Tuesday, November 26, 2002
Give the People What They Want Extra
Someone was poking around here looking for a picture of Jerry Lewis' swollen head.
So in the interest of keeping a reader happy, here it is:
[note to other searchers: you are still not getting any pics of the Olsen twins in thongs.]
Monday, November 25, 2002
International Military-Industrial Complex Section
Israeli Army Kills "Just One" Palestinian Boy
NABLUS, West Bank -- The Israeli Army announced that its troops shot and killed "just one" Palesinian boy early Monday. Ari Klentz, an Israeli soldier on the Nablus detail, explained how all but one of the group of children ignoring an Army-imposed curfew managed to escape. "On a good day, we'll knock off four or five people, mostly adults. The young children are very fast. The average eight-year-old wielding a stone is not a good target for rifle fire. Today, we only managed to catch one of them after their rocks scratched the sealer wax on our favorite tank." He further added that "(the Army) will do better next time. It's almost not worth all of the debriefing paperwork for only stopping one (rock-carrying child). But marking the kill on the tank in chalk is nice. You should see it: it's a stick figure carrying a balloon. With a big, red 'X' through it. So cute."
WFOoBH will be adopting an abbreviated publication schedule this week due to the Thanksgiving holiday. The staff of WFOoBH apologizes for any inconvenience this might cause. The onerous demands of a near-daily publication schedule cannot be met without a full staff.
We all have friends and family that we would like to see over the holiday, with whom we'd like to have turkey and all the seasonal accoutrements. Yes, there might be some alcohol involved. But who doesn't sit down and have a couple of beers while watching the big Thanksgiving football games (a fine tradition), after a couple of mimosas while watching the Macy's parade? And who doesn't have a cocktail while eating hors d'ouerves, waiting for the turkey to cook? Then there are a few glasses of wine over dinner, to complement the flavor of the turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. There may even be a nip of bourbon in the coffee during the delicious dessert. And because Thanksgiving is a time to get caught up with family and friends, a trip to a local tavern for a nightcap might be on the agenda. They're probably featuring a pumpkin ale from the local microbrewery, or maybe a Christmas blend with cinnamon overtones delightfully playing against its hoppy flavor. And nothing helps cleanse the palate like a small helping of one's favorite flavored liquer in those cute little glasses; given the approaching holidays (don't forget, Friday after Turkey Day is the busiest shopping day of the year!), peppermint schnaaps will have your tongue dancing in anticipation of candy cane treats soon to come. By now, the bartender's been well-tipped and is feeling a little generous. He gets the next round, serving up a line of "Turkey Tequila" shots for you and your family and friends. One of your friends from Massapequa is so excited, he may want to share a favorite from his hometown, the Long Island Ice Tea. By now, an ice tea sounds very refreshing and a chance to take a breather and loosen the belt tightened by one-too-many helping of yams. The tea goes down smoothly and quickly, and maybe another one is ordered -- Thanksgiving digestion is a thirsty business. In the corner, the jukebox might be playing Springsteen's classic "Glory Days," and you and your friends engage in a merry singalong, clapping each other on the shoulder as you harmonize. One of your friends has always misheard one of the lyrics, mistaking the actual lyric "speedball" for "fastball" (yes, you realize baseball is out of season, but there are no good football songs), and you gently correct him. He insists he's correct; he's never been good at admitting he's wrong. You are probably ready to let it go, but your glass is full again, and it's always nagged at you how he sings the wrong lyric, every single time. You offer to play the song again and have everyone listen, but the juke's already stuffed with holiday dollars, so you'll never get to hear it again. He'll just have to take your word for it. He more strenously insists that it has to be "fastball" -- what the hell's a "speedball," anyway? There's no pitch called a speedball. A