At least that's what they told him...

So a blind guy bowled a perfect game recently in Iowa. But that's not what I find amazing. I'm also not amazed that he did it despite being 78 years old. The fact that he's a World War II vet? Nope. How about that his friends call him "The Hammer"? Eh.

No, what really gets me about this guy is that after the perfect game, they get him to pose for a picture for the newspapers, and no one -- absolutely no one -- bothered to tell him to smile. The guy bowled 12 straight frames of strikes -- something most people consistently fall, oh, 10 or 11 short of -- but no one said "Cheese"?

Jeez, the guy looks depressed. Then again, he's 78 and blind. Maybe a perfect game only makes up for so much.

I Got Five On It

Gas prices, as we all know, are what the French call "Le Crazy" (actually, they probably don't -- my lack of a grasp on the French language aside, I think gas is like nine bucks a gallon there, but not served by the gallon since it's all metric-tastic -- but I digress). I read a story today that says we could be headed for $7-$10/gallon gas in the next few years. If that happens, the new five-dollar bill below will quickly become obsolete.

Leah likes to get freaky

You know it's a slow news day when gorilla sex warrants the attention of a major news service. Yet, here it is. Apparently, a gorilla named Leah -- who also happens to be the first gorilla seen using tools -- was the first gorilla to be observed engaging in "face-to-face" mating.

Of course, it takes eight paragraphs for them to mention the name of the male gorilla (George, if you're curious) who was nailing boning mating with Leah. What, like it was all her, and he had nothing to do with it? I'm just saying, a little credit where credit is due.

On top of everything (pun not intended, but subsequently realized and giggled at while typing), should we really be that impressed by gorillas finally learning missionary position? Call me when Leah figures out reverse cowgirl.

I suck, but here's how I make it up to you

Yes, it's been months and months. I don't know if anyone even bothers to come here anymore. But if you do, here is your reward:

The world's smallest bodybuilder. He's 2-foot-9 and from India, and apparently he can lift 9 kg dumbells! (Sure, that doesn't sound like much, but it's the metric system! That's probably what, like 4,000 pounds American?)

The guy is 19 years old and, judging by one of the other pictures in the article, roughly the size of a cricket bat. (Again, just like kilograms, this does not make sense to my American readers. A cricket bat is not some weird hybrid of chirpy bloodsucker, but rather a big paddle used to hit something or other in a sport of some kind. See? How much clearer can it get? You're welcome.)

Also, he says he wants to travel the world and "to perform in London with my idol, Jazzy-B." You know, whoever that is.

More Food Lion fun

For once, the customers in Food Lion weren't ignoring the fact that lane four is the express lane. Usually, there are people with carts full of crap and no employees regulating the line so that people like me, who buy three things per trip (hey, I live close by, cut me some slack) can get in and out quickly.

Today, it was just me and a crackhead-looking woman buying about seven items. Well, she goes to pay and decides that the grand total -- probably something on the order of about 10 bucks -- isn't going to be compatible with her preferred method of payment, which consists of several crumpled up singles and an envelope full of change. So she asks the cashier to take several items off the order.

The cashier apologizes to me, noting that she can't check me out until a manager overrides the crackhead's transaction. Then the crackhead apologizes, adding, "This happens to me all the time." Well, guess what bitch? Maybe you should, oh I don't know, keep a mental running tally of how much you're spending as you start picking shit up. You know, not major mathematics, just a quick, "Hmmm, do I have enough change for this pie crust?" (Note: that actually was one of the sacrificed items.)

Seriously, this cannot be that hard. I could see it happening once in a while. Shit, I've walked through Food Lion, done a whole bunch of shopping and gotten to the register only to realize I left my wallet at home. It happens. But if you're going to excuse yourself with the statement that "This happens to me all the time," maybe you've got bigger problems than no pie for dinner.

Mama Said Box You Out

Is it weird that boxed wine is really bagged wine? Because on the inside, it's a plastic bag holding all the wine, not the box. Like, if you came home with a box of cereal but were carrying it in a shopping bag, and someone asked, "Hey, whatcha got there?" you wouldn't say, "Why, I've got a bag of cereal!"

