Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Forty Plus Vegas

A new day dawns over Las Vegas.  A beautiful sun rises over the picturesque mountains that surround this jewel of the desert.  Not a cloud appears to disrupt the deep, azure blue sky.  Desert flowers open their petals and lean towards the life giving ball of fire in the sky.  Birds chirp a cheery reminder that another day, that sun drenched miracle of possibilities known as a day, stretches out before us, offering an unlimited number of opportunities to create memories.  You, however, notice none of this, because you’re in a hallway somewhere on The Strip, where you’ve been for the past thirty minutes.  You’re wearing one shoe, mismatched socks, and a shirt that says “I Heart Cocker Spaniels.”  You smell like Munich in October.  You’re unsuccessfully attempting to get your hotel room key to work.  It says “Room 217” right on the card.  It says room 217 right on the card sleeve.  It says room 217 on the hotel room door.  So WHY WON’T THIS STUPID KEY WORK?!?!?!  At that moment the hotel manager appears.  It seems the occupants of room 217 called down to the front desk, saying that  they were frightened because an obviously crazy homeless person reminiscent of Ted Kaczynski was trying to break into their room.  You show the manager your key and explain that YOU are in room 217.  He says “Yes sir, you are, but you’re staying in room 217 at The Luxor.  This is Mandalay Bay.”  You, my friend, are a resident of Twenty Five Year Old Vegas.  (As a refresher course, read up on Twenty Five Year Old Vegas in Part 1 of this series, by clicking HERE)
We’re not here to discuss that Vegas today.  We’re here to discuss the other Sin City, or as I call it “Forty Plus Vegas.”  It’s the Vegas for those of us a little gray at the temples.  Truth be told, it’s not really Sin City at this age.  It’s more like Misdemeanor City, or even Comedy Traffic School To Get Those Two Points Off Your License And Keep Your Insurance Rates Down City.  I discovered Forty Plus Vegas on day three of a trip with my old friend Tom last year (and delved even deeper into it on a trip with my wife earlier this year - more on that later).  Loyal readers already know that day one with Tom did not go well as far as we can recall, and day two went even worse (“Mgggwt!” “Pllrmmmmr!” “Aye, matey” “Punches!” “Let me know if you find my spleen.”).  Day three we discovered that in Las Vegas, it’s apparently acceptable to NOT be stumbledrunk at noon.  I know, I know, it was as much of a shock to us as it is to you.  Everyone please calm down.  As I write these words, The High Council of Twenty Five Year Old Vegas is drawing up paperwork to have me officially declared a heretic and burned at the stake. (Luckily, The High Council will be on Sambuca shot #4 before the paperwork is finished, forget all about it, and embark on yet another evening of firebombing their liver and auditioning for roles on the show “Las Vegas Jailhouse;” I feel pretty safe)  Day three, after breakfast - not half-eaten PopTarts found in the sock drawer and washed down with warm remnants of last nights beer, but actual food - we had a drink.  Let me repeat that - we had “A” drink, as in “one drink,” as in “Let’s at least pretend we’re grownups, if only for a little while.”  We sat in a lounge at Palazzo with that drink, people watched, and played a fun Vegas game called “Are They Hungover Or Still Wrecked?”  Around 1PM, we rediscovered the wonders of napping.  That’s right, napping; not just for children anymore.  Tom chose the couch in our room for his slumber. (Middle aged guys will know why I pointed that out - there are couch nappers, chair nappers, and bed nappers - in Twenty Five Year Old Vegas, there are Unintentional Driving Nappers, but they don’t count here.  Rarely, if ever, will a guy stray from his preferred method of napping, except during a life threatening situation such as being held at gunpoint by terrorists, or being forced to spend Sunday afternoon at his in-laws house by terrorists, or avoiding the annual gutter cleaning)  A bed napper myself, I awoke at 3PM feeling like a human being.  It was a strange feeling to have in Las Vegas, and it was at this precise moment that the existence of Forty Plus Vegas was revealed. 
What is Forty Plus Vegas?  I’m so glad you asked....
At the most basic level, it can be explained thusly: Forty Plus Vegas involves quality, not quantity. This is the Vegas of excellent steak at The Palm, not $4.99 “Prime Rib Meatlike Product” at Rotten T Dirtbags Casino And Bowl-A-Rama.  The Vegas of Macallan, not 3-for-1 shots of rotgut Gin with a curse word in the name and a picture of a Lizard on the bottle.  The Vegas of shows that are actually worth the price of admission, and where the performers are clothed. (*Guy Note: These are not the only shows we attend, but they are in addition to the nudie shows.  Also, in Forty Plus Vegas we go to the nicer nudie bars; the “Gentlemen's Clubs” where you don’t need to wear a plastic slipcover under your clothes, and the chances of catching anything simply by breathing the air are somewhat less than 50/50)  This is the Vegas that adheres to the legend of the Rat Pack Vegas: a sportcoat or cocktail shirt instead of a tuxedo t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, a bar or lounge where you can have a conversation without shouting yourself hoarse, mens rooms that don’t make you wonder if the monkey from Outbreak is dead in one of the stalls.  You know, fun but classy.  In Forty Plus Vegas, we actually unpack our suitcase in the room and put stuff in the drawers. (We also put our cholesterol and blood pressure medicine on the countertops) Oh, we also use coupons in this Vegas, and we’re proud of it.  You know that $ we saved on our show tickets?  We use that to buy top shelf booze, instead of forcing down a gallon of cheap stuff simply labeled “Wine,” with a taste reminiscent of sweaty dress socks on a hot Cleveland sidewalk in July.  We couldn’t drink that much these days anyway, we’re going to be up four times a night to tinkle as it is, and that much liquid will only exacerbate the problem.  
