Phil's New Year's Resolution No. 3

Sorry about the delay in getting this posted everyone. The reason for that will be my post today. I, Phil, resolve to write more blog posts in 2006. That is, if I can. I didn't have anything to post today. I just ran out of ideas. I've racked my brain for the last 3 days. I have no idea if my lack of ideas is permanent. It may be. Maybe I used them all up. I hope not. This could be it for The Phil Factor. You may be reading the last post ever. My brain might be empty. Well, actually, I'm sure many of you wondered if my brain had anything in it to start with. Who knows, maybe at the stroke of midnight my brain turns back into a pumpkin. If I'm lucky Dorothy will come along, take me off my post in the cornfield and we'll go see that great wizard everyone is talking about. I hope I see you all on the other side of midnight. Happy New Year.

Phil's New Year's Resolution No. 2

I, Phil, resolve no to watch any "Year in Review," "The Best of 2005," or "The Top (fill in the blank) of 2005" shows. I also resolve not to read any "Best and Worst of 2005" type news, sports, or entertainment articles in magazines, newspapers, or on websites. I know damn well what happened during the past 12 months! We all do. Unless you're a coma victim, no one needs these shows or articles. Furthermore, I don't need a television show or magazine article telling me what was important in the last 52 weeks. I think I'll decide what I think was important to me during the last 365 days. And I am not voting in any sort of online poll regarding the events or movies of 2005. And for the sake of all that is holy, NO MORE NICK AND JESSICA UPDATES!!!!! Judging by the conversations of the women in my office you'd think that the Nick and Jessica break-up was the biggest disaster of 2005. If you mention Katrina to them they're likely to give you a blank stare and ask if Katrina was the one who dated Ben Affleck right after J.Lo but before Jennifer Garner.

Phil's New Year's Resolution No. 1

In the age old tradition of Phil's 12 Days of Christmas, I will now try to come up with New Year's Resolutions about how I specifically plan to cope with the next 12 months of my life.

Phil's New Year's Resolution No. 1: During the Year 2006 I, Phil, resolve not to die. This is priority number 1 for me in the coming year. If I manage that successfully then the rest is gravy. Many of my long time readers, ok, well the few of you that are long time readers, remember my previous post related to this subject. Death is one of my biggest pet peeves. I absolutely hate it. I'm not a big fan of it happening to people I know, and I especially hate the thought of it happening to me. As I've previously stated, if presented with the opportunity to be dead I will just refuse to do so. Just as Santa Claus ceases to exist for a child when they stop believing in him, death will cease to exist for me because I refuse to believe it can happen to me. As an example of my gratitude to all of you for being so supportive over the time my blog has existed, I hope you all live through the next year too. Beside, if you die, who will leave me comments?

On the 12th Day of Christmas...

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring except for Phil's Blog Party. If I had my Christmas wish come true I'd rent out the ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Manhattan, New York City for a party and I'd invite everyone who has ever read my blog. I'll be hiring three bands to play live at the party: The B-52's (what could be a better party song than "Love Shack" live?), The Mighty, Mighty Bosstones, and the Bare Naked Ladies. Three great party bands. We would also be free to karaoke all night, as the lead singer of each band would step aside for us. Also invited to the party would be representatives of several book publishers who would be available to sign all of us aspiring writers to contracts. On a large plasma screen above the dance floor images of our blogs would flash throughout the night. There would be no computer access in the party though so we could all meet each other without a keyboard and screen between us.

In addition to the bands I would also invite The Golden Boys. If you don't know The Golden Boys then go check my archives from June 29th to July 11th. (I don't know how to do that thing where I can create a link here yet). The Golden Boys are a show in and of themselves.

I would stock the bar with plenty of Foster's for all my Australian blogging friends. I would charter a bus to Toronto to pick up all the Canadians. I imagine they'd all be pretty intoxicated on the bus long before they arrived. Linny and Princess Pessimism would arrive together because they have agreed to be each others dates. I doubt that they'd leave without dates however. Lois would arrive in a truck with her hubby and all the little Lanes in tow. She'd be carrying her laptop around at the party trying to get a good wireless internet signal to come in. Don't worry parents, there will be a kiddie room away from our party. Berly would have left the little one with hubby to come party with all her friends. Natalia would cruise up to the door in her PT Cruiser, jauntily flipping the keys to the valet. Chloe would fly in from Athens and arrive with enough Uzo for everyone. My friend from Michigan would brave the time zone barrier to make it. Michelle and Chloe would be the official party photographers, snapping pics and immediately posting them to their blogs through Lois' laptop. Justine would have to resist political conversations. This is a night for fun only. Well-Woman arrives early, but leaves early to spend a quiet night at home sipping tea. Some of the newer bloggers such as Meow,Geewits, and Heidi are wandering the ballroom gaping in awe at the blogging royalty, even asking for the occasional autograph. For snacks our friend Debbiecakes will be bringing popcorn. Don't worry ladies, I'd have security at the entrances to ensure that Hernesto doesn't get into the party. He's got to be registered as a sexual offender somewhere. Security would also be frisking each and every one of you (don't get too excited) to ensure that no one brings a cell phone in.

One of the best features of the party is that I've had the bathroom stalls at the Ritz-Carlton modified so that each is the size of a master bedroom. Tidy Bowl in particular appreciates this feature. There will of course be more entertainment than just the bands however. I'll reprise my past life by doing a 20 minute set of stand-up comedy using material that has yet to appear on the blog. Then of course The Golden Boys will take over, and to the surprise of no one, recreate the dance routine from the movie The Full Monty.

Lastly at midnight I'd make a corny, sentimental speech and thank all the people that made this possible, such as Erin, my friend from work who suggested I do a blog with all my ridiculous thoughts. She has never once signed up for a blogger ID and as such has never left a single comment on my blog despite the fact that she has read every single post since the beginning. Michelle gets a special thank you as well for being the second commenter ever, but the only one that has been there ever since. I would give Lois a trophy shaped like a laptop and engraved "Blog Diva" because she truly is. In a sad reflection on our community I now take a moment to point out that through my 12 Days of Christmas, my Christmas wish that received the most commentary was my idea of bigger bathroom stalls. At this point I'd like to apologize to anyone who's name I've left out. I know this is getting a bit long to read, but rest assured, even if I haven't mentioned you, I truly appreciate the time you've taken to read and comment on my blog. At the end of the party, so no one has to drive drunk, you can all retire to the Ritz-Carlton suites I've reserved for all party guests. Somehow I doubt everyone would be returning to their suites alone. Or at least some of you are hoping I'm sure. Happy Holidays everyone!

On the 11th Day of Christmas...

My sincere Christmas wish is that I'd like everyone to stop saying "See you next year!" during the last 14 days of each calendar year. Think about it. How often does some co-worker, friend, or family member gleefully shout out "See you next year!" and then laugh as if they've made the funniest joke they've ever heard? Hmmmm...let's see, by the time I was about 7 years old I had already heard that comedic gem roughly 2000 times. This is another thing I would make a law against when I'm elected President or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first. Don't start calling me Scrooge over this either. I showed how sensitive I was with that penguin story yesterday didn't I? (By the way, how many of you visualized a little penguin-shaped chalk outline on a sidewalk behind yellow police tape?) I think that from now on, whenever some Seinfeld wanna-be departs my company by gleefully shouting, "See you next year!" I'm going to just as gleefully respond, "Shut the hell up!" with a big smile on my face.

On the 10th Day of Christmas...

I wish that someone would return Toga, the 3 month old penguin they stole from the zoo in Isle of Wight, England. Toga is a 3 month old Jackass penguin who zookeepers believe was stolen to be a unique gift for someone. To me it sounds like the penguin isn't the only jackass in this scenario. Yes, "Jackass" is really the type of penguin he is. The poor little tuxedo-wearing tot was still being fed by his parents in that charming, regurgitating manner that birds have of feeding their young. Somehow I doubt the jackass thief is pre-chewing Toga's food for him. Is this not the saddest holiday story you've ever heard? I mean really, there aren't many things cuter than a baby penguin.

On the 9th Day of Christmas...

I would like an end to horseback riding. This is a bit of a personal gripe and doesn't necessarily benefit mankind like my other wishes, but it does benefit horses. I am of the opinion that horses don't like being ridden. I'm not any kind of Dr. Doolittle or animal psychic, I just can't see any possible way that horses are enjoying this.

Horse No. 1: "Damn, I'm bored. I wish someone would come along, sit on my back, jerk my mouth back and forth with a rope, jerk being the operative word, and then kick me right in the kidneys a few times if I don't have enough giddyap to suit them."

Horse No. 2: "I'm down with that homey, but what I really want is to be a racehorse. Then you get to do all that and get your ass whipped repeatedly. Oh yeah, and then if I happen to break an ankle, the man takes me into the hizzle and busts a cap in my head. Ain't that the life?"

Horse No. 1: I can't believe we get to do all that for a bucket of oats a day. Suckers! By the way Ed, why are you talkin' like that? You're from West Virginia."

Horse No. 2: "It's just something I'm trying out. The stable boy had MTV on in the office the other day so loud that I could hear it in here. You think we'll ever be on "Pimp My Ride"? I would look sweet in a purple velour saddle with surround sound speakers."

On The 8th Day of Christmas...

I would like all public bathroom stalls to be as big as a handicapped stall, if not bigger. I don't care how long you need to be in a bathroom stall, no one wants to be stuck in a tiny, smelly little closet where you are afraid to even unbend a limb lest you end up touching a wall or worse. There are enough people who are so fearful of using a public bathroom that they cause themselves uromysitisis. I believe that if public restrooms were more spacious people would be likely to use them more. All you ladies who seem to need to go to the bathroom together whenever you're out could all just hang out in the stall chatting while you do your business. If public restroom stalls were bigger I could take 3 of my friends to the Men's room to snort a little nose candy and we could all fit into one stall to do so without getting all homophobic about the close quarters. Why do they call them restrooms if no one actually ever rests in them? Not once have I seen a living person taking a nap in a restroom. This is another of the things I'll change when I'm elected President, or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first.

