The Split Personality Of Michelle Tanner

There are times when I can be a sick and twisted son-of-a-bitch. Though I have this capacity for rabid depravity, I have to come clean. I have an embarrassing confession to make:

I have never had the hots for Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen.

Yes, I know this comes as a shock to many of you. After all, I have an unhealthy fascination with Emma Watson; I own the European version of The Professional; and I have an obvious obsession with the younger and pudgier Christina Ricci.

Alas, my boat never floated on the Olsen deluge. Sure, there were many men counting the days until their 18th birthday. Entire websites centered around the Olsen countdown clock. Television comedians cracked-wise with anticipation. Headlines heralded the coming of the age of majority.

And then, on June 13, 2004, the day came, and quickly went. The twins were adults, ready to legally fulfill the most wanton requests of their adoring middle-aged fans. Unfortunately, the rather-tragic irony was, no one wanted them. Straddled with a childhood of stardom and celebrity, and perched like hood ornaments atop a billion-dollar entertainment empire, the frail, sickly little waifs had aged 50 years in the span of a mere 18.

The fantasy is dead, and all that is left are a few headlines about Mary-Kate's eating disorder and likely early demise. (Well, sure, that and a billion dollars...) Hmmm... I suppose all of those countdown clocks could be converted to tracking Mary-Kates spiral into oblivion.

I guess it's also time to replace Macaulay Culkin with Mary-Kate at the top of my Death Watch list...

It's All Inside

I was once a subscriber to Details Magazine. (You know, back before it was gay.)

Don't get me wrong. I fully support the right of the gay community to have its own gay-men's fashion magazine. Just like hillbillies should have magazines about NASCAR and incest.

My only problem is, they made the change during the middle of my subscription. See, at that time, Details was like Maxim, but without all the Beavis-grade humor. Maybe it was more like Playboy, but with out the nudity. Either way, it was a swell read.

And then, one day, it stopped arriving. I was only about three months into my subscription, and it just disappeared. A few months later I received a letter from the publisher saying that they were "redesigning Details to sharpen its focus." (Whatever the hell that meant.) So I waited, and several more months later the first new issue arrived.

After reading through it once, I noticed the absence of scantily clad women. I also recognized a disturbingly large number of men's underwear ads. Large men in tight briefs, often sweaty, and always bending... ALWAYS bending... There also seemed to be a significant number of articles about being gay at work, gay actors, and telling your wife that you're gay.

Normally, in men's magazines, if there is a fashion layout, there will always be sexy women lounging on, or around, the male models who are wearing the featured product. It helps to assure the reader that he is in fact not gay, and adds heterosexual sex appeal to whatever is being sold. The new Details had NO WOMEN in the fashion layouts or ads.

When the third issue of the redesigned magazine arrived, featuring a photo essay of a 14-year old bodybuilding boy, oiled down and wearing speedos, I decided it was time to cancel my subscription. I wasn't mad so much that the magazine was gay. I was just unhappy that they assumed, I wouldn't mind.

Now, it does benefit me to have good-quality gay-men's fashion rags out there, because when I'm shopping for clothes, I will always rely on the gayest man in the store for help. Being mostly colorblind, and without any personal taste or style, this straight guy usually seeks out his own personal queer eye, and he wants his boys to be well informed.

So, it came as a surprise to me when I discovered last weekend that JC Penney had become a gay department store. I don't know, maybe it was gay day at Penney's, but there were an unusual number of gay couples shopping together throughout the store. Even the two clerks who rang-up my sale had that certain flair...

I generally try no to shop at JC Penney, and I'm embarrassed when I do. I only go for one thing: undershirts. I'm particularly picky when it comes to undershirts, having been so disappointed in the past by shirts that were too short or too thin. Penney's, however, carries Stafford, and Stafford produces the heaviest, thickest, longest undershirts known to man. Which is a surprise, since the rest of their clothing is complete crap.

So, upon discovering that JC Penney now bears the good gay seal of approval, I feel much less self conscious about shopping there. Well, at least for undershirts anyway.

And The Winner Is...

Wow, most of the submissions were really very funny. Some were obviously not very good, and I was embarrassed for you. Most, though, did a very good job.

