Bitch Set Me Up!

(The title, of course, was a phrase uttered by the infamous Marion Berry. To this day, I try to work it into everyday conversations.)

So, it looks like Joe Biden's daughter was set up.

The video purporting to show Vice President Joe Biden's daughter Ashley snorting cocaine was preplanned by a man trying to get rich selling the tape, RadarOnline.com has learned exclusively.

The man, who is apparently a friend of Ashley's, even bought the cocaine and the hidden camera, our investigation has uncovered.

If somebody tried to set me up, they would leave the party with a video of me saying, "No, thank you, I don't do cocaine." (I would probably also mutter something about my bad sinuses and fear of prison.)

I'm just saying is all.

Book 'Em, Danno

Last night I helped my dad unpack his beloved books. What I thought would be a quick task turned into a much longer project when I discovered that he has a book shelving system: Civil War books on the second shelf, right hand side, biographies on the lowest shelf, left hand side, World War II books on the auxiliary shelf just below the World War II novels. And so on, and so on.

My brother inherited this trait of holding on to every book he's ever read, I, on the other hand, only need three books at any given time: the one that I just read so I can loan it out, the one I'm currently reading and the one I plan on reading next. All the other books are merely dust magnets that I'm forced to clean when company comes over.

My dad's love of books makes him a fairly easy person to buy presents for. Even when you give him one he already owns he won't let on and seems appreciative. Whenever I discover a double copy on his shelf (especially if it's one that I ordered through Amazon) I just steal it from him when he's not looking and read it myself.

I can't remember most of the books I've sent him for either Father's Day or his birthday but I do know I've given him "Black Hawk Down" by Mark Bowden, "Case Closed" by Gerald Posner, "How The Scots Invented The Modern World" by Aurthur Herman, "Brothers In Battle: Best Of Friends" by William Guarnere and Edward Heffron (I just found out that I went to Jr. High with Guarnere's granddaughter) "Blood and Thunder" by Hampton Sides, "Undaunted Courage" by Stephen E. Ambrose, "The Lion In Autumn" by Frank Fitzpatrick and a bunch of books by PJ O'Rourke. There are others but I'm not sure which ones were bought by me or my brother.

My dad seems much more settled into his new home now that he has his books in plain view. Although when we finished he said, "I thought I had more."

As far as my current book trio is concerned, I've just finished "I Am Charlotte Simmons" by Tom Wolfe, I'm currently reading "The End Of Racism" by Dinesh D'Souza and I'm going to read "What Would Google Do" by Jeff Jarvis next. All three I will eventually either loan out or take to Goodwill.

I believe in having just enough books on a shelf to make you look smart after you've died. Besides, owning only a few books makes moving a heck of a lot easier. Books are great but they're damned heavy.

Sun City: The Arizona One Not The South African One

After spending the last 24 hours hanging out at my dad's new house in Sun City, Arizona, I can't figure out why anybody over the age of 55 would want to live with people under the age of 55.

This place is like heaven if heaven was filled with Cadillacs and golf carts.

The people are friendly but not in a suspicious way. They're friendly in the "I can't believe I can buy dinner at a restaurant for $4.99" kind of way.

The landscaping is Disney-esque. The golf courses look inviting even to folks who don't play golf. The bocce ball players are zestfully clean.

I'm happy my dad has made the move. If for no other reason than I get to be the hottest babe at the pool.

I'm Leaving On A Jet Plane

Early morning flights always seem like a good idea at the time of booking. Then as you're scrambling around trying to pack the night before the trip you begin to wonder what the heck you could have been thinking.

We're flying to Las Vegas first thing in the AM, picking up a rental car and driving four hours to Flagstaff for a 9 PM show at Northern Arizona University. It'll be interesting to see if the town has completely been taken over by prairie dogs yet. I have a theory: one prairie dog is cute, three are adorable, but hundreds make you jump back in the car, lock the doors and hit the gas with no regard to how many of the fuzzy creatures are being squished beneath your tires.

On Saturday we head to Phoenix to visit my dad. Then we're going to Vegas for a week with a possible brief side-trip to Los Angeles.

Looking forward to the warm temps. Not looking forward to exposing my pasty white legs.

Viral. And For Good Reason.

Topless And Brainless

Sorry ladies, I'm not buying the argument that the bad economy is forcing you to take off your clothes for money. You might fool AP into buying your story but this little blogger laughed heartily when she saw the headline "More Women Go From Jobless To Topless."