And not just because you don't start declarative sentences with the word "why."

It's because you're thinking of the box inside of the bag that's actually constraining the cereal, preventing it from going all over the place. Why can't we do that with bagged, er, boxed wine?

I don't know. Maybe it's just all the boxed wine talking, but we should be able to get this done.

Fab Five (Dollars Every Time it Airs)

Okay, why the fuck does Jalen Rose have a "starring" role in an infomercial? Sure, it's late. There are infomercials on. What are you going to do? But one of them is for "American Grants" apparently some kind of company that gives you information to get grants.

So my question is, what does Jalen Rose have to do with it? What does he need a grant for? Well after his prime, he was still collection NBA checks for millions of dollars. Does he a) really need to supplement that income with infomercial work, and b) need a grant for anything?

Although I guess if you're going to have a spokesman for free money, it might as well be someone from Michigan's Fab Five.

Ugottabe McKiddingme

Yes, yes, it has been a long time. And I've received some complaints to that effect (Hi, Kara!). But I'm back because I read today that the Pittsburgh Steelers have their first-ever mascot, and they have picked a name for it.

The name ... wait for it ... is "Steely McBeam" -- seriously. I was wondering how long it took to think of that one. Ten seconds? Twenty?

Turns out the name was fan-submitted, and the winner gets Steelers VIP tickets to a game against Buffalo. But the best part is that there were 70,000 entries. You're seriously going to tell me that no one came up with anything better than Steely McBeam? My only hope is that the day of this game, Buffalo unveils its own mascot named Billy McBison.

Also, anyone notice how in the picture from the article how much this new mascot looks like Barry Bonds? Yeah, I thought so.

You Wanna Get Nuts? Let's Get Nuts!

Hello, all (five people who probably read this). I'm back from the road.

I'm watching an episode of the Wonder Years, and in it, the bully Eddie Pinetti, fills Kevin's locker with jockstraps. That got me thinking: Everyone in the 1960s wore a jockstrap for gym class? I certainly never did. Then again, I didn't grow up in the 60s, I grew up in the 80s. I wore one for football, but that's it. And even now, a cup isn't necessary for playing in the NFL, at least according to this and several other similar stories.

So between not using them in gym class and not using them for a sport in which 300-pound men fly at each other with such ridiculous velocity that a ruptured testicle would seem like getting off easy, I have to wonder: When exactly did we start playing fast and loose with our balls?

Since I really have no other thoughts to wrap this up, simply watch this video of John Belushi, doing his best Joe Cocker imitation (you know, because I was watching The Wonder Years):

Going Yard

I know I haven't blogged in forever, but with good reason. I'm currently on a three-month baseball road trip that features blogging and entertaining video. Check it out every day at:

http://www.cstv.com/goingyard/index-blog.html

Check back there every day for more goodness, as I likely won't be posting here much (if at all) until I'm back home in July.

Eat S*** and DIY

As I sit here sweating, my fingertips still stained a grayish-black, even after a vigorous scrubbing, I'm pondering exactly what the penalty would be for hunting down and killing whoever it was that designed the headlights on the 2003 Hyundai Elantra.

It seemed the easiest of do-it-yourself tasks, even for a car-retarded know-nothing like me: changing the bulb in my headlight. So first I consult the manual. (Actually, not true. First I bought a new bulb at Wal-Mart, unwittingly committing myself to completing this job, despite my recurring desire throughout the project to simply smash the headlight with a baseball bat and then bring it to someone else to fix.) Anyway, the manual says: "The next paragraph will instruct you on how to change the bulb." The next paragraph proceeds to tell me that I should now change the bulb. These are the instructions? Were they just poorly translated out of the orginial Korean? Or does someone actually think that constitues "directions"? Allow me now to briefly interject into my own rant so that I may give you my award winning recipe for roast duck:

Step 1: Get all the ingredients and make it. Bon apetit!