While I'd like to buy all of the contributors a drink, I am, quite frankly, far too cheap. Therefore, without further ado, I present the winner:

Well, actually, before we get to the winner, I'd like to announce the Honorable Mention award. This award, of course, comes with no prize, but still I felt it was worthy of highlight:

Amanda wrote:
Barista girl: "I, like all normal people, have ONE belly button."
Brian: (incredulously) "Really? Just one?"

I liked this submission because Amanda was able to use irony to create a laugh at my expense, while spotlighting my actual physical deformity. This submission did not take first place only because the second-bellybutton reference was too obscure, and not everyone would get it.

And now, the moment we've all been waiting for. I present to you, THE WINNER!!!

...Well, hold on, just one more thing. Before we get to the big winner, I'd like to present the Runner-Up Award:

Leah wrote:
"It's only that big?"
"Yup. Only that big."

Once again, the dialogue technique was used in conjunction with the details of the photo. Leah used vague innuendo at the expense of my fragile masculine ego. She surprisingly did not resort to obvious graphic jargon. The casual generality made me giggle.

OK, no more delay. This is it. It is time. After a lengthy and frustrating system of comparison and elimination, involving a red pen, scissors, and a glass of scotch, I have narrowed my favorite submissions to one. This is it. Here we go. Are you ready?


Deuce wrote:
"Okay, now guess what this finger smells like!"

I have often proposed playing the "Sniff the Finger" game. Hell, I may have proposed it to the poor girl in the photo. Deuce's one-liner was suggestively dirty and conspiratorial. The highlight of the word "This" creatively implied that the other finger had already been sniffed. Deuce wins the contest. We'll work out the drink-buying in due course.

congratulations to Deuce, and congratulations to all of you, you're all winners (Except Carl) in my book!

Beat This Caption

Beat the caption below and win a fabulous prize!

"Good! Tomorrow, we'll work on counting to Two..."

** "Fabulous Prize" means that the production staff will buy you a drink. All Fabulous Prizes must be received in person within the greater Portland metropolitan area by the designated winner at a time and place of the production staff's choosing. Failure to be within the city (or the country for that matter) at the designated time will result in Fabulous Prize forfeiture, and the staff (me) will drink your drink in your honor. "Designated Winner" means the person whose response causes me to blow scotch through my nose. This contest is invalid in any state where humor or scotch drinking is prohibited, or any Red state in general. No member of the Bush or Cheney families may enter.

I Changed My Mind

I was wrong.

Everything that I said about Intelligent Design being cherry-flavored crack for Jesus junkies was wrong. Those comments that I made about it being faerie-tale fundamentalist bilgewater were misguided. That bit that I wrote suggesting that tribal girls from Guinea sitting in a mud-hut classroom were laughing at the slack-brained yokalism running rampant through the halls of American academia, was out of line.

I have been born again. I can see the light.

Life here, and throughout all of Creation, is simply too complex to be understood through secular godless scientific skullduggery. It is plain to me that the miracle of life was formed by HIS loving Noodly Appendage. All alternative theories of Man's origins must be taught in public schools.

Praise him. Praise the Flying spaghetti Monster, in his glory.

Thanks to George for showing me the true path.

Never Been to India

Most, if not all, boys born in Southern California in 1970 were named Brian. I was one of them. I have hypothesized that the tear-jerking made-for-TV memory of Brian's Song was fresh on our mother's minds. Perhaps Brian Wilson was a greater social force that I give him credit for. Who knows?

I was, however, one of many. There are funny stories about nights on the town with three, four, even five Brians at a time, but that's not what this post is about.

There is a great story about being at a strip club with three Brians, one of whom was a Spanish seminary student who looked like Jesus, but that's not what this post is about either.

No, this post starts with an incident in the 6th grade with with another Brian, Brian M. I, of course, was Brian R. We are not to be confused with Brian S., Brian G., Brian D., Brian C., Or any of the other Brians who were smart enough to go by their middle names.

It was the sixth grade, and Brian M. and I were the top two students in our class. Academically, we tied in everything. As there was no room for either of us to do any better, there wasn't really much of a competition between us.

