Wednesday, March 31, 2004
These glasses make a fashion statement, and that statement is, "Meet me at the Radiohead concert. I'll be the guy standing motionless with his arms folded."
I think the funniest part was going glasses-shopping. I went with my roommate and my ex, who is making a glasses 'zine. She has a glasses fetish, and is making a rather elaborate photo essay about my glasses-shopping, with pictures of me trying on different glasses.
Yes, I am now officially a fetish object.
The doctor who had to sell me glasses was at first annoyed, mainly because as I entered, I said the phrase, "I'm probably not going to buy anything." Nothing warms a salesman's heart to your little arty photo project more than three (seeming) hipsters using your space to create "art" with no intention of spending money. Problem is, that statement had a lot more to do with my reluctance to buy glasses than anything else. (I have issues, which is a subject for a whole other entry.)
Anyway, as soon as he realized that I was, in fact, serious about spending som money on nice frames and all, he even let us get a picture with some expensive testing equipment. (I am Dr. Lizardo!)
I've never had so much fun shopping for glasses!
(from my friend Victor)
Try this soon, before Google fixes its site:
Ok....Follow the instructions below and read the page that opens....
1) Go to www.Google.com.
2) Type in (but don't hit enter): "weapons of mass destruction".
3) Hit the "I'm feeling lucky" button, instead of the normal "Google search" button.
4) READ CAREFULLY what appears to be a normal ERROR message. Make sure you read the whole error message. Someone at Google apparently has a sense of humor ...
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Here's some premises and ideas that have been lying stagnant in my notebook.
I like telling crazy people exactly how crazy they are. Just to hear the way they always defend themselves:
"Hey, why do you call me 'crazy?' Because I'm 'different'? Because I don't follow society's so-called 'norms' of behavior?"
- No. I'm calling you crazy because you're standing on the highway divider without pants on, holding a duck.
"So. They called George Washington crazy, didn't they?"
- No. They didn't.
"Yes they did."
- No. They didn't.
"Yes they did."
"When he stood on the highway divider without pants on holding a duck.
- When did he do that?
"You're talking to him, buddy! Now who's crazy?"
- Oh, it must be me.
The most annoying thing about racism is that racists never have a solid argument for their racism.
They always say things like, "Black people are so lazy."
Right. Meanwhile, you're 34, living at home with your mom - who still gives you an allowance, by the way, because you don't have a job.
"I can't get a job. The Mexicans are taking them all."
And did they force you to get a GED, too?
And let's be honest, there's no job you want being taken by immigrants.
There aren't any Fortune 500 execs swimming a river on the California border to get a $3.00-an-hour CFO position.
And I've never heard any white Americans saying, "Man, if only I could get a job picking grapes! Damn Mexicans. Now I'll never live my dream of stripping asbestos with no mask for six dollars an hour!"
Stop comparing women to things that aren't women. You never sound as cool as you think you do.
I heard a guy say, "Hey, I love my girlfriend, but I love lobster too, and if you eat lobster every day, pretty soon you're going to want steak."
Yeah, you know who's never heard that? His girlfriend.
'Cause the guy doesn't want to end up eating a tin of sardines in his apartment alone.
I call them "douchebag magnets." Because any bar that has a pool table will, at some point, be swarmed with ex-frat boys and guys who took the movie Swingers way too seriously.
I don't do well hitting on women, for the same reason I always get fired from telemarketing jobs.
See, whenever I had a job selling stuff over the phone, I'd be talking to someone and I'd think, "Why in the world would this person give their credit card number to a stranger over the phone?"
And they'd say, "No," and I'd say "Okay," and hang up.
And it's the same thing with women.
I have a very shoddy product line. It's not well put-together. Sure, the Personality Features always seem interesting in the brochure, but you get them home and it falls apart under the slightest pressure.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
I was at a bar called McManus, a popular NYC watering-hole. Used to be that the Upright Citizens' Brigade Theatre was a couple blocks away, and so comedy-types would go hang out after a show. Which is what I was doing.
There were a couple of women sitting at a table, and a friend-of-a-friend introduced me to them and then wandered away.
I asked them, "What are you guys up to? See the show tonight?"
"Yeah," said one. "We just saw Ben Folds at Roseland. Now we're going to meet a friend for a drink."
"Oh," I said, changing the subject because I'm not a big Ben Folds fan.
So we talk, and in due course I go to the Men's room, because I roll like dat. When I get back, there's some dude sitting at the table. He looks vaguely familiar.
I sit back down, and I'm introduced.
"This is Ben," said one of the women. In hidnsight, I could see she was trying to sound like she wasn't trying to impress me.
"Do I know you?" I asked the guy, who still looked vaguely familiar.
Okay: This is the point in the story where anyone reading this blog knows exactly how it's all going to end, because it's a completely obvious situation seen in a billion bad sitcoms. But I swear, as it was happening, I had no idea. It's one thing to watch a wacky situation unfold, it's quite another to be the poor asshole blundering his way through it.
