Texting while driving is dangerous and illegal. Inadvertently changing stations on your car radio to Rush Limbaugh is equally hazardous to the motoring public.
Yesterday, I was cruising down the road when that irritating toenail fungus commercial came on Sports Radio 1. Yes, I know you had to cover your children's eyes when Bob took off his shoes and socks. Oh the horror! Clearly, it was time to punch the radio button for Sports Radio 2, but hand-eye coordination has never been my strong suit and instead I hit the button that brought The Rush Limbaugh Program to my waiting ears.
Rush noted that The Liberal Media was getting all over Senate candidate and Tea Party favorite Christine O'Donnell. Ms O'Donnell had stated that Darwin's Theory of Evolution cannot possibly be correct. If humankind truly descended from apes then why are there still gorillas out there? Shouldn't they all be people by now? Did some of them not get the memo?
The frightening prospect is that Ms O'Donnell has a 50 / 50 chance of being elected to the US Senate and once there might be assigned as chairman to some committee that oversees science or education. Of course, the late great Senator Ted Stevens was chairman of the committee that oversaw the airwaves and when asked, "What is the Internet?", replied, "Oh, it's just a bunch of tubes." Presumably, the real work is done by staff people who actually understand the business or technology that the committee is supposed to be regulating. But why take that chance? Let's elect Senators with at least a 10th grade grasp of science, math, and reading comprehension.
Rush wasn't about to let a red meat conservative comment like Ms O'Donnell's go by without attaching his spin. "The two most evil men in history are Charles Darwin and Sigmund Freud." Solid thinking, Rush. Clearly, humankind is uniquely created in God's image. Nature doesn't control us. We control it! We have the right to strip the Earth of its resources and pollute it if need be. Darwin and his Galapagos Islands, pish posh. Give me smoggy Route 22 at rush hour. That's what God intended!
As for Freud, why attempt to treat mental illness? Anyone who doesn't agree with me is obviously mentally ill and should be locked away or at the very least sent away to a work farm for "re-education." It worked so well for Stalin and Mao.
This bit of The Rush Limbaugh Program made me so mad, I nearly drove off the road. Texting while driving is probably less hazardous to Liberals than listening to Rush.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Dumpling
The term "dumpling" previously had a positive connotation in my mind. I would picture flaky, tasty apple dumplings from the bakery shelf. I'd imagine the feathery white dumplings that my mother would place over a steaming bowl of pork and sauerkraut. I'd recall those savory, filled pasta-like Chinese dumplings from The Dumpling House in lower Manhattan. Mention "dumpling" and I drool like a certain golden retriever I know over a bowl of Blue Buffalo kibble.
At least, I used to.
The bill of fare at the Steigl Beer Tent during Rupert Fest in Salzburg last Saturday included "Roast Ox with Dumpling". I wasn't real sure about the Roast Ox. Too many readings of "The Grinch" and its depiction of "Roast Beast" will do that. But how bad could it be if it included a dumpling? It took several liters of Stiegl to build up the courage to order the Roast Ox entree. The plate included a golf ball-sized lump of speckled white stuff immersed in gravy alongside a slab o' meat.
I cleverly deduced that the golf ball must be the dumpling and attempted to slice it with a steel knife (no plastic cutlery for Rupert Fest. Salzburg's patron saint insists on period authenticity and Rupie goes back to 600 AD). Knives must have been stronger then because this 21st century device wasn't doing the trick. It turns out that an Austrian dumpling must be based on Tolkien's Ring of Power, forged in the depths of Mount Doom and indestructible.
Equally indestructible was the Roast Ox. Apparently a few decades of pulling a plow (or whatever Austrian oxen do) really toughens you up. "Hans, let's sell ox meat to the tourists. They won't know any better and we won't have to make shoes out of it anymore."
Fortunately, Steigl came to the rescue. The accompanying gravy failed to tenderize either the Austrian dumpling or the ox meat, but good local beer cures all ills.
At least, I used to.
The bill of fare at the Steigl Beer Tent during Rupert Fest in Salzburg last Saturday included "Roast Ox with Dumpling". I wasn't real sure about the Roast Ox. Too many readings of "The Grinch" and its depiction of "Roast Beast" will do that. But how bad could it be if it included a dumpling? It took several liters of Stiegl to build up the courage to order the Roast Ox entree. The plate included a golf ball-sized lump of speckled white stuff immersed in gravy alongside a slab o' meat.
