crash that accompanies high-sugar energy drinks. So what's in there to keep you alert? Thanks to Public Domain Pictures for the coffee and asparagus.
I might've just compiled a list of the most sexable pop culture characters who were never supposed to be sexy for MTV Clutch. Heaven save me, Mario's in there.
How about a little Cracked with your prose wednesday? My new column started last week, and gets its first front-page feature today. This one was written before the bin Laden piece, though, so it's got more claim to being first. Either way, happy to be here.
I drew and laid out an MTV Clutch infographic featuring The Mighty Thor vs. a bunch of other gods, from the antique to the obscure. A little luck saw me through both a scanner failure and some dried-up inking pens. It suited the piece that I draw movie Thor, who looks ultimate, rather than Kirby Thor, whom I've never been able to not make look like a tool.
Of course, Thor kind of is a tool, so it would have worked out anyway. Anyway, Andy Green wrote the whole thing, and I gave it form.
I really felt bad drawing the one above. Nobody outflanks Thoth. I guess I owe him a coke.
I think the Alan Titchmarsh show may discuss -- or at least mention -- The Man's Book of the BBQ on today's show. So that will be...odd. Not as odd as having a book in Wal-Mart, but still: odd.
I really hope it wasn't me who wrote that "Cooking's for girls," cover copy.
The appropriate level of celebration for bin Laden’s death, as told by Superman and Captain America
on 05.05.2011 at 11:44 amPosted In: Blog
Didn't really plan to set this kind of tone for the debut, since that was supposed to be Sunday's article on the '90s, but hot potatoes gotta drop before they pop. Also, it has an overextended comparison joke I'm not thrilled about, but I blame Brendan for that. Which is...wait, me. Crap.
But anyway: So here's the Gentleman Bastard's maiden voyage. Enjoy!
(continues at Cracked)
Somebody on the Lower East Side is starting trouble with the Moustache Madcap.
One day I will see the Madcap in the act. And then die fulfilled. But in between those two events, a life well lived.
As someone raised Red Sox who went to his first Yankees game last night, I can safely say I would rather go to Staten Island than root for the Yanks.
Remember when baseball was fun? Gentlemen in straw hats and women with parasols would gather at the cow patch to jeer, cuss and throw food at the athletes? No? Neither do we. And fortunately, we don't have to.
We can get all the Crackerjacks and none of the era's painful dentistry simply by nabbing a free ferry. Out in the forgotten borough tonight, the Staten Island Yankees start another fun season for anyone who enjoys baseball without all the muckety-muck.
Keep reading for some of the advantages the minors have over their big league buddies.
Winning Record
The Class A Short Season team has won the league championship five times since their formation in 1999, a 50 percent rate, which is even better than that of their slightly better-paid counterparts. They've also sent 41 players to the majors -- almost as many as the Ripken family.
Cheaper Tickets, Better Seats
In a case of obscene New York rents, the new Yankee Stadium clipped 4,000 seats and raised the price on a prime seat to a blinding $2,600 (The outfit eventually slashed that price in half, and still no one's willing to pay that much). Of course, that's an exceptional example. The average grass-side ticket goes for a mere $510, which would also get you a decent bedroom in Queens for a month. Contrast that with the Baby Bombers, who will plop you behind home plate for just $16.
Fun Mascots
The Yankees don't have a mascot except for 1979's Dandy bird or, worse, menu items in Yankees caps during the '90s. Their farm team sports Scooter "The Holy" Cow, an homage to Phil Rizzuto, who in addition to informing Americans about the Money Store, was apparently a respected Yankees shortstop. Lately Scooter's battled two other cows, "Red" and "Huck," so even if you hate baseball, you get to watch slapstick performed by anthropomorphic bovines. And hey, if you're a plushie, you get three times the titillation!
Promotions
Staten Island's Richmond County Bank Ballpark regularly features Tuesday Night Tickets, in which you get a twofer on a ticket purchase by bringing the wrapper from a Kraft Singles packet. Think about that: you can seat two people on the foul line for $7 each and justify eating a stack of cheese every week. And that's not even the package that gets you free Wendy's. Now if only there were some way to combine cheese and burger into a delicious hybrid.
I've written a series of almost-funny essayettes for some stock photos Hachette had lying around, and when you get done reading it, you'll be less likely to screw up your next barbecue. It's out May 2, with a U.S. release come Labor Day, because we like to bookend the grilling season. Also, I never let a birthday go by without a release party, unless it's the best birthday I ever had.
One day, I'm escaping to the Outer Banks again.
Maxim and I ran down some success stories who abandoned their dreams. This was a much nicer take on my pitch line of "You can never succeed. You will only waste resources and die in despair." People don't intuit how funny that kind of article would be.
Thanks to cousin Bucket for the Steve Nash suggestion.
For my first National Lampoon article, I pontificate on America's backslide into aristocracy and serfdom via celebrity worship. No, that's a lie. I make cheap jokes at a happy couple.
Full text below, but you'll make me more money if you read it on their site.
America, we need to talk.
In just a few short hours, Prince William the Charming of the House of Tudor Pain Windsor? is set to marry his fetching young bride, Kate Commoner. Expectations run high for the event, with a record-breaking audience and Aslan himself rumored to be officiating. The former is what has the people who love you worried: you’re a little too into this royal wedding thing.
I know, you only get a couple of these in a generation, and you want to savor the fairytale. But there’s a word for people who invest themselves this deeply in strangers’ lives, though only a judge has the legal authority to label you with it. Many creepers may feel completely normal in their zeal here, as at least three magazines sit on the newsstand right now calculating the circumference of Ms. Middleton’s thighs. The last time a planet celebrated a state affair like this, Darth Vader had just thrown the Emperor down an air shaft. But to be fair, Palpatine wore an absolutely head-turning Pierre Cardin cassock to the event.