"I don't think we've met."
"Have you done comedy?"
"Not really. I've been onstage..."
"In an improv group?"
"Not an improv group, no."
Then he went to the bar with one of the women to order a drink, leaving me with the other who leaned over to me and said, incredulously, "That's Ben Folds."
Now, the correct response should have been, "Oh my God!" or "Oh dear lord, I didn't recognize Ben Folds, what have I done? Now I must tear my own eyes out in shame!"
Instead I said, "Oh."
"So here's what you do," she said, leaning over and quarterbacking me, "When he comes back you say, 'Oh I'm so sorry, I didn't recognize you. I didn't know you were Ben Folds'."
This is where I mistakenly thought I could use my charming insouciance and get away with it: "Heh! He should ask for my autograph. I'm going to be on Comedy Central in a couple of months."
She grew quiet, and when Ben and his friend returned, they, in unspoken agreement, excluded me from the conversation.
So I left the table and came up with the perfect revenge: I found my biggest music-nerd friend in the room and told him I'd just talked to to Ben Folds. "He's very friendly. Seriously, you should just go up to him.
Soon, with the ice broken, their table with swarmed with every music-nerd copmedian (every comedian is a secret music-nerd. A comedian is a rock star too lazy to learn guitar) wanting to "just say hi."
HA! HA! I ruined Ben Folds evening! Take that, multimillionaire rock star who left with the two women I couldn't talk to!
NOTE: McManus is the same bar where my friend Evan and I mocked Phillip Seymour Hoffman for his enormous man-purse.
Friday, March 26, 2004
Same shitty attitude.*
Yes, I changed the blog's template.
Yes it's more boring than ever. But at least the look matches the content! LOL!
Actually, I had to do it, becuase I was getting so many complaints about how long it took the old tamplate to load, and problems with the code screwing eveything up.
* That's going to be the motto of my restaurant if I ever open it. I will pretend to spend months remodeling it, and then reopen it to look exactly the same.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Whenever I meet a guy who always calls people "dawg" - "Yo dawg, what up G-Dawg?" - I always want to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, and say, "Dude! You're white!"
I also hate the kind of person who, whenever you answer a question "No," starts interrogating you until you give them a "yes" answer.
The kind of person who'll ask, "Do you know Doug?"
"You know, Doug Watson."
"No, not really."
"Doug Watson, works in accounting."
"Never met him, sorry."
"He drives a Taurus."
"Blue Ford Taurus."
"With a broken headlight."
"YES! YES I KNOW HIM! I ADMIT IT! AND I LOVE THAT WONDERFUL WONDERFUL MAN!"
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
If you ever plan to start an Enron-style fincancial rip-off company, here's how you avoid prosecution:
You name it "Babies Incorporated." Then you appoint nothing but babies to your Board of Directors.
What prosecutor is going to want to take a bunch of babies into court for fraud.
Can you imagine cross-examining a baby?
PROSECUTOR: Mr. Watkins, isn't it true that on the afternoon of Tuesday the -
BABY: Goo boo jedge.
JUDGE: Order in the court. We can not have spontaneous outbursts, no matter how adorable the cause.
DEFENSE ATTORNEY: Your honor, I hate to interrupt, but the baby just said his first word: "Judge."
JUDGE: What, no, really?
PROSECUTOR: Objection, you-
JUDGE: Overruled. C'mon, Mr. Watkins, say "judge" again.
Monday, March 22, 2004
QuasiYugo - The Hatchback of Notre Dame
It would be about a hunchback who is hated not because he is different, but because he constantly tips over on one side and catches fire.
Did you ever go to the store and get waited on by someone so dumb they had to have been doing it on purpose?
My roommate belongs to a video store, and I went the other day to try and rent Rock & Roll High School.
Now, this video store is run by dumb Russian guys, so here's the conversation I had with the guy behind the counter:
ME: Hey, do you have a movie called Rock and Roll HIgh School?
DUMB RUSSIAN GUY: Oh, School of Rock, yes? We have right here new.
ME: No, I've seen School of Rock. No, it's called Rock n' Roll High School.
DRG: School of Rock, yes, we have.
ME: No, it's with the Ramones.
ME: They're a band.
DRG: Band in school, yes? They play?
ME: Eh, yes, but...
DRG: School of Rock, right here, Jack Black very funny, you rent?
And what's the point of complaining to the manager? Even if his boss is marginally smarter than he, That would make him an ape.