You're not baring it all to pay your rent or buy Timmy Jr. a new pair of shoes or to finally get grandma that kidney operation she needs but can't afford because our mean mean nation doesn't have universal healthcare. You're entering the adult entertainment industry because you finally have an excuse to enter the adult entertainment industry!

I watch HBO. For years, their weekend programming has been dedicated to making the business of skin look like a rollicking good time: Real Sex, Cathouse, Thinking XXX, Dowtown Girls, Katie Morgan A Porn Star Revealed and Real Time With Bill Maher (sex clouds his judgement) plus countless documentaries (personal fave was Pimps Up, Hoes Down) all seek to make the porn lifestyle look as innocent as a Lawrence Welk reunion show.

Often, after watching one of these programs, I will jokingly turn to my husband and say, "Oh man! I wish I were a whore."

(I had to stop watching Real Sex after they did a feature on clown orgies. All those big feet, purple frizzy hair and honking noses really flipped me out.)

But, back to the AP piece:

The transition to the nightclub scene isn't always a smooth one — from learning to dance in five-inch heels to dealing with the jeers of some customers.

Some performers said they were initially so nervous that only alcohol could calm their nerves.

Yes, girls, today it's alcohol, tomorrow it's E. Next week it'll be heroin. Today it's dancing naked to Akon, tomorrow it's winning the "Best Solo Scene" award at the AVN's. Next week it'll be a tugger in an alley for five bucks and a pack of cigarettes. It's a slippery slope-- Little wonder, considering the preponderance of bodily fluids in the sex industry.

I don't know who I'm more disappointed in: The reporter who doles out this nonsense like it's a serious ecomomic/human interest news story or the subjects of the piece who apparently think working at McDonald's would be more damaging to their self-esteem than dancing at the Pink Monkey. In both places, "May I take your order" means two very different things.

Fire!

When our building's smoke alarm went off, my husband poked his head out into the hallway to determine whether it was a real emergency. Since he didn't smell or hear anything out of the ordinary he came back inside. A few minutes later I heard one of our neighbors say, "I hope everybody is out." Suddenly, our hall was filled with a thin, greyish smoke.

Determining what to take with you isn't easy when you're in panic mode. I had the presence of mind to grab my pocketbook, his wallet, cell phones and keys. Hubby grabbed a backpack and filled it with two laptops, our tax folder and a business valise. Obviously, we were feeling more practical than sentimental.

All I kept thinking was, "I'm glad we have renter's insurance."


It's a helpless feeling to be standing out on the lawn not knowing if your life is about to be turned upside down. The arrival of seven fire trucks eased the anxiety somewhat but fire still has a way of flaring up and out of control.

It turns out, the neighbor who moved in last week left a covered pot full of oil on the stove. If he wanted to meet the other tenants he should have just thrown a party.

After about an hour we were let back inside. Our place smells terrible not at all like "BBQ" as our eight-year-old neighbor determined. We're running the air conditioners and nearly emptying a can of Oust.

The alarms keeps going off so I'm still at Defcon Charlie and will probably remain that way until tomorrow. I'm sure I'll be sleeping fully clothed tonight.

Oh, Canada

Our friends to the north have been not-so-friendly towards my comedy colleague Doug Benson after he joked about the Canadian military on Fox's Red Eye.

Several days after the show aired, three Canadian soldiers were killed in Afghanistan adding fuel to the already raging fire.

The show's host, Greg Gutfeld issued a public apology. Benson's mea culpa came via MySpace, Facebook and Twitter.

But, many Canadians it seems, aren't happy with these men merely offering to fall on their swords. They want to insert the sword themselves, twist it around, pull it out and maybe sell it on Ebay.

The comments left on Benson's Facebook page are disturbing. Along with the threats of violence and orders to "stay out of Canada" some folks took the opportunity to engage in a little America Bashing. Here are but a few examples:

"The United States is a cancer...one day the world will treat the disease accordingly.."

"Bigotry should be better understood by you as most Americans have practiced it enough in their own country let alone around the world."

"Americans wear Canadian flags on their luggage so that they don't get treated like the arrogant pricks they are...and they wonder why the rest of the world hates them."