That’s your hitch – you want a fairytale: cute girl, good heart, humble origins—swept away by a charming, handsome, wealthy pilot with a little summer home called Wales. What gal—or totally butch internet humorist who nonetheless just wants to be pretty and adored for a day and maybe to slip safely into slumber in strong Saxon arms, arrrrgh! When is it my turn, Lord?!—Wait. Where was I? Yeah, what gal wouldn’t identify with that?
And thanks to The King’s Speech making the super-elite affable until their annual late summer devastation of the underclasses, this prince seems like an alright type for a man so rich he does not need a last name. He’s literally the planet’s front-running William. If there were a phonebook for everyone on Earth, you would find his name listed between Will.I.Am and William Aa, who is a nice guy, but not nearly a catch for a lovely bit o’ bird like our Kate, who—oh hell, now I’m doing it.
The problem is reality, like being royal, is more complicated than it seems, but only half as much fun. This whole fairytale notion imposes a hazy fantasy on what’s probably a much more interesting and lovely story. But you know, it pulls millions in ad sales and merchandise, so it’s what you get.
You know America seceded so we wouldn’t have to pay attention to this kind of thing, right? Self-determination was only half of it. We just didn’t want to be beholden to cheering and roaring like aristocrats’ personal lives had anything to do with our important industries, which were, at the time:
1) Dumping tea into the harbor
2) Accruing staggering piles of debt
These are seven-day-a-week occupations that brook no time for lollygagging and hey-nonny-na. To your anvils and wagon wheels, men! Resist the pressure to adulate the upper class, lest you lose all spark in the tinder of your souls to rise up and crush them beneath your hammers and or wagon wheels again!
And anyway, that kind of attention should be saved for Jennifer Aniston, who still can’t find love, poor thing.
MTV asked me to make some
mock movie posters showing why the fifth film in a series is always a bad idea.
More pictures in the link, but my unsanitized text below the cut here.
At the man-cave that is AOL's lifestyle section Asylum, I cracked wise about the shame of being left hanging on a high five. You get to watch Ryan Seacrest drag a blind man into a faux pas.
The high-five: that expression of a victory beyond any words.
"I have succeeded in my efforts," says the gesture. "Let the thunderous clap of triumph inform the land of my deeds."
But the higher the thrill, the further the fall, and there are moments when we are denied our due.
Here are some of the worst moments when a man goes from feeling hung like a horse to left hanging like a horse thief.
A few months ago, the U.S. bombed the moon, just in case our celestial prisoner was getting any notions about who's boss. The guy in the black shirt must be important since he can't even stick around after blowing up the moon. Take a moment for the high-five!
In his defense, NASA contains more Trekkers per capita than even the Internet circa 1994, so he probably knew better than to get near a red shirt. And, yeah, the latter shrugs it off with a jovial recovery, but that casual recline says different. Black Shirt Guy has denied his cohort his well-earned thrill, looked right in his eyes and said, "I don't give two sticks of licorice for your lunar bomb, good sir." This was an egregious, conscious decision to deny someone a once-in-a-lifetime, wholly appropriate high-five. Shenanigans!
Speaking of guys who rule the world and drink high-end scotch, here are some dudes who attend a hockey game in sport jackets.
You can pass that one off as simply turning the wrong way. If leaving someone hanging were murder, this would be involuntary manslaughter, much like this "American Idol" clip. However, if you want to see the show break new and uncomfortable ground, watch Ryan Seacrest anti-reverse-double-backflip to leave himself hanging when he high-fives a blind man.
In a way, it's a mark of good character. Seacrest doesn't see a disability; all he sees is a person -- a person he has awkwardly dragged into his faux pas.
A converse of that is someone twisting in the wind with just cause. Watching this Tyra Banks clip with the sound off, you might think she's chumping that lady whose head and hand she passes over again and again and again and again. But watch the man behind her.
If you give people free money, they're gonna go crazy. But this is an extremely unwarranted high-five that still isn't excused. In the first place, her hands are full of bills, so you're celebrating before the job is done. Second, did you bomb the moon? No, you got free money, through neither luck nor achievement. Third, you're a man at the Tyra Banks show. You don't high-five anyone except the only other guy, and then only if it's one of the 33 percent of episodes about Ms. Banks' breasts.
Perhaps the most painful example on this list is where the shame falls not on the man, but all the men around him. Badgers QB Scott Tolzien can't find anyone to high-five him after a touchdown.
What? A touchdown is exactly why the high-five was invented. Scoring one is considered the greatest moment in a two-year radius of a man's existence, unless he scored a better touchdown or his wife had twins. It is the single time it's permissible to pat another man on the butt, hoist him by the waist and carry him more than five yards.
Worse, that's the quarterback, for crying out loud. Imagine if at the end of "Lethal Weapon 3," everyone had jostled Mel Gibson out of the family photograph. Sure, we would have gotten a hilariously drunken screed as an alternate ending, but something would have been lost. That something is called due respect to the guy spearheading the battle.
Next time, Tolzien should take a page from Andrew Bogut's book and high-five himself. The lesson is if no one gives a man what he deserves, he takes it anyway, even if he has to steal it from ghosts.
MTV Clutch asked me to transform the lovely Nicki Minaj into three kinds of Simpson, which I was happy to do since I like my pop culture curvy. Then I threw in some side-by-side hairstyle comparisons because hey, you ask me for a dozen, I give you 13. That's why you keep coming back to me, baby.
Well, that and I give great backrubs. But most websites don't ask me for those. Anyway, see the other two at their blog.
My original article text below:
I wish them the worst thing benevolent intentions can deliver: clarity and self-awareness regarding their awful actions.
But till then, here are some people messing with the Phelps family and the Westboro Baptist Church over at Asylum.
Your friends at Asylum hold a lot of different beliefs. Some of us believe in God, some of us believe in nothing and some of us who are clearly right believe the world was created when the evil north wind Tezca'aunhathicon scattered the ashes of the gods' fire into the stars of the universe, as was revealed in the sacred crystals.
But we can all believe in the value of a good laugh. One plucky young satirist had the right idea recently when he minimized a brimstone preacher's "You're all going to hell" screed ... with pancake mix.