I cleverly deduced that the golf ball must be the dumpling and attempted to slice it with a steel knife (no plastic cutlery for Rupert Fest. Salzburg's patron saint insists on period authenticity and Rupie goes back to 600 AD). Knives must have been stronger then because this 21st century device wasn't doing the trick. It turns out that an Austrian dumpling must be based on Tolkien's Ring of Power, forged in the depths of Mount Doom and indestructible.
Equally indestructible was the Roast Ox. Apparently a few decades of pulling a plow (or whatever Austrian oxen do) really toughens you up. "Hans, let's sell ox meat to the tourists. They won't know any better and we won't have to make shoes out of it anymore."
Fortunately, Steigl came to the rescue. The accompanying gravy failed to tenderize either the Austrian dumpling or the ox meat, but good local beer cures all ills.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Fiery Footlongs
The commercial on Sports Radio touted Subway Fiery Footlong Subs as capable of "burning the wimp right out of you."
When I heard it, I was walking the dog with a bagful of poop in my hand and desperately in need of significant wimp retraction, fiery and painful though it may be. Would the macho act of consuming a Buffalo Chicken sandwich restore my masculinity? Would it cause the dog to fear my wrath to the extent that he would pick up his own poop? The commercial made it seem worth a try.
Returning home, the Phillies game featured a Subway commercial showing a gang of motorcyclists tooling through a desert "so hot that rattlesnakes combust" on their way to, you guessed it, a Subway where the fiery footlongs were even hotter than the desert. The message was clear. Consume a fiery footlong and you will be tougher than a Hell's Angel.
Business news reports last week noted that fast food sales are predominantly to young men ages 18 to 34. Some advertising genius decided that the best way to get this demographic's attention was to appeal to their masculinity. Let McDonald's brag on their salads, wraps, and frothy drinks, real men go to Subway, have the wimp burned right out of them, and roar into the desert sunset astride a Harley. Just thinking about it has hair sprouting from my nostrils and ears.
After consuming a fiery footlong, of course, your breath may be capable of peeling the paint off your imaginary Harley and your social life may suffer, but that's OK. If you're listening to Sports Radio or watching a mid-week Phillies game on TV, you probably don't have much of a social life anyway. On to Subway!
When I heard it, I was walking the dog with a bagful of poop in my hand and desperately in need of significant wimp retraction, fiery and painful though it may be. Would the macho act of consuming a Buffalo Chicken sandwich restore my masculinity? Would it cause the dog to fear my wrath to the extent that he would pick up his own poop? The commercial made it seem worth a try.
Returning home, the Phillies game featured a Subway commercial showing a gang of motorcyclists tooling through a desert "so hot that rattlesnakes combust" on their way to, you guessed it, a Subway where the fiery footlongs were even hotter than the desert. The message was clear. Consume a fiery footlong and you will be tougher than a Hell's Angel.
Business news reports last week noted that fast food sales are predominantly to young men ages 18 to 34. Some advertising genius decided that the best way to get this demographic's attention was to appeal to their masculinity. Let McDonald's brag on their salads, wraps, and frothy drinks, real men go to Subway, have the wimp burned right out of them, and roar into the desert sunset astride a Harley. Just thinking about it has hair sprouting from my nostrils and ears.
After consuming a fiery footlong, of course, your breath may be capable of peeling the paint off your imaginary Harley and your social life may suffer, but that's OK. If you're listening to Sports Radio or watching a mid-week Phillies game on TV, you probably don't have much of a social life anyway. On to Subway!
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Americanization Averted
Syndicated columnist Cal Thomas warned yesterday of "the Americanization of al-Queda leadership" which like the old Julie Andrews movie "The Americanization of Emily" involves foreigners infiltrating our fair land to spread fear and instability. After all these years, Julie Andrews still speaks with a British accent, you know. Drop the accent if you want to be a real American. Julie.
Cal points out that al-Queda is developing an embryonic recruitment infrastructure within the US involving immigrant and indigenous Muslims. Whatever shall we do? Cal recommends:
1. "Bar Muslim immigrants from Pakistan, Somalia, and Yemen." Solid thinking, Cal! Immigrants fleeing a totalitarian homeland have never worked out for America. We should never have allowed that Einstein guy in from Nazi Germany. Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Ben Franklin all descended form British-born parents when the UK was under that nasty King George. Who knows what they were really plotting in Independence Hall back in 1776? Come to think of it, every American except Sitting Bull (and, apparently, Cal Thomas) came here to escape oppression.