"Because of people like you, most of the civilized world sees America as a giant cultural trash heap that needs to be incinerated. Your enemies don't "hate your freedom", they hate your ignorance and your arrogance."

"It must be nice to live in that tiny American mind where you eat that bullshit propaganda and scare tactic crap hand over fist as long as the Big Macs and Taco Bell keep rolling down your fat mouths and you have the latest Iphone."

"you're a typical ignorant american"

I feel like I'm watching the reaction to the OJ verdict all over again. It's weird to realize you've been hated all this time.

Of course, not all Canadians feel the same way as Benson's Facebook "friends." There are very reasoned comments on Small Dead Animals.

During the US Presidential campaign, a few of my friends said they were voting for Barack Obama solely because his election would make the rest of the world like us again. How's that working out for us? It doesn't seem like the above commenters are cutting us any slack.

I'm a big supporter of the military. In fact, I support any soldier who isn't on the other side trying to kill us. But joking about the military is a tough thing to do. Ask Bill Maher. He's had to make the switch from network to premium cable because he implied "our boys" were cowards.

Just as it is possible to criticize the war without criticizing the troops, it is also possible to joke about the war without turning the soldiers into jokes. Whether it was done well here will remain a topic of debate and one which I will happily stay out of.

The popular Canadian show This Hour Has 22 Minutes brilliantly illustrates the bind we have all found ourselves in.

Bloomer Monday

I'm off to the Walmart underwear section. I like to call it Jerry Springer's Secret&trade I need to pick up a couple of packages of No Boundaries underpants even though the idea of having the words "No Boundaries" stamped on my undergarments makes me uneasy.

I've switched to the cheapo brand after I was seriously let down by my last package of Hanes Boy Cut Briefs. They looked more like a Hane's Bubble Skirt after two hours of wear.

Unlike my Farewell Sock Tour™ of a few months back, I refuse to throw out dirty underpants. I prefer to wash them first. I guess I've watched too many CSI's and Law & Order's and Criminal Minds to ever let my DNA roll around freely in landfill.

When I return, I'm not going to blog (I may read a few), eat (maybe a snack), sleep (perhaps a nap), bathe (I may soak in a tub but I won't wash my hair) or drink (unless it's after five) until my taxes are done. On Friday we hit the road for 16 days returning a mere 48 hours before the Uncle Sam deadline. We simply must get them done before we go.

And yes, I'm buying new panties because I'm flying. My biggest fear is seeing my open luggage tumbling down the baggage claim conveyor belt with my "that time of the month undies" leading the way.

(Vodka Pundit linked to an article onThe Other McCain about How To Get A Million Hits. My new strategy is to talk about my girlie parts in every other post. Noooooo, not really, but I just wanted to justify discussing this very subject in two out of my last three postings.)

A Brave Child

We've all received the out-of-the-blue phone call or letter that momentarily rocks our world. In my case, it was a Facebook message from a woman who used to live in my old neighborhood.

At first, I couldn't place her name-- understandable since 30 plus years have passed-- but I knew what she meant when she said, "I am two years younger, but I remember you...long story short, you gave me some really important advice back then about a teacher I had at the time."

This particular elementary school teacher I warned her about was a pedophile who made me the object of his desire for an entire school year. I don't remember telling her about him. In fact, I don't really remember telling anybody about him at the time.

In subsequent emails she gave me more details about our encounter and her dealings with him.

"You pulled me aside and told me not to be alone with him. Make sure there is always someone around because he was a pig and tried something on you. I, of course didn't understand the exact magnitude of your advice at the time, but I followed it. Prior to talking to you, he was always hugging me and rubbing my shoulders and I really didn't think anything of it. (I had a f'd up family life so I sucked up any affection an adult would give me). One thing I remember vividly is when I would raise my hand to use the ladies room he would always make me tell him what I needed to "do" there. And to make sure I used the proper word. Weird. I'm not blowing smoke up your butt, I have always thought that you saved me from him. You were such a brave child to help another child like that."

I guess I was a brave child. I have to say, I feel pretty pleased with my past self.

We all wonder from time to time if we've done enough good in our lives or if our existence really means anything. I suppose I can put "saving a child from a creep" in the plus column.

Wax On, Wax Off

You may want to file this one under "Too Much Information" but wax has never been near my girlie parts. I once dropped a pair of those big red lips on my lap but that's hardly the same thing.