Forty Plus Vegas is the Vegas where “morning” actually exists.  The Strip is amazingly quiet and spacious before noon.  The breakfast buffets have some of the best food out there (The Sunday buffet at MGM is one of my personal favorites).  I think the food is better early in the day because the properties know us older folks are the ones who are awake at that time, so they need to raise the quality and appease us - we have good credit we’re willing to gamble, and no qualms about complaining to the management (Not nearly as much complaining as Sixty Plus Vegas, but that’s a WHOLE other story).  Vegas hotels know that at night, they can fill the all you can eat buffets with reheated, overly curried meat Taco Bell rejected, and the younger denizens won’t notice; they’re too busy making sure their sideways hat is just exactly sideways enough, debating whether to put on a sixth coat of Drakkar, and plotting how to meet the way-out-of-their-league females across the way, to care about taste.  They’d eat well seasoned Alpo without noticing.  In the morning, however, Las Vegas puts on a gourmet spread, and we’ll attack it like my Italian family - in other words, we’ll sit there forever.  We Forty Plusers will lounge at breakfast for as much as two hours, passing the time talking about the previous evening, saying things like “...and after the one young guy with the ring in his eyebrow put out the flames in his girlfriend’s hair, they took off.”  Then we laugh derisively, because we are required by law to show public disdain for the younger generation. (Memo to Twenty Five Year Old Vegas: Someday, you will too)   Mornings are a cornucopia of enjoyment in Las Vegas, though most people don’t now that for years and years.  At least once during a Forty Plus Vegas trip we’ll miss breakfast though, and head out to some of the most beautiful scenery in the world - the finely manicured golf courses of Misdemeanor City.
You know those golfers I described in the Twenty Five Plus Vegas article?  Well, we see them.  We see them because we’re early for our tee time as well, the difference being that we’re not early so we can have more beer before teeing off.  No, we’re early so we can properly stretch, and eat so we can take our blood pressure pills, and work out the many, many, many, many kinks and creaks in our joints before hitting the #1 tee. (We do this so as not to pull anything while riding in the cart and ogling the refreshment girls from a discreet yet still creepy older man distance)  Yes, we grinningly watch over our reading glasses as you younger guys stumble into the clubhouse and order shots at 6:15AM, then sit back and bet each other on which one of you will be “the hurler.”  (On a side note, I’ve won more $ on young guys hurling than any other table game in Vegas - the trick is to always bet on the guy wearing the trendiest sports team apparel; for example, this year watch for guys wearing stuff from TCU or the Arizona Diamondbacks.  These are teams that weren’t supposed to do much but have been wildly successful; by wearing their gear this guy has shown that he’s willing to do anything to gain male peer acceptance, including the rapid ingestion of a Foster Brooks level of tequila shots.  See, there’s a science to betting on vomit) By the time you whippersnappers have bailed on your tee time and retreated to your dank, partially forested $29 hotel room, we’re on the 4th fairway (OK, in the trees down the right of the fourth fairway)(OK, on the 12th fairway, which is on the opposite side of the trees that run down the right of the 4th fairway)(OK, in the sand trap along the side of the 12th fairway)(Shut up).  We’re laughing and having fun and feeling great, ordering beer and casually flirting with the beer cart girl in a way that will make her call her friends later and say something along the lines of “The dude was like my Dad’s age, it was gross!”  By the time we’ve hit the turn, you’re passed out in what is either an uncomfortable bed or a rather nice bathtub (Way to save money on that room, sport!).  Yes, we finish 18, have our 19th hole scotch, and head back to our luxurious accommodations at Palazzo or Wynn or The Hilton Grand Vacations Club to take a nap on a clean bed that feels like you’re floating on air.  
I know full well that young guys think that Forty Plus Vegas is “lame,” (or whatever word these kids use today ... is it me or do all of these damn songs sounds exactly the SAME?) but here’s the thing you young ‘uns need to know: We, the residents of Forty Plus Vegas, are OK with that.  More than OK.  We’re perfectly happy not being considered cool by guys with vomit on their shoelaces, and heading back at the end of the evening to a nice, comfortable, clean room devoid of most insects.  We’re perfectly OK with watching you parade off down the street, yelling and war whooping towards a group of girls (who subtly reach into their purse and grasp their mace as you approach) while we order another Macallan (the 18 year old this time) light an Arturo Fuente, and wonder how long it will be before you realize you left your phone on the table next to us ... and how long before we succumb to the guy temptation and start calling Guatemala, photographing certain body parts with it, and texting those photos to your friends. (We’re forty, but we’re still guys, Giggity Giggity!)  Yes, my young friends, we are perfectly OK with all of it.  Twenty Five Year Old Vegas has its place, and a wonderful place it is, but most of us have done it.  We’ve done it, and done it well.  Now, we’re more than thrilled to pass the baton to a new generation of ralphers, while we enjoy the best of what Vegas has to offer.  Oh, and it does have quite a bit to offer.  Vegas is nothing short of a world class destination, with entries among the best on the planet in the areas of entertainment, dining, shopping, sightseeing, and of course golf.  Obviously gaming is still far and away the #1 attraction - and make no mistake, Forty Plus Vegas in no way eschews the tables ... we dump our cash into the house’s coffers as much as anyone -  but it’s quite possible to have a fantastic trip without ever setting foot on a casino floor.  Eat a delectable meal, then see a spectacular show.  Shop an amazing variety of stores, for budgets of any size.  Hit a golf ball into a sky so blue it makes you dizzy.  
Then head back to The Strip and watch idiots yak on each other.  I mean come on, that’s entertaining no matter your age.
Next, An Addendum: Forty Plus Vegas With Your Spouse (Also known as “Girl Vegas”)
As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at  OR SUBSCRIBE TO MY BLOG VIA EMAIL THROUGH THE LINK ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE PAGE!  IF YOU DO, THERE WILL BE MUCH REJOICING!    (YAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!) ---------------->