2. Ban "the uncontrolled construction of mosques as well as Islamic schools some of which have already sown the seeds from which future terrorists will be cultivated". Great grasp of history, Cal! Harvard and Yale were founded to train religious leaders and to this day have prominent Divinity Schools. Those hotbeds of religious radicalism are the alma mater of every current Supreme Court justice and we know what a bunch of radicals they are.
3. Stop "the large-scale conversion to Islam of prison inmates many of whom become radicalized and upon release enlist in al-Queda's army." Right on, Cal! It wasn't until after they were released from prison that Lenin and Hitler became radicalized and look what happened as a result. Or maybe they were fairly radical before prison, who knows?
Cal concludes his column on a chilling note. "Syria has asked imams for recordings of their Friday sermons and is closely monitoring what is taught in their religious schools... What does Syria know that we refuse to acknowledge out of fear of offending sensibilities?" Great idea, Cal! Let's establish a reverse Inquisition where the government tortures religious leaders if they don't parrot the party line. We can learn a lot from Syria.
Isn't Syria a Muslim country, though? Could it be that Islamofascism has less to do with Islam than with Fascism? Is every single one of the billion Muslims world-wide our sworn enemy? Let's not take any chances though. Keep them outside our borders. Don't allow their mosques or schools. Keep them away from our prisons. You tell 'em, Cal.
Cal points out that al-Queda is developing an embryonic recruitment infrastructure within the US involving immigrant and indigenous Muslims. Whatever shall we do? Cal recommends:
1. "Bar Muslim immigrants from Pakistan, Somalia, and Yemen." Solid thinking, Cal! Immigrants fleeing a totalitarian homeland have never worked out for America. We should never have allowed that Einstein guy in from Nazi Germany. Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Ben Franklin all descended form British-born parents when the UK was under that nasty King George. Who knows what they were really plotting in Independence Hall back in 1776? Come to think of it, every American except Sitting Bull (and, apparently, Cal Thomas) came here to escape oppression.
2. Ban "the uncontrolled construction of mosques as well as Islamic schools some of which have already sown the seeds from which future terrorists will be cultivated". Great grasp of history, Cal! Harvard and Yale were founded to train religious leaders and to this day have prominent Divinity Schools. Those hotbeds of religious radicalism are the alma mater of every current Supreme Court justice and we know what a bunch of radicals they are.
3. Stop "the large-scale conversion to Islam of prison inmates many of whom become radicalized and upon release enlist in al-Queda's army." Right on, Cal! It wasn't until after they were released from prison that Lenin and Hitler became radicalized and look what happened as a result. Or maybe they were fairly radical before prison, who knows?
Cal concludes his column on a chilling note. "Syria has asked imams for recordings of their Friday sermons and is closely monitoring what is taught in their religious schools... What does Syria know that we refuse to acknowledge out of fear of offending sensibilities?" Great idea, Cal! Let's establish a reverse Inquisition where the government tortures religious leaders if they don't parrot the party line. We can learn a lot from Syria.
Isn't Syria a Muslim country, though? Could it be that Islamofascism has less to do with Islam than with Fascism? Is every single one of the billion Muslims world-wide our sworn enemy? Let's not take any chances though. Keep them outside our borders. Don't allow their mosques or schools. Keep them away from our prisons. You tell 'em, Cal.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Saving Bikini Season
A scene from TV's "House, M.D.":
CUDDY: "House, here's an unusual one and right up your alley. An 18 year old girl came in to the ER today with an unsightly brown mark on her upper thigh. It's almost bikini season and she is panicking."
HOUSE: "I will assemble my staff, listen to their diagnoses, mock them, start treatment, almost kill the patient, and just before the show is over, notice something totally irrelevant relating to the personal lives of the patient, me, or my staff, and come up with a miracle cure. Hey, it's worked for six seasons, innumerable reruns, and won me an Emmy. Let's go!"
WILSON: "That unsightly brown mark could be skin cancer. I'd recommend immediate radiation and chemo."
HOUSE: "Cancer, cancer, cancer. It's always cancer with you, Wilson. If your nose hairs need trimming, it must be The Big C! Next."
CHASE: "It could be the reverse of that thing that Michael Jackson had with white skin turning black instead of the other way around. If our patient can't sing or Moonwalk and wears two sequined gloves, she might have Reverse Michael Jackson Syndrome."