Since he wasn't torn apart by bears at the end of the video, we decided to round up some of our favorite videos of people heckling hateful preachers, which, naturally, led us to the Westboro Baptist Church.
When you're picketing Marines' funerals and even the KKK makes a point of distancing itself from you, you've plainly failed as Americans.
Keep reading to see the best videos of Phelps and the gang getting pwned.
Our first fine fellow swoops in at the two-minute mark in Anonymous's hallmark Guy Fawkes mask, and steals the WBC's Hawaiian flag. Damn right, because our ancestors didn't annex Hawaii at gunpoint just for some anti-American types to come in and wish for its destruction.
Australia isn't as shy as the U.S. about airing foul language, at least until we annex it at gunpoint. (A hearty welcome to 2017's addition, the Koala State!) When comedian Charles Firth decided to romance Fred Phelps's son, they informed their audience exactly who these crazy Topekans are with exquisitely NSFW audio clips, unless you work at a sewerage treatment plant.
This next youth strides brazenly into the church's midst and promptly Rick Rolls them. Considering the Westboro Baptists start their morning with a prayer for God to kill everyone and end it by gargling with the blood of the unbaptized, that takes a serious pair. Buy this guy a beer if you know him.
The great thing about this country is when hatemongers gather, they're usually met by a much larger counter-protest. So here's something you don't hear every day -- how about a cheer for the frat boys? The guys at Alpha Delta Phi decided to protest the WBC by dancing to Diana Ross. In terms of gaiety, their dance only lands a 5 out of 10, but the judges award you a perfect score for Awesome, Alpha Delta Phis!
And, of course, the video that inspired us in the first place, "You ain't got no pancake mix!"
Hours and hours of nudging text around until it fits into Asylum's narrow column, apparently. Not my best layout, I admit, but I dissected General Mills ingredients for 9 hours and found a way to compare salt to Darth Vader.
New article up at Asylum: everything you ever wanted to know about Tasers, but were convulsing too much to ask.
Tasers were designed with the noble goals of saving lives and incapacitating Philadelphia Phillies fans, but if that's all you know about them, how will you ever modify one into an illegal sex toy?
Keep reading to inform yourself about these wonderful devices that allow cops to take down you, the obnoxious drunk.
SOURCES:
--Wikipedia
--Taser.com
--Amnesty International, "Less Than Lethal? The Use of Stun Weapons in Law Enforcement," 2008
--Wake Forest University Baptist Medical Center (WA William P. Bozeman, MD; William E. Hauda II, MD; Joseph J. Heck, DO; Derrel D. Graham Jr, MD; Brian P. Martin, MD, MS; James E. Winslow, MD, MPH), "Safety and Injury Profile of Conducted Electrical Weapons Used by Law Enforcement Officers Against Criminal Suspects," presented at the 2007 American College of Emergency Physicians Scientific Assembly Research Forum, October 2007, Seattle
--Wikipedia
--Taser.com
--Amnesty International, "Less Than Lethal? The Use of Stun Weapons in Law Enforcement," 2008
--Wake Forest University Baptist Medical Center (WA William P. Bozeman, MD; William E. Hauda II, MD; Joseph J. Heck, DO; Derrel D. Graham Jr, MD; Brian P. Martin, MD, MS; James E. Winslow, MD, MPH), "Safety and Injury Profile of Conducted Electrical Weapons Used by Law Enforcement Officers Against Criminal Suspects," presented at the 2007 American College of Emergency Physicians Scientific Assembly Research Forum, October 2007, Seattle
My Asylum article on Band and Orchestra Fails ended up on AOL's welcome screen, so now there's the added hilarity of criticisms from AOL users.
(Confidential to Offended in Omaha: For what it's worth, I don't think I wrote that "loses his s*** laughing" line. I have no problem with profanity; I just prefer mine more creative than that.)
Orchestras, symphonies and marching bands don't get enough credit. Learning to master instruments through years of hard work earns these groups little but band-camp jokes and possible praise from New York Times critics with salt-and-pepper beards.
So, we salute you, hard-working musicians of the world, the only way we know how: by making fun of your most hilarious failures.
When faced with the mighty challenge of coordinating elaborate performances, these folks went for the far-more-demanding Internet gaffe. Read on to see (and hear) bands behaving badly.
This is the gem that inspired this list. The surest way to make someone in the Asylum offices lose his sh** laughing is to turn up your speakers and play this clip. There's no picture to go along with the extremely flawed audio, but who needs one?
When this tuxedo-ed timpanist loses his fight with physics, the end result is disastrous ... and hilarious.
What can you do when your paperwork is tamped down but your instrument itself decides to pop its strings? This musician experiences a rare moment of utter de-volumization when his viola quits all four strings at once. That's what you get for buying a knockoff brand like Strattyvarious. You try to save a few thousand dollars, and it comes back to bite you.
All of these are embarrassing moments, to be sure, but none so humiliating as getting knocked out cold in front of nature's most bloodthirsty beast: the teenager. Also, painful: a shot to the face from a metal bar. Watch the guy in the orange shirt just before the half-minute mark. Then watch it again in slow-mo as the laughter of his peers turns demonically sadistic.
Faces heal, but egos remain bruised forever. Arguably more painful than catching a trombone to the face at practice are these cascading pratfalls in the middle of gameday. Watch the far left at the half-minute mark as these kids start dropping ... and dropping ... and dropping. Then laugh. Then resume watching, because the marchers will still be hitting the ground.
For an even better view of such shenanigans, watch these 10 kids take a dive just right of the middle of the screen. Then at 0:17, a saxophonist with no empathy takes out his cell phone to record the mayhem. Injury? Check. Insult? Check.
Dueling tubas? In the Zapruder film of band fails, there's a side-scuttling heavy metal section taking out a few competitors, "Showgirls"-style. Back, and to the left, boys. Back, and to your left.
Sometimes you do everything right and you're still in a bad place. Whether you're a classical concert player or a member of the spirit team, you'll never come out worse than this bell ringer whose spirited war-gong duties render him the victim of an unfortunate camera angle.