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Twenty Five Year Old Vegas

Las Vegas.  Sin City.  What happens there, stays there.  There’s nowhere in the world like it, except the “other” Las Vegas, and I’m not talking about Laughlin.  I’m talking about the two separate Las Vegas’s (Las Vegasi?  Las Vegasen? What is the plural of Las Vegas? Los Lobos? Les Nessman? Julio IglasiVegas?  Perhaps an informed English major will let me know).  These two cities are separated not by lines on a map, but by the laugh lines and crows feet of age.  Just like in your hometown, Vegas has loud, ultra-hip, crowded places that the young congregate.  In addition, it has places with comfortable chairs, a complete acceptance of pants with loose waistbands, and significantly less floor vomit, where more seasoned individuals gravitate.  These two Sin Cities exist side by side, and their existence is as certain as taxes, death, and The Priory Of Scion (Which I’m pretty sure is either a car company or some kind of runny cheese).
I became aware of the two Vegas’s on a trip to Sin City last year with my friend Tom.  Tom and I have been friends since 1986 (a year which, according to my twelve year old daughter, was shortly after the discovery of fire) and have stayed that way through all of the ups and downs and sideways’s of our lives (Sidewaysi? Sidewaysen? SideWynona?).   Tom currently lives in Germany, where after a decade in the Army he retired and is now the morning radio personality on the American Forces Network there; CLICK HERE and check out AFN Power Connect With Tom Arnholt if you have the opportunity.  (If you ask Tom to say “Gooooood Morning Germanyyyyyyy!!!” he thinks it’s a riot.  No, really, go ahead and do it!  Nothing bad will happen, he won’t try to punch you in the rucksack or anything!)  Tom is the type of guy that other guys like to have Vegas weekends with, an old trustworthy friend who will always back you up, who speaks your particular dialect of stupid, and most importantly is always willing to buy the next round if you nurse your drink long enough and wait him out.  Being old friends, Tom and I remember Twenty Five Year Old Vegas, so on the first night of our 2010 weekend we gamely attempted to recreate those younger days.  They say “You can’t party like you did when you were younger,” but that’s not entirely true.  The truth is you can’t RECOVER like you did when you were younger.  Oh, we had no trouble that first night putting down the beer and the shots and howling at the moon, but when Day Two rolled around, we discovered that despite the Jack Daniels induced delusions the previous evening of a recaptured youth, we were indeed still men over forty.  (GUY TIP: Slamming down JD while saying “If it was good enough for Frank Sinatra, it’s good enough for me!” is nice in theory and an homage to the greatest performer of the 20th century, but you have to remember that there was only one Sinatra, and over his lifetime of being “Francis” he proved he was beyond superhuman.  We, on the other hand, can’t drink like Sinatra.  Can’t sing like Sinatra.  Heck, I even look stupid in a Fedora.  You’re not Frank, so don’t try to act like him. It’s really that simple)(The same goes for Charlie Sheen, but for entirely different reasons)  When the unholy ball of fire known as “the morning sun in Vegas” appeared the next day, I felt as if some of those “guys” Frank was rumored to have been “connected to” had been doing the lead-pipe Pesci dance on my temples. My head hurt.  My knees hurt.  My hair hurt.  I’m not entirely certain, but I think my ovaries hurt. (Ovaries are somewhere on the back of the neck, right?)(Ovari?  Ovaren?  Ovaralifragilisticexpealidocious?)  Everything hurt, folks, that’s the point I’m trying to make.  Tom?  My old friend spent the bulk of the morning staring into a neverending cup of in-room coffee and saying things like “Mrpndhstwww,” and “Uoosaaalm,” and “Ggggggpft.” (I’m paraphrasing)  We undoubtedly deserved the pain, for our brazen act of “age invading” was both unprovoked and indefensible.  The pain was no less than a message straight from God, telling us we were trespassing in the world of the young, and buddy we were not welcome.  That’s right, when paunchy interlopers with graying temples, and mortgages, and photos of our kids in the spot in our wallets where we used to store “protection” attempt to crash the party in Twenty Five Year Old Vegas, punishments from the universe are quick and severe.  So, what is Twenty Five Year Old Vegas?  I’m so happy you asked ...
LAS VEGAS #1: “Twenty Five Year Old Vegas” 
This is the Las Vegas that immediately leaps to mind when someone yells “VEGAS ROAD TRIP! WHOOOOOOO!” The Vegas of movies and beer commercials.  The Vegas of rock stars and Paris Hilton and surprisingly few underpants.  This the Vegas that stays in Vegas after you leave (Partly because you shouldn’t tell anyone what happened, and partly because there’s a Watergate sized gap in your memory tape)(Which is an odd reference to make because in 2011, the majority of people eligible for Twenty Five Year Old Vegas are far too young to have any idea what I mean by Watergate). This is the Vegas with all of the night life and three foot Yaegermeister drinks and loud music and way-out-of-your-league girls who flirt you into buying them drinks until dawn but leave with the guy in the cool car and then you wake up on the sidewalk without pants and sporting a tattoo that says “Hells Accountants - Dubuque Chapter.”  This Vegas is excruciatingly loud,  but no one seems to notice or care.  Yelling into someone’s face who is less than four inches away is not considered rude, and “dancing” with women in a manner that would get you slapped and maced in any other city is an accepted form of woo and charm.
Twenty Five Year Old Vegas is the Vegas where you need one friend who is “that guy.”  The guy who just knows people, and no one else in the group can figure out how he does it.  He’s an odd sort of Norm Peterson/Gadabout hybrid, who knows someone, some insider, no matter where you go.  He seems to have fifty six hours in his day and never sleeps.  He may or may not have been created in a lab. There’s one in every group of guys, that one that your wife/girlfriend is uneasy around, and hints that he may be a con man who’ll be played by a nattily coiffed Leo DiCaprio when they make a movie about his life.  The kind of guy that if for some reason you have a desperate need for six iguanas and a calliope, he’ll “know a place that can hook you up.”  You know that guy?  Of course you do.  That guy is essential to Twenty Five Year Old Vegas.  Without him, a night in Vegas would be just another trip to a bar.  With him, a night in Vegas is like a CIA mission - it’s a fantastic story that will get you killed if you ever tell anyone.
Twenty Five Year Old Vegas doesn’t like morning, in fact morning is its personal Kryptonite. Compared to the freedom of nighttime Vegas, morning has too many things to DO, like figuring out who that girl is, why her husband is there, where you got this Daddy Warbucks costume,  etc.  This Vegas is nearly defenseless against the “morning terrors,” but there is one way to combat it - by having limited contact with the unholy ball of fire known as the morning sun.  To reduce the power of the unholy ball, it is only seen at the end of a night, and is usually greeted with giggles, war whoops, and an unwise trip to a Dennys.  By keeping the night going directly into the next day, the darkside power of the morning is reduced, and everyone knows that Dennys has an almost supernatural force field protecting it from sanity or common sense.  At this late night snack/breakfast trip hybrid, there’s usually one member of your party who ends up asleep in the booth, blissfully unaware of the syrup mustaches and whipped butter sideburns he is given.  This is where the game of golf comes in.  The four guys who planned to play golf stumble to the parking lot and head over that way, with one passing out in the car.  Sure, we can play golf!  We can’t find our shoes or form complete sentences, and we smell like Milwaukee, but put us in a motorized golf cart and hand us those bags full of deadly weapons!  What could possibly go wrong! The remaining three arrive an hour early for their tee time and brilliantly decide to have a 6AM beer in the clubhouse, where one of them returns his breakfast “from whence it came,” if you get my drift, and joins his unconscious buddy in the car.  Seeing the surveillance-level looks they are getting from the golf course staff, the guy somewhat within shouting distance of the far fringes of sober decides that they should bail, over the loud protests of his never-say-die-or-done-drinking pal, who bursts out the door into the parking lot yelling something along the lines of “WE’RE GOING TO VEGAS!!!” They are next seen around 4PM, in a hotel room that may or may not be theirs, trying to make a meal out of the crushed pop tarts in their backpack and asking “Well, how the hell did I lose ONE sock?”
What happens then?  Well, they’ve lathered, so they rinse and repeat.  Twenty Five Year Old Vegas is a loop of debauchery where mortals attempt to become Caligulas (Caliguli?  Caligulen?  Caliguramlamadingdong?), and this is one of the larger differences between it and Forty Plus Vegas.  What is Forty Plus Vegas?  
You’ll just have to come back and see...
As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at  OR SUBSCRIBE TO MY BLOG VIA EMAIL THROUGH THE LINK ON THE TOP RIGHT OF THE PAGE!  IF YOU DO, THERE WILL BE MUCH REJOICING!    (YAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!) ---------------->

