I'm not a doctor, but I play one in real life.

It’s funny how life altering revelations can get dropped in your lap sometimes. As I was eating supper, I think I found my calling in life tonight.

I was cutting into my steak and I noticed I was making some really precise and beautiful cuts. Maybe it was skill, or maybe it was all of these years of being a fat-ass who likes to eat fatty red meat. Either way, my knife work was excellent. Then it hit me, maybe I was born to be a surgeon.

Now, I know it takes more than just tearing into a T-bone to become a licensed doctor. It’ll take me months to get a degree from a highly regarded Tijuana medical school. I also know that there are plenty of other aspects of being a doctor I need to fully grasp. For example, I need to work on my bedside manner. I have a nasty habit of telling people who are hurt to ‘rub some dirt on it and walk it off’.

I also need to learn about prescribing the right medicine instead of giving people Tic-Tac’s. Sure, the pain wouldn’t go away, but their breath would be minty fresh. Actually, that’s how you could tell who my patients were. They’d be the ones constantly moaning in pain, but would smell terrific.

You know, the real reason I was good at cutting the meat (as well as the cheese, but that’s another story) is because I was also using a fork and I’m not sure that would fly too far in the operating room. My surgeries would go down the tubes because of it, “Nurse, pass me the scalpel. Now the clamps. Now the salad fork. What do you mean we don’t have a salad fork?! What kind of rinky-dink hospital is this anyway?!”

Oh well, maybe I should just stick to playing doctor with my girlfriend. At least I don’t have to worry about being slapped with a malpractice suit with her. But then again, I do take the game very seriously. I pay attention to every detail like wearing the lab coat, using the stethoscope, and making sure my interns take precise notes. She gets creeped out by having a bunch of medical school students in the bedroom, but how else are they going to learn?

-B

Returns, excuses, and storms.

Sorry for the long lapse in posts. I'd like to give you all a good reason why I haven't been on the ball, but I don't have one. What I do have, however, is a bunch of totally unrelated excuses that won't explain my actions, but should draw your attention away from my laziness:

1. I didn't mean to blow you off, but my world domination plans have thickened.
2. My dog ate my posts, and by 'my dog' I mean 'me' and by 'ate my posts' I mean 'sat on the couch and stuffed my face with cheetos all night'.
3. It was the Germans.
4. How can I post with the state of global economics and unilateral affairs are in the state they're in?
5. They don't make the internet like they used to.
6. The virgin sacrifices took way longer than I expected.
7. The man on the TV told me to stay tuned. I didn't want to let him down.
8. My stigmata was acting up.
9. Time travel accident.
10. Remember that movie with the little kid and the alien and the flying bikes? Same thing happened to me.

Now with that out of the way, I can tackle a pressing issue, Hurricane Katrina. Ok, it was pressing a few weeks ago, but now that I've had time to digest most of it, I think I'm ready to comment. First off, for those of you who don't know, my family and friends down in Louisiana are ok. Houma was spared for the most part. Also, to those of you who asked about my family and showed me the utmost concern and compassion, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

For a while I was pretty nervous. After the storm hit I didn't get in touch with my family for about a week. I did get word that my parents left town and went to Houston. I wasn't worried too much about them leaving town. It was my oldest brother that I was worried about. I wasn't sure if he evacuated or not. In the back of my mind I could picture him half-naked in his driveway, with empty beer cans strewn about the yard, and screaming at God to "come and get you some of this, big boy!" Sure, that scenario seems a little silly, but for those of you who have met my brother, you all know that it isn't too far-fetched.

It's so very sad that the region got nailed the way it did. But then again, that's just the way nature plays the game. I feel bad for the folks who have lost so much and hopefully they'll find the courage to move through this. I can see both sides of the coin for the people who evacuated and the people who stayed put.

For the folks who left, regardless of how early or late they decided to take off, I understand them being concerned with their safety and the uncertainty of not knowing what they would come home to, if they even had a home to come back to at all. It's got to be tough when you're packing your things and you begin to think that there is a chance that these may be your only possessions after all of this is through.