speedball's for cocaine. Maybe the song's all about a coke binge now, huh? You counter with the "suicide machine" in "Born to Run" -- there's no real suicided machine on Highway Six, you don't have to be so literal. Springsteen's a poet, and "speedball" is much more evocative than "fastball." You tell him he's got no poetry in his soul; after all, he's an accountant, and there's not a lot of room for creativity on an Excel spreadsheet. He probably answers that since you don't actually have a job right now, that you have plenty of time to look up Springsteen lyrics and think about what words for pitches are most provocative. You retort that he doesn't know the difference between "evocative" and "provocative" (your glass is again full of refreshing iced tea) and that a guido from Long Island is probably too busy stirring his mama's pasta sauce to try to have an intelligent thought about music, and perhaps his St. Christopher's medal is a little bit too tight around his neck. Maybe he gives you a shove. Your pussy Hollywood ass has gotten a little soft, hasn't it? he asks. How's the screenplay coming? with a derisive laugh. Oh, it's coming along just fine, you fuck. You should work on one, then maybe you can move out of your parent's house and learn to do your own laundry. Hey, fuck you, I'm saving for a condo. Yeah? I hope it's got two bedrooms so your fat fucking ass will have a place to sleep. Did you just try to hit me? Nah, I was just brushing something off your face. Here, I think there's a little gravy on your lip, let me clean you up, you piece of shit. I'm surprised you missed a spot, you usually eat all the way down to the fucking tablecloth. Fuck you! I'm going to your house and fuck your mom on top of some leftovers in ten minutes. Yeah, my face is leaving in five -- tell your mom to be on it.
Maybe your friends calm you down, take you into the bathroom to splash some water on your face. You're looking for your tea. There's ice in it to help cool you down. Your friend from Long Island is in the next stall, crouched over the bowl and coughing loudly. You think to yourself, at least I can hold my booze. You get dropped off at home shortly afterwards, after a couple of apologies and a hearty hug from your temporary adversary. His breath smells vaguely of sick. You'll see him tomorrow night at Riley's. When you get home, there's leftover turkey in the fridge. It makes for a nice snack before bed.
Thursday, November 21, 2002
It's Just Flowin'
Say what you will about Ben Affleck, but he's the People magazine Sexiest Man Alive. He's got Daredevil, he's got J.Lo, and now he's got this.
It's like nobody even remembers last year's Sexiest Man Alive controversy. It was originally awarded to George Harrison, then quietly revoked when he no longer met all the ur, qualifications.
[You get my drift.]
[Is there a theme today?]
Hot Flash from the Past
Anyone else miss super-sassy Jackée from 227?
Worst Case Scenario Section
Pulse Felt in Body in D.C. Morgue
A Washington, DC woman believed to be dead was placed in a body bag, brought to the morgue, and placed in a regrigerated box by a medical examiner's team before a pulse was discovered.
"This sort of thing always happens to me," explained Robert Davis, the paramedic who zipped the body bag. "She told me that she was dead. I'm too trusting. I'll believe anything a woman tells me." Once the woman was revived, Davis said he shouldn't blame himself. " 'It's not you, it's me,' she told me."
[I should point out at this time that it is not the opinion of WFOoBH that women lie all the time. Quite the contrary: in our experience, women always tell the truth. Men just don't want to listen."]
Run it Up the Poll and See If It Flies Dept.
Hang It Out the Window and See If It Cries Extra
It's time for a new poll. It seems as if it's "all-Jacko, all the time" here at WFOoBH these days, but hey -- it's not everyday the Erstwhile King of Pop (EKoP) dangles an infant above the German throng. At least not yet. I think we're soon in for a repeat in Munich.
So look to the left and vote, vote, vote.
[last week's results: Snake Eyes in a landslide. But due to voting abnormalities, the award has been given to Clutch. Sorry, but these are the vagaries of the polling system.]
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
Commentary from the Mail Bag
[Moments after posting the last feature, this appeared in my inbox.]