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Viva Centerfield

I’m heading to Vegas next week, loyal readers.  I’ll be attending The World Series Of Comedy, a fantastic comedy event produced by my good friend Joe Lowers (More info at  I won’t be competing, but it looks as if I’ll be closing the show on the last night, during the Finals of the contest, so if you happen to be in town that weekend please stop on out and support live comedy by maniacally cackling at everything I say and throwing money and casino chips on stage.  In addition to making the ha-ha stew, I’ll also be writing an article on an interesting duality, of which I’ve only recently become aware; there are indeed two Las Vegas’s. There’s “Twenty Five Year Old Vegas,” and “Forty Plus Vegas.”  I’ve lost money in both, but that’s not the point.  One Vegas involves single malt Scotch, high end cigars, and playing golf.  The other Vegas involves cheap beer in three foot containers, multiple visits to the $1 street burrito buggy, talking about playing golf and possibly even making a tee time, but somehow never making it to the course, because crawling out of bed for your 2:30PM start is WAY too early.  Between now and next week, I’ll be comparing and contrasting these two Sin Cities in detail, in preparation for my highly technical, Nobel-esque scientific experiment in Vegas next week.  Yes, it’s science, and the hunger for and gathering of knowledge for the good of mankind is the only reason for the trip.  What? I love science! Science rules!
Starting tomorrow: Twenty Five Year Old Vegas.
For today, I thought I’d do a monologue joke style blog entry, since I haven’t done one of those for awhile.  Following are assorted snippy comments that lodged in my brain while reading the news.  Please send all hate mail to  Someone will get back to you in 6-8 weeks.
...joke me in, Coach...
A judge in France has ordered a man to pay his ex-wife $14,000 for failing to sexually satisfy her during their marriage.  Upon hearing this, Lisa Marie Presley immediately filed a claim to be awarded Michael Jackson’s entire estate.
Staff and students at the University of Massachusetts set a new world record for the world’s largest stir-fry, which was over 4000 pounds.  Shortly thereafter, the world record for speed-eating 4,000 pounds of stir-fry was set by another group of UMass students, who had been attending the nearby “Legalize Cannabis Rally.”
Statistics show that China now has one of the highest suicide rates in the world.  Man, we are falling behind them in EVERYTHING.
Green Day lead singer Billy Joe Armstrong was removed from a Southwest Airlines flight last week after he refused to pull up his sagging pants.  OK, how bad are Green Day’s sales lately that he has to fly Southwest?
A leaking gasoline pipeline in Kenya's capital exploded this week.  According to Fox News, none of President Obama’s hometown family or friends was injured in the blast.
According to a new international poll, America was voted the world’s “Coolest Nationality.”  The same poll, which apparently consisted of high school seniors, voted Canada “Nationality Most Likely To Hang Out With The Coolest Nationality,” China “Best Nationality To Cheat Off Of During A Math Test,” and France was simply voted “The Smelly Kid.”
The Native American Cherokee National Council has sent letters to about 2,800 descendants of slaves once owned by its members, revoking their citizenship and reducing their tribal benefits.  To cushion the blow, the Council did offer them all $50 in match play at the craps tables and 2-for-1 buffet tickets.
Using an exoplanet-hunting telescope, scientists have discovered what they call a “Super Earth,” a planet that could support life.  Astronomers say this planet, called “HD 85512 b,” already has many things necessary for human life, including oxygen, water, and over 4,000 Starbucks.
Nearly 70 people in New York City were injured by gunfire over the Labor Day weekend.  Mayor Bloomberg praised the NYPD for their performance, as that’s about 1/3 of the gunfire injuries on a typical New York City weekend.
A new survey shows that 80 percent of people engage in “dirty talk” during sex.  Of the other 20%, 14% engage in “romantic talk” during sex, 4% remain silent, and the remaining 2% make vaguely disturbing erotic remarks involving Ed Asner. 
A man in Montreal was arrested after he broke into Celine Dion’s house, ate a pastry from the refrigerator and poured a bath for himself.  This proves beyond a shadow of a doubt just how freaking weird Celine Dion fans are.
This year’s Muscular Dystrophy Association telethon, which was the first without Jerry Lewis as host, earned 2 million dollars more than last year’s program.  Asked for comment, Lewis replied “MAVENCLAVENAGOWYYYEEEEE!” 
An 81 year-old woman in England who is a right-to-die advocate has tattooed “Do Not Resuscitate” on her chest.  Imagine the disappointment of the young, horny tattoo artist who was told “Hey, there’s a chick out here that wants you to ink her knockers.”  OR Actually, she wanted the tattoo on her knees, but she’s 81, so....
The Federal Trade Commission said that two mobile phone apps that claim to treat acne do not work.  Investigators are most curious as to how someone dumb enough to believe acne can be treated by an app can even afford a mobile phone.
As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

I Love You, But If That Goes In...