HOUSE: "Great idea, Chase. Let's pump her full of painkillers and send her off on tour. That worked so well for MJ. Next."
CAMERON: "I think that it's a rare capillary disease where the tiny blood vessels burst. This gives us a chance to show the viewers those cool "inside the body" CGI effects."
HOUSE: "That rare capillary disease is known as bruising, Cameron. The patient is not going "ouch" when we touch the area, so it's' not a bruise. Plus, bruises heal slowly and we've only got an hour of TV time."
HOUSE glances at the computer on his desk and smiles enigmatically.
HOUSE: "Did anyone think to ask the young lady whether she owns a laptop? A Pennsylvania dermatologist diagnosed a similar case as "Erythma ab igne", a rash from localized heat exposure usually found in nursing home patients who slept with a hot water bottle (or with a hot nurse as Groucho would say). The laptop's battery emits enough heat to cause a permanent rash. Give her an old-fashioned "tower" computer and some pancake make-up. Bikini season will be saved!"
THE NEXT DAY
CUDDY: "Your diagnosis was correct, House, but the patient tipped over the "tower" computer on her lap and it shattered her pelvis leading to hemorrhage."
HOUSE: "Great, that's the near-fatal scare that we do every episode. Bring in my staff again and stoke up the CGI effects. We've got the rest of the hour to fill."
By the way, the laptop rash thing is actually true. It was published in "Contemporary Pediatrics" and featured in newsppaer articles.
CUDDY: "House, here's an unusual one and right up your alley. An 18 year old girl came in to the ER today with an unsightly brown mark on her upper thigh. It's almost bikini season and she is panicking."
HOUSE: "I will assemble my staff, listen to their diagnoses, mock them, start treatment, almost kill the patient, and just before the show is over, notice something totally irrelevant relating to the personal lives of the patient, me, or my staff, and come up with a miracle cure. Hey, it's worked for six seasons, innumerable reruns, and won me an Emmy. Let's go!"
WILSON: "That unsightly brown mark could be skin cancer. I'd recommend immediate radiation and chemo."
HOUSE: "Cancer, cancer, cancer. It's always cancer with you, Wilson. If your nose hairs need trimming, it must be The Big C! Next."
CHASE: "It could be the reverse of that thing that Michael Jackson had with white skin turning black instead of the other way around. If our patient can't sing or Moonwalk and wears two sequined gloves, she might have Reverse Michael Jackson Syndrome."
HOUSE: "Great idea, Chase. Let's pump her full of painkillers and send her off on tour. That worked so well for MJ. Next."
CAMERON: "I think that it's a rare capillary disease where the tiny blood vessels burst. This gives us a chance to show the viewers those cool "inside the body" CGI effects."
HOUSE: "That rare capillary disease is known as bruising, Cameron. The patient is not going "ouch" when we touch the area, so it's' not a bruise. Plus, bruises heal slowly and we've only got an hour of TV time."
HOUSE glances at the computer on his desk and smiles enigmatically.
HOUSE: "Did anyone think to ask the young lady whether she owns a laptop? A Pennsylvania dermatologist diagnosed a similar case as "Erythma ab igne", a rash from localized heat exposure usually found in nursing home patients who slept with a hot water bottle (or with a hot nurse as Groucho would say). The laptop's battery emits enough heat to cause a permanent rash. Give her an old-fashioned "tower" computer and some pancake make-up. Bikini season will be saved!"
THE NEXT DAY
CUDDY: "Your diagnosis was correct, House, but the patient tipped over the "tower" computer on her lap and it shattered her pelvis leading to hemorrhage."
HOUSE: "Great, that's the near-fatal scare that we do every episode. Bring in my staff again and stoke up the CGI effects. We've got the rest of the hour to fill."
By the way, the laptop rash thing is actually true. It was published in "Contemporary Pediatrics" and featured in newsppaer articles.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Confessions of an Anti-Dentite
Random thoughts while undergoing my semi-annual Dental Exam / Cleaning / Prophylaxis:
Prophylaxis sounds vaguely obscene. With a name like that, it should be a fun "forbidden fruit" sort of thing rather than an ordeal.