On the 7th of Christmas...

I would like an end to all that sensitive, nice Phil-crap that I put in my blog yesterday. That's what happens when I run out of ideas. Actually, in all truth, on the 7th day of Christmas I would like to no longer have a biological need for sleep. Yes, I realize that some of you identify sleep as a hobby or possibly a second job, but I'm just not very good at it, so I'd like to give up having to try at it every night. I enjoy a good dream as much as the next person, and I in fact have the ability to willfully choose to fly in my dreams, but it seems a tremendous waste of time to spend a third of our life unconscious. I don't wish this for everyone because I realize that many of you enjoy your sleep. There are other good uses for our beds that have nothing to do with sleeping. I'm still a big fan of those. I just want more time to do stuff. In fact, if we didn't sleep we'd also have more time for the other bed activities too. Rumor has it that Leonardo DaVinci got by on just cat naps throughout the day without any real extended periods of sleep. I'm not saying I'd be Leonardo if I didn't sleep, but I might be another one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Imagine having more time in every day without getting tired. There are books to read and write, music to listen to, work that I'm behind on, people to talk to and blog items to write. How many of us have ever said, "There just aren't enough hours in the day"? There are enough hours. We're just wasting them asleep.

"We are such stuff
As dreams are made on and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep..."

-William Shakespeare

On The 6th Day Of Christmas...

I'm going to recap my quest for those of you who have joined us late. To count down the 12 Days of Christmas I am posting a different Christmas wish that I have for each day. Although I may sound like Scrooge, if you read through them all, my wishes benefit not only me, but all of man and womankind. Yes, I could wish for world peace and no more hunger, but I think that one's already pretty well covered. So, without further adieu....on the 6th day of Christmas I would like everyone who does their job incredibly well, but is underappreciated or underutilized, to be recognized for it. All the time we all see people becoming rich and famous for doing things well. Everyone reading this blog is probably exceptional at their chosen profession, but because it isn't entertaining or considered important you get overlooked. I like to imagine that if doing therapy with emotionally disturbed kids was a sport I'd be in the therapy Super Bowl every year. What does everyone out there do? (There! See? I did it. I'm not a Scrooge. I can be nice if I want to)

On the 5th Day of Christmas.... aka Everybody Hates Raymond

I want to own the rights to the CBS television show "Everybody Loves Raymond." Is it because I'm a huge "Raymond" fan? In a word, NO! I absolutely despise that show. I hate "Everybody Loves Raymond" with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. If given a choice between watching "Raymond" or having toothpicks forcibly shoved under my fingernails, I would choose the toothpicks. That show is the television equivalent of torture. Now that they are no longer making new episodes it seems to be on 24/7! There are enough episodes broadcast each day that if the networks combined them they could have a 24 hr "Raymond" channel. What's not to hate? Every plot is the same. Raymond does something stupid. Debra is unbelieveably bitchy to him. Robert is jealous of Raymond. Raymond tries to compensate for his first mistake, but only makes more mistakes to compound his misery. Debra is unbelieveably bitchy to him. Then he tries to get Debra to have sex with him. A perfect end to that series might have been an episode where Raymond finally snaps and kills Debra. And damn, if those two little twin boys didn't have the biggest foreheads! If I hate it so much much, why do I want to own the rights to it? The answer is simple. If I owned the rights to that show, another episode would never see the light of day. I would destroy every recorded copy of every episode of the entire series. I would offer money for people to give me their home recorded copies of "Raymond" episodes so that I could destroy them. If I were to successfully to do away with that show for good I believe I would be raising the I.Q. of every person on the planet by at least 3 points. That would be worth a Nobel prize. I don't ask for much. Is this an unreasonable Christmas wish?

On The 4th Day Of Christmas...

I'd like a time machine. I want to go back in time and tell my past self not to make certain bad decisions. Yeah, yeah, I know, life is a journey and I'm the person I am because I learned from my mistakes, blah, blah, blah. Screw the journey. I wanted a much less bumpy ride. They say hindsight is 20/20. Well in hindsight there's a lot of things I wish I'd done differently. I wish I'd taken the road not taken in a few instances. The philosophical would say that I'm a better person for having experienced the things I have. Without the mistakes I'm pretty damn sure I'd be a pretty damn good person anyway, but with a lot more fame and fortune. C'mon, honestly in your heart of hearts who wouldn't choose to go back and give their past selves even a little advice to avoid certain things? It worked out pretty good for Marty McFly didn't it?

On The Third Day of Christmas...

I'd like an end to all reality shows. Each and every one of them. There is an entire generation of television writers who haven't had to come up with a new idea in 10 years. Even the "new" ideas for reality shows aren't original. Most of the original reality show ideas were actually stolen from foreign television. "Reality" television isn't even remotely like any reality I have ever seen. Not once in my reality have I been stranded on a desert island or locked in a house with a bunch of strangers and forced to manipulate others or eat live bugs in order to win a pizza. I can only imagine how the writers brainstorming sessions go:
Writer no. 1: "Hmmmm...what could be more entertaining than putting a bunch of strangers in a contrived situation and watching them reveal their worst instincts as they fight for money?"
Writer no. 2: "Wow, that's a great idea. Let's pitch it to the network!"
Writer no. 1:" Yeah, but where will put the people, what will they have to eat, and who will fire them?"
Writer no. 2:"It doesn't matter. The network will put anything on the air as long as we have it hosted by a Carson Daly-type guy with rogue-ishly messy hair."
Writer no. 1:"Is rogue-ishly a word?"

If someone out there knows how to contact the head of a television network please fax this column to them as my application for the position of Director of Programming.

On the Second Day of Christmas....

I want someone to give to me.... a special law that limits the times of day the elderly can drive and go to stores. No, before you all attack me for being anti-elderly hear me out. Fact No. 1: The elderly drive slow and move slow. Fact No. 2: Fact no. 1 is very frustrating for the faster moving people. But, I also believe that the elderly are also frustrated by the difference between the speed they move and the speed others move. I'm sure they don't enjoy people honking at them on the roads, pushing by them in stores, beating them out for a spot in line at the cash register, huffing impatiently behind them as we are blocked while they attempt to navigate the ever narrowing store aisles with their walkers. Let's face it, we are all probably somewhat rude to the elderly in this way. I think that if there was a law that stated that the elderly cannot be on the roads during morning and evening rush hour and that they should limit their shopping to the hours of 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. on weekdays we would all be happier. The elderly would no longer have to put up with an ever impatient society trying to shove them aside and the rest of us would see a corresponding decrease in our blood pressure on a daily basis. The elderly could then browse the stores at their leisure in a pseudo-Dawn of the Dead zombie-like march down the aisles and on the roads. Don't get me wrong, I love the elderly. I hope to be very elderly one day, albeit with all my mental and physical faculties intact as they are today. I can only imagine that as an elderly gentleman someday that I will be likely to use my cane to hit in the shins any rude, young, punk who tries to rush past me to get in line ahead of me at the supermarket. (I know you're all going to kill me for this one)

Phil's 12 Days of Christmas

These are not gifts I've ever been given, but gifts I would like this year. Of course I could and do wish for things like peace on Earth and food for starving children, but those things aren't going to make this list. I'm starting more than 12 days early because I doubt I could commit to posting 12 days in a row, especially since I'm moving in about a week and may lose internet for a couple days.

On the first day of Christmas I would like.....

An end to daylight savings time. It was originally dreamed up to give farmers more time to take in their crops or something like that. That was over 100 years ago. Farmers now have electric lights and harvesting machines that can do their work in a 10th of the time it used to take. The bi-annual ritual of moving our clocks back or forward by an hour has just become annoying and serves no purpose. I'm sure that we can all remember to change our fire detector batteries every six months without having to arbitrarily screw around with the time frame of an entire country. If you're not smart enough to change your fire detector batteries and you get killed in a fire then that's natural selection at work. This is one of the things I will change when I am elected President or Sexiest Man Alive.

I Was Just Wondering....

If Switzerland is a neutral country with no army, then why are there Swiss Army Knives? If the U.S. Army gave out cool gadgets like that I'd be tempted to join. I think that the fact that their primary weapon has a corkscrew implies that you get to drink at least some of the time. Maybe there really is a Swiss Army, but they're all at a party somewhere opening bottles of wine.

Bicycle! Bicycle! I Want To Ride My Bicycle

Ok, I don't want to ride my bike, but a guy at the gym this past weekend sure as hell did. Going to the gym is great for people watching because contrary to popular belief, I think that people at the gym aren't phonies trying to impress others, but rather people trying to be who they really want to be. The 98 pound weaklings lift weights, imagining that they will one day be the desire of women and the envy of other men. The overweight people workout, and even if the mirror doesn't show it right away, they feel just a little bit thinner every time. The guys that are already hulking behemoths pose and lift in front of the mirror in the faint hope that someday they'll be as clever and witty as that handsome blog writer who just walked by. Despite all this I try to stay humble. Then of course there's the instructor of the cycling class. I still fail to see why anyone needs an "instructor" to tell them how to ride a bicycle that doesn't go anywhere and never falls over. I think it must be a class for the remedial cyclists. Once they've mastered the stationary bike do they go outside and try a real one with training wheels? The instructor appears to be one of those people who takes himself and his job way too seriously. You know these people. They're the ones who, although they may be doing an activity recreationally, are as well dressed and equipped as the professionals. They're the people who when watching a professional sporting event show up in the full uniform on the off chance that they'll be called out of the stands to participate in the game. This cycling "instructor" is one of those people. Despite the fact that the primary function of his job is to tell people, who are already sitting on bicycles, to pedal, he shows up as if he's about to compete in the Tour De' France. He's in the cycling shorts. He's got the cycling shoes specially made to prevent his feet from slipping off the pedals. And yes, he's wearing one of those skin tight cycling shirts covered with sponsor logos and designed to be light and reduce wind resistance. I've walked around my gym quite a few times and I've never had a problem with wind resistance. If Lance Armstrong wants to show up at the local gym and instruct a class wearing his yellow jersey I've got no problem with that. He earned it. If he rode 1000 miles to get that jersey he deserves to sleep in it every night if he wants to. But the local gym cycling psycho seems to be overdoing it a bit in his quest for cycling greatness. As I said though, I guess he's just trying to get a little closer to being the Lance Armstrong he is in his dreams. Sadly for him, it looks like that's a long ride. Especially if his bike isn't going anywhere.