Okay, we're back. How was the duck? Succulent, I hope. Anyway, being a resident of the 21st century, I consult the Web for answers. A complex picture-laden tutorial (not from Hyundai, incidentally) tells me how I can get this thing changed. Near the end, it says, you should now have eight bolts/screws taken out. This was the mantra I kept repeating to myself out by the car as I froze and wondered if this could really be good for the cold I was unsuccessfully trying to fight off. Eight. Eight. Eight. In my mind, I sounded like an alternate take of the Beatles' "Revolution 9" which would have been cool and kinda trippy, but I was preoccupied by only having seven bolts/screws.

Finally, I spy the final bolt, way way down below. This first requires removing a piece of hard plastic tubing that looked like an extension to the vacuum cleaner hose. As I haphazardly yanked it out, I considered what kind of job it might do on those hard-to-reach places behind the furniture. I tossed it on the ground. At this point, mind you, I had several car pieces on the ground around me, and I was having a bad fantasy about this turning into a stupid sitcom/cartoon moment where I finish the job only to say, "Oh yeah, and these parts were left over ... but I'm sure it's fine."

And here's the next problem, Bolt No. 8 is so far down, it seems impossible to get at. I'm working with some old adjustable wrenches (lacking one of those cool clickety ones that doesn't need a lot of space to work...ratchet? is that what it's called? I know, I know, I'm a goddamned moron). Anyway, reaching down there to try to turn this bolt -- which is on tighter than Tim Hardaway's butthole in a prison riot -- and it's about as easy as trying to get a stuffed animal out of one of those claw machines. At least I'm not wasting quarters trying to change this bulb.

After a combination of various tools and both of my hands (alternating as they became tired) I finally get the last bolt off and liberate the entire headlamp from my car. Sweet, sweet victory is finally mine as I pull out the old bulb and carefully insert the new one, making sure not to touch the acutal bulb, which the aformentioned Web site told me could ruin the bulb (gasp!) or shorten it's lifespan (double gasp!). Really it's the latter that has me worried, because if I have to do this again anytime soon, well, let's just say I won't be happy.

Thanks, English town!

Thanks to a printing error on calendars in a small English town, I will have two birthdays this year. Somehow, they managed to add a second May 28th to the Crawley Council's official 2007 calendar.

Thanks, Crawley! Of course, they say next year they're going to get it right. Fine, be that way.

There's still a chance they'll keep it with an extra May 28th. At least there will be once I write them a pleading e-mail to continue letting me have two birthdays. I will keep you updated if they respond.

I Am The Shortest Man Alive!

So last night I go to cover the Carolina-Duke women's basketball game, since what could be more fun than back-to-back nights of Carolina-Duke action? But since I'm a fairly late addition to the list and there are 70-plus members of the media in attendance for this No. 1 vs. No. 2 showdown, I have to sit in auxiliary seating. My options are: a) up in the crow's nest at Carmichael Auditorium, where temperatures are known to range from "man, it's freakin' hot" to "wow, i think i literally just sweated my balls off" or b) in a regular seat in the stands on the baseline.

Being that I felt no desire to sweat through my clothing, I chose option B. Anyway, after sitting there for a few minutes, a woman I can only describe as gargantuan asks me to get up because she's a couple of seats down from me, and I'm on the aisle. Turns out it's USA Basketball coach Anne Donovan, who is 6-foot-8.

Incidentally, I only found out who she was right around the same time I became the shortest man alive. That would be when ESPN sideline reporter (and former member of my hometown WNBA squad, the New York Liberty) Rebecca Lobo comes up and asks if I can get up so she can sit between me and Coach Donovan. Now, Lobo is a mere 6-4, so she looks short a couple of minutes later standing on the floor interviewing Donovan. But up there in the seats next to me (standing a scant 5-11), both are huge. I could not be shorter if I tried.

Of course, it wouldn't have been much better at the other end of the floor where 7-foot former Tar Heel Sam Perkins was in attendance. Oh well, if I want to feel tall, I guess I'll have to hold out til Carolina starts a horse-racing team.

Doe? A Deer.

Apparently, a hunter in Florida shot a hermaphrodite deer the other day. And it was the second time in two days that someone bagged a he-she deer.