Saturday, March 20, 2004
A lot of people ask me, when I complain about my shitty job, what exactly it is I do at work. And the answer is, "I sit there and fantasize about the better jobs I could have had, but fucked up in the interview." This is one of those stories, this is one of those jobs:
Before I got this job, I was pounding the pavement, looking for work. I found an ad in the Village Voice, "Reference Verifiers Wanted." Now, if you've ever looked for a job in New York City, you know the ad I'm talking about. It's been in the Voice longer than those "escort" ads in the back. I'd always been curious, but I'd never applied because - well, because the fact of the matter is it doesn't even give yo ua phone number, just an address to apply in person five days a week. As the British upper crust would say; I mean, a bit shady, eh what?
But I figured, "Can I afford to be so snobbish? Goldman Sachs ain't exactly knocking down my door with executive positions. What could I lose?" So I packed my resume and a sack lunch and made my way to 8th Ave. in the thirties.
If I had to describe my resume in terms of the sort of book review you'd find in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, it would be: "A fantastic work of 'historic fantasy,' that blends true historic events with fantastic flights of fancy." Yes, there are a couple of small lies in there, like "Hey, I graduated college."
Okay, so I didn't graduate college, but I figure what the hell? I'm smarter than a lot of guys who did. And even if I'm not, I'm a dash sight better looking. Who's going to know?
Actually, it's funny. I've been thinking of finishing my schooling ,so I went back to old Queens College to find out exactly how much more work I'd have to do to get my degree. Apparently, in the three semesters-plus-summer session I attended there, I managed to accrue a whopping 17 credits. That's like a full semester's work right there.
Whenever student loan people call me to you know, chat, see how I'm doing, demand their money, I always want to say, "Hey, look at my goddamn transcript. It isn't the record of a man with five hundred a month to burn. You're lucky I have a phone to talk on."
But my resume says I finished college, and that's what really counts.
So I walk up the stairs to the reference verifying place. To your left, as you walk in, there's an office with a receptionist. To your right, there's a large space filled with those desk/chair combos you got to sit in in high school. Over on a far wall is a bored woman behind a counter wearing a lab coat. Behind her are six closets, each numbered 1 to 6. A couple of them are open, and inside are toilets.
I would find out later that these are for drug testing. I would find this out the hard way.
So I'm the only person applying for a job that morning, and I'm taken into the interviewing office by a really nice older gentleman with a thick Israeli (I'm guessing, I'm not good at guessing this sort of thing) accent and a huge white walrus moustache. For the majority of the interview, I spend half my time staring at the fella's walrus moustache. The other half is spent trying my damndest not to stare the fella's walrus moustache.
The first question this guy asks me is if I have done any drugs. He tells me to come clean with him, because I will be tested later. Then he tells me that one of the things this company does is drug testing for large companies that are - I got the impression - hiring poor people off the street to do dirty work. He described a scene to me of burly surly men lined down the stairs and around the corner, waiting to pee into a cup.
Then he tells me about the job. The company's main focus you see, is to go over people's resumes who are applying for jobs at Fortune 500 companies, and check to make sure that everything written there is the 100% truth. This is what they do all day. Then he asks me about my college experience.
My belief is that lying one your resume is not only ethical, but expected of one. In fact, I believe that companies want you to lie on your resume. It's a sign that you really want the job. But it occurred to me that, in this case, on this subject, the Moustache Man and I might not see eye-to-eye. But i decide to bluff my way through the interivew. For some reason, I have it in my head that the guy is so enthusiastic about hiring me that he won't do an in-depth background report, or better yet, will decide that I had so much moxie that he'll overlook the deception.
And he's really enthusaistic about hiring me. He tells me that he's going on vacation the next day, but he's so into the idea of hiring me that he's going to expedite the paperwork so that I can get working there as soon as my background check comes back. For some reason, my brain doesn't hear the second half of this sentence.
"m placed in a small room whereI'm given a test. It's half-high school English test and half-high school Math test. I ponder the fact that back in high school, I decided to not pay attention to Math on the grounds that never, ever, in the real world ,will I need to know how to compute fractions.
I also notice that, scattered around the table I'm testing on, are the entire series of Left Behind For Kids books. Left Behind is the crazy fundamentalist Christian series about what happens when the Rapture happens and God's Chosen Few must battle the Anti-Christ, an Israeli fella who takes control of the U.N. Hmm.
The Moustache Man then confidentially asks me if I want to "come clean" about anything on my resume before they do a background check. Like, if I lied about my schooling or anything. I decide not to, because, again, I am dumb enough to believe that I'm somehow "calling his bluff."
Then I'm given a drug test. At first, I'm assigned the bathroom right behind the bored lab-coated woman's counter. Every time I'm about to pee into the vial, I hear her say something, and I am rendered completely pee-shy.
So I step out and say I couldn't go. So I'm encouraged to drink some water. Three minutes later, having to pee worse than ever, I am escorted back into the same bathroom, where I have the same exact problem. I exit, and am told to drink more water. Now I get a brain-storm and ask for a bathroom away from the woman's counter.