Celebrate Good Times, C'mon!

I'm a sports fan. I enjoy playing sports and watching them. I wish I enjoyed my job as much as professional athletes do. These guys seem to celebrate virtually any move they make as if they've just vanquished a lethal foe or won the lottery. Well if it's good enough for professional athletes it's good enough for me. I think we should all approach our jobs with the verve and zest for life that professional athletes do. Starting tomorrow I'm going to dance and hoot and pose every time I perform any basic function of my job. I work in an office. This should go over well. The first time I manage to run off a few copies that get collated and stapled I'm shouting out "Who's the Man?!!?" After my mailman spikes my bills into my mailbox I'd like to see him give me a chest bump and then do a backflip off of my front step. During a colonscopy why don't we hear more doctors shout "No polyps here! Not in MY house!!" When I go to the bank to deposit the enormous check I make from writing this blog I want to hit fists with the teller and the see her hop up on the counter and do the worm (that's not so much funny as it is a fantasy of mine). If I don't get a raise at my next performance evaluation at work I can't wait to do the throat slash gesture and back out of the room pointing ominously at my supervisor. That will let her know who's the man.

I suppose it's great that professional athletes take so much pride in their work. Some day I hope I have a job I enjoy as much as they do. Until then I think I'll employ these ideas in my sex life. "Hey baby, you want a piece of me? Who's the man? Bring it on!" I'll be keeping a 20 gallon container of Gatorade next to the bed for the final celebration.

Can You Spare Some Change?

I was just wondering, when rapper 50 Cent was a kid did they call him 25 Cent? Also, when he gets old and gray will they call him Silver Dollar?

Why Not The Hamburglar?

Just yesterday in New Hampshire a Wendy's restaurant (I use the term "restaurant" loosely in relation to Wendy's) was robbed by two employees who were later apprehended. The name of one of the employees? Ronald McDonald.

Sexiest Man Alive?

This week People magazine announced their Sexiest Man Alive for 2005. It was not me. Again. I think it was Jude Law, but I'm not sure. It was some random movie star looking guy with about a two day stubble growing on his face. When I saw the title and it didn't have my picture beneath it I just walked by without giving it a second look. How can People magazine claim that this guy is the Sexiest Man Alive? Claiming that this guy is the Sexiest Man Alive implies that they consider every living man on the planet before making this decision. Maybe my questionnaire got lost in the mail or something, but I distinctly do not recall being contacted by People magazine over the past 12 months. Stuff like this is so unfair.

When they elected the new Pope last spring I didn't even get a whiff of consideration for the job. Just because I'm not some ass-kissing Cardinal in the Cathlic church I wasn't even given a second interview. Despite my two write-in votes. I dropped them off at my local church. They promised they'd Fed Ex them to the Vatican for me. Maybe they didn't hear me say that they absolutely, positively had to be there overnight. When the new U.S. Supreme Court Justice was nominated and approved by Congress, again I was ignored. Despite my two write in votes. My local congressman's office assured me that my self-nomination would be forwarded to the President immediately. When nominating a Supreme Court Justice don't they always talk about decisions he's written about in the past. About the positions the nominee has taken on certain key issues? Don't these people read my blog? Have I not made muy positions on just about everything clear over the past 8 months?

Not getting elected as Sexiest Man Alive really burns me though! I may actually sue People Magazine over this snub. I may not appear in movies or on television, but I've got a blog! I've even added a picture of myself to the profile to aid my candidacy. I'm starting my New Years resolution now and I am formally announcing my candidacy for 2006. People Magazine, are you listening?

The Miss Penitentiary Pageant

I read today that the Miss Penitentiary 2005 trophy was awarded today. Yes, this was a real news item. Apparently in South America they have this pageant to "boost the inmates self-esteem." It sure is nice to know that someone is worrying about the criminals feeling badly about themselves. Isn't the point of prison to make people feel badly? What do you suppose they did for the talent portion of the competition? "And now taking the stage will be Miss Penitentiary Uruguay! Her talent will be completely disemboweling an opponent in under 30 seconds using only a kitchen knife!" Female inmates? I think I'll pass on watching the swimsuit competition. Their swimsuit competition probably involved crossing the Amazon in a two piece while evading pirhanas. During the interview do you suppose any of them stated that they wanted to cure cancer, stop global warming, and make the world a better place for our children? "Miss Penitentiary Brazil, if you win the Miss Penitentiary title, what is one thing you would do with your new fame?" Miss Penitentiary Brazil: "Well, the first thing I'd do is pawn that tacky crown. It may be hideous, but those diamonds have got to be worth a fortune. If I don't pay back Vinny for that kilo I lost going through customs he's going to kill my little brother." Sweet. Yup, it is important that when these women are ready to return to society that they do so with their pride intact. Being named the prettiest prisoner is a lot like being named the smartest member of the Bush family.

Unusual Things I'm Thankful For

In the United States it is traditional to get together with family on the Thanksgiving holiday and share the important things you are thankful for before gorging yourself on a meal centered upon the large, dead carcass of the ugliest bird in North America. Every year everyone shares the usual platitudes about being thankful for family and good heath. Duh! Who can't come up with that? When I decided to write this I set out to write a positive, uplifting post so that my loyal readers don't think that my every thought and written or spoken word are tinged with biting sarcasm. So without further adieu, here are some of the everyday things I am thankful for:

The Bed Buddy. No, I am not referring to a convenient late night hook-up. I'm referring to my microwaveable heating pad. In just 1 minute and 55 seconds I can enjoy the pleasure of moist, penetrating, heat anywhere I want it. Ok, I guess it does sound like I'm referring to a convenient, late night hook-up.

Satellite radio. I have over 120 stations to choose from. I can pre-program 30 of them, making them available to me at the touch of a single button. I don't ever have to listen to a radio commercial ever again. I can put my satellite radio on one station and drive my car clear across the country without ever changing the channel. All because somewhere, several miles above the Earth, is a giant satellite beaming the radio signal directly to my car. I don't care if they discover that these satellite waves, possibly going straight through my skull on their way to my radio, cause tumors. The trade off is so worth it.

Boston Legal. Yes, the television show. It is very funny, but that's not my favorite part. At the conclusion of each episode, the characters of Denny Crane and Alan Shore, two arrogant, eccentric, and bombastic attorneys, get together on the balcony of their office to share a brandy and a cigar and to talk about their insecurities, hopes, dreams, failures, and foibles. I never tire of this 2 minute scene each episode. It is male bonding as it should be. Occasionally men do this in real life, but we never tell women about it.

Scallops wrapped in bacon. In my opinion there is nothing else edible that can cause me to go into a swoon like scallops wrapped in bacon with a little toothpick through them. I highly recommend removing the toothpick before ingesting these wonderful little delicacies. The taste isn't half as good when half of a toothpick is scraping it's way down the inside of your esophagus. If there is a Nobel Prize for cooking somebody should get one for this idea.

The Name Game You know the name game right? That little rhyming thing where you take any name and impose nonsense syllables upon it. With my name it goes like this: Philly Philly bo billy, banana fana fo Philly, me my mo milly, Philly! I didn't learn how to do this until I was 21 years old and it never fails to cheer me up or make me smile. I want to see everyone do the name game with their own name when you post a comment. (Just for fun at home, try it with the name Ducky)

The internet. Without it how would we ever find our perfect match using 29 personality variables? Also without the internet I could never get the daily positive reinforcement for my ridiculous thoughts and theories. I was always that kid that caused your teachers and parents to say, "Don't laugh, you'll only encourage him." Thank you all for encouraging me. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Hairs Looking At You Kid

I get as frustrated with stupid people as anyone does. The problem is, we are all stupid in a myriad of ways. Men are stupid and women are stupid. We're just stupid in different ways.

Men are stupid if they think no one can tell if they have a toupee, hair plugs, a hair weave, or that brown sprayed on hair.

Women are stupid because they keep telling those men it looks natural.

If congress want to do everyone a favor they should stop worrying about cigarette smokers and try to eliminate the Hair Club for Men. The cigarette smokers will eventually eliminate themselves and, by attrition of customers, the companies that make cigarettes. Who will stop men from wearing those ridiculous looking hair replacement attempts? Women need to start being honest or we're all stuck looking at these hairless morons for eternity. (Don't read anything into this. I have enough hair to grow a serious mullet by the end of the week)

A Shameless Plug

I realize that most of my readers are women. If you are into fantasy football, or have a boyfriend, husband, significant other, or sugar daddy who is, please use my other website for all your fantasy football info. www.footballtangent.com

The previous was an unpaid commercial advertisement. I will resume my regularly scheduled idiocy tomorrow.