Even stranger (at least to me, and I'm the one writing here, so play along) is the fact that everyone apparently now must have a name somehow related to their newsworthiness. The other day, I wrote about Rep. Weed from New Hampshire who wanted to legalize pot, and then today, as I read this story, I can't help but notice that Florida's "deer managment coordinator" is named Robert Vanderhoof.

Hoof? Seriously? I thought the only people whose names were humorously related to their occupation were porn stars. But who knows, maybe it was intentional. Maybe this guy's name used to be Robert Vanderfoot, and he was like, "You know, now that I've got this deer-management gig, I should probably change it."

Hey, it could happen.

Sincerely yours,
Bloggy McBlogstein

Extra! Extra! Weed all about it!

Man, have I been slack in the new year!

Well, to partially make up for it, here is by far the funniest news story I've seen in a while. Apparently, a New Hampshire representative wants to make using and selling marijuana legal. What's so funny about that? Well, nothing, unless the lawmaker in question is Rep. Charles Weed.

Seriously? Rep. Weed wants to legalize weed? Call me crazy, but I'll be his wife Mary Jane was the one who talked him into it.

What's next? Maybe Senator Joe Blow will call for the legalization of cocaine.

How the South Stole Hanukkah

Luckily, I had some leftover Hanukkah candles from last year to hold me for the first couple of nights of that loveable Jewish holiday known as the festival of lights. But there won't be light for long if the local merchants here in Chapel Hill don't come up with some friggin' candles.

My first stop was Harris Teeter, which since it stocks matzoh all year round seemed like a good bet. The guy there that I asked was quite helpful, walking all around the store and finally talking to the manager before determining that they were sold out. I didn't bother asking if they'd be getting any more since this will all be a moot point in a week. Nice planning, Harris Teeter.

Then I go to the Food Lion, which I obviously had no hope for. Since Hanukkah candles are not made of tainted meat, cigarettes or strange Latino tropical juice drinks, it was a pretty good certainty that the Lion would not be stocking them. But I ask anyway. The exchange is pretty much what I expected, only slightly more ridiculous and painful.

Me: Do you have Hanukkah candles?
Customer Service Girl: What?
Me: Hanukkah candles.
CSG: What are those?
Me: Candles, for Hanukkah.
CSG: Like the really tall ones?
Me: Uh.....no.
CSG: Oh you mean for the, um .... (At this point, she breaks into a hand motion that is either a crudely air-drawn menorah or an amateurish attempt at conducting a symphony orchestra. I'm pretty sure she's on the right track, but her ignorance makes me want to make it difficult for her, so I just say nothing and continue staring at her like the backwoods retard she is. Finally she manages to blurt out some more words.) Like the thing with five things?
Me: Eight, but yeah.
CSG: No. We don't have those.

So the candles are lit, but I'll have to find some more tomorrow somewhere or the holiday will very, very ironically be cut short due to my lack of eight nights worth of candles to celebrate the holiday that commemorates the miracle of one night's worth of oil lasting eight.

But somehow I have a feeling that delicious irony will be just as lost on the people I'm dealing with as Judaism is. So I'll search on, wondering to myself, who do you have to crucify to get some friggin' Hanukkah candles in this town?

Witch is it?

As I walked out to my car this morning, I noticed that there was a flattened out witch's hat -- you know, tall, pointy and black with a big round brim -- sitting underneath the front of my car. I quickly deduced that one of three possible scenarios led to it being there:

Scenario #1: I ran over a witch last night and totally didn't remember.

Okay, I admit this is unlikely. Surely, I would've noticed running over something as large as a witch. The other night, a cat ran out into the road and I could not avoid him. The good news is I think I only clipped him, because he appeared to bounce back up and make it to safety. The ironic news is I was on my way to see Cat Power play a show at Cat's Cradle. Seriously. Anyway, point is, I didn't run over a witch. I think.

Scenario #2: A young girl from a black-and-white alternate universe, in which she lives in my car, was caught in a tornado, causing my car to crash land on a witch in the parking lot.