Now I have a little difficulty, because I'm under pressure to pee, and - and this explains a lot about my life - I'm afraid I'll somehow do it wrong. But I pee. And I pee. And I pee. I fill the vial to overflowing.
In fact, the woman gives me an extremely disgusted look when she sees how much I peed, but screw her.
Then I left, to await my call to come into work. Not that it would have been a great job, but it would have paid better than the job I have now, and it would have actually been kind of interesting.
Ah well. Wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up first, eh?
Thursday, March 18, 2004
I don't mind when someone farts in a crowded room. Because, as soon as everyone gets mad at them, I can fart as much as I want and never get caught.
They've laid down the "camouflage fart." And then I sneak in with the "commando fart."
I saw an ad for Viagra, and one of the little warning statements was, "48 hour erections, although rare, should be reported to your doctor."
I wish someone had told me that when I was 16. When I was sixteen, I had an erection that lasted eight months.
I never got any "play" when I was 16.
My idea of "Safe Sex" was washing my hands first.
I tell ya, I don't get no respect.
About seven years ago, my friend Adam used to run a live game show on the Lower East Side at the old Surf Reality space.
He had me do a segment for him once called "Make Him Stop!,' where I put together a horribly offensive stand-up routine. The idea was that there were two teams, and the first team to buzz in made me stop doing my stand-up. The trick was that the other team then got all the points.
I don't remember much of the actual routine, only that a woman buzzed me literally one joke in.
And that joke was: "Did you ever eat so much pussy you got full?"
I have to admit, and I think I've discussed this in-depth on this blog, I hate the whole, "It's St. Patrick's Day so let's party like the Irish, get drunk and pick fights" mentality.
That's why I hate the crowds that gather at Irish pubs on St. Patrick's Day.
However, it was my friend's birthday, so last night I found myself in an Irish pub on the Lower East Side. And I must admit that as Iwas sitting there, and the jukebox started playing The Pogues' "Christmas in New York" as the snow drifted outside, for a few minutes it all felt really right.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
At work, I was sitting next to this guy. I made a joke about him sexually harassing me, and he launched into my "sensual harassment" bit. But he was doing it wrong. He had clearly seen me do it on TV, but he was saying it as if he was thinking of it himself on the spot.
I didn't know whether to correct him or not, but decided that, since he was sitting next to me and had no idea that I was the guy who performed the bit he was trying to do in conversation. I decided to just let it slide, but it was interesting.
Alright funny stuff tomorrow, I promise.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
The Passion-Aggression of the Christ
"Hey Father, could you forgive them if you have a moment? I mean, I hate to say they don't know what they're doing because these are clearly smart guys, but still..."
Monday, March 15, 2004
Why do people get excited over Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum?
It's like, "Let's go see Larry King, but in wax form."
I don't ever think I've said, "I'd like to see Larry King, but even unhealthier-looking. That guy is way too vital."
Check this out: They have a show on TV now called Larry King Live.
And the way it works is, any time I wonder what Larry King might look like, I turn it on and say, "Hmm. That's Larry King. Look how waxy and unlife-like he is. I just saved myself twenty-five bucks!"
I'm angry at President Bush, and I'll tell you why: Because he's made me care about politics again.
For eight years under Clinton, I didn't have to care about politics. Hell, I barely read the newspaper.
Giving Bush the Presidency was like handing the keys to your car to a teenager.
You're a little nervous but you say, "What the hell, he's old enough to be trusted with this."
And you say, "Okay, remember, it's got a surplus on it, so don't go crazy on the spending. And the stock market is ticking over - "
"Come on, daaad, it's not like I'm a liberal. I can handle this."
"Okay I just wanted to - goodbye."
Then, two years later you're like, "Hey, what the hell? Who ran up a deficit on this thing?"
"Uh, it was the Democrats."
"I mean Saddam. He's a bad guy, dad."
Saturday, March 13, 2004
Some fundamentalist Muslim calls the USA "The Great Satan," we shoudl reply: "Thanks for calling us great! See how great you think we are?"
I'm an advocate of "Playground Diplomacy."
Did you ever notice tha the people who are the most paranoid about getting spied on are the ones with the least reason to be?
I mean, no offense, but if you're wearing a tin-foil helmet, the CIA doesn't need to read your mind. The CIA already has tin foil technology. They've probably figured out how to turn it into a helmet.
Also, if you're a dirty guy living in the park, no one is watching you. I think it's safe to say that anyone who wants to know what it looks like when a guy takes a dump behind a bush does.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Including a half-hour set out in Astoria.
Deets here, boss.
of the Harvard University Passive-Aggressive Institute of Study
That's spelled H-A-R-V-A-R-D. University. You may have heard of it.
It isn't exactly a community college.
Not that I'm saying you made it through community college.
Don't get me wrong; I'm sure you're probably smart enough to have gotten through community college.
Oh. Wesleyan? That's much better.
Nice office. Very homey. If you live in the Salvation Army Men's Shelter. Just kidding!