I've never really understood the concept of waxing one's bikini area. I figure if you can see what's left over after a regular old shave then either you're standing too close or I need a bigger bathing suit.

So, the idea of a Brazilian wax-- where not only are the hairs ripped out near your girlie parts but actually on your girlie parts-- sounds about as appealing to me as getting a root canal during an IRS audit.

Luckily, since I live in New Jersey, this may no longer be an option. The NJ Board of Cosmetology and Hairstyling (or the NJBCH as the texters call it) wants to ban the practice.

Technically, genital waxing has never been allowed — only the face, neck, abdomen, legs and arms are permitted — but because bare-it-all "Brazilians" weren't specifically banned, state regulators haven't enforced the law.

Here's my favorite quote.

"The genital area is not part of the abdomen or legs as some might assume," Lamm said.

Actually, I've always assumed that my abdomen and legs were part of my genitalia. Well, you learn something new every day.

Don't politicians and state boards have anything better to do than prevent a bunch of babes from torturing themselves for the sake of beauty? Two women get infections and suddenly everybody is being fined? Why don't you just ban sex while you're at it? I hear it causes lots and lots of infections...you know... down there.

I used to do a bit on stage about shaving the pubes back in the 1980's. It was one of the first jokes I ever wrote.

"I like to shave the sides and make sort of a pubic mowhawk. If I stand on my head and wear a few gold chains around my waist, I look just like Mr. T."

Sadly, I can't do that joke anymore. Not just because the Mr. T reference is dated but also because, at my age, nobody would believe that I can still stand on my head.

Kingpin

I'm a pretty bad bowler. But since I only bowl once every four or five years it doesn't seem to matter. My pattern has been fairly consistent throughout my life. The first game I bowl a 79. The second game I remember how to bowl and score a respectable 150. By the third game my arm is about to fall off so I bowl another embarrassing 79. As long as there is alcohol available, I couldn't care less.

For this reason, I never thought less of Barack Obama when he proved to be the gutter bowl king on the campaign trail. Failure to hit a 7-10 split is not indicative of bad character. It merely means you didn't spend much of your youth with your shoe size clearly displayed on the back of you heels.

But when President Obama compared his bowling score of 129 to the "Special Olympics or something" I immediately thought, "Oh man, I bet there's a Special Olympics bowler out there who could kick his presidential ass."

Meet Kolan McConiughey. He's one of the top Special Olympics Bowlers in the country. He has bowled a 300. He wants to challenge the President to a game. Barack Obama has officially found himself in a no-win situation.

Good for Kolan. I admire his chutzpah... or should I say balls.

(On a personal note, for many years my brother has coached a Special Olympics soccer team. Hats off to the men and women who dedicate themselves to these challenged athletes.)

Special Comedy Olympics 2

For further analysis of President Obama's Special Olympics joke, please read what my husband and I have posted over at SHECKYmagazine.com.

Special Comedy Olympics

I really thought that if anybody in this administration was going to make the first "retard joke" it would be Joe Bidumb. But, then again, Bidumb knows better than to make fun of his own kind.

Blogrolling 2 Electric Boogaloo

My new cyber buddies are cool. Thanks Ed Driscoll.

Baby Daddy Nation

When I was 16, my mother wouldn't allow me to attend a baby shower for a fellow teen who was unwed but expecting. I didn't want to go anyway. There are never any cute boys at a baby shower... except for the guy who has already knocked somebody up.

Mom believed, and rightly so, that a bridal shower should have been held first. But that was 1981. These days most girls don't want a maternity wedding dress.

In fact, 40% of recent US births have been to out-of-wedlock mommies. Americans seem to be shocked. I'm shocked too but for a different reason: I thought the number would be higher.

For the last few years, I have been taking an informal survey. From various comedy club stages across this great country of ours, I "interview" the audience during the course of my comedy set. The overwhelming majority of 20-something women I encounter have given birth before walking down the aisle. This disturbing piece of information prompted me to write the joke, "I love brides these days because they come with their own little flower girl."

(Of course, the survey is not exactly scientific. A typical comedy club audience might skew higher on the illegitimacy scale-- there might be a higher incidence of out-of-wedlock birth among a cohort that likes to drink beer and listen to dick jokes in public. Even controlling for that, the figures seem high.)

What's even more fascinating is that when they do decide to take the marital plunge, they often jump in with a man who is not the baby's father. It appears, America, we are officially a nation of step-daddies.