Michael Jackson is an Easy Target
I am a regular reader of you're [sic] web site. I expect interesting and unique opinions and commintary [sic] on the events of the day. But picking on Michael Jackson (yes, Jack-o, whatever, we get it) is too easy. Yes, he seems to assexually [sic] reproduce and is starting a collection of children. Yes, he has a personal zoo. Yes, his nose seems to have vannished [sic], and there is some sort of disturbing hole he's hiding beneath a surgikal [sic] mask. Yes, he has gotten into trouble for possibly having improper relations with miners [sic] (none of which were proven, only alledged [sic]). Yes, he was once the King of Pop, selling millions upon millions of records and profundly [sic] influencing generations of pop musicians. Yes, he is now a shell of what he once was, suing his record company because he's no longer popular or interesting, and calling people the 'white devil' in retalliation [sic] even though he has not put out an interesting song in about a decade. Yes, he had a sham marriage to Elvis' daughter to rehabilitate his public image. Yes, he and Tito once kept a janitor hostage for three days at Neverland Ranch, asking him to recite Vincent Price's voiceover from 'Thriller' over and over while dunking his head in an old urinal cake. Yes, he claimed to have invented movable tipeset [sic]. Yes, he is secretly Diana Ross.
All of this makes him too convenient a target. Your coverage of the Former King of Pop is bush league and hack. Please find a more suitable target for your vittriol [sic]. Do not kick a King while his Kingdom is in a shammbles [sic] at his feet.
Jacko's Backo Section
Jackson Sorry After Baby Stunt Shocks Fans
On Wendnesday, erstwhile King of Pop Michael Jackson apologized for a stunt in which he dangled his infant son, Prince Michael II, from the window of his fourth-floor hotel room in Berlin.
"I know what I did troubled some of my fans," said Jackson. "It was irresponsible of me." Jackson wiped away a few tears before continuing. "I've always wanted to dangle something that I love from a high window in Germany. But because of customs rules, I was unable to bring Bubbles, my chimp, or one of the llamas. Dangling a llama, even if I were allowed to bring one into this fine country, would be logistically difficult. So in lieu of endangering something I love, I used this baby that was sold to me for ten thousand dollars by an at-risk family. The baby has devil eyes. They never glowed more red then when precariously hanging above the throng of my fans, daring me to drop him and be rescued from this mortal coil."
Jackson added, "My trip will end in Russia, where livestock import rules are much more lax and bribes readily taken. I've called ahead and the llama harness is being prepared. I'm so excited I'm whistling through my nose hole. I love you all."
[Thanks to WFOoBH head German liason Helga Schildenbruegger for additional reporting.]
Tech Support Section
This handy link will, once and for all, help you find
the "ANY" key.
Monday, November 18, 2002
Shout Out from the 323
Please, please go to this site. I am simutaneously awed and cowed at the strides being made towards understanding between the races.
Black People Love Us!
[Props to DS in SF for turning me on to this.]
Sunday, November 17, 2002
The other night in Hollywood, I stepped out of one of the local watering holes after last call, only to discover that the street was bathed in daylight. It didn't take long to realize that I hadn't fallen asleep underneath a bar stool and stumbled out the next morning. This was Hollywood movie magic, right in my neighborhood. A crew was filming a new movie called Hollywood Homicide, and it's two stars were on the other side of the street, in the middle of a scene. Those two actors? Current 'It Boy' Josh Hartnett was one. And the other? Mr. 20-Million-Per-Picture himself -- and longtime Bunsen nemesis -- Harrison Ford. The following is a transcript of our historic, knife-burying conversation.
Bunsen: [awkwardly, tracing toe slowly in front of me] Uh...hi.
Harrison Ford: Oh. Hi.
Bunsen: Listen, I just have to say --
HF: Don't. [holding finger in front of pursed lips] Shhh.
[At this point, Harrison rushes forward and envelopes me in the most heterosexual, manly bear hug I have ever known, rocking me back and forth a couple of times before we heartily clap each other on the back.]