Cell Phone People Part V

Many of my long time readers, (well, both of them), will recognize this rant from Cell Phone People Parts I-IV posted from May 15th to June 30th. In those previous posts I railed against the stupidity of "cell phone people." Not everyone who owns a cell phone is one of the "cell phone people." Cell phone people are those social nuisances who feel that just because they have the ability to express their every thought to someone, that they should do so immediately, no matter where or when they are. The cell phone people also seem to believe that everyone they call must be deaf because they're always talking really loudly.

This week one of these "cell phone people" has made big news in the U.S. by robbing 4 Wachovia banks all while chatting on her cell phone. The Cell Phone Bandit, as she has been dubbed, walks into the bank, chatting on her cell phone, hands the teller a note demanding money, and carefully shows that she has a gun in her purse. Now this woman is a nuisance in two ways. How the hell have the authorities not caught this woman? After the first Wachovia bank gets robbed by a woman with a cell phone you might think it was an isolated incident. After two banks get robbed by the same woman in the same way, someone had to see a pattern. If I was in charge of Wachovia banks, after the second robbery I would have ordered a sign posted outside all their branches stating, "Due to the recent robberies anyone entering a Wachovia bank talking on a cell phone will be shot on sight. No questions asked. Have a nice day." If I'm a Wachovia security guard I happily oblige with this order. On any given day I personally have a hard time restraining myself from assaulting these cell phone dolts as it is. Now they may start taking my money? It is on!

I wonder what the cell phone bandit's conversations were like while she was robbing the banks? If she's anything like a typical cell phone dolt it probably went like this: "Oh yeah, you wouldn't believe it. Yeah, he makes those noises like every 5 seconds while were doing it. It's so weird. I don't think I can see him anymore. Hold on a sec, I'm at the bank. Yes, thank you. Small unmarked, non-sequential bills please. Nothing larger than a 20. Oh, and then when I tell Tina about this she's like 'But he's so cute in a blue collar sort of way.' Puh-lease! Tina can have him if you ask me. Oh, did you hear that my sister is getting married? To an Irish guy of all things! Yes, thank you. You have a nice day. I've got to get off the phone now. I'm getting in the car. Yeah, we'll go out tonight. I'm buying. Talk to you later." In a perfect world this conversation would be followed by a gunshot and a futile call to 911, made on a now bloodied cell phone.

Phil Factor's Day Off

Sloan: What are we going to do?

Ferris: The question isn't "what are we going to do," the question is "what aren't we going to do?"

Aaaaah! They joy of an unexpected day off from work. What could be better than that? I need to be at work. I should be at work. But right now, I am not at work. Unfortunately Cameron isn't on his way over to pick me up so we can go joy riding in Chicago. Even more unfortunately is the fact that food and I seem to be having a serious disagreement. I'm not totally incapacitated by my malady however. So what should I do? First I decided to slip into a pair of old, comfortable jeans and my favorite football jersey. I plan on doing some serious lounging today. Second, I obviously came here to gloat to all you fellow bloggers who will read this tonight after your long work day. Now that I've laid off food for a few hours I actually feel kind of good. I'm tempted to play some serious hooky. Go to the mall, go to the gym, take myself out to lunch (that's probably not a good idea, but I'd love to eat something better than soup and crackers. Maybe I should go rent a few of my favorite movies. Outdoor activities are definitely out. Here in the northeastern U.S it's getting a bit chilly. Maybe if I'm really quick I can drive to Pennsylvania and buy some fireworks and set them off in my yard. The great part of being an adult is that you don't have to ask anyone if you want to stay home sick. No one takes your temperature or verifies if you've actually vomited. If I go to the mall there won't be a truancy officer to ask my why I'm not at work. My boss and co-workers are at work, so there's no one to rat me out no matter where I go. This is better than a planned vacation day because it was unexpected. Maybe I'll just take a nap. I think that's the definition of adulthood. Sleeping when you want to. As a kid, you never want to sleep. Not for naps, not at night, not ever. You might miss something. As an adult we often live for the times we do get to miss something. Right now, I hope my job misses me more than I miss being there.

The Church of Phil

Let's step into the Way Back Machine and return to last Monday. It was Halloween. I took my adorable little boys Trick or Treating. That adorable little tradition where we encourage them to put on masks and accost complete strangers in their homes for candy. We also throw in a threat (trick) if they don't cough up the goods. It sounds like the little tikes are being trained to rob banks. Most of the kids seem to be dressed in a costume that embodies violence anyway, adding a little more credibility to their threat. Halloween is one of my favorite holidays, but in my mind it was tainted this year by what I found in one of my children's Trick or Treat bags. As a responsible parent I of course check through my children's bags of goods when we return from our annual neighborhood extortion spree just to make sure some psychopath isn't giving out popcorn balls full of rat poison. I often even go so far as to eat all Reese's Peanut Butter Cups just to protect my children from the potential for future clogged arteries. This year I found something worse than rat poison. Someone wasn't trying poison my son's body, they were trying to poison his mind. No, it wasn't as bad as Republican re-election propaganda, but it was close. On a small bag of chips someone had placed a sticker with a bible verse on it about turning away from the power of Satan to God. At that moment, after reading the deeply moving scripture, I had an epiphany. An awakening of sorts. I realized that one of my neighbors was an a-hole. What kind of a nut job uses an innocent children's holiday to try to recruit followers? If I want to take my children out to worship Satan in my own neighborhood don't try to ruin it with your wholesome goodness! I didn't know which neighbor it was who had committed such an atrocity on one of the best days of the year, but if I had known I might have said, "Hey moron! You may be holier than thou, but you're definitely not smarter than thou. The kids going door to door asking for free candy are not worshipping Satan. They're worshipping the great sugar buzz they'll be annoying their parents with for the next week. If you want to prevent Satan worship why don't you go out into the woods and find a group of black clad people chanting and preparing a human sacrifice. Give them your f-ing chips! If chips with some nice sour cream and onion dip isn't proof of a loving and benevolent God, then I don't know what is. You might want to throw in a six pack of beer with that. A cold beer beats a cup of warm blood any day." Does anyone remember Jim Jones and his cult in Guyana 20 years ago? They drank Kool-Aid didn't they? I wonder if that was just to wash down their chips. That's all we have to do to battle the forces of darkness. Just have better snacks. I think I may start my own church based on that premise.

The F Word

Yes, I really am talking about THE F word. The big one. The mother of all swear words. The big kahuna of cursing. The pinnacle of profanity. The excellent expletive. Enough alliteration already? The F word is so handy that it can be considered the Swiss Army knife of cussing. The F word is used in so many contexts that it must be impossible for a visitor to our country to figure out exactly what it means when you get right down to it. We say F you! What the F are you looking at? Why the F would you do that? Are you F'ing crazy? Can you F'ing believe that? You F-er! Almost every usage of the F word implies anger, aggression or incredulity. All the ways we use the F word however, are completely ironic when you consider it's literal meaning. That is really F'ed up isn't it? The literal meaning of the F word is a less than tactful way to name a wonderful recreational activity. Why do we take the word that defines something as wonderful as a beautiful physical bonding, the act that creates life, or just a really fantastic thing to do and make it a word that embodies hatred, anger or how much of a problem something has become? Why not use another word that is more appropriate to the meaning? Why not replace the F word in our cursing with a word that really symbolizes something that everyone hates or gets angry about? I don't know what word it should be. Any suggestions? If you don't like my idea, then F you. And I mean that in the best possible way. Have a nice weekend : )

Q: How Do You Capture a Unique Rabbit?

A: You 'neak up on them!

I was in the supermarket the other day and I was going down the aisle where they sell condoms. Not that I would be needing a condom for any reason, but you probably already guessed that didn't you? Anyway, while I was not shopping for condoms I happened to notice that on one of the condom packages it said, "New Unique Shape!" New unique shape? Who the hell are these for?!!? Did I miss some crucial step in evolution somewhere? As far as I knew, the equipment I have is the latest model. State of the art. It may even be broadband digital.

I Witnessed A Mugging

Two days a week I work in an elementary school. There is nothing cooler than working in an elementary school. If you are not a teacher, but just an occasional visitor to the classrooms, you become something of a celebrity to the little tikes. They all wave hello everywhere you go and shout your name as you pass them in the hall. Certain select students are lucky enough to have weekly appointments with me, the famous Mr. Taylor of Martin Luther King Elementary School. All the other students are jealous of the chosen ones who get to leave class and visit my office. They all beg and plead for their chance to see where I take their classmates. I'm sure they're imagining that my office is a some palatial throne room filled with candy and roller coasters. At this point you must be wondering what the title, "I Witnessed A Mugging" has to do with all of this. I did witness a mugging at the school. It was horrible. The poor kid didn't have a chance. I'm not sure who was more tramatized, me or the young child I was escorting to my office. As we walked down the hallway we had casual conversation about that days' events in his classroom, never suspecting the horror that awaited us around the next corner. With classes all in session, the dusty hallways were empty. Our footsteps echoed as we made our way to my office. As we rounded the next corner, almost to the safety of my office, the perpetrator leapt, seemingly right out of the cinder block wall to our left. At the outset, it was obvious that the student was the intended victim. It was a teacher, with marker in hand. I had never seen this before. It was a math mugging. She gently caught the student by the arm and directed him to look at the large piece of poster paper she had taped to the wall. On it was a math problem. She assertively suggested that the innocent boy try to solve the problem in as many ways as he could think of. I stood by helplessly as he pondered this problem. I had ideas. I thought I could help, but I was frozen. The math phobic child I used to be screaming inside my head to stay away. To run. To save myself while I still could. When I chose the field of mental health, I made a vow. A vow to myself to help others. I couldn't abandon this meek, kind-hearted child. After his valiant effort to please the teacher who had so viciously attacked him, I escorted him to my office and attempted, with words and reason, to wash away the horror of what he had just endured.