I'm not sure if this is a good thing. I'd like to think that all men have a little Mike Brady in them, but I fear many non-bio dads are more like the prowling tomcat who kills all the kittens so momcat will be ready to make more balls of squirming fur.

Besides, if step-dad is taking on all the responsibility of child rearing what role will actual dad have in a kid's life.

Ah, the blended family. In a perfect world, more family members would mean more people to love a child. Sadly, I think the blended family only means more people a kid can grow up to resent.

Blogrolling

Thanks to Vodka Pundit aka Stephen Green for the cyber shout out.

Thoroughly Indoctrinated Millie

Nothing ruins my day more than having well-meaning audience members tell me that I remind them of Janeane Garofalo. It makes me want to run to the nearest drug store for an $8 bottle of blond hair dye.

In order to sleep at night, I tell myself it's only our hair that's similar. The idea that we may have identical brains makes me want to run to the nearest book store for a $24 copy of Final Exit.

In the days before the word "activist" appeared on her business card, Ms. Garofalo was an overhyped standup comic. Her unpolished, psuedo-intellectual persona made her one of the original Gods of the alternative comedy scene. I never thought she was funny, but I also never thought it was my place to make such an assessment. We were both standup comics, taking different paths. I'm sure Janeane wouldn't have been a big fan of my road tested dick jokes either but, in the big tent that is standup, there was room for both of us.

In the big tent that is politics, there is also room for both of us... at least that's how I feel. Garofalo, it appears, feels differently.

"The right wing has a way of always having an enemy, whether it be immigrants or Arabs or brown-skinned people, black-skinned people, homosexuals, women. They all, kind of, rally around an enemy, an other, that they can get mad at. And death does occur."

Death does occur? I had no idea that my right wing desire for lower taxes and smaller government was causing... death. My vote for John McCain was a vote for... death. Garofalo's wrong-headed stereotype of "right wingers" is as nutty as a "right winger" calling all Arabs terrorists.

"A lot of the people in the right-wing base are not the most intellectual people in the world, not the most savvy people in the world, and they are definitely quick to anger, and quick to blame other people. ... it's a very sad, sad thing, and it's part of the human nature of a personality type that tends to identify as Republican or conservative. And it's an unfortunate part of our society. It's a scourge on our society."

As somebody who is not very intellectual, I'll have to look up the word scourge.

You know what's a sad, sad thing? Going on The View and telling the audience to read Howard Zinn. You know what's a scourge on our society? "Left wingers" who can't go to a dinner party without spouting Marxist ideology before the soup is even served. You know what's pathetic? Calling the people you disagree with stupid rather than debating the actual issues.

From now on I shall only refer to Janeane Garofalo as Thoroughly Indoctrinated Millie. She's now so far left that she's about to tip over.

Fels Class Of 1980

I initially joined Facebook-- yes, I still keep calling it MyFace-- to better network with folks in the comedy biz. But lately I've been corresponding with my old classmates from Junior High, many of whom I haven't spoken to in nearly 30 years.

It's been fun in that "we really don't have anything in common anymore" kind of way. We've been catching up, reminiscing and making fun of each others old hair styles. There's been lots of LOLs and OMGs and ROTFLs.

A Facebook Group was formed so I decided upload scanned photos of our old Yearbook. Apparently, I'm the only loser who held on to the damn thing so this has made me very popular.

That's me in the lower left square. I cried when I wasn't allowed to have the photo retaken. Seeing it now makes me want to cry again.



One of my male classmates told me that when his youngest teenage daughter saw my profile picture she said, "I know that lady!" She then ran and grabbed her latest issue of Us Weekly. Apparently, his cool quotient has risen now that he knows a "celebrity." I hope she doesn't realize that I'm just an unpaid writer who makes fun of celebrities. Close enough, I suppose.



I think most of the pictures from that era were taken with a DISC camera. Either that or my mother was secretly drinking. Nothing else explains the poor quality of the images from my teenage years.

Here is a somewhat decent photo from my 9th grade graduation. That's me stylin' on the left. What non-Hawaiian 14-year-old would have the guts to wear a flower in her hair when hanging with other teens? It's no wonder I'm one of the Fashion Police.

To the far right is my Greek friend, Elli who was the late 1970's equivalent of my BFF. When I ran for school president, I made her my campaign manager. Her sole job was to wear tight jeans or a short skirt at all of our public appearances. I won in a landslide.