Being children in California in the 70s, we were subjected to all manner of experimental hippie learning bullshit. One of the worst was a pre-boxed socially conscious color-coded reading comprehension system called SRA. Everyone took relative placement tests to find their starting position in the program.

Brian and I tested out of the program, but they couldn't just let us sit and do something else for an hour, so they started each of us two modules from the end. What was supposed to be 12th grade level reading packets, was actually more akin to reading Harry Potter, but without wizards, quidditch, magic, Hogwarts, or style....

Brian and I would race to see who could finish first. Both of us always got all of the answers right. This was busy work, nothing more.

One day, however, I found the spare instructor's answer key at the back of the box. We both began using it to finish the reading work quickly, so we could use the spare time to work on our more-challenging math homework. The plan worked flawlessly, until one day, a freckly redheaded bitch named Maggie caught us and ratted us out. Needless to say, a plethora of long lectures and volumes of make-up reading work lay in our future.

If they had just given us something worth reading, this would have never happened. I blame the system, and it was an educational system that began five years earlier in the first grade. See, the predecessor to SRA was a little something called Programmed Reading. I was able to read in kindergarten, but this program was used to teach me what I already knew.

Maybe you recall this program. Happy stories about Sam, Ann, Nip, and Ted. Wide-headed multi-cultural children playing without supervision in bland fields of rolling semi-gloss green hills. They climbed primary-colored textureless trees under unnaturally blue cloudless skies. There were no streets, and all of the neatly-square houses were white or yellow. The scene was creepy and serene, yet settled itself into my psyche as the proverbial happy place, you know, for those times the neighbor man tried to touch me...

It is that Programmed Reading vision of an alien utopia that comes to mind, for some reason, whenever I think of India. I've never been to India, but I'd like to go. I'm a fan of the food, and a bitch for Bollywood. Really, I cannot get enough of the long-play big-budget Bollywood music videos they play on the Indian cable channel. I own Lagaan mostly for the dance scenes...

I am certain that the reality of India will be nothing like my vision of it. Hell, it's probably not much different than San Bernardino. However, I'd still like to go, if for no other reason, nearly 1 billion Bollywood fans, but very few Brians to be found.

Non Nobis Solum Nati Sumus

It's Latin, jackass, go look it up...

Odds are, you're smart. Yes, I'm talking about you.

I've recently been averaging about 50 readers per day on this crapass blog, a solid landmark to stroke my ego. Some of you quietly visit. Some of you email me with rather sweet fan mail. Some of you leave comments. Some of you can't shut the fuck up about your pregnancy.

I keep track of these things, because, let's face it, I'm a whore for external validation. I mean, I'm not blogging for my health.

Some of you are doctors. (Well, OK, one of you is a dentist.) Some (one) of you are nurses from foreign lands. A few of you are students. Several of you work with computers and/or the internet. Overall, however, the largest group of you are goddamned lawyers. Yes, you all know exactly who the hell you are.

Well, it has come to my attention that one loyal, but secretive, reader wants to go to law school. I'll call her KC, and she has recently applied to Willamette University College of Law. Good God, KC is no stranger to lawyers, and should know better!

Now, I won't pretend that Law School wasn't an awesome orgy of booze, sex and debauchery, because it was. In fact, it was a deviant hedonistic safari to degrees only dreamt of by mere mortals. God Bless George! Are you with me? GOD BLESS GEORGE!!

Sorry, I've been drinking.

So, KC has applied to the old alma mater, and truly, I wish her nothing but the absolute best in her endeavors. The school would be lucky to have her as a student, and I'd be the first in line to write a letter of recommendation. (Although, I suspect there is a certain former Oregon Supreme Court Chief Justice whose letter would bear more weight...) I mean, anyone who can put up with her husband for as long as she has, possesses a Herculean spirit worthy of any challenge.

So, good luck to KC! I'm sure some of my WUCL alumni readers may have a word or two of advice.

By the way, if you are a WUCL grad, and you don't recognize the title, you weren't paying attention.

By Request, Sort Of...

It really wasn't as challenging to find as I expected.