A gigantic infographic featuring the most devastating warriors of womanhood went up at Asylum. It took me 15 22 28 hours to make and is literally six feet tall.
Well-behaved women rarely make history, but they once made movies. From then, it's been a long, slow climb to today, where Hollywood actually allows women to blow things up on screen.
They've had to work twice as hard to get here, and five times as hard to make movies as bad as the ones men put out.
Keep reading to see our timeline of misbehaving women of the screen, from 1915 to today.
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And now: the deleted designer's cut bonus footage:
I'm in transit to Chicago as you read this. Actually, I'm either in a bar, or a McDonald's getting a shamrock shake. But later today: Chicago. I've got too many friends there with nary a drop of Irish blood who require my presence to drink properly. But here, enjoy this flashback Cracked piece I did about Dublin.
Asylum asked me to do this chart, and though I like the aesthetic, I don't ever want to spend two days researching and composing this kind of ghastly material ever again. Combined with the Taser research the day before, I'm sure Google has my IP address flagged under possible animal offenders.
Anyway, here's the original article (their idea) entitled "Penis Size in the Animal Kingdom -- What Species Has the Biggest Equipment?"
Recently, scientists in the Falkland Islands aroused and measured the penis size of a dead squid. And while we're not ones to judge what turns some people on, we are ones to plug our ears and chatter "la la la la" when those scientists report that deep-sea squid are monstrously hung.
It did get us wondering if there were any other animals that, uh, cut humans down to size. So, we ranked the penis-to-body ratios of Earth's best-hung critters to determine where we fit into nature's penis picture.
Check below to see the results of our investigation.
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‘Not the Father!’ The 7 Best Paternity Test Reactions on Maury
on 03.09.2011 at 8:08 amPosted In: Blog
This is the cleaned-up version that ran on Asylum, but I recommend the full version I posted originally.
Every morning, Maury Povich rises from a coffin filled with his native earth, puts on his human face and heads to work, where fresh victims wait to trade their dignity for a free paternity test.
After they've memorized the foul invective they'll hurl during the show's pre-taped introductions, they step into the studio lights of Maury's lair. And that's where we, the American audience, come in.
Read on to see the train wreckage that is a Maury Povich paternity testing episode, and help us keep it from happening in the future by remembering one simple fact about condoms: They're fairly cheap and easy to put on.
There, we just prevented 1,000 babies from ever being conceived. Take that, John Connor and Second Coming Jesus!
Happy news sends one fellow into a real-life synchronized dance number. That only happens in "Glee." (Does it happen in "Glee?" We don't have a girlfriend right now, so no one's ever made us watch it.) Only one thing's for sure -- when you dance this well, you'll have women lining up to drag you into a paternity suit.
Telia appeared on the show nine times and gloated over Dion that he must be her baby's daddy. The test results literally knock him out of his seat and catapult her across the stage. The real victim, however, is the audience member who gets left hanging at 1:24. Oh, and the child. Always, the child.
Is it us, or, in this next clip, does the victory dance steal the mother's life force? She flees its effects, but is struck down before she can escape.
No male guest was so excited to be free of responsibility as Felix. He executed a neat backflip, which is more than most men do when their child's born (let alone disinherited).
Not to be outdone, Aaron lands a solid backflip with no hands! And, apparently, no empathy.
Maury's official Most Outrageous Guest pioneered the "I'm not the dad" explosive acrobatics, but still fathered six kids. Branden finally realized creating human life isn't a Saturday afternoon hobby. It's a good thing he stopped having kids of his own volition, because he was one away from a court-ordered vasectomy.
Although it is pretty heart-wrenching when the betrayed father cries, here there was one pretty obvious tip-off: It's one thing not to question your child's complexion; it's quite another to believe you fathered a baby that adorable.
Just think how many of these kids are going to get psychologically scarred when their classmates find YouTube clips of their parents wishing they'd never been born. Povich's compassion for these guests might be genuine, but, if he really cares about their well-being, why's he still giving them a venue to make fools of themselves and their loved ones?
So I wrote this topic for Cracked awhile back. It was never featured, but it ranked high enough in Google to for the production team at Hachette / Octopus to hire me to write their barbecue book. Considering I was smacking golf balls at the park in lieu of employment when they wrote to me, I was kind of surprised, since that's the exact opposite of how I understand the publication process to work. I'm supposed to write hundreds of cover letters and cling to my dream for the great American novel, A Navel-Gazing Thing Which Occurred.
Granted, I did that, but it was for comics, so it probably doesn't count. Instead, I give you The Man's Guide to the Barbecue. I'm just saying, I wasn't aware books were printed by googling "Bbq + jackass." But I'm glad it was! It gave Martinis and me the chance to write this book for you.
What should it profit a man if he gain the world but lose his soul?
You can get the British version come May, or the American version just in time for Labor Day (because it wouldn't be my birthday if I didn't put out a book that week).
They're basically the same. I wrote it up the middle, and they pushed it a little further towards their respective print locales. An interesting thing I learned was UK publishing is leery of mocking foreigners from fictional countries, but encourages jokes at Scotland's expense.
It'll be a fun time. And if you find a golden ticket, I invite you to tour my Magical Slaughterhouse.
When my parents -- both writers and editors -- ask how my work is going, I think they always wait for me to announce I've begun work on the next great American novel. But usually I haven't because my work week is full of Photoshopping fake video game porn for my freelance clients. Meaning, I'm spoofing spoofs. On the internet. For milk money. The sanest thing to do is look at this as a lucrative hobby, or else a series of small grants to improve my Creative Suite skills.
Porn and video games. Have two things ever gone so well with another lonely Friday night in a bachelor pad? All that's missing is pizza -- and, presumably, a woman who has just gotten out of the shower to pay for it but realizes she doesn't have enough money for tip.
We were heartened to find out porn spoofs have discovered video games with "Modern Whorefare: Call of Booty." Which got us thinking: What other video games are just begging to be parodied by the adult industry?