Two years later, she was living in Greece with her ultra-macho, mustachioed husband. They now have four kids. I had lunch with her a few years ago when she came back to America for her niece's wedding. She still looks good in tight pants.

The Fear

Immediately after the show last night we pointed our car East towards New Jersey. Nine hours later we were battling morning rush hour in Philadelphia.

The drive went by pretty quickly. We occupied ourselves, as we often do, with XM which is now XM/Sirrius. Sometime around 2 AM we became obsessed with Lily Allen's new song "The Fear" so we spent the next five hours trying to hear it as much as possible. Luckily, it's in current rotation on many of their channels... 20 on 20, Pink, BPM. In fact, it's being played so often I half expected it to pop up on the Grateful Dead Channel for no apparent reason.

I like Lily Allen. She has dark hair and huge thighs just like me. Must be why my husband likes her too.

Freezing In Dayton

Hubby and I are working at Wiley's in Dayton, Ohio this week. It's cold... not March cold but December cold.

We had to wake up early this morning to-- as we say in the comedy business-- do radio. We have another interview scheduled for 12:30.

There's a nice article about us today in the Dayton paper. Apparently, we're bringing "love and laughter" to Wiley's. There will be laughter but we prefer to keep the "love" part out of the clubs.

The Music Of Our Lives

In the spirit of "25 Random Things About Me" my husband is trying to start his own viral note by asking his Facebook friends to list all the concerts they have seen in their lifetime. So far, only a few people have responded but the enthusiasm of those folks just proves what an important role music (especially live music) plays in our lives.

Since my list was virtually identical to his list I didn't bother. But it did make me think about the shows I attended from 1976-1983 BB (Before Brian).

When I was 11, a local minister piled a bunch of us kids into a van and took us to see America at the Spectrum in Philadelphia. Years later, I found out he was a pedophile. Luckily for me, little boys were his drug of choice.

At 12, I went to see Emerson, Lake and Palmer thinking that I was going to see Crosby, Stills and Nash. Imagine my surprise when they didn't perform "Our House."

My dad took me to see Miles Davis at a free outdoor concert at Penn's Landing when I was a teenager. I think the great trumpeter only blew into his horn three of four times during the show. For the rest of the performance he paced the stage like a crazed bi-polar bear at the zoo.

I went to see YES the year the toured without Jon Anderson.

I went to see ELO the year they decided to tour without the strings.

I went to see Styx the year they lost their minds on the Mr. Roboto tour.

In between, I sat through more Billy Joel concerts than I care to admit.

Now that I'm in show business, I don't like to go to a concert unless I can get in for free. Our connections have enabled us to see David Byrne, Steeley Dan, Tom Jones, Paolo Nutini and Glenn Campbell for the low low price of zero.

Elvis Costello was one of the last shows where we actually paid the price of admission. The day before the concert, I told my then 80-year-old mother-in-law who were were about to see. Understandably, she had never heard of the bespectacled rocker. But the next day, while standing in line at the bank, she struck up a conversation with the young lady standing behind her. When asked if she had any plans for the weekend, the woman replied, "Yes, I'm going to a concert." With a straight face, my elderly mother-in-law said, "Elvis Costello?"

At that moment, she was the coolest senior in all of New Jersey.

Dancing With The Stars Twittercast

Here are a few of my comments from last night.

Did Holly Madison just say, "Now what do I do? Do I just lay there?" Probably the first thing she ever said to Hef as well.

Ty is approaching the cha cha just like bull riding. Does that mean they're going to cinch up his scrotum?

Has everybody on this show been in either rehab or jail? Dr. Drew should be hosting.

Man, you can cut the sexual tension with a spork.

Belinda is as light on her feet as Peter Boyle was in Young Frankenstein.

It's more like Not-So-Lil-Kim.

LT has been clean and sober since 1998. This show should put an end to that.

Denise Richards looks like a ventriloquist's dummy.

Finally, Julianne Hough gets to sleep with a partner other than brother.

Melissa looks like she got caught in a tuna net.

Looking forward to the next Watch With Comics event. In the meantime, please follow me on Twitter.