For the folks who stayed put, I understand as well. To those of you say, "Well anyone who stayed deserved what they got", I say this, "Shut your lips!" Nobody, and I mean NOBODY deserves to lose their possessions, their homes, their family, their friends, or their lives. So the next time you hear anyone say that, call them on their ignorance, or if you yourself are thinking about saying that, hold that thought and let it be the stillborn idea it was meant to be.

Not everyone had the means or resources it took to leave town. Not everyone even knew how to leave. It's not something they teach us in school. There are no "Reading, Writing, and Running Like Hell" lesson plans in the curriculum. Once again, for whatever reason people stayed behind, NOBODY deserved this.

Now that I'm nice and spun up, I'd like to ask CNN and Fox News for a favor: Guys, I'm pleading with you, stop showing us just the sensational and negative sides of the story. We just want the facts, nothing more, nothing less. I don't want to see fifty reporters on the street getting tossed about in the wind. You can just tell me that it's windy. I'll believe you. It doesn't take getting clobbered by a flying mailbox to convince me. I'm really not that dense, regardless of what my friends have told you.

Also, there is much more news going on that just looting. Tell me the coordinates of the storm. Tell me how the levees are holding up. Tell me which shelters are open. Tell what roads are closed. We're not asking for much, except for news. Oh wait, I forgot that I was asking a news channel for all of this, I won't get none of that. Let's just watch another three hours of folks running about with bags in waist deep water.

While I've brought up looting, here's my take on it. I think it all comes down to someone's intention when it comes to taking things. 'Oh my goodness, are you condoning theft?' Well, sort of. If things are so bad where you don't have the resources to survive, then, by all means, go and get what you need live. You can always ask for forgiveness later. Now, if you've got your eyes on a kickass big-screen TV and are just waiting for the right natural disaster to go and get that bad boy, I say 'no'. I understand it's tempting. I think the same thoughts. Although I'm in Maryland, where we've got no natural disasters on tap, I'm still wishing for a giant 100 foot mutant bug to come rampage through my city so I can knockout my Christmas list at the local Best Buy. I'm saying this now, but I'm pretty sure if Mothra decided to hit town I'd go stock up on bug spray first before I stroll through video games section. Although, when the new version of Madden NFL Football comes out, I might make an exception.

Now most of you who know me know that I don't like talking politics. I don't care if you vote Democrat, Republican, Independent, Libertarian, Green Party, Mars Delegation, Purple Lizard People for a United Venus, or whatever. It's just not my thing. I have my thoughts and beliefs, and you have yours, and I like to leave it at that. But I will say this. Everyone who is trying to find out whose fault it is for the slow response time, or the distribution of resources, or the movement of the evacuees in the shelters, please shut up for a minute. Now is not the time to point fingers. Now is the time to clean up, pick each other up, help each other out, give to charities, and just try to fix the mess before any of us decides who did what to who. Right now, the only thing that can be blamed for Hurricane Katrina is Hurricane Katrina. And I'll tell you what, the hurricane doesn't give a damn if you hate it or not. I've cursed at many a storm and guess what, it didn't stop them one bit.

While I've been putting all of this together, I'm watching Hurricane Rita romping through the Gulf of Mexico. My thoughts and prayers go out to everyone who is and going to be affected by this one. I hope everyone who decided to leave got out safe, and I hope everyone who decided to stay batons down the hatches and makes it through alright.

Thanks for being so patient with me. Your support is appreciated.
-B

By the way, I'm trying new bells and whistles with the blog. Let me know what you think and if you have any tips, tricks, or suggestions you'd like to throw my way, drop a comment.

I'm wearing my Foghat to the opera.

A few days ago, my friends and I were sitting around having a few beers and shooting the breeze. We brought up the usual topics: midgets, porn, and Tijuana donkey shows. You know, if you think about it, the Tijuana donkey shows could fit into the midgets AND porn category. That's a piece of knowledge you'll never run across in a game of Trivial Pursuit.

Anyway, the radio was on a classic rock station and we were all jamming until one of my buddies popped up and said, "What band?" As soon as he said that, we all fell silent. It was as if you would have given a family of apes a calculus book. Blank stares all around. Then my buddy said, "C'mon, it's Foghat off of their 1975 album, Fool for the City...DUUUHHH!!!" This is when I promptly socked him in the arm.