What the hell do I look at while the Hygienist is poking around my mouth? I can't look at her. That would make me some sort of pervert. The acoustical ceiling tile gets really boring after a while. Some day, progressive dentists will have DVDs projected on the ceiling to keep patients calm much like parents have DVD screens in the back of the family minivan to keep the little ones occupied during long trips.
My sinuses are draining and clogging my airway. I'm going to suffocate here on the dentist's chair! At my funeral, they will all say, "The Organ Donor Bank refused his corneas and kidneys, but they took his bicuspids. He gave the gift of chewing to some poor soul in West Virginia."
If that modern ultrasonic tartar-bashing thingie that the Hygienist just used is so great, why is she scraping away on my teeth with that stainless steel pick anyway? Is she scraping away good tooth enamel so that I will have cavities there next time? Not that I'm paranoid, but it's an ADA plot. All the dentists do it.
Where does my tongue go now? Don't stab it with that pick! Just tell me, I'll do anything you say.
Why does that spit suction thingie hang over my front teeth when my head is tilted back and all my saliva is draining back toward my throat (and, by the way, choking me). Liquids flow downhill, or didn't they teach you that in Dental School?
In the words of Kramer, "I'm a raving anti-Dentite."
It's all over, you say? Damn, my mouth feels good. See you in six months!
Prophylaxis sounds vaguely obscene. With a name like that, it should be a fun "forbidden fruit" sort of thing rather than an ordeal.
What the hell do I look at while the Hygienist is poking around my mouth? I can't look at her. That would make me some sort of pervert. The acoustical ceiling tile gets really boring after a while. Some day, progressive dentists will have DVDs projected on the ceiling to keep patients calm much like parents have DVD screens in the back of the family minivan to keep the little ones occupied during long trips.
My sinuses are draining and clogging my airway. I'm going to suffocate here on the dentist's chair! At my funeral, they will all say, "The Organ Donor Bank refused his corneas and kidneys, but they took his bicuspids. He gave the gift of chewing to some poor soul in West Virginia."
If that modern ultrasonic tartar-bashing thingie that the Hygienist just used is so great, why is she scraping away on my teeth with that stainless steel pick anyway? Is she scraping away good tooth enamel so that I will have cavities there next time? Not that I'm paranoid, but it's an ADA plot. All the dentists do it.
Where does my tongue go now? Don't stab it with that pick! Just tell me, I'll do anything you say.
Why does that spit suction thingie hang over my front teeth when my head is tilted back and all my saliva is draining back toward my throat (and, by the way, choking me). Liquids flow downhill, or didn't they teach you that in Dental School?
In the words of Kramer, "I'm a raving anti-Dentite."
It's all over, you say? Damn, my mouth feels good. See you in six months!
Monday, September 13, 2010
A Lehigh Valley Comeback
Why don't newspapers print "good" news? The daily litany of explosions in California, deaths in Afghanistan, and our beloved Eagles going down to injury and defeat is enough to curdle the milk over our Cheerios. Then, a plucky 14 year-old from Allentown added joy to our morning coffee.
Marlee Senderowitz is one of twenty finalists in the "Live! With Regis & Kelly Wild & Wacky Talent Contest". Marlee has won $2,500 to date and is eligible to win the grand prize of $20,000 and a lifetime supply of Trident gum. Considering that she may have 70 more years of chewing, that could be a whole lot of gum. "Congratulations on your victory, Marlee. I'll just back this tractor trailer full of gum to your garage and dump all those packs of pure breath-freshening goodness in there. You may want to invite some friends over for a chewing party if you ever want to get your car out."
And what is Marlee's Wild & Wacky Talent? It's inflating a balloon by blowing air through her nose. She has wowed her audiences at summer camp and at family gatherings. "After her sister plays 'Fur Elise' on the piano and we've hopefully digested our dessert, Marlee will blow up a balloon through her nose. Use the little brown bags alongside your seat if you feel queasy."
The Wild & Wacky Talent Competition is tough this year. Marlee's rivals include a woman who whistles with her toes (I never could master that two-fingers-in-the-mouth super-shrill whistling technique. If I'd tried two-toes-in-the-mouth, I might have had better luck.), a girl who plays the piano backwards (Big deal! That no-talent Mozart did it 200 years ago if we believe the film "Amadeus"), and an amazing basketball shooter (Amazing? Let's see him make a free throw propelling the ball from his nose).