Read more to see the gamer porn we wish existed.
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and there's no game that's been imitated more than the granddaddy of arcade games: "PONG." Unfortunately, the 8-bit square being lobbed from side to side takes on a decidedly unsavory nature when pornography addles the mix.
Quickly following that success comes the arcade smash (and splash) hit about foreign bodies seeking to breach the gaps in your defenses and gain entry to your inner sanctum. What they don't know is they're going about it all wrong.
A big breakthrough came with the arrival of not one but two of gaming's (and porn's) biggest stars. Any visual similarities between Mario and Ron Jeremy are purely coincidental.
Everyone remembers the iconic NES classic "Paperboy," which we played with the same fervor that we were lacking on our real-life paper route. Perhaps we'd have made the rounds with more gusto if there had been lusty ladies looking for a special insert in our delivery sack. (No, we have no idea what that means, either.)
Video games have come a long way. Now, like porn, they have characters who specialize in almost anything you could want to see a person do. What more perfect opportunity arises to combine the two than in this soon-to-be Xbox classic?
And, of course, some titles need no alteration to achieve legendary porn status.
Photos courtesy of Hustler films and AriaGiovanni.com.
Invisible, Inc. is happening here, now.
Now up at moviefone -- Not only the longest movies, but the longest I ever spent working on an infographic.
I did a pseudoscientific analysis of slam dunking from for Clutch. It also features zombie Isaac Newton. The numbers are a little funky in the middle. I meant to say "a vertical reach of just over eight feet," not under.
Special thanks to my friend Eve Stenson for helping with the physics calculations and being one cool lady.
The Science of Slam Dunking
I wrote an article on National Anthem Fails for Asylum. It's awesome, and will make you love America. I heard the CIA is using it to undercut al'Qaeda's recruiting efforts, but I've said too much already. No I haven't: Trombone lengthening carrot ball tuna hat! Silly putty! Fotzpa overshoots Tur! There, now I've said too much.
The National Anthem is a challenging piece to sing. It's full of soaring notes, and there are three other stanzas no one ever learns because they're rife with imagery from the War of 1812, aka the One We Don't Study Because It Was a Tie.
To top it all off, our anthem is based on an English drinking song, so it wouldn't be disrespectful of you to have a couple beers before attempting it. Heck, a good drink might even be a necessary step in remembering the lyrics.
It certainly would have relaxed the vocal cords in these screeching and stammering singers, perpetrators of some of the anthem's worst renditions ever recorded (and then posted on YouTube).
Let's start with an uplifting one. Natalie Gilbert has a great voice, but she forgets the words. The supportive crowd touchingly cheers her on, but she remains flummoxed. She needs a hero. And because this is America, she gets one in the form of Mo Cheeks. Coach Cheeks can't sing, but remembers all the words. Together, they're the Voltron of national pride. People helping people: That's what this country is all about (and cheeseburgers).
This plucky chanteuse is French-Canadian, so there's no shame in needing the written lyrics, especially since an American would have used a cheat sheet from the start. What happens next, however, seals this failure into a debacle worthy of its own anthem. Give her credit, though; she wins a gold medal for her positive attitude.
This next rendition isn't so much off-key as trying every key on the chain without realizing you're at the wrong door. It's hard to tell if the audience is for this version or against it, but one thing's for sure: Passion is great, but you have to at least make eye contact with the notes you hope to use.
Now for something even more uncomfortable than teasing teenage girls. This policeman in Chattanooga gave the anthem a go at a memorial for fallen officers. That's normally where your smartass pals at Asylum politely walk the other way whistling, but then we noticed his compatriot doing his level best not to laugh. That makes it OK, right?
Just to cement our reputation as horrible people, here's an atonal elderly veteran who leapfrogs from verse to verse, sometimes mid-sentence. Look, it's not our fault that all these nice folks keep screwing up. This is the material life hands us because amoral killers are only chosen to sing the anthem in Nevada, where there are no laws, and the measure of a man is in the speed of his trigger finger.
If only there were some anthem failure we could all hate guilt-free. In the movie "Office Space" a character named Michael Bolton complains about "that no-talent assclown" who stole his name. "Why should I change?" he moans. "He's the one who sucks." That's how this next clip makes us feel. Why should we change the national anthem, Mr. Sings From His Groin? You're the one who sucks.
There's no explaining why the San Diego Padres invited professional squawker Roseanne Barr to do to the anthem what "Hellraiser" did to D-list actresses. Still, they probably didn't expect her to hock a spitwad at the end, a move the comedienne later explained was just her tribute to dip-chewing, seed-munching baseball players. Twenty years later, this is still the second thing people think of when you say "Roseanne Barr," after her long-running TV show.
Using great technical proficiency but little discretion, this man invents a new anthem. Take out the words, and what song is he singing? Is this one of those live mashups? Because if so, we would prefer YouTube stick with sultry songstress Allison Williams.
Here's a rare case of an Anthembomb! Singer Rene Rancourt is pumped to belt the "Star Spangled Banner" like it was two sizes too big. The much-amused announcer's box sings along with an R-rated version that's pre-empted by some speedy producer-inflicted muzak. Remember muzak, kids? No? Ah, you're better off. (NSFW language)
Speaking of gold medals, here's America's most famous anthem failure, as the crushing weight of Olympic gold round his neck cracks Carl Lewis's voice. Listen to the audience roar its contempt. That's a man who brought more glory to our country than bald eagles and Rambo combined, but they're laughing at him.
The roundup below is the final word in forgotten words. Watch a few clips, but don't try to convince us Cab Calloway wasn't just coming up with new and better ways to bend the English language.
Here's one for you to decide. Kat DeLuna puts her own spin on the anthem, and goes Texas-sized with it. She could technically be arrested for using that much vibrato in a state where dildos are illegal. Is this creative license or fibrillation fail? Discuss.
At least we've never been subjected to this collection of Dutch Idol rejects mangling Tina Turner. These Nederlanders DEFINITELY don't need another hero. And they don't deserve to leave the Thunderdome. The action starts at 2:25, but the rehearsal's worth watching so that if you're ever present at a breech birth, you'll know what to expect.