Bunsen: So. How's the rook? [points to Hartnett]
HF: Sort of a pussy. But I guess he's OK. [pause] Well, I have to get back. I'm giving him the Grizzled Veteran speech in the next scene.
Bunsen: I won't keep you. [Ford starts back toward the cameras.] Hey, falafel?
HF: [smiles] Make it pad thai, and you're on. [pauses] And don't tell Calista, she really rides my ass about all the carbs.
[I give him the thumbs-up and he returns to the set.]
Bunsen: You've won this round, Indiana Jones.
[I know this story might seem a little hard to relate to if you're not running in LA. But it's really a tale of two regular joes, even though one of them is a huge movie star and the other is The Smartest Man in Hollywood. It's a people story, and we're all just people, aren't we?]
Lost in the Translation Dept.
"Just the fact that Barry Bonds was massaging me, what a great experience," Matsui said. "That was something I'll treasure for the rest of my life."
Hideki Matsui, Japanese baseball star headed to the United States next season.
Matsui failed to mention what base he and Barry got to following the game. An unnamed source suggests Bonds "Knocked it out of the park. He always does."
[Sunday's homily: Baseball is a great American pasttime rife with sexual innuendo.]
Friday, November 15, 2002
Innocent Until Proven Pervy Dept.
Ferris Bueller's Principal in Detention
Call it R. Kelly with a twist. Call it Hollywood nuttiness. Call it a playdate-gone-wrong at Pee Wee's place.
No comments were available from Edie McClurg, Alan Ruck, the motorheads, the dweebies, Abe Froman, Jennifer Gray's old nose, or Matthew Broderick's and Sarah Jessica Parker's newborn horse-baby.
It is unclear whether Jones contracted a "scorching case of herpes."
[Call me sir, goddammit!]
Thursday, November 14, 2002
A Letter from the Ombudsman
Some of you have expressed concern that Megatron contracted HIV, the virus that causes AIDS. He wants everyone to know that he was infected by sharing a dirty needle with Jazz, not by engaging in high-risk sexual behavior with Skeletor, as had been previously reported.
Thank you for the many notes of concern.
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
Great Space Coaster to the Past Dept.
To celebrate the 18th anniversary of WFOoBH?, this week's poll will be a PollClassic, culled from the archives of this site.
Ah, thinking about all the years I've done this site really takes me back...peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Mr. T cereal, rubber Monchichi bedsheets...
But I digress.
Take this trip down memory lane with Bunsen as your Virgil, and remember the more innocent days of our youth, back when the theme from The Greatest American Hero topped the charts. A time before Panthro became the Senator from Nebraska. An era before Megatron was diagnosed with HIV.
Marital Bliss Extra
Women Enjoy Best Sex Within Marriage
Until now, I didn't have the scientific basis to support this claim, but I've always found it to be true. Just yesterday, Alison rolled over and said to me, "You know, this is the best sex I've ever had."
And I looked at her and answered, "You better not tell your husband about this. He'll fucking kill me."
[Yeah, you saw it coming. But you knew that Eminem was going to be OK at the end of 8 Mile, and you turned out in droves.]
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
Trial and Error Section
I have not invented a miracle hangover cure. I can offer the service of sharing with the world what does not cure or prevent a hangover:
A tuna sandwich at 3am.
I have once again tried something so you don't have to. You can thank me later.
Monday, November 11, 2002
Bunker Mentality Dept.