Now I don't know about you, but I've always hated those goobers who feel it's their duty to quiz you on old songs. It makes it hard to jam out to some old tunes with some assclown over your shoulder going, "What band? What album? What year? What record label? Who was the first lead singer? Who was the third triangle player after they went to progressive rock?" SHUT THE HELL UP ALREADY!

You don't see people doing this stuff over opera. "What composer? Who's the tenor? Who is his understudy? Who was the fifth fat lady to audition for this part? What's her bra size?"

-B

http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/022ElP.jpg

Can I get you anything, sir?

My girlfriend and I went out to dinner the other night. No, it wasn't the type of place where they ask if I'd like to 'supersize' anything. I guess that's because she chose the restaurant. Although, I would have bought her the hot apple pie. I like to pamper my baby.

As we went through ordering everything, our waiter, Brad, seemed to be really excited over everything we wanted. He'd ask us what we wanted to drink, then he'd freak out and go, "Excellent choice!" When we ordered the appetizer, he did it again, "Fabulous! This is really good!" As we went through the rest of menu, he just kept on doing it, and it was starting to make me feel like he wasn't being sincere. When my girlfriend asked for another glass of water he said, "Ooooh, good call ma'am!" That's when I knew he was just kissing our asses for a good tip.

I hate it when waiters try to schmooze you after you make a menu choice just to get an extra few bucks. It makes me feel like a retarded kid who just gave his parents the 37th piece of macaroni art but they don't want to tell him that they're sick of his terrible pasta creations so they just say things like "Oooh, Corky, that's sooooo good. You're so special!"

And another thing, it doesn't matter what you order, they're gonna say that patronizing crap anyway. I could have ordered a turd on a cracker and Brad would've gushed over my choice of cuisine by saying, "Tremendous choice, sir. I just had that last week." Well Brad, wipe the crap outta your teeth and get me another round of drinks, you're gonna have to find another way to hustle these last few bones outta my pocket.

-B
http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/021ElP.jpg

Thank ya. Thank ya vera much...

Did I mention I'm glad to be done with the ass story? Just checking.

I know this is a week late, but I'd like to personally thank everyone who came out to our show at the DC Improv last Thursday. It was good to see all of you. I hope we put on a good show for you and I hope you had as much fun watching it as we did doing it. Thanks, again, for supporting live comedy and I hope we can do it again really soon.

Oh, and I'd like to give a special 'thanks' to my crazy cheering section..."Hey Bart! Nice shirt!" You guys are nuts...and I like it.

-B

http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/020ElP.jpg

By the way, there is another DICSC show on the 24th of August at the DC Improv. I won't be in it, but won't you stop by and check it out? The shows are always funny and it will be loaded with a very talented cast.

While I'm making plugs, if you're in the Centreville, VA area on August 12th or 13th go to Lafterhours and see my mentor and role model Matt Kazam. He's a great comedian and good person. Look for details at http://www.lafterhours.com/

Chapter 5...The Conclusion...finally!

Ok, it's time for chapter 5...for my Latin friends, it's chapter cinco. For my friends in Joliet, Illinois...well, I don't have any friends from there. If you happen to be from Joliet, hi there! Would you like to be my friend? (You probably won't after reading this blog.) Here we go...

I got an appointment with a surgeon and went in to see him. He was a very nice guy. He only punched me in the nose once! What a sweetheart. Anyway, after we got my nose to stop bleeding, he examined my butt and scheduled me down for surgery. Yeah, THAT kind of surgery. The kind where they admit you in a hospital and put you out. I bet my butt's ego was feeling pretty good. After all, it had been getting tons of attention.

A week later I went on down to the hospital. I've got to admit I was a little scared. Regardless of how minor the surgery is, there is still a chance of dying when they put you out and I started getting ready for my death, just in case. I had it all planned out too. I was going to have midget Elvis impersonators, a dancing monkey show...ok, that's as far as I planned it. I still wasn't sure on what I wanted done to my body. I either wanted to have my crotch cremated and sprinkled over the Virgin Islands, or have my body wrapped in Saran Wrap and let my friends do things like hit me with a baseball bat and shoot me out of a cannon.