A Three Hour Tour, A Three Hour Tour..

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale. A tale of a fateful trip, that started from this Minnesota port aboard two tiny ships. Ironically the Minnesota Vikings football team “pleasure” cruise on Lake Minnetonka was scheduled for a three hour tour. Sadly the Vikings football players could have used some Viagra because their boat ride only lasted 40 minutes. But it was not because the weather started getting rough and the tiny ships were tossed. In this case there was also no fearless crew either. The crew turned the ships around and returned to port because they were fearful of being impaled by a Viking spear. In the business world my company will often organize office retreats or team building exercises. This is apparently what Fred Smoot was trying to do for his team. With the Vikings team falling apart on the field Smoot decided that the guys need a morale booster on their week off. So he and others hired two boats and 20 entertainment “professionals” for a boat “ride.” I wonder how many of them were named Ginger and Mary Ann? Or at least claimed to be. I wonder if Onterrio Smith brought his Whizzinator to impress the ladies? (Reference May 11 "Gee Whiz" post)

It never ceases to amaze me that young men who are paid to millions of dollars to play a game continue to find new and ridiculous ways to embarrass themselves. Whether it’s gambling, hookers, steroids, illegal drugs, or domestic violence these guys just can’t seem to stop finding ways to piss away (sorry, Onterrio Smith reference) what most of us would do for a tenth of what they get paid. We’re paying money to play fantasy sports at what these morons get paid millions to do and they can’t stop finding ways to screw it up. They say money can’t buy you happiness. I believe money can buy you happiness, but as the professional athletes keep reminding us, it sure doesn’t buy you brains.

Am I Famous Enough Yet?

Am I famous enough to change my name, or has that ship already sailed? I've noticed that a lot of famous people tend to change their names, either before, during, or after becoming famous. From Marilyn Monroe, to Sting, to Madonna, to Cher, to Diddy, name changing seems to be very popular with the famous crowd. Are they famous because they changed their names, or did they change their names because they were famous? What got me thinking about this is Sean, Puffy, Puff Daddy, P.Diddy, Diddy, Coombs. Most famous people change their name once and stick with it. Sting, Madonna, and Cher all picked cool names and kept them. Sean Coombs has to be the all time worst at choosing names to improve his fame. His first, Puff Daddy, sounds like a drug dealer. Then he went with Puffy Coombs. I had a friend in college who kept a stuffed bear from his childhood that was named Puffy. We once stuffed it into a plastic tennis ball canister, filled it with water, froze it and then used the frozen bear to bowl down our dormitory hallway. I would do the same with a man named Puffy if given the opportunity. After that Mr. Coombs went with P. Diddy. What is the P. for and what exactly does diddy mean? P.Diddy sounds like a problem you'd go see a urologist about. Now he's just Diddy. What does Diddy mean? It means diddly if you ask me. So I'm left to wonder, am I famous enough to change my name yet, and what should I choose? I think I'm famous enough. The overwhelming volume of comments left on my blog will attest to my undeniable popularity. So what name should I choose?

Inappropriate Uses For Onstar

We've all heard the commercials. "Hello. This is Dave from Onstar. How can I help you?" Caller responds tearfully, "My six month old baby is locked in my car with a rabid pit bull and I can't find my extra set of keys." While Onstar is a wonderful service I'm sure there are people who abuse the service.

Ring, ring! "Hello. This is Dave from Onstar. How can I help you?"
Caller: "Dude! I can't believe this. I went out with my friends and man we had, like, I dunno, 20 shots of this incredible blue stuff. Dude, you gotta try this stuff. It's awesome. Anyway, the parking lot is like, ginormous, and now I can't find my car. It's red. Can you see it from there?"
Onstar Dave: (With biting sarcasm) "No sir. I cannot see your car.
Caller: C'mon Dave. Dude, you've got, like, a satellite right? Why can't you see my car? Can you at least make the horn honk or the lights flash so I can find it?"
Onstar Dave: (Smirking) "Oh, sure sir. This may take a few minutes. Just wait, and the next time you hear a car horn, walk towards it. Have a nice night."

Ring, ring! "Hello. This is Dave from Onstar. How can I help you?"
Female caller: I'm calling about my boyfriends car."
Onstar Dave: "What's wrong ma'am? Has he been in an accident?"
Female caller: "An accident? I wish! That son of a bitch slept with my sister when I was gone for the weekend! Could you use your satellite to, like, blow up his car with a giant laser or something?"

Ring, ring! "Hello. This is Dave from Onstar. How can I help you?"
Caller: "Yeah. You've got to help me. This is an emergency."
Onstar Dave: "Slow down. Talk slowly so I can get all the information I need."
Caller: Ok, I was stuck in traffic on I-90 when I look over at this little, red, Pontiac Sunbird next to me and this chick was totally hot and she smiled at me. Just as I was about to get out of my car and go over to get her phone number, traffic started moving again and I missed her. Her license plate number is 975-AIG. Could you call her up and give her my phone number?"
Onstar Dave: "(Heavy sigh) Ok, hold on a sec. There, that should do it. About a half mile ahead you should find her pulled over on the shoulder with her car inexplicably stalled. Keep me on the line and when you get under the hood just press your star key and I'll start her back up."
Caller: "Onstar Dave, you rock!"
Onstar Dave: Yes I do.

The Roof, The Roof, The Roof Is On Fire

Ok, my roof was not on fire, but I had to go up there nonetheless to prepare my house for inspection so it can be sold. The roof on most houses looks pretty harmless and they are rarely prone to jumping out at you from behind a bush and yelling "Boo!" The roof on my house did just that this week. Figuratively speaking that is. During a particularly malevolent windstorm about 6 months ago the cap on my chimney broke off. I dealt with this the way I do most problems with my house. As long as the chimney cap did not hit me in the head when it decided to make it's bid for freedom, I decided that I appreciated it's consideration in keeping my cranium intact, so I pretended I didn't even know about it. Unfortunately, I don't think the engineer inspecting my house will feel the same way. I own a two story house. As long as I have owned it I have been very pleased with the job my roof has done staying on top of the house and keeping the rain out. The chimney cap was a problem that forced me to confront the fact that the top of my house is much higher above the ground than I am used to being while I am outdoors. I am not afraid of heights, and in most situations I enjoy them immensely. Most situations, however, does not usually include hanging my feet off of the roof 30 feet above the suddenly immeasurably cold, hard, ground feeling around for the ladder with my toes. I ascended safely enough with my eldest son holding the ladder. He was more nervous than I was, worried that he would make some mistake that would result in my sudden and catastrophic impact upon the previously described ground. I had previously imagined that in getting up on the roof I would revel in the thrill of my momentary role as a suburban Spider-Man. Once on top of the house there was a lot less reveling than I had imagined there would be. There was a lot more clinging and inching along carefully. I safely found the remains of the old chimney cap and flung them through the air, prompting my son to briefly panic that my body would come sliding off the roof after it. I slowly crept back down to the edge of the roof and dangled my feet off the edge feeling around for the ladder that I hoped was still there. As I searched for my lifeline to the ground, that I hoped was still held by my son, I thought to myself, "Maybe now would be a good time to raise his allowance." As you can see by my telling of the tale here, I found the ground safely right where I had left it.

Sweet Child Of Mime

Often as a parent I'm concerned about what my child is exposed to when he's not with me. I worry that at school, on the bus, or in the neighborhood he may hear bad language that other kids learn from their parents, hear stories about "R" rated movies or professional wrestling that some kids are allowed to see, or even worse, that some other kid may loan my child a copy of Grand Theft Auto for Playstation. Today my greatest fear was realized. I was totally unprepared to explain the unmitigated horror that my innocent 7 year son was exposed to at school today. Mimes! They didn't even send a note home asking permission to let my child see a mime! If anyone is going to annoy my child with stupid behavior it's going to be me! I do not want those annoying bastards trying to convince my son that they're stuck in an invisible box, or trying to get him to play invisible tug of war with them. Why the hell don't mimes talk? You can pretend to climb an invisible ladder and talk. Are we really to believe that miming is the occupation of choice for mutes? What's wrong, were all the Oompa Loompa jobs taken? Just once I'd love to see a mime who spoke through his entire act. Who wouldn't want to hear a mime say, "Oh fuck! I'm stuck in this freakin' box again! Hey morons! Do you think you could stop just staring at me and maybe try to feel around the outside of this box for a doorknob or something? Remind me not to get stuck at the top of an invisible ladder when you mooks are around. This is definitely not a mensa meeting."

My House Is A Very, Very, Very Fine House

3 bedrooms, one bath, and one melancholy owner. Amenities include several new windows, one of which was replaced very recently due to a baseball shaped hole put there by a future major league pitcher. A fully carpeted flight of stairs which are capable of withstanding the tumbling of an 11 month old child without inflicting a single scratch on either of them. A beautiful deck built in the hot, summer sun which has hosted countless cookouts and quiet nights with a glass of wine. Walls that don't talk, but that do contain countless words of wisdom, written on them by tiny hands, that would tell a story if they hadn't been hidden by a few coats of paint. The large picture window in the living room features a spot centered directly in front of it that is just right for a Christmas tree. The plush, royal blue carpet in the living room is perfect for being strewn with wrapping paper and presents. I have finally sold my house and as I sit here looking around at the big, wooden box that has contained my life for the last 13 years I can feel the ghosts of those memories in each and every room. Sadly those ghosts seem to be living things which will stay in this house as I move on. I wonder, when I move into the new home I'm buying, will I sense the ghosts of someone else's life wandering those hallways? Although a house is just wood, steel, and mortar, when filled with memories it seems to be a living part of you. It is the place that has provided my physical and emotional security for most of my adult life. My children have never known another home and I've never known them in another home. Gone will be the familiarity of knowing which step to avoid if you don't want that loud squeak as you descend in the middle of a sleepless night. The 6th sense to instinctively avoid the sharp edge on the corner of the wall in the basement will no longer be there. No longer will I habitually know which door will need me to push down slightly as I pull it open to avoid sticking. I wonder, when I'm gone, will my house miss me as much as I will miss it?