How smart of you to buy this couch before it became retro.
I guess you don't offer your guests water. Oh no, I didn't mean that as a hint. Why thank you! Oh, tap water. Well, they say New York has some of the best-tastin tap water in the city.
Hmm, this tastes like a vintage Trenton, 1974. Relax, I'm just kidding guy.
Who's that adorable womn in the picture? Your girlfriend? So much for those gay rumors.
How long have you been together? Three years? She wouldn't say yes, huh?
Oh yes, I did meet her. I can't imagine it; beautiful women never slip my mind.
Oh, I think you're a very attractive couple. Couple of whats I won't say.
Oh, i didn';t say anything. I just have this tendency to trail off muttering. No, really, I hard said anythingworth repeating.
Anyway, it's been really nice chatting with you, but I have to run. No, I'd love to stay for dinner, but I totally forgot that tonihgt's my turn to walk the dog. My wife gets very upset if I don't do it. That dog is the most important thing in our lives right now.
but seriously, let's do this again some time.
Oh, I don't have my Day Planner on me.
Sure, give me a call. Only - wait a couple of weeks until I buy a new Day Planner.
All right? Great. Good to see you, too.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
There's no more jarring feeling than turning on the radio and hearing a great song that ROCKS! And so you start rockin' to it with al your might:
"WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE WE GOT FUN AND GAMES!"
And it ends and the announcer says:
"That was Guns & Roses here at the home of Classic Rock, where you're turning into your parents. Coming up next, Bon Jovi's Dead or Alive as part of our Super Easy Listening for Old People Rock Block!"
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
I'm not good at job interviews, and my friend told me, "If yo uwant the job you have to be super-aggressive."
So this guy asked me in a job interview, "Where do you see yourself in five years?"
And I said, "In five years? I see myself in your job, making love to your wife, and eating your babies ON THE MOON!"
A couple of months ago, my friend Vanessa asked me if I would want to be on Queer Eye For The Straight Guy. I told her the truth, which is that I would be too intimidated by having a bunch of bitchy gay guys tear me a new one for my sartorial tastes.
Then, later that same week, my friend Damion suggested I go on the show. Then the next week, another friend suggested I get on Queer Eye. Three other people suggested it over the next couple months.
Last week, my mom told me, "I was talking to your grandmother yesterday, and she said you should be on that Queer Eye show. I told her I agreed, but that you'd be too insulted if I suggested it."
First of all, you'll notice that she suggested it anyway.
Secondly, OK, I GET IT! MESSAGE RECEIVED! I don't have the world's greatest dress-sense.
(You're all wrong, and someday the world will be ready for McEneaney Style!)
So I'm going to nominate myself for the show this week, but other people can nominate me for the show as well, apparently, So if you have five spare minutes (and if you're reading this blog, you probably have five spare minutes), click on this link right here and get me on.
I think I want to be a Ramone.
Excuse me, I mean - Now I Wanna Be A Ramone.
Until that day comes I'm stuck trying comedy, so please do come to a show I'm producing tonight in New York (details below).
My friend Becky and I have been on TV, and we want to be on TV again. But, and if you don't know comedy at all, the deal is that bookers pretty much don't go out looking for new talent any more. They have talent sending them tapes.
The only way to make a tape these days is to do a "bringer" show at a comedy club. That's where you have to bring from 10 to 25 of your friends to a comedy club, where they will pay an exorbitant cover on top of which they will pay a lot of money for drinks.
Then they have to sit through a show which could be charitably described as, "mostly people who can only get onstage by dragging their friends to a comedy club."
So Becky and I got the PIT Theatre to let us use their space to run a taping show where our talented friends can make a tape, bring their friends to a guaranteed good show, etc.
I don't know why I bothered to say all that, other than being a comedian in New York can be very frustrating.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
The Becky & Liam Fun-Time Happiness Hour
The PIT Theatre
154 W 29th St, 2nd floor
RESERVE: 212 563 7488
8:00pm - $10.00
* Kyria Abrahams (writer Jest, VH1)
* Dan Cronin ("Late Night w/ Conan O'Brien," "Premium Blend")
* Becky Donahue ("Premium Blend," "Tough Crowd w/ Colin Quinn")
* Rachel Feinstein (Comedy Central "Insomniacs")
* Liam McEneaney ("Premium Blend")
* Susan Prekel (Montreal Comedy Festival)
* Paul Sullivan (director, "First Time Caller")
* Jessica Wood (HBO's "Def Comedy Jam")
* Rena Zager (writer, "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?")
Saturday, March 06, 2004
A Political Fable In Two Chapters
by Liam McEneaney
I - SPRING
Once upon a time, outside the tiny hamlet of Derbyshire, there was a tiny farm. And on the farm there lived a Farmer and his Wife.