Regardless of how far I had planned, it was time to go under the knife. They rolled my bed into the operating room and placed a mask on my face. The attendant told me the mask was for oxygen and I was cool with that. Then the smell of the mask changed. I asked if it was the gas, but all I could get out was, "Hey, you tricked me. You dirty motherblaamuuuffffff..." Off to sleep I went.

I didn't have any visions of going through a tunnel or seeing a white light when I was under, so I guess things went smoothly. When I woke up, I was really loopy and my butt hurt. Unlike other punchlines to most jokes I've heard and told, this was supposed to happen.

The recovery period over the next few weeks was a pain in the butt. Seriously, it was. After the swelling went down, which was hard to tell because of my fat ass, I took a look at the damage. Not only did they remove the cyst, but they gave me a boob job too! Ok, I'm kidding, the boobs were there before the surgery.

Just about a month ago, I finally got the stitches out and I was given a clean, bill of health. All I've got to show for it now is a huge scar that makes my ass look like it's got gills, and a few doctor bills to pay. This will definitley put my professional mooning career on hold for about a year. You know, at least they could have gave me a T-shirt that says, "If you think my face is ugly, you should see my ass!", and a lollipop for all of this. Oh well, at least it feels good to sit down again.

Thanks for bearing with this long story. Now we can get back to the business of funny thoughts and dangerous ideas again. Thanks, again, for playing along...

-B
http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/019ElP.jpg

Chapter 4...I don't feel like putting a title here.

Once again, I know it seems like I'm rushing through this. Well, I won't deny that I am. It just gets to be a pain thinking, "What am I going to write about my ass this time?". What a silly thing to think about...

So let's all flash forward a few months from the last entry. It was during good times. I just celebrated my birthday (the 14th one in a row) and just switched jobs. I was happy, I was feeling good, I was OWWW...what the hell was that? Once again my old friend, the lump, decided to rear it's ugly head. Well, I'm not sure it had a head, but it had a voice, and it decided to talk.

"Hellooooooo.", it said in a creepy voice.
I didn't answer.
"Hellooooooo?", it said again.
I still didn't respond.
Then it said, "If you won't answer me, I'll just have to hurt you." And hurt me, it did.

For the next few days a mean pain arose. Sitting and even laying down became uncomfortable and painful. That really upset me, because those were two things I was really good at.

As time passed, I decided to examine the area. Imagine my surprise when I looked to find that I was growing a tail! Normally growing a tail would be a good thing. It's a sign of evolution, after all. But this tail sucked! It wasn't even a cool prehensile tail. At least with one of those, I could put it to good use by having another appendage to feed myself with.

Enough was enough and it was finally time to get this taken care of. I was tired of my lump controlling me. Heck, it even made me watch late night Cinemax dirty movies, and I hate doing that...yeah, right. After a full day of calling doctors' offices with no luck, I decided I had to go to the emergency room. What an adventure that was. Just when I thought that Wal-Mart shoppers were on the lowest rung on the evolutionary ladder, the emergency room patrons found a new way to set the deficient chromosome standard. If you happen to be a Wal-Mart shopper who is checking this out, don't feel bad. I typed this part really slow so you can read this.

This emergency ward was something special. There were folks laid out all over the floors just bleeding, passing out, and smoking all over the place. I guess the cigarettes takes the edge off the pain of a sucking chest wound.

After a few hours, my number was finally called. I went into the room and prepared to take my lumps, or in this case, get my lump taken out. The physician laid me on the table and told me to relax. At least one of us was, because I hear her mutter under her breath, "Oh my God." I don't know if it was the sight of my classically sculpted ass (once again...yeah, right), or the giant lump winking at her that freaked her out (by this time it had grown a set of eyes).

I'll give her credit though, she was a trooper. In a matter of minutes she had me numbed, lanced, and drained. (I thought I'd spare you the gory details.) One prescription of percocets and a surgeon's referral later I was on my way again, feeling relieved for just a few more days...


-B
http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/018ElP.jpg

Chapter Three...Pain for a good cause.