Finally, we'll leave you with a true professional. You could all learn from 6-year-old Courtney King.
Asylum's gone, but I never showed you this infographic I coolwhipped together with minutes to spare before its conclusion. Which explains the weird blurb on the Gwar caption and the pixelation on the skull icon.
I've started blogging for MTV's Clutch, a man-blog that doesn't talk about beer and all of the crushes are under 18, so I think I'm doing the butterfly in the kiddie pool. To do my part for the youth, I point them to some of the best comics performing today.
You can read the official article, but I'm pasting my original text here because MTV cleaned it up so it didn't read like William Faulkner wrote it drunk. Also, my version contains Robo-Stalin.
BIZARRO COMICS
FIVE WEIRD PICTURES TWEETED BY COMEDIANS
Comedy is the art of applied absurdity, and art imitates life. What’s going on with five of our favorite comedians? Everything’s familiar, but slightly…off somehow. Are we on the Bizarro Earth? The mirror universe? The Jersey Shore? That last is too horrible to contemplate, so let’s pray we encounter our goateed doppelgangers soon.
Now you really can sleepwalk with him
“Why is comedian Mike Birbiglia living in a Macy’s window?” Spill it, because I want that gig. Midtown Manhattan is costly real estate; getting paid to live there is worth a total lack of privacy. I think that, with time, tourists will learn to see my bizarre and indeed, messy, explorations of my sexuality as a beautiful thing – a caterpillar becoming a butterfly, if you will. But one question – will Downy clean up all the blood afterward?
Two Evil Clowns & an Angel without wings
Rob Corddry, Joanna Angel, and Paul Scheer on the set of Children’s Hospital. Now I know we’re in the mirror universe, because the evil clown has an evil twin. Would that make him less evil…or more? Like if you faced Robo-Stalin, that’s pretty potent evil, but then you found out he was hunting and killing Hitlerbots, that would redeem him, right? Anyway, look at me, neglecting an adult actress with a punk streak while visions of dictators dance in my head.
This does for mattresses what Ke$ha did for pop music
Patton Oswalt’s Twitter is a tornado of fine dining, high-quality genre pop culture, and the failure of our country. Guess which one gets its moment in the sun? The excitable bard snapped this creepy picture of preschool fratricide outside of a Mattress World. So that’s the name of this parallel dimension! Mattress World…where children commit murder, porn stars sleep with evil clowns, retail giants are ant farms, and comedians become beer mascots. What’s that? Oh, you hadn’t heard?
Jim Gaffigan has his own beer
It makes sense that Jim Gaffigan has his own beer, since his act fantasizes about food and drink the way most men ponder which Victoria’s Secret model they’d seduce. It also makes sense for the pasty comedian’s face to end up on a bottle of pale ale, though a weissbier would be even more appropriate. A blonde ale, slightly less so. The only part I care about is whether drinking it will make me more like Gaffigan—because I need just enough to be charmingly self-deprecating when I ask out newly single Mila Kunis, but not so much that I turn into a bone-white Irish Catholic. You date Macauley Caulkin long enough, and that loses its appeal.
Paul Tompkins knows voodoo—no, literally KNOWS voodoo
Who’s that? Why, it’s delightfully snazzy comedian Paul F. Tompkins, a classy fellow whose facial hair has won bareknuckle brawls in Alaska. Paul, introduce us to your friend Baron Samedi. Samedi is an alcoholic bisexual, two qualities that have given the world—oh, so many threesomes, but are perhaps disconcerting when you’re the voodoo spirit of death. That’s not exactly a job you can show up at drunk, like bus driver or Russian president.
Brendan McGinley is a writer and comedian in New York. Every picture of him is weird.
Runaway Spider-Bride
Okay, maybe one comment: Spidey, what are you doing? You'll never stay America's sweetheart if you run away from our love. Plus, those shoes are impractical, sweetie.
There are more reporters cavorting with -- or against -- people in fuzzy animal costumes than you might think. I documented them for Asylum, because the work I do is important.
Local TV news generally thrives on sternly worded reports of mangled bodies. Even when the anchors get humorous, the punch line's always something dry and ambiguous, like "I bet you enjoyed yesterday's sunshine as well, Diane!"
Sure, Ernie Anastos might tell you to "keep f**king that chicken," but you can't dance to that the way you can to, say, a hurricane.
But every once in a while, some unexpected levity comes along in the form of a wacky costume. We've collected our favorite clips of reporters being upstaged by costumed creatures (and one sexy cop outfit).
A couple of weeks ago, we showed you a courageous man in a bear suit defying the wrath of both nature and the local news team. Here is that man again, because if you don't want to see hurricanes, news-bombers and portly bears twice, then you, sir, are no kind of fellow we want to drink with.
It turns out the bear wasn't the only fuzzy suit cavorting around Hurricane Ike in search of reporters. Not satisfied with local news, this chicken took on no less prestigious a target than CNN. Unfortunately for him, there was a silver fox in the henhouse, and his name was Anderson Cooper. Result: The chicken got cooped. Nobody puts Cooper in a corner!
Where do old Internet memes go to die? Santa Clara, apparently. Watch as the Peanut Butter Jelly Time banana dances in the background of this report on drugs, prostitution and college students -- only two of which have anything to do with dancing bananas.
For the ultimate in disruptive costumed buffoonery, watch reporter Jim Taricani delve deep into the costumed heart of the plushy beast. When he tries to interview a woman accused of cyberstalking, he finds "Donnie Darko"–level surrealism wearing not one but two masks, the second of which is a bonnet-wearing bunny. Watch the expression on his face at the 2:12 mark when the last shred of idealism that led him to become an investigative reporter exposing the stories that matter withers away.
To counter all that costumed negativity, here's Cincinnati reporter Bob Herzog, who loves dressing up for Halloween. The problem is that the holiday only comes once a year. The solution? Dance Party Friday! To counter criticism of his dancing, Herzog solves the problem the only way he knows how: with a full-body costume. Watch as Clifford the Big Red Dog enters the scene to solve the lack of costumes on the morning news.