The Farmer was an honest, open-faced man. The Farmer's Wife was a stout, black-haired lady with grey hair growing in her temples and a twinkle in her pretty blue eyes.
They had four children; all sons. The oldest boy was named for his father. The farm was surrounded by a dark green wood. Along the fields were rows and rows of turnip and cabbage and all the good things people don't like to eat, but do anyway because it's good for them.
There was a farm-house The Farmer's father had built with his own hands and the help of the father of The Farmer's Wife. There was a barn. There was a henhouse. Also - and this was The Farmer's own work - a brand-new pig-pen.
One clear Spring day, The Farmer kissed The Farmer's Wife on the forehead and said, "Farewell Mother" - she was not his mother, but that was his affectionate nickname for this woman who had given him four children - "to buy us a nice piglet for to fatten up, and we shall eat well when the Winter comes." And The Farmer's Wife smiled.
When The Farmer came home that night, he had a beautiful Fat Little Piglet in the back of his wagon. The Farmer carried The Fat Little Piglet into the yard and held it high into the air for The Farmer's Wife and their children to admire. Which they did.
The Fat Little Piglet was perfectly brown, perfectly round, perfectly soft, and perfectly fat. It had the innocent look of a newborn baby in its fat little black eye. The Farmer placed it carefully into the brand-new pig-pen, where it rooted about happily in the brand-new dark mud The Farmer's Wife had mixed specifically for The Fat Little Piglet.
The family watched the Fat Little Piglet for a long time before retiring into the farm-house for supper.
That night, over supper, The Farmer told The Farmer's Wife, "The little guy cost me five silver pieces. I tried to talk him down, but the man who sold it to me refused to bring his price down. I tried to offer him two, and he told me no, The Fat Little Piglet's mother was very special. I tried to offer him four, and he told me no, The Fat Little Piglet's mother was very special. I would have walked away, but there was something very special about this Fat Little Piglet."
And The Farmer's Wife frowned, but did not say tell The Farmer that she thought he had wasted so much of their money when they had so little. Partly because she had respect for The Farmer's wisdom. But mostly because there was, indeed, something very special about The Fat Little Piglet.
Although if you asked The Farmer's Wife, she couldn't tell you what was so special.
Over the summer, The Farmer grew very busy with his work on the farm. Their sons helped him, and The Farmer's Wife grew very lonely in her daily chores. She washed alone. She swept alone. She cooked alone.
She found that, whenever she had a few extra minutes, she would come out to the brand-new pig-pen and talk to The Fat Little Piglet.
"Oh, Fat Little Piglet," she would say, "I am so lonely."
Or, "I am so grateful to have you to talk to, Fat Little Piglet."
Then she would sing a song to The Fat Little Piglet:
"Fat Little Piglet, O how I love thee,
So brown and so round, and oh so tasty.
Won't you, oh won't you stay with me,
And together we shall feed my family."
And one day, when she approached the pig-pen, having finished the wash, and having swept the floors of the farmhouse, and having collected the eggs from the hen-house, and having finished grinding the wheat for a new loaf of bread, she walked up to the pig-pen.
"Oh Fat Little Piglet," she said.
"Hello Mother," replied The Fat Little Piglet.
II - AUTUMN
The Fat Little Piglet was now a Full-Grown Pig. Still perfectly brown, perfectly brown, and perfectly fat. But now almost a hundred pounds.
The Farmer's Wife still visited the Full-Grown Pig every day. At first she had been mighty upset; she had never thought it crazy to talk to a Fat Little Piglet, but had not liked it when The Fat Little Piglet had started talking back.
The family had agreed that the talking Fat Little Piglet would be their secret. At first, The Farmer had thought to set up an attraction charged their neighbors six-pence a head to see it.
But their neighbors were as poor as they, and the family would feel bad about taking the little money their neighbors have. And besides, once word got around that a family possessed such a remarkable animal, the King's Men would surely come and take it away, leaving The Farmer, The Farmer's Wife, and their four sons with no pork over the Winter.
So The Farmer's Wife still came out to visit The Full-Grown Pig every day. And she would sing The Fat Little Piglet Song to The Full-Grown Pig:
"Fat Little Piglet, O how I love thee,
So brown and so round, and oh so tasty.
Won't you, oh won't you stay now with me,
And together we shall feed my family."
And The Full-Grown Pig would root around happily.
And The Farmer's Wife would say, "Oh Fat Little Piglet" - for, although he was now a Full-Grown Pig, that was now and always The Farmer's Wife's name for him - "Washing those sheets was so hard. I am so tired."
And The Full-Grown Pig would reply, "Oh Mother, come sit with me and sing, and soon you shall have strength anew."
And so she would.
But the Harvest was coming soon, and with the Harvest the chill winds of Winter.
The Farmer and his sons and even The Farmer's Wife worked the fields that October, from the moment the Sun peeked over the horizon until the Full Moon stood guard over the countryside. And one day they were done. And there was to be a big Harvest Dance, to which the entire countryside was invited. And each family to bring one dish that all could enjoy.