I really want to get this story done. There are so many more interesting things going on in the world and I'm pretty sure you'd rather read about them than listen to me ramble on about my ass. So if it seems like I'm cutting a few corners, you'll know why. On with the show...

It was tough calling the doctor's office for me because I knew they were going to ask why I wanted to come in, and I didn't know how to tell them I was afraid of my ass. I guess I just wasn't well versed in the technical terminology. I'm sorry if I didn't know how to say 'ass lump' in Latin. So, I just lied and said that I needed a physical.

When I showed up for my appointment, I kind of felt sorry for the doctor. She was probably thinking that she was going to just slap a stethoscope on my chest and let me be on my way. Instead, I was coming with an ugly surprise.

As a sidenote, I chose a female doctor, because women generally have small, soft hands, and I didn't want a guy with some giant, rock crushing mitts anywhere near my butt. (Yes, I actually put that much thought into it.)

After the song and dance of getting my blood pressure and pulse taken, I sprung the lump on my doctor. And when I say 'sprung' I mean I barely whispered, "I think there's something wrong with my butt." Hey, you never know if someone else was listening. Either way, she said, "Ok then. Let's take a look", and made me drop my pants. Ok, she didn't MAKE me do it. It's just that I've never passed a chance to moon someone.

Well, when I mooned her, she gave me the most shocking and painful goose of my entire life. I guess that was her payback for surprising her with an ass lump. After a bit of prodding she wanted me to go get some X-rays done.

Flash forward to a few hours later and I'm in a radiology office. At this point my dignity is sky high. Why wouldn't it be? I'm a paper robe and socks, I'm still stinging from the goosing, and I'm still not sure what this lump is. Just to make things a little worse, the X-ray tech was in a bad mood. I tried to cheer her up by telling her that things could have been worse. SHE could have been walking around with an ass lump. She replied, "I wish I had one." Ok, I made that part up.

Then she thumbed me in the eye and pushed me onto the table...ok, I made that part up too.

After the X-ray process came the most nerve-racking few minutes of my life. The information had to be sent to the doc's office and then they had to call back and tell me what it was. Those five minutes wreaked havoc on me. The whole time my mind was just churning crazy thoughts. "What if it's cancer? What will I do? What if I have to have chemotherapy? Will I look good bald? I wonder if a lot of folks will show up to my funeral? I wonder if they'll let me rent midgets to entertain folks at my burial..." I know those are morbid and weird thoughts, but that's what actually went through my head.

Then the phone rang. My heart skipped a beat.

"Sir, good news. It's not a tumor" (visions of Arnold Schwarzenegger screaming at five year olds danced in my head)

Relief came over me. No, not THAT kind of relief. I haven't peed on myself in years...two, to be exact. I was so happy that I sprinted and slid down the freshly waxed hallways of the office in my paper gown and socks. The moody X-ray tech yelled at me for that, but I didn't care. My ass lump wasn't trying to kill me, and that's all I cared about. So I got dressed, thanked everyone and went on about my way...for a few months.

-B
http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/017ElP.jpg

p.s. I got into another show at the DC Improv. It's on Thursday, August 4th at 8:30 p.m. So, if you'd like to see me and some very funny and talented folks for a night of live, totally improvised comedy, log onto www.dcimprov.com and purchase your tickets. Buy them early because the show will sell out. Hope to see you all there!

Chapter Two...Taking My Lumps

When we last left off I was ignoring the warning signs that my body was giving me. I’ve never been one to heed warning signs anyway. I’m the type of guy who would eat Pop Rocks and drink Coke even though I know that is one of the deadliest combinations known to man. I know it’s true because I read it on the internet.

So I was living relatively pain free, unless you count watching a few episodes of American Idol, until one day I was sitting on the floor of my apartment organizing my CD’s by alphabetical order by artist, then by year, then by how many tracks were on the CD…I’m anal that way. I rolled onto my back to reach for some CD’s and it hit me again. This time the pain was so intense I actually talked to Elvis. What a weird conversation that was. It went a little something like this…

Elvis said, “Hey there buddy. If ya pass me that chocolate donut and a bottle of Formula 44D, I’ll buy you a Cadillac.”

I replied, “OOOOWWWWWWW!!! MY ASS IS KILLING ME!!!”