Of course, Clifford's a big name, and not always available. Thankfully, the Cincinnati Reds have enough mascots for Herzog; he can dance with a different costumed character each week. If it's red, plushy and dances, Bob Herzog will find it.
And finally, because we love you, here is New York's PIX News reporter Jill Nicolini arresting our vision in a sexy cop costume, just one of many wardrobe changes for the Long Island lust-magnet. What is it with traffic reporters, and their costumes? We don't know, but we're glad this one's a bust.
Archiving the lamented, lost Asylum articles (remember way back a week ago when that site still existed?) by re-running them here for your Prose Wednesday entries. I catalogued some dastardly trick plays over at Asylum. Mostly by Steve Spurrier, who's no Coach Eric Taylor.
Football is a game that rewards brains as much as brawn. It's not enough to outrun or outsmash your opponent, you must also have a man where no one expects him to be (such as in a yoga class).
Make confusion your strategy and you'll almost surely end up running a trick play. Sometimes, it's as simple as concealing who has the ball. Other times, it goes all the way into the realm of verbal deception.
The trick play is inherently about gamesmanship, which is nothing like sportsmanship. If sports were video games, gamesmanship would be exploiting programming glitches. Original gamesmanship is the mark of a military genius, as well as a sure way to find out who the whiners are on the other team. Keep reading to see our favorite examples.
Recently Driscoll Middle School in Corpus Christi, Texas, found itself down 6–0, so the team lured opponent Wynn Seale into an off-side penalty. After their opponent was penalized five yards, Driscoll announced they were taking another five. The quarterback asked the center for the ball, which is, yes, technically a snap to begin the play, then marched past the defending Wynn Seale line before breaking into a run. The touchdown evened the score, and the game ended in what was either a tie or, according to The New York Times, a loss for Driscoll. Either way, the team now has a bigger audience than "Glee."
Driscoll's trick was a more respectable variation of the "wrong ball" play, which is common among punk coaches across the country. Yes, you're there to win. And, yes, it's legal. Make no mistake -- the first guy to think this up was brilliant. But everyone who's done it since? There's a reason you only see this move in Pee Wee League: It's essentially a trick reserved for middle-aged men to pull on pre-teen children who are still learning the game. At that level, it's still cute and educational. They're learning some authority figures can't be trusted.
This hard lesson can also be seen here, with a classy fellow swearing at children. But try that on older kids, and your player will end up flatter than a male cheerleader. Here's one kid prepared for such shenanigans:
According to the description, this flapjack toss occurred because the QB was too short to throw the ball, which sounds like the most helplessly adorable football game ever. But it's also a trick play used by the big kids.
Here's a team that ran the same fake punt play all season without opponents catching on. It gets so ludicrous about halfway through, you suspect they deliberately fumbled the ball just to give the other team a chance.
This next one combines speed and tenacity to defuse an orderly defense, improvising a system to iceberg the ball into the end zone. With enough time on the clock for one more play, the Trinity Tigers settle on endless laterals as their delivery system for a game-winning touchdown. Listen to the twin announcers losing their minds over this endless hook-and-lateral. The Millsaps Majors know what's happening, but there's nothing they can do to stop this juggling juggernaut.
You know who wouldn't pull these shenanigans? Coach Eric Taylor on "Friday Night Lights." He wins with sagely advice and a clean conscience. He also surrounds himself with beautiful women, which lends weight to any man's wisdom. "Let me tell you something," he'd growl. "It's not just about winning, son. It's about heart. Now go out there, and let's play some football!" The kids need him while they're still developing into morally upright citizens. That's why he can't coach at the collegiate level. But you know who can? South Carolina Gamecocks coach Steve Spurrier, who does stuff like the hidden ball trick all the time.
Here's Spurrier again. This time, a handoff from the quarterback turns into a monster throw that falls into the Kentucky Wildcats' end zone with the subtlety of the Tunguska event. By the time that ball fell into the receiver's hands, enrollment had dropped off at Kentucky.
And finally, here's Spurrier punking the Mississippi State Bulldogs. Eight Bulldog players had to be taken off the field in a stretcher with injured pride.
Remember the Moustache Madcap? He's back, appearing on the Lower East Side with his finest work yet:
Wait for it...
CHEESE. MOUSTACHE.
One day I imagine him teaming up with the ubiquitous Jim Joe to make all our lives better.
I moved into new digs more northwest in the borough of Queens that feeds me oh, so well. I expect my cooking to bend towards whatever Russian fun I can find. But till then, I went with what I know and made the best fish tacos ever from scratch. Short of pounding my own tortillas and impregnating the fish's mother, this is all by hand, right down to a special batch of Russian salad dressing (a nod to my new neighborhood, though I also used guacamole for half of these).
I also bought myself a fine mortar and pestle as a housewarming gift, because I'm the only one who welcomes me to any area. I crushed up some herbs and spices into a paste for these tilapia fillets, then let the thing soak while I made another powder batch for the guacamole.
The Russian dressing was easy -- just relish, mayo, ketchup. Being unable to leave well enough alone, as usual, I added a little bit of mustard and hot sauce, which turned out very well.
So there's that. I also chopped up the tomatoes, onions, and red pepper the day before so the diced veggies could perfumate each other in the fridge. All that was left to do was slice strips of red cabbage while the fish seared in a pan with just enough butter to grease the bottom. I then turned it down to low and covered it. Over to the left, I had some tortillas stacked in a pan, and I half-covered those. It'll soften them nicely so they bend without cracking, and at the same time sear the side touching the pan for structual support.
Knowing how your tortillas work is key. They're like plastic bags: you have to double-layer them or they're no good. Why nobody makes thicker tortillas or double-weave plastic bags to skip the nesting, I don't know. But here's what I do: put some guacamole or Russian dressing between the tortillas (or if making regular land-dwelling tacos, put cheese there). It's a way to help keep everything together without making so much mess. You still get the flavor but it's not oozing out of what's already a messy meal.