“I’ve never had a hole-in-one.  Never had an Ace.  Not one.  Thirty-plus years playing golf (not continuously, of course), and I’ve never experienced writing a “1” on my scorecard, excepting the times it’s the first digit of an “11” and followed an expletive-filled sentence about how unfair the previous hole was, or how poorly the club manufacturer did their job.  I’ve come close - hitting the flagstick a few times, getting within a foot or so on numerous occasions, and even lipping out once (“Stupid Callaway 7-iron!!!  I should have bought the hybrid!!!).  Despite all of those close calls, I’ve never holed out from the tee.  I’ve witnessed holes-in-one, both on television and live.  I’ve slapped the high fives, jumped up and down, and yelled to everyone within earshot a distinct description who exactly is ‘Da Man,‘ but I’ve never been Da Man myself.  That’s why I’m here today, Your Honor.  See, since my wife had a hole-in-one right in front of me during her very first ever round of golf, I had no choice but to do what I did.  Am I sorry for it? Of course I am; she was the love of my life and my soul mate, and I miss her terribly.  However, any golfer will tell you that I was completely justified in my actions.  It had to be done.  I throw myself on the mercy of the court.”  That’s the speech I was practicing in my head as I watched my wife Carolyn’s tee shot roll towards the hole.
I’ve been a golfer since the late 70’s, when my Father first took me out on a beautiful expanse of green real estate in Ohio, and taught me the fundamentals of the game. (“Keep your head down!  Lock your elbow!  Lift your head up!  Why is your elbow so stiff? Harder!  Swing harder, so it goes farther!”)  Since I became a father myself I don’t get to play as much as I’d like, a common situation most middle aged, middle class married guys like me can understand.  I mean, it’s difficult to justify a habit as expensive and time consuming as golf when you’re responsible for a family. (“You’re OK with the kids this afternoon, right honey?  I’m going to go drop $200 we don’t have on a round of golf; see you in seven hours, when I get back I’ll reek of scotch and be ready for romance! MWAH!”)  It’s OK that I don’t get to play that often, I love my family and would rather spend time and money on them as far as they know, but I still miss the game.  Then two years ago, I got the idea that if I could get Carolyn - who had never picked up a club in her life - into golf, then I’d be able to squeeze in a few more rounds.  Yes!  Golf with your spouse!  Why hasn’t anyone thought of this before?!?!  I’m a genius!  The idea was obviously gold, I just had to sell it right. *TIP FOR GUYS OUT THERE, THE RIGHT WAY TO SELL IT: “Honey, I’d love it if we could find an activity that will allow us to spend more quality time together, outside in beautiful scenery, getting some exercise and having fun, just the two of us.  I think it will strengthen our marriage.”  WRONG WAY: “Hey toots, let’s start playing golf together so I can play more golf.  They have short skirts you can wear while we play.  Bring beer.”  (Just a “Guy FYI,” because guys should always help other guys in situations like this.)
So after several tequilas, a notarized document she made me sign in triplicate regarding “help around the house” or something to that effect, and more groveling than I’m proud to admit, we agreed to begin playing golf together.  Following a few lessons with a local pro (an entirely separate, wonderful and not at all aggravating experience I’ll tell you about another time), we decided that my beautiful bride was ready to tackle the local executive course.  For those who don’t know, an executive course is one that consists of all short, par 3 holes.  These smaller tracks are so named because they’re often used by executives who aren’t really golfers but are only there to swindle other executives out of cash, or more likely to team up with other executives to swindle complete strangers out of THEIR cash. (Executive courses are big in Hollywood and Washington D.C.)  At any rate, all of the holes are short, which makes it easier for beginners, as the longer distance clubs are often far more difficult to consistently hit solid.  In some cases, and here I am certainly not referring to myself, it can take over thirty years to even gain a marginal semblance of “consistency” with the big sticks.  So we paid our fees, got our pull-carts, and off we went together, laughing and joking like a couple of newlyweds, when in reality we were a married couple embarking on one of the most frustrating games on Earth, a game which consistently drives the best of friends to sniping and yelling at each other, armed with two bags full of deadly weapons of varying  degrees of loft.  (“I’m a genius!  Why hasn’t anyone thought of this before?!?!”)  I mean, we’ve been together over a decade, and any married person will tell you that no matter how in love you are, after that long anything can be fodder for an argument.  Anything.  (“Why are you yelling at me?” “Because you’re breathing so darn LOUD!!!”)  So together on a golf course, in the heat, I’m not sure if we expected to hear the theme from Love Story, but I swear I heard The Imperial March from Star Wars as we approached the first tee.  
Actually, I’m joking; the day wasn’t bad at all. and we had a lot of fun.  There was some typical married couple sniping here and there (“The way you’re wearing that glove is annoying.” “Oh, I have a white ball so now YOU have to have a white ball too?” “Stop walking so darn LOUD!!!”) but on the whole we enjoyed ourselves.  She’s been with me for over a decade, folks; even on a golf course, the universe can’t really aggravate her much more.  We stepped up to #1, and she wanted me to go first.  You know, with over three decades of experience, she wanted me to show her how it’s done.  I was supposed to be “the man,” and show my woman how this game is played.  So I did.  I checked the wind, adjusted my glove, set my stance and grip perfectly, and walloped that poor Titleist as deep into the woods as I can hit a 9-iron. (“Stupid Callaway!!”) Following my manly lead, Carolyn drilled her shot to a height of approximately 1/8th of an inch, so hard it killed almost all of the plant life in the first fifty feet in front of the tee.  Seriously, the the surviving blades of grass were singed and smoking.  A squirrel poked his head out of the charred remains of his hole and coughed “Jeez lady, that was my HOUSE!” Not exactly the start we’d envisioned, but we were off!  That’s how it went for five holes, both of us missing every green, and mis-hitting shots so badly the ball ricocheted off the clubface at angles that physics professors will tell you are impossible.  It didn’t matter though, we were together, and we were having fun.  Then we hit the 6th tee, and she nearly bought the farm.
Up front I told you I’ve never had a hole-in-one, and this hole was no different, although I did manage to find the green with my tee shot.  Looking back, that may have been the problem.  Had I continued to pump balls into the woods, Carolyn may have kept hitting hers all over as well, but with me on the putting surface she apparently decided it was time to step it up.  My beautiful bride slapped one that headed for the flag like it was laser guided.  Mind you, it never got more than ten feet off the ground, but the line was dead on perfect.  It landed about thirty yards short of the green.  It bounced perfectly.  It took a majestic hop that looked like something Tiger would have hit back when he was still catting around and on top of his game.  It checked a bit as it crossed the fringe, took two more PGA-looking bounces and began to roll, directly towards the hole.  My wife got excited, as she should have; it was her first really good shot.  She had every right to jump up and down and start yelling “Oh my gosh!  Oh my gosh!  Look!  Look!!!”  However, as I watched it head towards the hole - and this ball looked for all the world like it was going in, there was no way it was going to miss, no way, no how - I didn’t get excited, but instead began to grow sad.  Not because she was going to get an Ace while I never have, but because I was going to miss her terribly after I killed her with my 8-iron, because once it went in that’s exactly what I was going to do.  I was calm about it, calmer that you’d think; like I said, any golfer will tell you “it had to be done,” but I was still sad.  After all, this is my wife, my favorite person in the universe, the mother of our child, not to mention the person I stood before God, our families, and Mickey Mouse (another story for another time) and swore to love honor and obey forever. So you can see why it was upsetting, I mean there was going to be a big gap in my life, especially in the area of household chores. Kidding! (Feminists, address hate mail to Granted, there was a silver lining, as if I could get acquitted and collect the life insurance money it would allow me to play FAR more golf, but I would still miss her on most days.  
With all of this running through my head in a matter of seconds,  I began to prepare the speech I mentioned previously, as well as my entire line of defense.  Hopefully I would get a married male judge who was a single digit handicapper, or even better, a married male D.A. who had also never had a hole-in-one (“Not enough evidence to prosecute!”).  I would instruct my defense attorney to try and stock the jury with names from the local country clubs.  I planned to call Phil Mickelson, Ernie Els, fellow Central Ohioan Jack Nicklaus, and any other married golfer I could find as experts for the defense, to say that I simply had no ... other ... choice.  I was even running through which local car dealership might give me the best deal on a white Bronco.  Then, just when I was beginning to wonder what was an appropriate amount of time to wait before starting to date again, a miracle occurred.  The ball began to slow.  The line was still perfect, but the speed was now in question.  It slowed further, and as my amazing lady who should remember that I love her when she reads this began to yell “Go!  Keep going!  GOOOO!!” I saw a chance for our life together to continue.  Then, the ball stopped.  No more than three inches from the cup, it stopped.  “NOOOOOOO!!!!” I yelled, immediately morphing from murderous star of a future Movie Of The Week on Lifetime Network back into loving, doting husband.  Me: “Aw, Geez!  That was so CLOSE, honey!!  That would have been so  fantastic, and I would have been so happy for you!!!!!”  Carolyn: “Did you see it? Did you see that shot?!?! It almost went in!!”  Me: “I did see it sweetheart, that was awesome! Great shot, baby!!!”  (I’ve had some acting classes)  
So that’s the story of how my wife hit the best shot of her golf career (thus far) and nearly lost her life because of it.  Of course, I’m kidding about the part where I almost bludgeoned her with my 8-iron, as far as anyone can legally prove beyond a reasonable doubt.  Since that near fateful day, we’ve golfed together numerous times, including on a regular length course, and it’s been great.  We laugh, we spend time together on some of the most beautiful real estate in the world, and I get to swing the sticks more often than before. (Score) We’ve never faced that life threatening situation again, however.  Her game has improved tremendously, to the point where I believe the local squirrels have stopped putting “Carolyn is playing golf today, for your own safety put up the storm windows and stay inside!” into their newsletters, but she’s never come that close to an Ace again.  It’s probably best that way.  Now that she knows the consequences of a shot that good, she’ll no doubt be prepared.  (“Honey, why is the carving knife in your golf bag?” “Because you’re breathing so darn LOUD in my backswing!”)  By the way, she made the putt.  It was her first and only birdie.  I was genuinely thrilled for her.  After all, I’ve had lots of those.