This one is also very unlikely. Number one, there are no very short people here to help her out. Number two, there is no Emerald City nearby. Durham? Sorry, that's the Bull City. Carrboro? That's a town, friend, and one without a catchy nickname. Number three, I'm just rooting against this theory because could you imagine what would happen to my car's suspension if it had been dropped from the sky? Yeah, me neither. But it can't be good.

Scenario #3: Someone lost the hat several weeks ago on Halloween, and it just happened to blow under the front of my car last night thanks to the cold, windy weather.

Admittedly, this is the least likely of the three scenarios. Wind? Come on. Halloween costume? Puh-leeze. And if it really was part of a Halloween costume, why did this hat have to blow under there? Why couldn't I wake up to come outside and find an entire slutty nurse pinned underneath the bumper? Is that really too much to ask?

Now, of course, you're thinking: What an idiot. (Unless you're a guy, then you're still thinking about slutty nurses.) But be glad I didn't blog about the story I had Sunday, when a deranged security guard at a basketball game went on a crazy rant about the previous day's Michigan-Ohio State football game ... TWICE. Same rant. Twice. While picking his nose and wiping it on his arm. Not his sleeve, mind you, but his actual arm. Needless to say, watching to ol' booger-arm weave his prosaic magic was NOT the ideal cure for my hangover.

On that note, Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Man In Black

Anyone ever heard of the web site MyHeritage.com, which allows you to upload a photo of yourself and then uses facial-recognition software to tell you who you look like? Well, if not, you have now. And it is gloriously hysterical.

So I upload a photo figuring, hey, why not see what celebs I look like? After all, whenever people play that game where they say who would play you in a movie, they have a hard time coming up with someone to play me (before eventually settling on Jack Black, but that is a rant for another time).

The software goes about its business, I fill out the quick registration form, and bam: here come my results. Boy, was I in for a surprise. Not just because Jack Black wasn't in any of the results (Suck it, anyone who ever said Jack Black would play me in a movie!) but because four of the top five results were black men!

Here, in order, were the top five matches:

1. Laurence Fishburne, who personally I liked better when he used to call himself Larry. Pretentious bastard!

2. Jamie Foxx, who has too many Xs in his name.

3. Joschka Fisher. First white guy alert! Of course, I have no idea who the fuck this guy is, but a quick Google search told me that apparently, he is the former Vice Chancellor of Germany. Ohhhhhhkay.

4. Will Smith. Well, I have been known to occasionally get jiggy with it. But only occasionally.

5. Jesse L. Martin, the black guy who was Jerry Orbach's partner on Law & Order.

Now, I'm no expert, but maybe, just maybe, this facial-recognition software is flawed. Sure, the aforementioned guys are talented and handsome just like me (except the German dude -- he was a little freaky), but that just can't be right. Either that, or I need to have a serious talk with my parents about my ancestral lineage.

Either way, I'm cool with it. As Fishburne's character, Furious Styles, said in Boyz n the Hood, "Can't afford to be afraid of our own people anymore, man."

Tag Hag

I remember one time in elementary school, maybe third grade, when I was sitting on the side of this rolling-pin-type slide on the playground. Somehow I lost my balance and ended up falling backwards to the ground. All I really remember about it is having a teacher over me asking if I was okay. That, and how my head and ass inexplicably hurt (sort of like Paris Hilton after a night on the town).

You know what I did next? I got the fuck up and went back to class when recess was over. Why? Because I'm not a total pussy. Oh, and because that's just what kids did back then. Fall down, get up. Scrape a knee, put a band-aid on it. In my entire childhood, I don't remember a single kid suffering a fatal or even near-fatal wound from horseplay.

Yet now everyone thinks they should ban the game of tag, the latest nix on fun and games coming from a suburb of Boston. Soon, kids will be going to school in padded suits and helmets and then only to sit behind their desks without moving all day.

We complain that our country's kids are all fat and lazy, yet the one thing they like to run around and do is off limits. But, hey, I guess it makes sense. I mean, if kids played tag, they might fall down, break their necks and die, and then they'd never get the chance to grow up and have an eating disorder that would allow them to achieve that lovely bag-of-antlers look that is so popular these days.