In goes the fish. Down pours the mortar-made ahi. Then the raw onions and tomatoes. Then sprinkled cilanto. Then the shredded cabbage. Pour yourself some tarragon-vanilla Russian soda the color of the finest emeralds, and brother, you've got yourself a meal. Eat while watching Breaking Bad.
Something you might not know about me is I believe in the purity of two joys: Tyson the skateboarding bulldog, and The Muppets. So you probably won't believe me that this Asylum article wasn't my idea since it ends with both of those.
What's the Best Skateboarding Animal?
Also, I'm going to start archiving all my Asylum work here because AOL is stupid and canceled Asylum even though it's pulling terrific numbers. Why? Well, ad sales aren't what they'd like them to be, even though they're not recruiting any of the ads from similar sites like The Onion, Collegehumor, Cracked, etc. Where you or I would fire the ad execs, AOL decides to cancel the fun after its best month ever, getting named one of the top blogs, and beating most of their other house sites.
When we saw this skateboarding turtle, our first thought was that our dreams of sharing pizza with Xtreme Nnja Turtles was finally a reality.
Sadly, it turns out this sham-phibian is bound to his board by string. The cat seems pretty interested, though, which us thinking: What animals do like to skate? Read on to find out more.
If you look up "skateboarding cat" on YouTube, you'll get a bunch of bored kitties patiently gliding across the room under their owners' power. That's not good enough.
It turns out a lot of animals need help to thrash. Like this bunny. It's almost as if Usagi Slow-jimbo here has no interest in gleaming the cube. (We're kind of sticking with an '80s theme here.)
Even this owl, generally regarded as one of the cooler birds, has only a casual interest in the sport. It turns out owls are only interested in two things: mice and magic.
The most famous skating bird ever was Gordo the parrot, of whom no videos exist. Sadly, Gordo was birdnapped from his home in the spring of 2009, presumably by the increasingly desperate producers of "Air Bud." We do, however, bring you a skateboarding cockatoo. Finally! An animal skating under his own power!
Say, here's a plucky bird with his own pair of roller skates! Enjoy our friend Stewie, the skating eclectus parrot.
English bulldogs really, really love to skate. Maybe it's because they're so fat that running on their own power is too hard, but you put an English bulldog anywhere near a skateboard and you'll end up with some mobile adorability.
The list of skateboarding bulldogs goes on and on. There's Chief, Kobe, Darla, Frank and, in Japan, Bazooka, just for starters. The two most famous skating bulldogs are Tillman, the world-record-holding speed skater, and Tyson, who's personal BFFs with Oprah. Tyson is the original skateboarding bulldog and the bearer of all joy in the universe.
Tillman not only skates but also surfs and skimboards. His moment of glory, however, came when Natural Pet Foods built a one-story sculpture of him for a parade float.
Here they are enjoying a day at the skate park together:
As for the future? They've inspired several puppies, like Boddington:
And Dozer:
Though not a bulldog, Extreme Pete is the Tony Hawk of skateboarding animals. (Sadly, we could find no evidence of skateboarding hawks.)
Conclusion? Dogs win. Try to prove us wrong.
One of many moustache graffiti at 86th. I like these because they persuade me Daffy Duck is out there somewhere.
I illustrated another script at The Gutters, which, if you like it, you should make a point of mentioning in their comments section so they continue to give me work. This one mocks Top Cow's talent search contest in the manner of an old Goofy instructional video. Here's your guide to the Easter eggs that might be too small to see in the final version:
The Gutters #80 -- Goofy in Top Cow Pilot Season
Panel 1 -- The background in panel one is a shrink of the American Idol stage. At this size I think it just looks like a weird setpiece.
The script called for adoring women drawn in a Disney style, which is the MK-Ultra trigger-phrase that activates my Bourne memories of Alison Brie as Red Riding Hood in Community's Halloween episode. Pursuing a theme, I also transformed Ms.Gillian Jacobs, though for both I ignored Disney's technique of shrinking the lower half of a woman's head. (Disney princesses practically have children's jaws.) Honestly, I think I could have done a little better with Brie, but Jacobs I'm pretty happy with.
Annie & Britta are the MaryAnne & Ginger of our generation
Any Top Cow book, even one written by a Disney character, has an 88% chance of starring a half-naked woman with more breast than character. Here's a jab so lazy it does not contain enough spoof parts per billion to qualify as satire:
It's as unsexy as it sounds
Panel 2 requred fat nerds, so of course I was going to draw Comic Book Guy and John Byrne. But my colleague friends and I are rampaging engines of sexy nerdstruction, so I had to embiggen us for our cameo.
L-R *back rows): Jeremiah Hoover, John Byrne, Eric Palicki, Comic Book Guy. Front row: Josh Elder, and your gruesome host, moi
Panel 3 -- I tried to stick this guy in an Orange Lantern shirt, but I let hate distract me and did it wrong.
In the nerd hierarchy, Orange Lanterns are the lowest Lantern you can be.
Panel 8 called for sheer horror in Goofy's expression, and nothing says that like skull eyes.
Goofy wears pants, so presumably castration terrifies him
By the way, I deliberately forewent a lot of shading since it had to start off Disney style and only in ensuing panels get gritty, so the colorist did a really lovely job rounding out the shapes I could only suggest by contour. I also like the magic marker look that desaturates those bright Disney flats but leaves the hue. Really feels worn, tired and desperate -- perfect for this strip.
...and my life.
We really have a high standard for vandalism in NYC. This one lays bare the gigantic skull that is Ben Stiller by simply slashing out his eyes. No longer will he look so vertical to us. Now he is revealed as Oz the great and terrible.
I think the world ended at midnight and nobody noticed. Glimpses from the mall today.
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- My hate is strong like bear for this
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- For everyone who ever wondered how in the world they would crack an egg.
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- Snuggie for dogs. Minus sleeves. So technically…not a Snuggie. But for dogs.