It's up to us, Lehigh Valley. We can vote on-line to bring Marlee to victory. America no longer looks at the Lehigh Valley and thinks of Bethlehem Steel, Mack Trucks, or Dixie Cups. After Marlee's win, we will be the Wild & Wacky Talent Capital of the USA. Let's see every mile marker on Route 22 festooned with a nasally-inflated balloon. Now, that would be a "good news" story for our morning paper.
Marlee Senderowitz is one of twenty finalists in the "Live! With Regis & Kelly Wild & Wacky Talent Contest". Marlee has won $2,500 to date and is eligible to win the grand prize of $20,000 and a lifetime supply of Trident gum. Considering that she may have 70 more years of chewing, that could be a whole lot of gum. "Congratulations on your victory, Marlee. I'll just back this tractor trailer full of gum to your garage and dump all those packs of pure breath-freshening goodness in there. You may want to invite some friends over for a chewing party if you ever want to get your car out."
And what is Marlee's Wild & Wacky Talent? It's inflating a balloon by blowing air through her nose. She has wowed her audiences at summer camp and at family gatherings. "After her sister plays 'Fur Elise' on the piano and we've hopefully digested our dessert, Marlee will blow up a balloon through her nose. Use the little brown bags alongside your seat if you feel queasy."
The Wild & Wacky Talent Competition is tough this year. Marlee's rivals include a woman who whistles with her toes (I never could master that two-fingers-in-the-mouth super-shrill whistling technique. If I'd tried two-toes-in-the-mouth, I might have had better luck.), a girl who plays the piano backwards (Big deal! That no-talent Mozart did it 200 years ago if we believe the film "Amadeus"), and an amazing basketball shooter (Amazing? Let's see him make a free throw propelling the ball from his nose).
It's up to us, Lehigh Valley. We can vote on-line to bring Marlee to victory. America no longer looks at the Lehigh Valley and thinks of Bethlehem Steel, Mack Trucks, or Dixie Cups. After Marlee's win, we will be the Wild & Wacky Talent Capital of the USA. Let's see every mile marker on Route 22 festooned with a nasally-inflated balloon. Now, that would be a "good news" story for our morning paper.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Dirty Polka-ing
The Associated Press reported today that Jan Lewan, "Pennsylvania's Polka King", is "getting the old band back together" now that he has been released from a five year prison term for securities fraud.
"Getting the old band back together", eh? Perhaps "on a mission from God"? Why does this sound familiar? It's the plot of "The Blues Brothers" come to real-life thirty years later to a spritely polka beat. I see an updated sequel!
One imagines Jan and his lesser-known brother clad in the polka equivalent of Belushi and Ackroyd's black suits, fedoras, and shades (sequined polyester shirts, satin pants, and boots) roaming the Pennsylvania coal country in search of their former bandmates. They enter St Stanislaus Church in Hazleton where the priest who strongly resembles the polka equivalent of James Brown (Jimmy Sturr, since James doesn't do polka and is no longer with us) causes them "to see the light". Jan does backflips down the church aisle to the amazement of the congregation.
Now they must get the band's instruments out of hock. The pawnbroker, a Ray Charles look-alike (Weird Al Yankovic since he can play any role and legendary, blind polka stars are in short supply) sings a song and cuts them a break.
Alas, one former bandmate is now married and running a successful Polka Soul Food (Halupkies and Kielbasa, All You Can Eat) Restaurant in Wilkes-Barre. His wife, played by one of the legendary Pany Sisters, belts out Aretha Franklin's "Think" to a polka beat, but he joins Jan and the boys anyway.
Car chases and assorted mayhem ensue. After many tribulations, the boys regain their previous success and save the orphanage or pay off Jan's defrauded creditors depending on which ending trial movie audiences prefer.
Previous sequels to "The Blues Brothers" were less successful than the original since they retained the same tired blues / soul format. Jan Lewan's updated version not only has a true-life documentary aspect but its soundtrack would be the same polka beat that has packed 'em in at Musik (with a k) fest for decades. There's a lot of anticipation for the final Harry Potter movie, but, for polka lovers, Jan Lewan's epic is the one we eagerly await.
"Getting the old band back together", eh? Perhaps "on a mission from God"? Why does this sound familiar? It's the plot of "The Blues Brothers" come to real-life thirty years later to a spritely polka beat. I see an updated sequel!