Elvis then said, “Thankyaveramuch.”

I told you it was weird. After Elvis left the building, I went to the bathroom and finally mustered up the courage to check my butt. I wasn’t embarrassed this time. After all, searing pain tends to make a person forget modesty. Also, I was alone at my place and I’ve done far more embarrassing things there by myself. (Hey, that inflatable doll wasn’t mine. Someone left it there.)

It was the moment of truth, or some cliché like that. I felt around down there and my world stopped spinning. I felt a lump. I’ll say it again so it really hits home. I…felt…a…lump.

For the third time in my life I was scared. The first time was when I was a little kid and went to go see the movie “E.T.” (that toad faced critter messed me up good), the second time was when I had to face the fact that my Grandma June was sick and dying (I don’t think I’ll ever get over that), and this third time was definitely a charm.

The next few days were a morbid haze. My thoughts were consumed with this little lumpy menace sitting on my tailbone harassing me. Sometimes it felt like this monster was controlling me by throwing itself into conversations. When folks would say ‘hi’ I’d reply with, “Have a nice lump…I mean ‘day’.”

After a few more days of self-torture I finally decided to call the doctor. And in I went…

-B
http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/016ElP.jpg

Episode One...The Phantom Menace.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...ok, maybe it was Uranus.

Ok, that was corny. But I figured since this is an ass crack story, I could take a crack about ass.

I guess the best way to start this story would be at the beginning. That's where most things start, unless they're some silly Quentin Tarantino movie, then I have no clue where the beginning, middle, or end is. I just know that the 'F' word is used a lot.

It all started a few months back. Life was really good then. I had a job where I could cool my heels for 8 hours a day, I was moving out of my crappy apartment, and my very first stand-up show was coming up. Things were really good...or so it seemed.

One day I was at my girlfriend's place, playing the airplane game on the floor with her son, Alex. He loves the airplane game, but he always insists on being in first-class, then starts ordering too many free beers, gets belligerent with the stewardesses and gets arrested. I've had to bail him out of jail too many times.

What?! How do you play airplane?

Anyway, I digress. During his 2nd six pack of Budweisers, I rolled onto my tailbone to lift him up and I felt the hardest, sharpest pain I have ever felt in my entire life roll up my back straight out of my eyeballs. It was the kind of pain that Stedman feels when he wakes up next to Oprah everyday. Well, I immediately put Alex down, and by put down I mean I ever so gently dropped him on his head then ran to the bathroom.

As I splashed cold water on my face to get my bearings, a bunch of questions went through my head. Questions like, "What in the blue hell was that?!" and "Did I break something?" and "Why did they ever cancel the Golden Girls?". I guess pain like that makes you think weird things. It was at that point where I decided I had to find out what was going on down there. So I dropped my pants and tried to muster up the courage to check things out. Maybe it was the fear of actually finding something or just the embarrassment of me sticking my hand in my butt crack that stopped me from looking. Let's face it, a grown man putting his hand in his own crack when there isn't a bar bet on the line is a freaky sight. So I stopped, pulled my pants up, and said to myself that it's probably nothing...just like a proud, brave, and stupid macho dummy should.

I went on like nothing happened that night and for the next few days, things felt fine. Life was good again, for the time being...

To be continued...

-B
http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/015ElP.jpg

Prologue...

The last few weeks have been a little tough. But don't cry for me. It's not very becoming and the other kids will make fun of you.

I know I haven't been posting regularly lately. But then again, nothing has been regular that much these days. It's because I had a procedure done last week. I'm sure it was surgery, but the doctor insists it was a procedure. "Where was this procedure?", you ask. It was on the most dignified of places on the human anatomy...my ass crack. I'm not sure if 'ass crack' is the proper technical terminology, but that's what I'm going with.

During the next several posts, I'll be telling you all the story of me and my ass crack. We'll share some laughs, some tears, and maybe learn a thing or two along the way. And what I mean by that last sentence is that you will all laugh at me, I'll get my feelings hurt and cry, then learn never to tell you guys personal things like this again.

Stay tuned...

-B

http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/014ElP.jpg

Our prices are INSANE!!!