The Farmer and The Farmer's Wife stood at the pig-pen. The Farmer held a very large knife in his hand, called a "cleaver."
"Oh Fat Little Piglet," The Farmer's Wife said. "I have such a problem. My family is to go to the Harvest Dance tomorrow, and each family is to bring a special dish that all can enjoy. But our neighbors down the road have chickens, so they are already bringing chicken. And our neighbors further down the road have cows, and so they are bringing beef. The only dish that we can offer is pork. Hot, delicious pork. Our neighbors have heard us talk so many times about how big, and brown, and soft, and round you are. They are so looking forward to a delicious pork meal. I hate to ask you such a favor, but is there anyway we could have one of your legs? It would mean ever so much to us."
And The Farmer added, "And besides, three legs are plenty to walk around on. Why, I make it around well on two!"
And the innocent black eyes of The Full-Grown Pig met the twinkling blue eyes of The Farmer's Wife and said, "If I can do anything to help you Mother, then by all means, please have one of my legs."
And The Farmer's Wife held The Full-Grown Pig, singing The Fat Little Piglet song to it as The Farmer quickly used the "cleaver" to cut one of the Full-Grown Pig's legs off.
"Why," said The Full-Grown Pig, "That hardly hurt at all. And may I ask you both a question? It is getting a little cold out here, and I was wondering when I'd be allowed to live indoors like the chickens in the henhouse?"
And The Farmer and The Farmer's Wife looked at each other uneasily.
The next week, The Farmer and The Farmer's Wife approached The Full-Grown Pig again. The Full-Grown Pig couldn't help but notice that The Farmer was again holding the "cleaver" in his hand.
"Oh Fat Little Piglet," The Farmer's Wife said. "My sons are ever so hungry. They are growing boys, and while turnips and cabbages and suchlike are good for growing boys, they need meat inside them to sustain them."
"Besides," The Farmer said, "two legs are as good as three. Just look at me walking around all day."
And as the "cleaver" flashed in the sun, the Farmer's Wife held The Full-Grown Pig and sang The Fat Little Piglet song to him.
Twice more the Farmer and The Farmer's Wife visited The Full_grown Pig, and after the fourth visit, he lay in the mud of his pen, legless and alone. But still happy, as he trusted the Farmer's Wife to know what was good for him.
"Perhaps my legs will grow back by the next Spring," said the Full-Grown Pig to himself.
"And besides, now I am closer to my beloved mud than ever."
Two days later, The Farmer approached The Full-Grown Pig alone, carrying the "cleaver" in his hand.
The Farmer's Wife had not visited The Full-Grown Pig, and had avoided his eyes whenever she passed through the farm-yard to collect eggs from the henhouse.
As The Farmer walked up to the pig-pen, The Full-Grown Pig squealed with joy. "Is Mother coming to visit?"
"No," said The Farmer. "You are going to visit her. Parts of you are."
"Oh," said The Full-Grown Pig, "Which parts? For I have not many left."
"The bacon parts," said The Farmer, as he lifted his "cleaver" into the air. And he cut the Full-Grown Pig's body off.
The Full-Grown Pig's head watched from the mud as The Farmer tucked The Full-Grown Body under his arm.
"At least I can still talk," said The Full-Grown Pig's head from it's place down in the mud. "And if I can talk, I can still sing:
Fat Little Piglet, O how I love thee,
So brown and so round, and oh so tasty - "
"That reminds me," said The Farmer, who walked back to the pig-pen.
And he took an apple out from his pocket and stuffed it into The Full-Grown Pig's mouth.
Friday, March 05, 2004
This guy I was sitting next to at work today explained it to me:
Apparently this guy (we'll call him "Ron," in case he ever figures out how to use the Internet) knows the entire Bush family because "Ron" used to be a CIA operative.
"Ron" gets Christmas cards every year from the Bush family and from John Ashcroft.
"Ron" personally called Michael Powell, the head of the FCC, and asked him to take Stern off the air.
And hey Presto! Yet another shadowy figure of influence pulls strings from behind the scenes (in this case, at a low-rent market research call center) and affects your daily life.
By the way, please note that I am breaking this exclusive before any of the so-called "main-stream" press.
What time is it?
You mean right now?
No, I thought I might like to know what time it is three days form now, in the future.
The NY Post's vicious editorial cartoonist is one of my favorite cartoonists of all time. Here's his latest:
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Busy today. Enjoy this thing I wrote over a year ago:
ARE YOU A MEATHEAD?
Take this simple quiz and find out. Simply check every answer that's true about you, and give yourself the number of points next to the question.