It's a Girl!

No, I haven't impregnated anyone. Not that I couldn't mind you, I just haven't done so lately. Nope, the girl I'm talking about is the one that called my oldest son on the telephone today. The brazen little hussy's name is apparently Sarah. My son is 13 years old. He has never received a phone call from a girl who wasn't his mother or grandmother. I have never been more proud of him than I am at this moment. Good grades in school? Who cares! Musical talent? What's that worth? Athletic accomplishments? Please! A girl called my son! What could be more impressive than that? I think I'll raise his allowance. He doesn't need to do work around the house! I want him to rest up so he's fresh for the ladies. He's going to need more money for entertaining. I'm just disappointed that I can't give him a car yet. It's definitely not cool making out in the back seat of the school bus. Do you think it's too soon to give him condoms and a fake ID?

There's More Than One Way To Skin a Cat

Really? Is there more than one way to skin a cat? Who the hell took the time to figure that out? And how many cats did they go through? Exactly how many ways? Why didn't anyone call the cops on this psychopath? Wouldn't all the painful howling have alerted the neighbors that something bad was going on?

It's A Dog Eat Dog World

And my dog just ate up a big chunk of my budget yesterday. My dog has been chewing on her feet for about a year now and one of her little toes had gotten red and a little swollen, so I decided to bring her in to see the vet. Admittedly she was overdue on getting all her shots and her heartworm medication. Essentially, aside from the foot chewing, she wasn't going to pass inspection. So she got all her shots and her medication before Dr. Do Little addressed the foot chewing. He said it was probably a skin allergy. I asked about the treatment options and the consequences of not treating it. He outlined all the options, all the way up to "skin and blood tests that could run $700-$800." Needless to say, I was not going to spend four times the original cost of the dog just because she her feet itched. If my car needs $800 worth of repairs I'd get a new car. I was tempted to do the same here, but I didn't want to train a new dog not to pee in my house. The house I'm still trying to sell. The first option, however, was to try an allergy medication similar to benadryl. When I asked the consequences of not treating the allergy at all, Dr. Do Little said "She will continue to itch." That didn't seem so bad to me, but not wanting him to call the SPCA on me, I agreed to take two weeks of allergy medication for her and call him and tell him if it worked. Dr. Do Little is likely to grow old waiting for that call. As I was checking out I braced myself for what was likely to be an astronomical sum for what I consider an optional member of my family. The bill was $243.15. I think I may have to win the lottery with those motel ticket stub numbers if I want to afford to keep my dog. Actually, if I win the lottery I'll just hire someone to chew her feet for her. That has got to be cheaper than the treatment. At the checkout desk as I was signing a mortgage to pay for my dog's bill I noticed that they had stickers you could put in your window to remind the fire dept. to rescue your pets in the event of a fire. I thought to myself, "If I ever have to pay this much for my dog again, I may just set her on fire myself."

You Can't Spell Funeral without F-U-N !!!!

In the past 18 months I've gone to too many funerals and honestly they were not nearly as fun as they should have been. I think funerals should be conducted as wedding receptions are. Really, what's the difference? People stand up and make speeches about the guests of honor at both occasions. I do think that dancing with the guest of honor at funeral would be tacky, but not out of the question. Music, dancing, drinking, and presents for the survivors of the deceased would make funerals much more popular events than they currently are. That would however bring up the question, what is a good funeral present? When I was a kid the standard gift was a casserole of some kind. It seemed like everytime anyone died my mother would bake up a casserole of some kind and send me to bring it to the grieving neighbors. Somehow I don't think a casserole is an adequate replacement for a lost loved one. How about a plasma t.v. that could hang on the wall? Now that would be an adequate replacement for a lost loved one! (That's a not so subtle hint for those of you that know me) And why are eulogies always so sad? I think the eulogy should be conducted as a roast of the loved one.(Not literally though) I tried this humorous strategy to mixed response at my mother's funeral 7 months ago. On the altar of a Catholic church I suggested that since my mother was such a neat freak in life it might be appropriate to spread her ashes on the carpet and vacuum them up. She would have appreciated that. I wasn't looking at the priest, but apparently he appeared quite aghast. Needless to say though, the right people laughed. I think every funeral should have a reception afterwards. Not the usual wake at the deceased's house eating casseroles. Why not rent out a big banquet hall and have entertainment? If my pallbearers don't hook up with the mourning hot chicks in the coat room at the reception I will specifically ask God to send them to Hell. (Only for a little while though) I think I've just found my second career. I'm going to put on funeral receptions. Entertainment, food, dancing, the works! I think people would feel a lot better about blowing thousands of dollars on a funeral if they got to have a good time at it. I'll be The Funeral Planner! I can't wait for the movie starring Jennifer Lopez.

The Ticket

I like reading as well as I do writing. Occasionally if I can't find a book I want at a bookstore I'll buy a used copy on e-bay for $1 plus shipping. About a year and a half ago I bought an old Stephen King book that way. About halfway through the book I found a motel room ticket stub between the pages. Immediately the ticket held a sort of fascinating mystery for me. Who did the book belong to before me? Why did they go to the Flamingo Motel? Were they hiding from the police in a seedy, Norman Bates run, dive after a bank robbery? Did the book belong to one of an illicit pair of lovers sneaking away to the motel to consummate their passion? Was there a private detective, hired by a suspicious spouse, documenting their movements from the shadows? Did the book come from just an ordinary person with no extraordinary story who just brought the book along as a good way to pass the time at a sunny, vacation beach? And if so, was it a clothing optional beach? Could the motel room ticket stub that now serves as my bookmark be a desperately sought after piece of evidence in a murder investigation, proving the presence of the accused on the night in question? And did the murderer pay $45/NIGHT for 1 BED as the ticket says, or did he only have to pay ($22/Night Off Season)? Did he or she perhaps spring for the two beds at $50 per night during peak season? One bed for him and one for his victim? Or perhaps did this ticket find it's way to me through some sort of karmic destiny, and will it lead me to find my purpose in life? I think I may use some of the numbers on the ticket, the prices, the room number and the phone number, to play the lottery. If it was karma or fate that brought this mysterious 1 inch wide by 4 inches long piece of almost paper-thin cardboard to me, then I think the lottery might be a good idea. Unless of course the numbers turn out to be unlucky for me like they did for Hurley on LOST. Sadly, as in so many things in life, my curiosity drove me to a foolish course of action already. After about 18 months of owning this book and the ticket that held such fascination for me, I did a reverse phone number look-up. I've discovered that the Flamingo Motel is not in some exotic locale such as Las Vegas, Rio, or Casablanca. The Flamingo Motel is in Mackinaw City, Michigan. I'm sad because now part of the mystery of the ticket is gone for me. I still believe that someday I'll have to take a vacation to room 155 of the Flamingo Motel in Mackinaw City, Michigan. To pass the time I suppose I'll bring an old Stephen King book with a ticket stub for a bookmark. Then maybe I'll sell it on e-bay when I'm done.

Under Pressure

Ding Ding Ding Da Duh Ding Ding. Ding Ding Ding Da Duh Ding Ding. (This is the David Bowie/Queen version, not the lame Vanilla Ice rip off version) Now that you know what those first two lines mean, go back and sing them aloud to the tune. I spelled it out pretty damn good didn't I? Until you actually try to spell out those nonsense phrases from songs, you don't realize how hard it is to make up words. Apparently people like Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey are much smarter than we give them credit for. The reason for the title of this post is that I'm feeling blog pressure. It's apparently not the kind of pressure that extra dietary fiber will help with. Other than my ridiculous musings about trying to sell my house or the adolescent antics of me and a bunch of other drunk, middle aged men I generally don't reveal too much about what goes on in my day to day life. Don't get your hopes up. That's not going to change now. This blog is sort of an outlet for an old hobby. I used to occasionally do stand-up comedy and despite having left that tragic part of my life behind, I still get the urge to make fun of everything. That can sometimes cause a problem in the world of working adults who don't see the humor in everything. The blog pressure I speak of is the pressure of trying to find something amusing or funny to say at least every 48 hours. I do say funny and amusing things on a regular basis throughout every day, but who wants to read a blog post that says, "Boy my day at work was really tough! ...and so I said to my supervisor, 'That's why form 304E was in the circular file! HA HA HA HA!" My goal is to be at slightly more amusing than a Dilbert cartoon. I mean, it's funny when the rest of you do it. I really love that. I do, but it's just not me. This is sad. I'm just rambling here like that guy in your college residence hall who gets high every day and always corners you in the elevator so he can use that old line, "What if we're really all just characters in someone's dream? What happens when that person wakes up?" AAAAIGH! More pressure! I don't want to ramble, yet I have nothing amusing or pithy to say. This is like high school all over again. I want to have a popular and interesting blog, but what do I do when I have nothing to say? I suppose I could get drunk and hope that I come out of my shell. That person was always fun in school wasn't he/she? That getting drunk to impress people thing never seems to work. If you're a girl you end up having sex with someone you didn't want, and if you're a guy you usually throw up on someone you wanted to have sex with. Well, if you've read this far without leaving I guess you're really my new best friend. Imagine how much I might write when I don't have writer's block.

The Phil Degrees of Separation

Well here it is. The explanations for all those mysterious connections to famous people.