*As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at Or follow my blog to the right -----> of the page and help get my numbers up!

Saturday, August 20, 2011

Of Mice And Golf: Traditions

A bit different direction today, loyal readers.  

I’m here today to discuss golf traditions.  Not the Augusta kind of traditions unlike any other, but the traditions experienced by those of us who check our bag at the turn just to make sure we have enough balls to finish the round.  For example, I live in Southern California, so a weekend round of golf will invariably bring out two traditions that occur here: 1) Obtaining a second mortgage on your home to pay the greens fees, and 2) Having time to completely pay off that 30-year note in monthly installments while waiting for the round to finish. (Seriously? You’re going to look for that ball in the woods for 8 minutes, with groups stacking behind you? Hey Sir Hackalot, you spent 8 minutes looking for the one in the woods on the LAST hole - They sell them in packs of a dozen, take a quick look, drop, and then MOVE ALONG!)  Anyway, every round of golf brings out its own unique traditions, tied to either the people you’re playing with, the calendar, or the course itself.  I’m musing on golf traditions because I recently went back to Ohio to visit family, and dug a round of divots with my Father and my brother Mike.  (Also because I enjoy musing.  Sometimes I’ll even ruminate, but it’s medical ruminating approved by the state of California.)  When the men of my family get together and strategically plant Titleists deep into wooded terrain, we have several traditions.  My personal favorite is that my Father always pays.  I’m in my forties and Mike is in his thirties, but every time I see Dad pull out his American Express card I get that warm, “Child at Christmas” feeling, like I’m home again!  (This is inevitably followed at some point by that other home again feeling that I’ll apparently never outgrow, along the lines of “Teenager out past his curfew, getting yelled at and experiencing levels of guilt I thought I’d put behind me.”)  However, the tradition that made me giggle on this particular trip was the 18th tee, or as we call it “The 18th Tee.”  
Weekend warriors are familiar with allowing each other a mulligan on the 1st tee, but for over three decades my family has made the finishing hole memorable by granting a special mully on one condition - that the first cut you take on 18 is an “Overswing with every ounce of strength you have to the point where you could possibly separate rib cartilage” event.  I’m talking a Happy Gilmore  level of approach, if Happy had been hyped on Red Bull and ‘roids.  I’m not sure why we continue to do this, as far as I can recall no one has ever hit a single decent shot from The 18th Tee in over thirty years.  (Now that I think about it, I’m fairly certain we’ve never even found any of the balls we managed to hit.  Those that make it airborne usually land in the woods or multiple fairways away, with some leaving the grounds altogether and entering nearby residential or dining establishments, possibly disrupting important business meetings. “Well Mr President, I think we have an agreement for a balanced budget amendm...” ~CRASH!!!~ “This is outrageous!  Back to committee!”)
This particular trip, we played at Tartan Fields, the Central Ohio country club my Father recently joined.  I must say up front that Tartan Fields is an extremely nice course, well laid out and maintained, challenging, with picturesque fairways and postage stamp greens that will punish a wayward iron but reward a solid approach ... as far as I know; since I never had a “solid approach” I’m simply assuming that point.  It’s so classy there that the very nice young ladies in the beer ... I mean “refreshment” carts ... obviously considered Mike & I creepy old guys, (and not the normal wealthy creepy old guys they see, which probably confused them).   In other words, it’s the type of place I'm normally not permitted.  Anyway, when we arrived at 18, the “Swing Like Charlie Brown” tradition took place.  Dad found the trees down the left side, Mike drilled one into the water so hard I’m sure the greenskeepers had to restock the fish (“Wonder what killed them all?” “I don’t know, but this one has a Titleist lodged in its gills.”) and then it was my turn.  I set my feet, adjusted my grip, and  - trying to ignore the snickering going on behind me - ripped at it with all of my multiple “refreshment” enhanced might.  I mean I had myself a cut, folks; like something you’d see from a guy swinging a tree trunk ballbat in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.  This Herculean windmill was accompanied by a sound that can only be described as "John Belushi in Samurai Delicatessen meets a velociraptor."  I spun almost 360 degrees.  I nearly fell down.  I may have separated my left shoulder.  I’m pretty sure I blacked out for a second.  The clubhead speed was so great it may have ripped a hole in the universe and created a time travel vortex.  Folks, I went after that dimpled white sphere in a Sheen-esque frenzy.  The ball?  No one knows.  It sailed right, WAY right, like an extra fuel tank jettisoned from the Space Shuttle, and then it disappeared.  I’d like to think no one was hurt when it landed, but I can’t be sure. (“Wonder what killed him? “I don’t know, but there’s a Titleist lodged in his gills.” “Why does he have gills?”)  Anyway, when the laughter subsided and my left arm stopped throbbing with pain, I hit my real tee shot and we finished the hole. (Drilled a 15 footer to save par and tie the match with Dad.  Thought you’d want to know.)
What’s my point?  The point is this:   Family traditions of all types are about creating memories, and family golf traditions are no exception. The thing the three of us will remember from that round of golf is The 18th Tee. No one will remember the big drive I hit on 7, or Dad’s sand save on 12, but the men of my family will always be able to laugh about the time I nearly decapitated myself on The 18th Tee.  We laugh about 18th Tees from decades ago, and this latest installment will be a dandy addition to that quilt of stories.  If you’re not laughing and enjoying yourself - especially during a family round - then you really don’t understand golf at its core.  Do we try to play our best, always improve, work on the game, and most importantly create new and inventive expletives?  Of course we do - the constant frustration of golf, and our attempts to overcome it, is part of the appeal for us 15’s (and higher).  Above all though, golf is supposed to be fun, and if you can make fun a tradition anywhere and everywhere in your life, then that number on the scorecard is irrelevant.  You win.