Another Live Tweetcast

Once again I will be joining some of my fellow comedians over at Watch With Comics for a live tweetcast. This time our target is Dancing With The Stars. Tune in at 8 Pacific aka 11 Eastern (yes, I will be watching a taped broadcast) to read our comments. If you just want to see what I've written, go to my Twitter profile.

If This Lake's A' Rockin'

There was a lot of fowl sex-- not to be confused with foul sex-- going on at the lake today. The mood was more Ludacris than Barry White. I'm no ornithologist, but it appears when it comes to the art of making za love, male Mallards are the Chris Brown of the feathered-friend Kingdom.

The ducks weren't the only water creatures looking to get laid. The large white geese wondered about sqawking like an Alzheimer's patient on a drinking binge. One even waddled in front of a moving vehicle so overcome was he by surging hormones. I could just hear him saying to a female goose, "I'm gonna do it, baby. I would rather die than live without your lovin'."

In a few months, the lake will be overrun by cute little baby ducks but, just like laws and sausage, seeing them get made is something I wish I hadn't experienced.

The Great Wealth Destroyers

The Obamas are careening around the White House like the most popular couple in high school who snub the less popular kids (Great Britain), manipulate the dumb kids (Joe Biden and Robert Gibbs) and seek to destroy the smart kids who dare criticize them in public (Rush Limbaugh and Jim Cramer.)

In the case of Rush Limbaugh, their wrath is predictable and, some might say, understandable. Jim Cramer, on the other hand, was part of the clique.

Limbaugh wants the President's socialist agenda to fail (even though the administration grossly misrepresented aka lied about what he actually said-- yes, I've heard the audio from both sides) but Cramer is a social liberal who supports such changes to our society. He just thinks now is not the time to go all FDR on our asses.

When a man who voted for you and, for the most part, shares your ideology calls your budget "one of the great wealth destroyers of all time" maybe, just maybe, you should listen to what he has to say rather than immediately try to publicly destroy his credibility. (Cramer defends himself nicely. Obviously, the mad shouting one doesn't need my help.)

Attacking your enemies is one thing. Turning your friends into your enemies reaches an entirely new level of political arrogance and stupidity. This can't possibly have a happy ending.

If the Obamas aren't careful, the King and Queen of the prom may find themselves onstage under a bucket of blood while Evan Bayh and the rest of the Gang Of 13 gleefully pull the rope.

Cat Flushing A Toilet

As far as dreams go, having one of my videos get 1,000,000 hits on YouTube ranks right below going to Florida for Phillie's Spring Training and right above finding a pair of jeans that make my ass look like it did 20 years ago. Right now I have to be content with the 15,500 views we've received for our most popular short film "A Man And A Woman."

But in an effort to achieve my internet goal, I do study other videos that have become viral. Some, like Will Ferrell's "The Landlord" are understandable. Others (like anything by Brookers) are mystifying.

The newest cyber sensation, "Cat Flushing A Toilet" is a text-book example of what a video needs to do to capture the public's fancy. It's brief, has catchy music, cute animals and is both office and family friendly. (We have a problem with the office and family friendly part, apparently.)



Somebody will no doubt make an equally popular short with the parody video "He's A Guy Not Flushing A Toilet."

Hot Blonde With A Filthy Mouth

That's how the Philadelphia Inquirer describes Chelsea Handler. I'm quoted in the article.

Don't Eat The Yellow Snow

Cats make great pets but you can't take them out to play in the snow. If you do, they will give you the same look a 14-year-old girl gives her father when he asks if she would like to go to the Build A Bear store at the mall.

Dogs, on the other hand, love the white stuff. A yard full of fluffy snow is as exciting to them as a 1970's coffee table piled high with cocaine in the VIP room at Studio 64 was to Natalie Cole.



On snowy days like today, I miss my childhood dog, Kelly. We were forced to put her to sleep 25 years ago when we realized her bulging midsection was not a result of too much table scraps but rather distended from cancer and internal bleeding. No wonder she was cranky when I tried to put on her Halloween outfit.

Having school cancelled and then getting to play outside with my beloved pet was one of the great pleasures of my youth. Watching her bite the snow made me laugh every single time. Her black nose encrusted with ice crystals was, and still is, the cutest thing I have ever seen.

Afterwards, we'd dry off and then curl up together for a snow day nap. Our mutual love of sleep made our bond even stronger.

If she were alive today, she would be 38 years old... which is why I'm glad she's not alive today.

But I sure am grateful she was alive back then.