Notes from a weekend hiding from the Storm of the Century: West Coast Edition (SOTC:WCE)
Saturday, Nov. 9
Returned from local Ralphs with disaster supplies: 12 cases of Arrowhead bottled water (don't want a "water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink" situation), five bottles of Ketel-One vodka (as promised in previous post), 25 cans of tuna, 20 loaves of white bread, three wheels of that cheese with the picture of the cow on it, discount VHS tapes (Big Top Pee-Wee, My Girl 2, Billy Blanks' Tae Bo: Master Class), five bags of leftover fun-size Halloween Milk Duds, ten rolls Charmin toilet tissue. And, for reasons still not clear to me, a copy of Lucky, the magazine all about shopping. Nearly killed on roads on the way home. Cars stall in middle of intersection, panicked LA drivers run screaming into street while fumbling with automatic umbrellas, causing delays of up to three hours for trips to corner markets. I submit to hysteria and trade my car for homeless guy's piece of cardboard with manifesto scribbled on it. I use it for headcover. Getting groceries home was a bitch.
Rain still steady, can see drops disrupting surface tension of the pool. Finally finished duct-taping the windows in prep for gale-force winds, even though all windows face enclosed pool area. Can't risk some sort of water spout from unpredictable wind currents ripping out the glass. Close vertical blinds, leaving one slat askew to watch drops in pool.
Severe drizzle relentless, seems to be gaining momentum. Finished making and Saran-wrapping 10 tuna sandwiches. Placed each sandwich in own brown paper bag in fridge, individually labeled with time assigned for consumption. Ate first sandwich and small triangle of the happy cow cheese three hours ahead of schedule. Loud noise from exterior was possible sound of distant thunder or something heavy falling at nearby construction site. Probably thunder. This could get ugly.
Awake to snow on television--fell asleep in first ten minutes of Big Top Pee-Wee. But it's OK, saw it in theater in 1988. Discover Red Bull and vodka cocktail goes surprisingly well with second, ahead-of-schedule tuna sandwich (henceforth known as AOSTS). Stick hand out window, it gets wet. Rain still rules the West Coast after sundown.
Unplug phone to avoid possibility of electrocution during inevitable lightning strike. I've heard too many stories about housewives being tossed across the room by an unfortunate bolt to fuck with the fates on this one. Also turn off cellphone out of scientifically dubious fear same thing will happen with microwaves because of magnetic interference by SOTC:WCE. You know, one day I'm going to need this brain for something.
I am not proud of myself.
All TS have been consumed AOS. Am able to ignore distended belly by drinking more Red Bull and vodka cocktails, then worked off some of the buzz with Tae-Bo video and vomiting fit.
Trip to window reveals that the rain has stopped. The pool has not even overflowed.
Feelings of betrayal set in. I plug in phone, make a couple of calls, and am walking out to a bar. Will confront homeless man with my car tomorrow. I still have his manifesto, which will be somewhat less soggy in the morning. Should be an even trade.
Sunday, Nov. 10
Apologies are in order. Maybe my coverage of this weekend's storm was slightly hasty. The four horsemen returned to the Hell Ranch, as today was sunny and about 75 degrees.
I retrieve my car with the help of an understanding police officer who doesn't need to be briefed on the vagaries of our swap deal. All I can tell him, it looked like a gun in the rain. The officer understands completely.
I see a woman rub SPF 50 on her chihuahua. Order has been restored in Los Angeles.
Friday, November 08, 2002
Storm of the Century Update
I just saw a poodle in a raincoat, wearing one of those little umbrella hats.
I'm off to the grocery store to stockpile bottled water and vodka.
Ask for the News and Get the Weather Dept.
It's raining in Los Angeles. It rained yesterday, it's raining today, and it supposed to rain even harder tomorrow.
I didn't sign up for this when I moved away from the East Coast. I can't even remember the last time it rained here, much less a three-day storm. This is the end of the world, the apocalypse, the coming of New Coke and the last episode of Seinfeld, all rolled into one. The entire city will be flooded, all of the actors and agents and supermodels will be wading to their sports cars, covering up their lattes with their copies of Daily Variety and screaming at their assistants to make it all stop. But it won't stop. Ever.
I can't help but think that this is the result of the Winona trial. The heavens have opened up and expressed their displeasure with the Californian system of jurisprudence.