One imagines Jan and his lesser-known brother clad in the polka equivalent of Belushi and Ackroyd's black suits, fedoras, and shades (sequined polyester shirts, satin pants, and boots) roaming the Pennsylvania coal country in search of their former bandmates. They enter St Stanislaus Church in Hazleton where the priest who strongly resembles the polka equivalent of James Brown (Jimmy Sturr, since James doesn't do polka and is no longer with us) causes them "to see the light". Jan does backflips down the church aisle to the amazement of the congregation.
Now they must get the band's instruments out of hock. The pawnbroker, a Ray Charles look-alike (Weird Al Yankovic since he can play any role and legendary, blind polka stars are in short supply) sings a song and cuts them a break.
Alas, one former bandmate is now married and running a successful Polka Soul Food (Halupkies and Kielbasa, All You Can Eat) Restaurant in Wilkes-Barre. His wife, played by one of the legendary Pany Sisters, belts out Aretha Franklin's "Think" to a polka beat, but he joins Jan and the boys anyway.
Car chases and assorted mayhem ensue. After many tribulations, the boys regain their previous success and save the orphanage or pay off Jan's defrauded creditors depending on which ending trial movie audiences prefer.
Previous sequels to "The Blues Brothers" were less successful than the original since they retained the same tired blues / soul format. Jan Lewan's updated version not only has a true-life documentary aspect but its soundtrack would be the same polka beat that has packed 'em in at Musik (with a k) fest for decades. There's a lot of anticipation for the final Harry Potter movie, but, for polka lovers, Jan Lewan's epic is the one we eagerly await.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Health and Well-Being
A wise man once said, "Money can't buy happiness". In a little-known codicil, he added, "But it can certainly rent it."
The Center for Health and Well-Being at Princeton University (And isn't Princeton the very center of health and well-being? Ask any Princetonian "How are you this fine day?" and the inevitable reply is "Very well, thank you." as opposed to Harvard or Yale where the reply is, "What's it to you?") surveyed 450,000 Americans on their day-to-day happiness and overall life satisfaction. The survey uncovered these shocking results:
1. Day-to-day happiness increases as income rises. So money CAN buy happiness? Warren Buffet has a bigger smile on his face than that guy dumpster-diving behind the McDonald's.
2. Happiness levels off at $75 K annual income. So the cubicle drone hauling down $75 K per year is just as happy as Derek Jeter who makes $75 K every day during baseball season? Evidently, that particular cubicle drone also dates Mischa Barton.
3. People are happier on weekends. Apparently, sleeping-in, avoiding a commute, and not having to put up with a domineering supervisor makes people happy. Who knew?
4. Someone actually makes a living conducting surveys that reveal obvious facts.
Having ignored the "health" portion of its title, The Center for Health and Well-Being will now determine at what level of "sickness" people become less happy than the un-sick. My guess is that it will turn out that lepers are less happy than folks with the sniffles who are probably equally happy as healthy people.
A wise man also said, "Health is wealth." Our friends at Princeton can combine these two surveys and see if Health, Wealth, and Happiness are transitive.
The Center for Health and Well-Being at Princeton University (And isn't Princeton the very center of health and well-being? Ask any Princetonian "How are you this fine day?" and the inevitable reply is "Very well, thank you." as opposed to Harvard or Yale where the reply is, "What's it to you?") surveyed 450,000 Americans on their day-to-day happiness and overall life satisfaction. The survey uncovered these shocking results:
1. Day-to-day happiness increases as income rises. So money CAN buy happiness? Warren Buffet has a bigger smile on his face than that guy dumpster-diving behind the McDonald's.
2. Happiness levels off at $75 K annual income. So the cubicle drone hauling down $75 K per year is just as happy as Derek Jeter who makes $75 K every day during baseball season? Evidently, that particular cubicle drone also dates Mischa Barton.
3. People are happier on weekends. Apparently, sleeping-in, avoiding a commute, and not having to put up with a domineering supervisor makes people happy. Who knew?
4. Someone actually makes a living conducting surveys that reveal obvious facts.
Having ignored the "health" portion of its title, The Center for Health and Well-Being will now determine at what level of "sickness" people become less happy than the un-sick. My guess is that it will turn out that lepers are less happy than folks with the sniffles who are probably equally happy as healthy people.