1. Fidel Castro- My mother once spoke to Fidel Castro's brother on the phone. Back in the 60's when Castro and his rebels staged their coup of the government, the company my mother worked for had people working in Cuba. My mother was the company president's secretary. My mother took the call when Fidel's brother Raul called to tell the company that they had some of their employees hostage.

2. Jerry Seinfeld- Does everyone remember the plot of the final Seinfeld episode? Jerry and the gang had gone on vacation somewhere I think, and witnessed an enormously heavy man being carjacked. Rather than help the man being carjacked they laughed at him and were arrested for not helping. I once had a full-fledged conversation with that enormously heavy man. He is comedian/actor John Pinette.

3. Donovan McNabb- Again, my mother was the connection. Later in her life she worked as a school secretary in the Syracuse, N.Y. area where I grew up. Donovan McNabb came to her school twice to talk to students about learning disabilities. Both times he hung out in my Mom's office while waiting. She said he was very friendly and polite.

4. Richard Gere- My high school biology lab partner married Richard Gere's sister. I saw Richard at the mall once.

As I said, there are many less famous celebrities I connect to as well. There's two ESPN sportscasters I've spoken with. One of whom I knew in high school. Playing softball at a picnic, I once hit a triple off of Fox Sports announcer and bestselling fiction author Tim Green, who played for the Atlanta Falcons with professional wrestler Goldberg. Tim Green hit two home runs off me that same day. My best friend Gooby's second cousin is interior designer Thom from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I once had a guy who later played for the N.Y. Yankees hang out in my office for an afternoon. I know someone who used to be friends with has-been comedian Bobcat Goldthwait's sister. I'm sure you can all play this game. I think my Mom wins though. I mean really, who in the entire world has ever spoken with both Donovan McNabb and Fidel Castro's brother?

Just A Thought

Shouldn't a gallon of fat-free milk weigh less than a gallon of whole milk?

Phil Fact 4

Depending on how you look at it, I can be connected to actor Richard Gere with only one or two people between us.

Every Party Has A Pooper and....

the pooper is me. Well, it's me if it's one of those "rah rah" employee meetings designed to boost morale and make us happy about our place of employment. I think I got tired of those ice-breaker, let's be nice to everyone, kind of meetings about 5 minutes into homeroom in the 5th grade. Unfortunately the people that run large companies seem to think that everyone finds these type of shindigs endlessly entertaining no matter how many years in a row we are forced to do them. In junior high school and high school it was usually in health class at the beginning of the year when we were forced into these fake friendship rituals. Then in college at some residence hall/dormitory function during the first few days we were forced to do some silly kind of self-disclosure/where are you from kind of game. Then when you enter the work world they either force new employees to get to know each other through a workplace Pictionary equivalent, or your department has to go meet some other department from your company. What always astounds me is the people, who despite having advanced far into adulthood, continue to seem endlessly enthusiastic at these pep rallies. Don't you just love the games where you have to put a post it note on your back or forehead and guess what it says based on how everyone talks to you? Then there's the social rejects who seem to take pride in answering the rhetorical questions that the corporate dancing monkey asks us at these ridiculous, time wasting torture sessions. "Everyone, can anyone tell me one way to make our customers feel welcome when they enter our place of business?" Inevitably some dope who still derives their self-esteem from the approval of others raises their hand like Arnold Horshack, "Ooh! Ooh! Pick Me! I know the answer! It's smile. We can smile at them!" I imagine that if I ever go to heaven I'll probably be forced to sit through one of these rituals during my first week. St. Peter will say, "Can all our new angels tell everyone their name and one thing in life they did to deserve to go to heaven?" Man is God going to be pissed when I roll my eyes at this.

Quick Phil Fact Number 3

I can also be connected to Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb with only one person between us. And yes, when I get done with all the Phil Facts I'll explain them.

The Cult Scouts of America

I hate the Cub Scouts. If you don't have a male child you wouldn't understand. The Cult Scouts, as I like to call them, is an insidiously evil organization recruiting young children and brainwashing them into thinking that their arcane rituals, and subsequent trips into secluded locations in the woods to practice these rituals, are actually fun. This evil organization has secret handshakes and hand signals and forces children to repetitively chant their propaganda slogans. I also think they're distributing a mind control drug to the general population through their popcorn sales. I mean really, who in their right mind would buy a giant can of caramel corn for $15? The worst part is that as a parent you're a hostage to this whole process. We are the human sacrifices of this particular cult, giving up our free time for 8 months of the year. The really brainwashed parents actually buy themselves an oversized child's uniform and do this crap year round. They're the cult leaders. I think they're children who grew up in the Cult Scouts and never took off the uniform. Weekly meetings to practice the rituals and incantations. Then the occasional trips into the woods to practice their brand of evil away from the prying eyes of the public. Once last year we actually slept over at the airport! See what I mean? That's not a field trip! Travelers who have had flights grounded because of weather know that sleeping at the airport isn't fun. But the Cult Scouts brainwash their young charges into believing it is. I think I'm the only sane parent there and I've infiltrated the cult to reveal their secrets. I couldn't stand to watch these incompetent dopes in their childhood uniforms trying to waste my child's time, so I've volunteered to help. Mark my words, I will not wear the uniform. If they ask me to turn over all of my worldly belongings, I'm out of there. If I suddenly stop blogging you can assume they killed me on one of these trips into the woods. Send help!

Another Quick Phil Fact

Using the 6 degrees of separation theory, I can be connected to Jerry Seinfeld with only one person between us. I'm also fairly certain that if you go to Jerry's blog he's probably bragging about his connection to me. Maybe next week I'll invite Jerry and Fidel over for dinner.

My So Called Mid-Life Crisis

I'm thinking about having a mid-life crisis. Part of my problem is that since I don't plan to die, I'm not sure when my "mid-life" will be. Despite my vow never to die, I'm having a hard time convincing my body that it doesn't have to get older. When your cholesterol score is higher than your SAT score it might be time to acknowledge the aging process. If I don't start eating better, after my first heart attack the doctors will tell me they found an entire McNugget lodged in my aorta. Sadly, I realize that I no longer have the body of an 18 year old, but that's only because my wife found out about her and we had to stop dating. A lot of people hear Snap, Crackle, and Pop in the morning, but now it comes from my joints. So far I'm too ashamed to dye my hair to hide the gray that is creeping in at the temples, so I've started telling people that I'm adding gray highlights. I'm hoping to convince enough people that it will become a new trend. From watching television and movies, mid-life crises look to be really fun. Should I quit my job, find the Dali Llama and take up transcendental basket weaving? I'd buy a sports car, but I'm already pretty happy with the car I've got. I'm not really questioning my identity or place in life, but just completely going nuts for a while seems like a pretty fun idea. So needless to say, before I am forced to admit that I am in fact aging, I'd like to start a mid-life crisis just to have one last fling at re-capturing my quickly fading youth. I'm just not sure how to get started. Any suggestions?

An Unusual Phil Fact

Using the 6 Degrees of Separation theory I can be connected to Fidel Castro using only two other people, and one of them is his brother.

The Male-Female Dictionary Part II: How Men Interpret The Crazy Things Women Say

As you learned in Part I, everything men say is not always what it seems. Just as it is when interpreting a foreign language, interpreting what the opposite sex says can be difficult too. Women often wonder why men don't call the next day, or why we say we're going to the store and then don't come back for a week. Often it's something you said that set us off. Men's ability to accurately find hidden meaning in women's words is as good as the governments ability to respond to hurricane disasters, and usually with similar results. Ladies, I'm talking to you: If you want men to know something, just say it. Don't assume we should just know something. We don't. We don't know anything. Treat us as if you're training a dog. If you want your dog to sit, you don't give a series of elaborate hand signals and hope he figures out what you mean. That being said, here are a few examples of how women's' words are interpreted by perfectly normal, intelligent men.

When Women Say, "You don't have to do anything special for my birthday. It's no big deal"
What Women Mean is, "This is a test of our relationship and how well you know me. If you don't get the right, thoughtful, romantic gift it will forever alter how I think of you."
What Men Hear, "You don't have to do anything special. It's Ok to go out with your friends to watch football."

When Women Say, "Does this dress make me look fat?"
What Women Mean is, "I know I'm not a supermodel, but I'd appreciate it if you'd act like you think I am. If you don't, you have no chance to sleep with me anytime in the near future."
What Men Hear, "DANGER! DANGER! Red Alert! Relationship test in progress! You'd better say the right thing or this relationship is over."

When Women Say, "It's just lunch with an old friend. Just because he's a guy doesn't mean anything."
What Women Mean is, "I'm meeting my old boyfriend for lunch just to see if the spark is really gone. If it is, you get to keep me."
What Men Hear is, "I'm having lunch with someone I had sex with."

When Women Say, "I love you."
What Women Mean is, "My ovaries are doing back-flips just thinking about conceiving. I've had the wedding planned since I was 9 years old. If you don't say 'I love you' back, I'm going to break up with you and tell every woman in the world that you have commitment issues."
What Men Hear, "If you say 'I love you' back you can have sex with me."

The Male-Female Dictionary

As women have often bemoaned for centuries, it seems that men and women speak different languages. Yes, I know a lot of self-help experts have published books on this very subject, but their political correctness often destroys their usefulness. When women want to know what men are thinking they don't need some touchy, feely, self-help, bleeding heart, mother substitute therapist telling you that your boyfriend is only with you because you're just like his mother. EEEEEEWWWW! Even if that's true, no one really wants to know that. The television Dr. Phil is a hack and only has a show because he helped Oprah cut back on the Twinkies. I'll be your internet Dr. Phil and will provide a useful translation of men's innermost thoughts. My first bit of advice is to lose that misconception. Men do not have innermost thoughts. Here is a preview of my soon to be released book, "Men: We're As Simple as We Seem to Be, So Stop Hounding Us."