As I'm sitting here, watching TV, I'm starting to notice something. I watch too much late night Cinemax.

But in between nudie shows, I flip throught the local channels. And with local channels, come local commercials. No matter where you go in the country they're all the same. Whether it's a used car dealer dancing around screaming at you to come on down because his deals are insane, or some electronics sales guy telling you he HAS to sell you that TV because he's lost his mind, they never change.

When did it become good business to be crazy? And when did we all think it was a good idea to buy goods off of these folks?

On one hand I should feel guilty for taking advantage of folks who are mentally sick for the sake of saving a few bucks. Or maybe, I should feel a bit wary because one of these dudes may actually snap in the middle of a sale if I put too much pressure on him. Let's face it, the last thing I want is to catch a bullet in the face when I broker a deal on a toaster oven.

...I hardly even eat toast.

-B
http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/013ElP.jpg

5,7,5...and those aren't your Lucky Lotto numbers.

I'm feeling a bit artistic today, and the fumes from huffing that gasoline haven't worn off yet. So today, I give you all a dose of...

"Stupidity Induced Haikus"

Something isn't right.
Is that lipstick I detect?
Not my coffee mug.
-------------------------

How could you do that?!
The pool water is now warm...
Oh well, I did too.
--------------------------

Halt you! Who goes there?
Don't make me blow my whistle.
Mall security.
--------------------------

I sit here alone.
There is no justice for me.
No toilet paper.
--------------------------

Was he on TV?
Wait, he's no celebrity.
It's just Hasselhoff.
--------------------------

Don't you all feel cultured now? I know I do.

-B
http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/012ElP.jpg

So many distractions...but they're all so good.

So me and my girlfriend are sitting here right now just thinking about something to write, but I don't know if I'll get any of it done. I've got to tell you, it's hard to type with someone else's hand down your pants.

Ooooh, I'm gonna need a minute, or maybe an hour, or maybe just the rest of the evening.

Good night everyone!

http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/011ElP.jpg

Big bucks. No Whammy!

Bob Eubanks, Chuck Woolery, Wink Martindale, Richard Dawson, Gene Rayburn, Chuck Barris.

These were the guys I grew to love when I was growing up. It was guys like this that made game shows fun. I used to love to hear Bob Eubanks ask people about their "whoopi" practices, watch Chuck Woolery crawl all over the couch when he asked folks how the date went and telling us he'd see us in "two and two", and see Richard Dawson molest innocent women right in front of their husbands and families. Game shows were fun and somewhat innocent then, and the hosts were happy folks with big toothy grins and perfect hair.

But if you turn on the TV today, forget it. It's all gone. No more giant, colorful sets or studios full of happy audience members. Today its all about how dramatic we can get the mood or how far we can push the contestants. Between shows like 'Fear Factor', 'Dog Eat Dog', and 'Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?', it seems like its not fun to be on a game show anymore. And it's only getting worse...

Pretty soon instead of shows making you eat marsupial testicles (which are pretty good by the way) or having you climbing up tall buildings hanging on by a flimsy harness, the host will just walk up to you in your home, ask your name for the tv cameras, shoot you in the face with a pistol, and give your widow a wad of cash.

...and as much as I hate to say it, I'd watch that show.

-B

http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/010ElP.jpg

I'm all 'geeked' up.

Sorry for the long delay gang. More computer problems. But I can't blame it all on the computer. The glitches would have been if I were a smart enough human to take care of them. I was going to give the 'Geeks on Call' a holler but I ended up calling 'Dweebs on Call'. A bunch of guys looking like Steve Urkel showed up at my house, ate all my cheese, and then left. I didn't realize there was such a difference between a geek and a dweeb.

Anyway, it looks like El Presidente` will be back up and running tomorrow.


Viva Los Something!!!

-B

I've got something on my radar...

As I’m looking out the window, seeing this thunderstorm roll through, I'm sure the local weathermen are pretty pleased with themselves. They’re probably popping the corks on a few cases of champagne because they finally got a forecast right. This means that they’re off the hook for another five years.