Here's Paris at Ipanema:

As Long As It's Stuck in Everyone's Head

This is Ipanema:

These are actual girls from Ipanema

You can listen to the actual tune HERE

And of course, here is my personal version of the song:

Thin and blonde and orange and bitchy
The girl named Paris Hilton's twitchy
And when she flashes, each one she flashes goes: eh....

When she talks, she sounds so vapid
With catch phrases and winks so rapid
And when she's screwing, each one she's screwing's on tape...

Ooh... but I watch her on TV
How... can I change the channel?
She's... hotter than Nicole Richie

But each day, when she looks in the mirror
She knows that no one will love her

Thin and blonde and orange and whorish
I know Paris Hilton would find me boorish
And when she fucks up, I smile - but she doesn't care (doesn't care)
She just doesn't care
She never will care...

Same Time Tomorrow

Starbucks is taunting me.

Again...

The corporate purveyors of pretentious coffee have us by the short-n-curlies. We know it, they know it, but we all pretend it isn't so. "Addiction" is such a dirty word. It makes us feel weak, and generally, weakness- based guilt is bad for business. So, Starbucks keeps us distracted with unfathomably complicated menu concoctions and pleasant jazz-ish sounding pre-canned folksy music.

Their chairs are over-padded, the decor is warm and cozy, and no one pays attention to the 3:00 tic that you develop in your left eye if you aren't sipping on your third Venti-sized caffeine download. We're hooked on a drug, man, all of us, and the pusher just keeps us buzzed, dumb, and happy.

Until now.

As I drove the three blocks to my local Stabucks this morning to acquire their yuppie version of the Egg McMuffin, I had The Girl from Ipanema humming in my head. The manic java maidens buzzed busily behind the barista counter calling out ridiculous coffee orders and acting more important and desirable than they really were. I salivated with anticipation, thinking about the sausage and cheese that would soon be sliding down my throat.

My simple Grande Coffee (no room) warmed my hands as I waited. Wisps of snow continued to flutter about out the window.

Finally my name was called, and I stepped up to fetch my snack. But what did I see as they handed it to me? The semi-greasy and all-too-cheesy wax sandwich bag was folded over and taped shut to protect my meal from the elements. The tape was black with white printing that read: "Same time tomorrow? -Starbucks"

What the fuck? That wasn't an invitation. That was a command from our reptilian overlords. "You will have your coffee-needing ass back in this building at 3:05 pm tomorrow, or we will devour what is left of your crack-whore soul, Bitch! -Starbucks"

"Oh, and bring cash."

Jeez, no more pretense I guess. Just hustle our asses on the street to feed the monster. But what's the alternative? No grande half-caf mocha frapuchino?? No yuppie Egg McMuffin? No way! I'm a bitch, I admit it. I'll be back there same time tomorrow, and I wouldn't suggest getting in my way.

Brian Smith Wanted to be Entertained Today

Thanks to Lori for this one:

Jews don't recognize Jesus as the Son of God.
Muslims don't recognize the Jews as God's chosen people.
Christians don't recognize Mohamed as a true prophet of God.
and...
Southern Baptists don't recognize each other when they're eating at Hoooters.

[rim shot]

President's Day

Monday, we celebrate the birth of two great men. A sort of two-fer holiday, because the powers-that-be are too cheap to spring for an extra February day-off. Not that I'll be resting on my laurels in the morning.

George Washington: Father of the Nation. Fought the French for the British in the French and Indian War. Then, kissed the collective French ass during the Revolution. Primitive dentures caused constant pain. Set the standard for presidential decorum and established traditional limitations on executive power.

Martha was a hottie. George, a land owner from Virginia, bought, sold and owned other human beings. The cherry tree story, by all historical accounts, was complete bullshit.

Abraham Lincoln: Defender of the union. Tended toward long-windedness. Suffered from unsightly gangly giganticism. Weighted down by an over-developed burdensome moral compass.

Mary Todd was, in the medical vernacular, "Tom-Cruise Loony." Abe's greatest achievement was probably sustaining enough political momentum in the North to wear the South into submission, thus preserving the cohesion of the Union. Most noted for freeing the slaves. Although, the Emancipation Proclamation was technically only effective in states, over which Abe had no jurisdiction or authority. Nice political gesture though.