When Men Say, "I don't know."
What we really mean is, "I honestly haven't given it any thought. Please stop obsessing about it you clingy, smothering nutjob."

When Men Say, "No, that dress doesn't make you look fat."
What we really mean is, "Are you really expecting me to answer any other way if I want you to ever have sex with me again?"

When Men Say, "I don't care where we go to dinner."
What we really mean is,"I don't care where we go to dinner." We just like eating. We don't care what it is.

When Men Say, "I'll call you tomorrow."
What we really mean is, "If you don't go bunny boiler on me I'll hook up with you the next time I run into you at a bar, and if that works, then maybe we'll have a long term relationship."

When Men Say, "Yes, I'd love to go see that new Kate Winslet-Brad Pitt love story movie."
What we really mean is, "If I spend two hours watching that crap and pretending to care, you damn well better sleep with me afterwards."

When Men Say, "No, I wasn't looking at her," or "No. I definitely do not find women like that attractive."
What we really mean is, "Are you really expecting me to answer any other way if I want you to ever have sex with me again?"

When Men Say, "I love you."
What we really mean is, "Will you have sex with me?"

When Men Say, "Of course I'll skip my fantasy football draft to have dinner with your parents."
What we really mean is, "I love you."

This is a just a taste. I won't give you the whole book here free. If you need an individual translation done feel free to ask. Next, stay tuned for a preview of chapter 2 : "How Men Interpret The Crazy Things Women Say."

NUMB3RS

I meant to write this post about 6 months ago, but I didn't have a blog at the time. I was perusing the Fall TV schedule when I noticed that the show NUMB3RS is coming back. Last Spring this show was a mid-season replacement. It's about a detective who enlists the help of his Rainman-like brother to solve crimes with math. Based on that premise, I never watched even a second of the show. I hated math! I chose my career based on the complete lack of math needed. Who in their right mind is going to watch a show about math?!!? What's next, CSI:Trigonometry? Is there homework at the end of the show? Television should not make my brain hurt. If I wanted to be smarter, I'd study. Solving crimes with math! I'd like to see someone try that crap in real life. Let's see math-boy stop a hail of gunfire with calculus. Someone at the network must be sleeping with a really hot math teacher in order for this idea to even leave the drawing board. I mean, your brain has to be seriously impaired by sex for anyone to think this was a good idea. The scariest part is that if this type of idea is successful, there will be copycat shows. Before you know it we'll be watching things like Poetry Party and The Physics Family. The worst part is that the commercials for this show are on in prime-time, and some poor impressionable child exposed to this mayhem will spend the rest of his life thinking that stuff you learn in school is useful in real life.

Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining

Who says George Bush isn't supportive?

Diggin' the Amish

Is it just me, or is everyone fascinated by the Amish? I'm pretty sure I can make fun of the Amish here without fearing retribution. I doubt there are very many Amish bloggers. Why do we all find the Amish so interesting? Is it their stylish black outfits? They say black is very slimming. Have you ever seen a fat Amish person? Why the hell are they so quiet? Maybe they're all actually telepathic and they're mocking us and our flashy colors without us even knowing it. If they don't talk much, how do Amish men and women meet? Do Amish guys use pick up lines? Jebediah-"You look great in that plain sack dress and bonnet. You can raise my barn anytime!" Do the Amish get jiggy with it in the back seat of the horse and buggy when they go on dates? If they don't use electricity, how do Amish women operate their vibrators? If there are any Amish out there who can answer these questions, feel free to chime in here.

Just A Story

Since I'll be gone for the weekend again I didn't want my last post to be Thursday, so I'm telling a great story from work. If reading my blog didn't convince you that the internet is dangerous, then this story will. Occasionally I work at the emergency department of a local hospital. (That's already a scary thought isn't it?) I evaluate the mentally ill people who come in, or are brought in by the police, and decide if they are safe to go home without being a danger to themselves or others. Occasionally one of the inpatient medical units in the hospital will call and ask for an evaluation of a patient they may have discovered was depressed or possibly psychotic. So one day I'm sitting in the emergency dept. enjoying a good game of bedpan bowling when I get a request from the urology unit to come up and evaluate one of their patients. For those of you who rode the short bus to my blog, urologists are doctors who treat the part of you that goes pee. So I go up to the unit and this is what I learn: A 26 year old male had cut open his scrotum, gotten one of his testicles out, and called an ambulance when he couldn't get it back in. Here's how my interview with him went, Me-"So, can you tell me why you're here?" Patient-"I did something stupid." That had to be the Hurricane Katrina of understatements. He then went on to explain how he had a few beers, was looking at some websites, and got curious about what was inside his marble bag. Now I've been drunk before, but never so drunk that I wanted to go Extreme Makeover on my genitals. In case you're curious, I'll give you the link to the site he was looking at. HA HA! Just kidding. No, I didn't ask the website. I didn't want to know. The temptation might be too much. The story had a happy ending as he promised to leave all his future surgeries to real doctors and I cleared him to go home the next day. Be thankful that I didn't include any pictures with this post.

Adult Attention Deficit Disorder

I'm pretty sure I have it. At least I have it on my drive to work each day. On a good day I'm generally a danger to myself or others on my morning commute. Especially since I got satellite radio. I have 30 pre-programmed stations and a little screen that scrolls the name of the band and song constantly. It's hard to watch the road, especially when you add in my new found love, the cell phone. When I do have a good song on the radio and I'm not receiving any important calls on my phone, I watch other drivers. It doesn't matter if we're speeding along on the highway or stopped at a light. I'm always watching other drivers. I think my ability to multi-task while driving without killing anyone is pretty good, but I'm a rank amateur compared to some of these people. Here is a list of some of the activities I've seen other drivers engaged in while driving:

Of course there are the women applying their morning make-up. I have also seen a woman doing her hair with a curling iron while the car was in motion.

Putting in contact lenses seems to be a popular activity. To me that seems like a pre-driving thing.

Just yesterday I saw a guy flossing his teeth while driving at 60 mph. (That's about 100 kph for you metric folks)

There are people who seem to have psychic control over their vehicles as they drive with a cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in the other. These people have a death wish. If their driving doesn't kill them the cigarettes will. I can only assume that their using their cell phone to make funeral plans.

My all-time favorite was when, at 8:00 a.m. I saw an Asian gentleman eating corn on the cob while driving on the expressway. Eating while driving is no big deal,in fact I consider myself the master of that particular skill, but who eats corn on the cob at 8 a.m.?!!?

Anybody have any other good ones?

OOPS!

No, the title is not referring to how I felt after offending many bloggers and Canada with my last post. I'm thinking of situations in your life in which you definitely do not want to hear another person say "OOPS!" Oops is a very small word that can sometimes have very big implications. It's not even a word really, but those four little letters can cause an unimaginable amount of immediate dread. Once while getting my haircut by a friend I heard her say, "Oops!" followed by a very nervous giggle. It was a free haircut. You get what you pay for. Once an oral surgeon actually said, "Oops!" while sticking a needle in the roof of my mouth, just before my blood spurted out on his scrubs. A time you definitely don't want to hear "oops!" is when a medical professional is working on you. Especially if you're a guy getting a vasectomy. I can imagine that would cause a bit of a panicked feeling. Obviously hearing "oops!" during sex can have many meanings. It can mean, "Oops I just leaned on your hair. Sorry." It could mean, "Oops I just impregnated you." Or it could means , "Oops I think I just bit off a part of you that you wanted to keep." Some of you may even be familiar with the, "Oops, I thought I was kissing someone else." Feel free to add your favorite "oops!" stories in the comments. This should be entertaining.

Celine is French For Satan

*WARNING* The following may contain material that is offensive to Celine Dion fans and Canadians (not that there's a difference).

Yes, I agree that the results of Hurricane Katrina have been tragic. On that point Celine Dion and I agree. After that point, however, I believe that Celine and I would come to fisticuffs. And believe me, Celine would be in for an ass kicking like no other. The arrogance and piousness of some celebrities just astounds me. Over the weekend Celine Dion used some television interview to criticize the U.S. government response to the disaster in New Orleans. Let's see Celine....when was the last time you voted for our President? When was the last time you paid taxes here? What? Never? Then shut up. Sure Celine, it's fine for you to make millions in CD sales and concerts in the U.S. How about we hear how much of that you've donated to the hurricane relief effort. Yes, Celine, I'm sure our government is just sitting back thinking, "We'll get to that hurricane situation right after the holiday weekend. What? Celine is upset? Oh! We'd better get right on that." Hmmmm....What's the Canadian government doing to help the hurricane victims? Why doesn't the Canadian government send some of their military down to help? Oh yeah, that's right, the Canadian military consists of a bunch of guys in Dudley Do-Right costumes riding around on horses. The only reason Canada exists as a sovereign country instead of a suburb of Buffalo is because there's nothing up there we want. Did anyone else see the live broadcast over the weekend where rapper Kayne West deviated from the script to criticize the government too. His partner on the stage at that time was comedian/actor Mike Myers. Did Mike say anything to interrupt? Nope, of course not. Mike's a Canadian.

I'm Off For The Weekend

It's the Labor Day weekend and I'll be gone until Monday. Why do they call it "Labor" Day when everyone takes the day off from work? That makes the name of the holiday ironic and an oxymoron. Doesn't the word "oxymoron" sound like what you'd call someone who's too stupid to figure out how to open their container of acne cream? Just to keep you all busy while I'm gone, try to find the only word in the English language with three consecutive sets of double letters in it. While you're at it, look for words that rhyme with orange and silver. 1000 Phil points go to anyone who gets any of these.