Don't get me wrong. Tag is about the dumbest game ever. Run, chase, tag, run, avoid being tagged, get tagged, run, chase, tag, run, ... well you get the idea. Seriously, it's not that much fun.

When I was younger, we also used to play a game called Suicide, in which you'd bounce a tennis ball or racquetball off a brick wall and everyone would try to catch it. If you dropped an attempt to catch, you'd have to run and touch the wall before someone pegged you with the ball, or you were out. Yes, pegged. As in hit with a ball thrown as hard as possible. As I recall, no one died from that either. (And being that it's called Suicide, you'd think it'd be more deadly.) Now that was fun!

As it stands, cigarettes, booze, speeding city buses and a sex with the aforementioned Ms. Hilton all have a better chance of offing me at this point than any stupid playground game ever did. And that's not even counting that time I fell of the slide just because I'm a moron.

Call me crazy, but someone needs to put a stop to the safety madness. People, only you can save the game of tag. You're it.

N-Pee-S-U

As my buddy Bartow would say, "There are many forms of class, this is just one of them." And in this case, "this" is the fact that apparently N.C. State students are just peeing wherever they want during football games. Like right there where they're sitting.

According to that AP story, contributed to by none other than my friend Aaron Beard, who last time I tried to identify him on the blog asked me to take his name out (which is why I'm purposefully putting it in this time), students are just taking a leak where they stand during football games so that they don't lose their seats. I have a couple of other theories as to why this could be happening. Perhaps the Wolfies are: a) not housebroken, or b) laughing so hard at Chuck Amato that spontaneous urination can not be avoided.

And for a moment, let us ignore the hysterically hysterical fact that the headline on the story is "N.C. State aims to keep students from urinating in seats" (get it? aim? urine? oh, forget it.) and focus on the fact that normal people don't do this. At Carolina, nobody's going to steal your seat if you leave to piss. Maybe it's because people just hold it in until late in the third quarter, so they can combine their potty break with their let's-go-to-Franklin-Street-this-team-sucks stroll out of the gates. Or maybe it's just that their civilized people.

But hey, it could be worse at N.C. State. Last year, you could get shot in the parking lot. Now the worst-case scenario is getting blasted with the ol' lemonade cannon. Way to raise the bar.

Screech, Moan ... Same Differnce

Well, I think we all knew it would come to this someday.

Maybe not when you were a kid, sitting there watching Saved By The Bell re-runs. But later, when you were older, wiser, more mature, you knew something like this would have to happen. In this internet age, where anyone remotely famous and/or remotely washed up wants their 15 minutes of fame, you just knew that Screech would one day have his own sex tape.

That's right. This morning brought us not one, but two reports (though there are probably countless more out there) that Dustin Diamond, a.k.a. Samuel "Screech" Powers, has made a sex tape.

Look out, Paris! You too, Pam and Tommy! The Screech Man reportedly has a sex tape of him and two women, and here's the most disturbing part: Apparently, ol' Screecherino employs the technique known as the Dirty Sanchez in the tape. For those of you who are uninitiated in the catchy lingo for disgusting sex acts, here's the definition of a Dirty Sanchez.

The best part is that his agent thinks this will help Diamond avoid the "Screech typecast" and, hence, get more work. Unless of course Lisa Turtle is the one on the receiving end of the Poop 'Stache.

Surely, though, this plan will have to boost Diamond's career. I mean, look what being in "Showgirls" did for Elizabeth Berkeley. Now she's a huge superstar ... oh, wait. Scratch that. Oh well, at least it keeps the news entertaining.

In closing, allow me to say that I'm so excited, I'm so excited, I'm so ... scared!

Drug-Crazed

Drugs are always a hot-button issue, but tell me, who looks crazier here: The guy who wrote a letter to the editor of the MetroWest Daily News saying that God said in the bible that reefer is a-okay, or the U.S. House, which passed a bill saying that teachers can strip search students "on the flimsiest of pretexts" as the article puts it?

(Hint: The answer is not "the guy who wrote the letter.")

So you're telling me that in a country where it seems we have (at least) weekly news reports about some horny (and often gross) 40-year-old teacher having sex with a 14-year-old boy, we're now making it easier for these teachers to have an excuse for getting in kids pants?