I OWN A SHIRT WITH THIS ON THE FRONT:
(1) _ "Ten Reasons A Beer Is Better Than A Woman"
(1) _ "Get A Job!" with one skeleton giving another a blowjob
(1) _ a bootleg shirt featuring cartoon characters doing something outlandishly out of character and/or saying something profane
(2) _ "One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor!"
(2) _ "I'm not as think as you drunk I am"
(2) _ (in fuzzy letters) "MASTURBATION WILL TURN YOU BLIND"
(3) _ any college you did not actually attend
(3) _ any bar
(4) _ "NEW YORK FUCKING CITY!!!"
(1) _ is an IROC
(1) _ is a Prowler
(1) _ has a very very loud stereo system
(1) _ has a horn that plays "The Theme From the Godfather"
(2) _ is a silver Prowler
(2) _ has sweet racing stripes
(2) _ has a Bad Boy/Yosemite Sam sticker across the back window
(3) _ has the brightest high-beams the law will allow
(3) _ has a horn that plays "La Cucaracha"
(3) _ has flames across the side
(4) _ is worth more to me than the lives of my wife and family
(5) _ is currently parked in a Handicap spot. What?
(5) _ is nicknamed "The Pussy Machine"
MY HOUSE IS DECORATED WITH
(1) _ velvet, velvet, velvet!
(1) _ a street sign
(1) _ Precious Moments Figurines
(2) _ an "If You Sprinkle When You Tinkle, Please Be Neat and Wipe the Seat" bathroom poster (add a point if it isn't framed)
(2) _ a plaster matador statue
(3) _ a plaster matador lamp
(3) _ Christmas lights 365 days a year
(3) _ plastic-covered furniture
(4) _ more than two sports-related memorabilia
(5) _ plastic fruits/vegetables/plants
ON A NORMAL DAY, I WEAR
(1) _ one gold-plated chain
(2) _ a gold-plated chain, plus a crucifix
(3) _ two gold-plated chains with a big crucifix and a fake-diamond ring
(4) _ three or more gold-plated chains, more than one fake-diamond ring, and something brass that spells out my name
(5) _ enough jewelry that people think I cleaned out QVC
ON SPECIAL OCCASIONS, I WEAR
(1) _ a polyester suit
(2) _ my "formal" baseball cap
(3) _ the fancy gold-plated jewelry
(4) _ a tuxedo t-shirt
(5) _ a shirt.
THE FUNNIEST THING I EVER SAW WAS
(1) _ that farting scene in Blazing Saddles
(1) _ This doll, it's a guy, and you squeeze this bulb and he pulls his pants down!
(1) _ "Truly Tasteless Jokes XXII" - that Blanche Knott, boy, she's still got it
(2) _ my "10 Ways a Beer Is Better Than A Woman" t-shirt
(2) _ "Married with Children," the first season
(2) _ Dice!
(3) _ this guy, he called up Larry King and started saying, "Baba Booey motherfucker" over and over
(3) _ The Three Stooges
(4) _ Gallagher
(5) _ the Special Olympics
I HAVE HAD
(1) _ a screaming match with my wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/husband outside of a bar at 3 in the morning
(1) _ more than one DWI charge (add a point for every DWI charge)
(1) _ a repo man visit me
(2) _ a mullet (guys)
(2) _ high hair (women)
(3) _ the best days of my life on the high school football team/cheerleading squad
(3) _ trouble understanding why people "shush" me for talking loudly to my wife and kids during movies
(4) _ a mullet (women)
(4) _ high hair (guys)
(5) _ the best days of my life in my old fraternity/sorority
(5) _ sex with a prostitute
(5) _ a trip to a nationally syndicated talk show to tell my significant other that I am dumping them/cheating on them/gay
(5) _ date rape charges filed against me after a party (add 5 points for each additional charge)
HOW TO SCORE
Total your points on all the statements you have checked. Now go back and check the rest of the statements you were ashamed to admit to truthfully the first time around and give yourself double points for those. Now go back and check all the statements that were true, but you figured didn't count because you had them "ironically," and give yourself triple points. Add 100 points if you mentally added a "How to Have Sex" joke after the "HOW TO SCORE" heading.
0 - 10 points - You are either a liar, a hippy, or a pretentious intellectual. Any way you slice it, you are probably not very popular.
10 - 40 points - You have an ordinary level of meatheadedness. Congratulations! You are an American!
41 - 60 points - Congratulations, Mr. President.
61 - 100 points You are a meathead extraordinaire. Shouldn't you be in a chat room, asking someone about their "AGE/SEX/LOCATION GOTTA PIC??!!!!"?
100 points + - Time to pack up your things and move out to Staten Island, kind of a Meathead Wildlife Preserve, where you will feel safe in a habitat among your own kind.
Monday, March 01, 2004
Tuesday is election day for Democrats.
If you don't vote, I don't want to hear shit from you for the next four years. Seriously, the issues are just too important to intellectualize your laziness and sloth this time around.
Jokes later tomorrow.