*As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at  Send me a Facebook friend request HEREor connect with me on a professional LinkedIn level HERE.  Or of course you can follow my blog THERE ------>

Monday, August 8, 2011

Triple-A Nudity And Badminton

To those of you blaming one political party or the other for being the cause of current financial issues: You are the exact reason Washington DC continues to get away with all of this crap.  You are the engine that drives the insanity.  Wake up. (What? I have to be funny all of the time?  Oh alright ... booga booga booga)
Actually, I’ve decided to only write one, long “column like” blog intro per week now.  The remaining days will have a short intro unless I’m inspired or receive far more frequent nude/semi-nude photo submissions from you, my loyal readers.  It’s an attempt to appear more professional, or at least as professional a humor blog containing numerous underwear references can appear.  Take the intro from last Friday, for example.  I had something important and lengthy to discuss with Montel Williams, so I did; however, it’s difficult to come up with something silly and completely without meaning or redeeming social value to write about every day, especially with Congress being on vacation.  I’d hate to have loyal readers get a feeling of disappointment, like when you see a movie on HBO that’s rated R, but only for “Brief Nudity” instead of long stretches of nudity, which means you’ll have to really pay attention so you don’t briefly miss it.  You know what I’m saying?
By the way, still nothing from Montel.  
As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at
... say hello to my little jokes ...
A deaf man has accused a nudist park in upstate New York of violating federal law by refusing to provide him with a sign-language interpreter.  Let me understand this - he gets to see naked women AND doesn’t have to listen to them talk ... and he’s MAD about it?  Someone needs to immediately revoke his ManClub card, please.
The US credit downgrade is having worldwide repercussions.  Even Nancy Pelosi has cut back to one eye-job per week.  (I’m kidding! Nancy would raise taxes on her own mother before she cut back! Ha ha!)
Treasury Secretary Tim Geithner says that Standard & Poors “showed terrible judgement” in downgrading the US.  Geithner claims that according to his detailed analysis via Turbo Tax, everything should be just fine.
President Obama said today that the US is “still a AAA country.”  Yes, and if the idiots in Washington would get out of our way, maybe We The People could get us back to the Major Leagues.
Plaxico Burress participated in his first day of camp with the New York Jets today.  Coaches said the starting Wide Receiver job was his.  You know, unless he shoots himself in the leg.  Figuratively speaking, of course.  OR Head Coach Rex Ryan said he was “Impressed with how quick his feet were today. Mmmmm ... feet ...”
Tourists can now get fresh baguettes from vending machine in France.  To be treated like crap, however, you’ll still need a real, live French person.
Diana Nyad was swimming strongly in her attempt to swim from Cuba to Florida across the straights today.  Apparently the only trouble she’s encountered has been the various rafts passing her on the right, screaming “Get out of the fast lane, slowpoke!”  OR To make the swim realistic, CBP agents plan to begin shooting at her when she gets within 200 yards of the beach.
Chinas’ hopes for a world title took a hit when their top ranked player was upset in the first round of the World Badminton Championship.  Sport journalists around the world were shocked to learn that badminton has a world championship.
  • George “The Mediator” Steele
  • The Soft Spoken Salamander
  • Ricky The Lugnut

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Did The Duke Play Cricket?