Excuse me, ma'am. Could you stop blowing that boy?

Oh, I'm not blowing him, Officer. I'm just, uh, um, making sure this isn't a crack pipe.

What could possibly go wrong?

Stinging Criticism

Man, it's been a while since I posted, and this is hardly a big deal to get me fired up for finally posting, but I saw this story today about a stingray stinging a turtle and wondered what the hell it was doing on a news site. Of course, that question is answered in the fourth paragraph - as if you hadn't already guessed the reason. And the answer, of course, is that the Crocodile Hunter was killed by a stingray recently. So suddenly, anything stingray-related qualifies as news.

Earlier today, I saw two squirrels chasing each other up a tree near my back porch. I was all set to alert the local news media when I remembered something: no celebrities have been chased by a squirrel recently. Hence, the news value of my sighting equals zero.

Of course, had I seen a sharpei running through my backyard, or perhaps eaten some diseased clams last night, I probably could have attracted some media buzz based solely on the recent internet pictures (of the NSFW and/or not-safe-for-not-being-nauseous variey, I should add) of Lindsey Lohan's shriveled-out vadge.

Ah, celebrity worship. So entertaining on it's own, but when it basically dictates what the media reports on as "news" it's a little scary. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to CNN.com's front page to see if there have been any developments in the death of Anna Nicole Smith's son. Hey, it's the main story, it must be important.

'I See Poor People'

Today, I read a story about how child star Haley Joel Osment, now 18 years old, was in a car accident on Thursday morning. On the surface, no big deal. Right?

That is, until you consider the car that Osment crashed: a 1995 Saturn! Are you shitting me? The kid was in several blockbuster movies, and he drives a 1995 Saturn?! My sixth sense tells me someone at the movie studio forgot to pay Osment's salary forward into his bank account.

But hey, maybe he just loves his Saturn, so we can cut him a break there. Until... Until... Until you read this story, which is all about how Bil-, uh, Ale-, um, Stephe-, oh, um, uh, Daniel Baldwin -- yeah, that's the one -- wrecked his Ford Thunderbird in Los Angeles.

Yeah, that's right Haley -- Daniel Freakin' Baldwin has a cooler car than you. And you don't need to see dead people to see that if you're lower on the car food chain the fourth of a group of brothers whose collective body of work (Alec's SNL hosting stints notwithstanding) stinks worse than Paris Hilton's snatch after a night on the town, you're in big, big trouble. Even a bespectacled Kevin Spacey can't help you now.

Kids Hate Christmas, and other things I learned from the World Cup

Just a quick one here, but stupid, stupid, stupid.

I was watching the US-Italy match in group play of the World Cup the other day. The announcers were explaining why each of the players from both teams would be walking out holding hands with a kid as the teams were announced onto the field. (And to be fair, I wasn't really listening closely, so I don't know why the hell they had kids with them.)

So then one of the television announcers declares: "Those kids will have smiles on their faces that won't wear off 'til Christmas." Well, of course, because kids hate Christmas! That'll wipe the smiles right off their stupid little faces!

Parent: Hey, Timmy. Guess what tomorrow is.
Timmy: I don't know.
Parent: It's Christmas!
Timmy: Fuck off.

See? Kids and Christmas don't mix. Unless the announcer meant that the children's smiles would last up to and including Christmas, which would be totally different. But hey, if that's what he meant, that's what he should've said.

Name of the Day

Funny names are a part of life, especially for sportswriters, since we often encounter, um, unusual monikers.

Here's a funny one, an Eastern Illinois linebacker named ... get ready for it ... Lucious Pussy. No word on whether he has a brother named Harry.

Serial Cereal Stealer

It's not important how it came up (though for the record, it was in a conversation about how I could potentially resemble the Cookie Crook, of Cookie Crisp cereal fame), but the subject of the Cookie Crook and his thieving ways got me thinking: Why are so many cereals marketed via an ad campaign that constantly features someone trying to steal the cereal?