With our meteorologists' track record the way it is, why don't we just give up on them and start looking out the window to see what the weather is like? You would think that they would get a forecast or two right once in a while with all of those Doppler radar systems they have. I bet that they probably don’t even use them for the weather. More than likely, they bought them for the same reason most people buy SUV’s…just to show them off and try to impress the neighbors.

I can just see it now at the local weatherman bar, or wherever they hang out, to talk about cirrus clouds and stuff…

Channel 4 guy Bill Sprinkle: You know, we just got that Super Doppler 2000 system in. It’s really quite an effective system.

Channel 7 weatherguy Stormy Raines: Oh yeah? Well we just installed the Super MEGA Doppler 10000.

Bill: Well, ours can show us where the weather is heading up to the minute.

Stormy: Ours can show us up to the second.

Bill: Well ours can show the severity of the storms by color!

Stormy: Ours is done by smell!

Bill: Ours is in 3-D!!!

Stormy: Ours can actually bring the storm to your living room by raining through your TV set and sending bolts of lightning at your couch.

Bill: LIAR!

Stormy: AM NOT!

Bill: ARE TOO!

Stormy: AM NOT!

Bill: TOO TOO TOO TOO TOO TOO TOO TOO TOO TOO…

Stormy: NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT…

Then a girly slapfight would break out with the two making sure they don't mess up their hair, because that’s how I imagine weatherguys fight. All the while the sports reporters would be cheering them on and high-fiving each other in the bar. Off in the corner the guy who usually does the Adopt-A-Pet segments on Sunday mornings would be calling play by play because that's the only practice at reporting he can get hoping that, one day, they may call him up to the big show on weeknights at 11.

But he's just wasting his breath, because they'll never call him up. Just when he thinks he'll get a shot at the big desk with the really comfortable seats, the station will hire some new smooth talking anchorman with a baratone voice, great smile, and god-like hair. It won't seem fair to our Adopt-A-Pet fellow because he figures he knows this city far better and loves his community much more than the new 'Golden Boy'. Alas, he will accept that he will never get a break then drink a fifth of cheap Boone's Farm wine, climb atop of the massive Super MEGA Doppler 10000 radar and plunge to his death.

When you think about it, all of this tragedy happened just because we wanted to see if it was raining and all we had to do was look out of the window.

-B
http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/009ElP.jpg

Another year older, another year dumber.

Wow, what a hangover.

Nothing says, "Happy birthday" like a headache and the dry heaves. I'm not sure I can take the aftermath of getting loaded anymore. But just to be sure, I'll try it again next weekend. I know it sounds like I'm a glutton for punishment but, believe me, I'm just trying to be thorough to make sure that I can take it.

Either way, it was still a good birthday. It feels good to be 25 again and I'm looking forward to turning 25 again next year.

-B
http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/008ElP.jpg

Hey look! I can do political comedy too!

I know it's been awhile since I posted. My computer was on the Fritz. Hell, it was on the Hans, Gunther, Schultz, Wilhelm, and Johan too. Get it? German names! Ok, I'm the only one laughing.

So, if you live in the DC area you've probably heard the big news about Deep Throat revealing their identity. Maybe I'm the only one who doesn't see the big deal. I'm pretty sure that Richard Nixon didn't do porn, so I have no idea how these two things are related. Plus, I'm pretty sure Linda Lovelace would have never went down on the Commander in Chief.

Now I don't know about most of you, but I'm not one for mixing my porn and politics. Porn stars shouldn't get it on with Presidents, only chunky interns and white trash office assisstants should. You nasty interns stay with your own kind, and you porn stars continue to do ugly rock stars and midgets.

But, if the two worlds of adult entertainment and politics do keep mixing, maybe CSPAN will be finally worth watching.

-B
http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/007ElP.jpg

Be sure and tip your barkeeper.

Tonight I was going to talk about socialogical evolutions within corporate America and the ramifications it has on global economics further impacting the shift of structure within the world's superpowers. But then again, I figure that's beneath you all.

So instead, I'll just tell a lame joke and go to bed.

A ham sandwich walks into a bar, goes up to the barkeep and says, "Gimme a Scotch and soda."
The barkeep turns to him and says, "Look pal, we don't serve food here."

GOODNIGHT!
-B

http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y245/Y2Cajun/006ElP.jpg