Montel Williams watch, Day Two.  Still no word from The Big Montel. (Unless he’s sending coded messages in all of those “Enlarge Your Manhood” emails I keep receiving, but I have to believe those are more likely to come from the Anthony Weiner Wikipedia page)  I can’t believe he’s pretending to ignore this.  Stop hiding, Montel, it’s only a matter of time before TMZ finds you.  
Now I need to figure out why the John Wayne Fan Page on Facebook keeps tagging me in high-heeled shoe ads.
As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at
... joke scratch fever ...
The owner of computer company Acer said recently that tablet computers are nothing more than a fad.  He then hung up his rotary telephone, because he needed to warm up the picture tubes on his Philco to watch Lucy. (Happy Birthday, Lucy)
Rookie wide receiver AJ Green is reportedly making a huge impression in the Cincinnati Bengals training camp.  Coaches say he’s fitting right in with the veterans, as he’s already been arrested four times.
A new study says that overweight men with diabetes can improve their sex lives by losing weight.  I’m no scientist, but I’m pretty sure losing weight will improve the sex life of ANY man, diabetes or not.  OR  A similar study says that overweight women can improve their sex life by putting out more, and not asking to be called the next day.  Or ever.
Researchers say that public bicycle sharing schemes in large cities save lives and cut greenhouse gas emissions.  They also greatly increase the number of teenagers who have free bikes.
The US had its AAA credit rating lowered.  Now if the government wants to borrow money, it’ll have to lie about its income like the rest of us.
After the downgrade, President Obama made a statement saying that Washington DC “must do better.”  Well, good.  A statement.  That ought to take care of it.  Now if we could only get an exploratory committee formed to investigate the matter, then everything would be just peachy.
In Cricket news, Sri Lanka captain Tillakaratne Dilshan hit five sixes and twelve boundaries in his first Twenty20 century, leading the hosts to 198-3 against Australia.  If anyone has even the slightest clue what that means, please contact me, preferably via the George Peppard Wikipedia page.
Ralph Nader says there is “almost a 100% chance” of a Democratic Primary challenger to president Obama in 2012.  Of course, it’s possible that challenger may be Ralph Nader, in which case there’s “an exactly 100% chance” of President Obama winning the nomination.
China has told the US that the “good old days” of borrowing money are over.  They did so in an official government statement titled “No Tickee, No Loanee.”
Pharmaceutical giant Pfizer wants to sell its top-selling heart drug Lipitor without a prescription.  In preparation, Pfizer has parked nearly $2 billion of windowless panel vans outside bowling alleys around the country.
John Kerry announced that he is planning to run for a sixth term in the U.S. Senate.  Washington insiders were shocked by the news, as most thought Kerry had died years ago.
Warren Jeffs believes he did nothing wrong and that his religious freedoms are being infringed upon.  Perhaps he’ll feel differently after a few weeks of role reversal in prison, when HE’S the twelve year old girl getting nailed.  Happy trails, pervo.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Sea Turtles And Crazy Tans

I mentioned recently that I’ve been receiving blog visitors referred from links in the Montel Williams Wikipedia site, and that this concerned me.  I want to make it clear that I have nothing against Montel Williams, Wikipedia, or their respective attorneys who have in no way contacted me with legal documents containing offers that I couldn’t refuse. (Nor would the fine firm of Luka, Brazzi & Corleone ever do such a thing! Ha ha! Ridiculous! I’m not nervous and sweaty!)  Anyway, Mr. Williams and Mr. Pedia are in no way the target of any of my whimsical barbs.  Just so that’s clear and concise, in a completely friendly and non-libelous way that allows my thumbs to remain intact.
I’m simply concerned about the referral links because A) With his page having a noticeable lack of flatulence references, I have no idea what we have in common that connects Montel & I, B) I can’t locate the actual link that is sending people to my joke blog, and C) ”Montel & I” sounds like an overly dramatic, poorly written indie film or after school special, involving some sort of family tension or rehab-induced self-awakening journey; the kind that makes aromatic people who are lounging in coffee shops at 10AM on a Tuesday have deep, earnest conversations about the importance of focusing your life.  With all that in mind, you can certainly understand why I’d want this investigated.  I mean, is my joke blog special, or are all joke blogs connected to random celebrity Wikipedia pages?  If so, why?  Does it have something to do with Global Warming, Tom Brady or possibly even the Chaos Theory?  Also, of all the celebrities out there, why Montel Williams?  Why not Ryan Seacrest or John Stewart, or even (dare I say it?) basketball legend Granville Waiters?  Would my personal celebrity link change if I made fewer gas jokes, and more about Barney Frank or Dancing With The Stars?  With so many legitimate and not at all random questions swirling, I put on my Detective hat and did some sleuthing. (I also put on my Detective socks and my Meter Maid pashmina, just FYI)
I tried the direct approach first, contacting Montel Williams directly.  His response was a rather predictable “I’m not THAT Montel Williams, he probably lives in Hollywood or something, now please stop calling my home.”  Stymied, I’ve resorted to the only remaining means of contacting The Big Montel, namely posting random Facebook updates and blogging about him, then heading off to drink beer and watch TV while hoping he notices. (I wonder if “Montel & I” will be nominated for a Daytime Emmy?)  Since I know all celebrities militantly monitor their social media pages, it’s only a matter of time before Montel sees this and invites me to his house, so we can discuss the matter over finger sandwiches and Bugles.  Perhaps even some of those cocktail wieners with the BBQ sauce.  At any rate, I’ve done all I can.  It’s out of my hands now.
If you have any other ideas on solving this mystery, please let me know either here or via Wikipedia.  Preferably through the William Shatner page.
As always, see more of me including TV appearances, acting reel, comedy promo videos, schedule and more on my website at
... joking along, singing a song ...
A new study suggests that at one time, Earth had two smaller moons that crashed together and formed one larger mass.  In a related story, TMZ is reporting that this is the exact same way Kirstie Alley was formed.
Meteorologists announced today that the current drought could extend into 2012.  They then said it could be over next week.  They then admitted they had no clue (because let’s face it, meteorology is about as exacting as sports handicapping and tarot cards) but enjoyed all the attention they get from female reporters whenever they make announcements.
The impact of a series of solar flares began arriving at Earth on Friday.  Most noticeably, John Boehner and George Hamilton are now so dark they may need to check the box for “African American” or at least “Pacific Islander” on their next census form.
Wikipedia says that it is losing contributors.  Of course, this was on the same Wikipedia page that said Brett Favre was really retired for good this time, so who knows if it’s true.  
A federal grand jury has indicted a Las Vegas man on charges he sent more than 27 million spam messages to Facebook users.  On the upside, he did manage to sell nearly two dozen pair of extremely tacky high-heeled shoes.  So there’s that.
The new Samsung Conquer 4G phone will be sold exclusively by Sprint.  In other words, no one will buy the new Samsung Conquer 4G phone.
Tiger Woods looked to be in top form in his return to golf, shooting a 68 on his first day back.  He looked to be in even better form that night, getting a 69 with a waitress at Perkins.
A badly injured sea turtle that underwent a year of rehabilitation and innovative surgeries was released by caretakers, who say they hope he finds a mate.  I’m sure he will; chicks dig scars.
A recently released study shows the twenty best places to protect marine mammals.  At the top of the list?  In the water.
Researchers for the first time have turned human skin cells into working brain cells.  The breakthrough gives hope to fat, stupid guys who could possibly be turned into fat, smart guys.
Scientists say they have developed a sensor that can accurately detect whether or not date-rape drugs are in a beverage.  Ladies, if you’re suspicious enough of this guy to chemically test your own drink, maybe you should just not drink it at all?  Perhaps just leave?  Maybe not date guys who drive windowless panel vans?  Just sayin’...