Welcome to the new island nation of Los Angeles. Hope you brought your snorkel.
Thursday, November 07, 2002
Those Amazing Animals
Squirrel Terrorizes British Town
Dog Eats Owner After Death in Berlin Apartment
I've been saying it for years: first the animals will take over Europe, turning the EU into an economic juggernaut, then establish a superior pop culture, which they will export all over the globe, supplanting the United States as the world's sole superpower.
It begins. Start stockpiling your Euros now. The green with the dead presidents will be useless in a matter of months.
[What chance do we stand when we're jailing our finest cultural export for a little shopping mishap?]
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
Winona Ryder Found Guilty on 2 of 3 Charges
My world is rocked. Your world is rocked. What's a doe-eyed ingenue to do behind bars? We'll be tracking the story.
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
Stocks, Bonds, Lox, and Blondes Page
Embattled SEC Chairman Pitt Resigns, Whom I Have Never Heard Of
Sources attributed my never having heard of him to my lack of ownership of securities and to my general inattention to the goings-on of the financial world. I responded, "Let's be fair -- have you seen the picture of Greenspan?"
That's Right, Uh-huh, Dance Dance Dance
Is there anything hotter than Greenspan slashing interests rates in the face of a cooling economy? That's right, it's even better than Strom Thurmond getting a pedicure.
[I know the picture is a little huge. But it just has to be that way, please believe me. For a number of very good reasons.]
Monday, November 04, 2002
Animal Husbandry-Husbandry Dept.
Gay sheep shed light on sexuality;
Homosexual rams have different brain structures
Scientists are trying to crack the neurological code behind why some rams are only up for horn-on-horn action.
It's breakthrough in the study of gay sheep. But, sadly, there's been little progress in the "homo emu" field.
The Lunch Streak (see post of 10/31/02) is over after three days. Three days ain't much of a streak. There are lots of things you could probably unintentionally wind up doing for three consecutive days, like have a ham sandwich for lunch, wear the same colored shirt, or kidnap the cleaning lady for streaking the bathroom mirror. Every day kind of stuff.
I guess I really didn't have my heart in it, as today's effort to get out for a midday meal was virtually nonexistent. What's worse, I wound up eating this strange "Lunch on the Go" tuna-fish-and-crackers thing that was actually better than I thought it would be. Then I realized I had better get out and buy some groceries, because two straight Meals on the Go would be a pretty sad state of affairs.
This is not a cry for help. I got me some groceries, mm-hmm.
Friday, November 01, 2002
And Back to Bidness
Judge Says R. Kelly Can Go to New York
Judge's ruling furthermore frees New York's teen girls to be statutorily raped and urinated upon.
[blah blah blah I lost my job bitch bitch bitch]
Dispatch from Unemployment City, Population: Me
Now that we're on the dole over here at WFOoBH, we've got to formulate a plan. All that sweet, sweet TV cash done gone away, the free lunches have stopped coming, and even the steady stream of groupies has rolled along to the next stop on the tour.
So this particular poll, over on your left -- where it always is -- is important. Help me get these issues squared away, make some decisions, and get the bunsen-Amtrak back on the rails. Feel free to post other ideas view the comments link below.
Right now my only plan has been to go out with friends to have lunch, and I am three-for-three in the days since being Job'd by the programming gods. I'll keep the Lunch Streak statisitcs current in this space (weekends excluded). I could do this forever if restaurants weren't so hung up on insisting the bill be paid.
As for Halloween, not one person could guess that I was "She's the Sheriff"-era Suzanne Somers. I had a lot of explaining to do to drunk people in highly imaginative "sexy devil" and "sexy vampire" outfits. Someone did guess that I was John (as in Ponch and John on ChiPs), but hey, buddy, wrong blonde bombshell. And I was a bombshell, let there be no doubt about that.
[Did anyone else see that Sarah Jessica Parker gave birth? Hearty congrats to her and Matthew Broderick. ]