In searching for a picture of the Crook online, I stumbled across the wikipedia entry about the cereal and found the following paragraph:

The Cookie Crook was the anti-hero mascot and one of the earliest mascots for the cereal, who often attempted to steal the Cookie Crisp. He has a comb moustache, and wears a red chef's hat with cookies all over it. He also wears a black mask that goes over his face and nose, and a purple shirt.

The Cookie Crook, according to the entry, had quite a long run, serving as the scourge of cookie-like cereal lovers everywhere from 1980-1997 (and, it should be noted, went unchecked as a baked-good bad guy until Officer Crumb finally came on the scene in '83).

And then there is the long-suffering Trix rabbit, who has been trying to get ahold of a bowl of those delicious fruity orbs since 1959 (and technically he did in 1991 when tons of kids voted that he should be allowed to have a bowl). In every commercial, the rabbit is making off with a bowl only to get caught at the last second.

And poor Lucky the Leprechaun, always being chased by kids. Those lousy little bastards are relentless in their pursuit of that little Irishman and his tasty marshmallow pieces.

It makes me wonder why other other cereals -- or other products entirely, for that matter -- don't try this approach. You know why no one likes Grape Nuts? Because a cartoon character has never tried to steal a bowl of it.

Why hasn't the auto industry gotten on top of this? Why keep driving cars over crazy mountain terrain or through a closed course of obstacles in commercials? Get creative. Get a cartoon mascot. Maybe a masked man who uses a coat hanger to break into the car (let's say, a 1995 Honda Civic, our country's most-stolen car) and drives off just as the owner returns to lament, "He jacked my Civic!" See? Loveable scamp of a cartoon mascot, catchy slogan, and the overall sense that you will be buying a car that's desireable. I mean, who wants a car that thieves don't even want?

Someone needs to implement this plan immediately -- it's magically delicious.

Most Wanted

Well, the early reviews are in on the glasses, and the first two were just fine. It was the third, from my mom, that was the most disturbing.

Her: "You look like you should be on the wall at the post office."
Me: "Huh?"
Her: "You look like a serial killer."
Me: "Oh."

Needless to say, not the look I was going for. Also, I'm just hoping that no serial killing occurs in the greater Chapel Hill area for fear that I will immediately become a prime suspect. On the upside, when pushed, Mom eventually conceded that I looked like a good-looking serial killer. Thanks, Mom.

Four Eyes

Maybe the reason I haven't posted very much lately is not because I'm totally lazy but simply because I couldn't see what I would be typing.

Okay, okay. It's the first reason. I'm lazy. But it could just as easily have been the latter. You see, for the first time in my life, I will be wearing glasses, starting tomorrow. I won't need them all the time, just for covering games and night driving, mostly.

The main problem is that I have trouble doing what physicians call "seeing stuff." Specifically, stuff that's far away. For instance, you know the part of "Paradise City" by Guns N' Roses, where Axl Rose sings, "So faaaaar away ... so faaa-aaaar awaa-aay?" Yeah, well I totally can't see that part of the song.

And I'm a little nervous, never having had glasses before in the past. But I keep telling myself there's nothing to fear, it's just some glass and plastic. I mean -- I got that type of shit in the cabinet over my sink. I just don't wear 'em on my head. The upside is that now it allows me a whole array of sight-related jokes I couldn't make previously. Like when the eye doctor said something about making sure my name was associated with my payment so she wouldn't have to come track me down.

"Yeah," I deadpanned, "but now I'd see you coming."
"And from far away!" she added giddily, after way too long a pause.

And I thought to myself, bitch, don't beat this joke into the ground. Jeez. ANYWAY, I'm pretty fired up, both for the glasses and for the great price I got at Upchurch Optical (shameless plug!) in scenic north Durham, thanks to the fact that the glasses guy is a big Tar Heels fan, and we discussed the fact that I cover them. So wish me luck with the new eyewear. I'll be seein' ya. Literally.

Speling Iss Tuf

I just read an article on the internet, and it was followed by reader comments, one of which included the words "simular" (sic) and "entrepreneur."

Now tell me, how exactly does one end up knowing how to spell "entrepreneur" but not know how to spell "similar?"

Seeriusly, help me out hear.