Cage match: Abe had the reach, but George was scrappier with more hardened battle experience. I'd give early round to Lincoln, but one George moved inside, he'd punish Abe and end the bout quickly.

Advantage: Washington.

Dinnerwear

So, we went shopping for new dinner plates today. This is the current leader:

As Seen On Oprah

It's the blog topic that won't die.

In passing, I suggested that I might install a stripper pole on my desk. That was nearly two weeks ago, and pie-holes are still postulating about the who, and the where, and the why, and the how. What kind of pole will I get? How will it fit in my office? Who do I expect to dance on it? Where will I move my in-box? Who will I get to DJ? Have I considered a disco ball? Will there be enough head clearance if the dancer is in heels? When are try-outs?

It was just a joke. Or at least, it started off as a joke. The more I look into it, however, the more I see it becoming a possibility, even a potentiality. That is why I have gone and drawn up technical schematics for the desk-top installation.


The pole itself is readily available at many on-line outlets such as Lilmynx.com. ("As seen on Oprah") The only problem will be pole length, but I'm sure no one will mind when I punch through the false acoustic ceiling to secure the pole to a support joist. Dancers may have to duck a little.

I suppose anyone can audition, but there will be a $50 desk-stage fee. I will DJ myself using my Sirius feed. Tipping will be encouraged, as dancers will work for tips and tips alone.

Oops, She Did it Too...

Wreckless-driving soon-to-be-single-mother Britney Spears just simply refuses to stay out of the headlines. The queen of the tractor pull and white-trash wunderkind, Britney (and her dumb-as-Bush husband), having produced nothing but another celebri-brat in the last several years, have resorted to the "any publicity is good publicity" strategy to remain famous for having once been famous. Break-ups, baby-endangering, Mardi Gras parades, BB gun shoot outs... Just stop, please, I feel sad and embarrassed for you.

But what really sticks in my craw (yes, I have a craw, three craws, in fact...) is the constant replay of the Kiss. THE KISS. You know what kiss I'm talking about. Madonna's lip-smack of approval, the passing of the saliva torch.

Problem is, Madonna never really stepped down. She's still voguing her sad saggy wrinkled mom-ass all over the globe, in spandex no less. She is still under the illusion that she is relevant.

However, what really cheeses me about the long-past-its-prime ubiquitous replay of the tongue wrestling, is the constant and blatant disregard for the third leg in that act. Madonna kissed Christina Aguilera too, but we never hear about that, do we? No, it's always that whore, Britney.

Well, I, for one, demand justice. That is why I have established a new fund-raising foundation: "The Madonna Kissed Christina Too Memorial Trust." It is our goal to raise enough money by 2022 to erect a memorial of the Christina Kiss on the National Mall in Washington DC. So, please, won't you join us in this noble cause?

Battlestar Bunnies

Somehow, I just didn't find this to be appropriate for my other blog.

Sit Rep

It is 10:05 pm PST, February 15, 2006.
This is the situation:

I am awake.

I just belched. It tasted like the Massaman Curry I had for dinner.

There is an open bottle of tequila in front of me, along with a shotglass, salt shaker, 1/2 lime, and a paring knife.

My left index finger keeps locking up on me.

I have purchsed one of Dave's stripper T-shirts, and I am waiting for it to arrive.

It is cold outside.

Liverpool is currently in England, not Wales, but only by a few inches.

The dog is sleeping under my desk.

I have added a new link in the Lounge Links to the right.

I just took an enormous foundation-shaking bowel movement.

Between now and the time that I wake up, this blog will have been read by a handful of people on other continents.

My penis is still bigger than yours.

It's The Law

The following is one of my favorite sections of Oregon Law:

O.R.S. § 811.172
Title 59. Oregon Vehicle Code

811.172. Improper disposal of human waste; penalties

(1) A person commits the offense of improperly disposing of human waste if the person is operating or riding in a motor vehicle and the person throws, puts or otherwise leaves a container of urine or other human waste on or beside the highway.

(2) The offense described in this section, improperly disposing of human waste, is a misdemeanor and is punishable by a maximum fine of $250.

Goat Trauma

I am not alone...

Be My Valentine

On this day of romance, I wanted to share the following thoughts of love with you:

What, you were expecting sunshine and puppies??