A wise man also said, "Health is wealth." Our friends at Princeton can combine these two surveys and see if Health, Wealth, and Happiness are transitive.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
In It To Win It
Any ethnic festival worth its salt includes a contest or two. Bethlehem's Celtic Classic features camber tossing for the strong and haggis eating for the courageous. Musik (with a k) fest may have expanded beyond its original German roots. Festplatz and Leiderplatz remain, but Latin music is found at Plaza Tropical instead of Salsa Platz. It still features the "Running With the Police Horses" down Main Street at closing time for those daredevils who can't make it to Pamplona though.
Being neither strong, courageous nor a daredevil, I seek an ethnic festival contest that meets my talents and especially one with a desirable prize. Scandinavian Fest in South Jersey may be the one. Beyond the conventional music, dancing, crafts, and food, it is the home of the Wife-Carrying Competition. The contest, popular in Finland, involves a man carrying his wife, or, lacking one, an ad-hoc wife at least, through an obstacle course. The first man through the course wins his wife's weight in beer!
Ponder that for a moment. A 120 pound wife converted to 160 cans of beer. That's more than six cases of suds. Sign me up!
But I've got to be "in it to win it." There's no second prize. Before heading off to South Jersey, I need to take advantage of any contest loopholes to develop a winning strategy. Those monogamous Scandinavians will probably be hauling their actual wives through the obstacle course. I'[ve seen the size of some of those Wagnerian opera heroines. The shield, armor, and horned helmet add a lot of weight which means more beer at the end, but really slows you down through the course. I've got to be lean and mean.
Who is the most famous skinny Scandanavian "wife" on the planet? Why, the former Mrs Tiger Woods, of course. I could haul her through the obstacle course in no time at all, especially if she brings that famous nine-iron along to "inspire" me if I begin to fade in the stretch.
Granted, I won't win as much beer, but in the words of Coach Lombardi, "Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing." Plus, with her $100 million divorce settlement, she probably won't insist on her share of the spoils of victory.
Being neither strong, courageous nor a daredevil, I seek an ethnic festival contest that meets my talents and especially one with a desirable prize. Scandinavian Fest in South Jersey may be the one. Beyond the conventional music, dancing, crafts, and food, it is the home of the Wife-Carrying Competition. The contest, popular in Finland, involves a man carrying his wife, or, lacking one, an ad-hoc wife at least, through an obstacle course. The first man through the course wins his wife's weight in beer!
Ponder that for a moment. A 120 pound wife converted to 160 cans of beer. That's more than six cases of suds. Sign me up!
But I've got to be "in it to win it." There's no second prize. Before heading off to South Jersey, I need to take advantage of any contest loopholes to develop a winning strategy. Those monogamous Scandinavians will probably be hauling their actual wives through the obstacle course. I'[ve seen the size of some of those Wagnerian opera heroines. The shield, armor, and horned helmet add a lot of weight which means more beer at the end, but really slows you down through the course. I've got to be lean and mean.
Who is the most famous skinny Scandanavian "wife" on the planet? Why, the former Mrs Tiger Woods, of course. I could haul her through the obstacle course in no time at all, especially if she brings that famous nine-iron along to "inspire" me if I begin to fade in the stretch.
Granted, I won't win as much beer, but in the words of Coach Lombardi, "Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing." Plus, with her $100 million divorce settlement, she probably won't insist on her share of the spoils of victory.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Career Change
The Great Allentown Fair was the center of the musical universe Saturday night. Its grandstand act was none other than Justin Bieber. Will Allentown ever be the same? This is like getting the Beatles to appear at the Farmerama Theater in 1964 or Mozart to play at the Ritz Barbecue in 1780. Talk about catching musical genius at its apex.
It was even better for a fortunate few students at an Allentown Dance Studio. Two of Justin's backing dancers made a personal appearance there before the show to demonstrate their moves and answer the students' questions. Naturally, Question #1 was, "What is Justin really like?" Predictably,they revealed that the tween idol is "just a normal 16 year old who likes to hang out at the mall and play video games (in between almost nightly concerts, writing his autobiography, and making a 3-D movie)" which is pretty much what every normal 16 year old is doing nowadays.
Question #2 was "How did you get to be his backing dancers?" The lads revealed that, of course, they had to audition and interview for the job, but what Justin's management team was really looking for was maturity in his entourage. These dancers are 21 years old! That's maturity? What Justin needs in his dancers is a truly mature 62 year old like me. With baggy, saggy jeans to disguise my paunch and an oversized, straight-brim baseball cap to cover my bald spot, I'd fit right in with Justin's entourage. Plus, I haven't been carded at the beer stand in forty years. Justin, if you're reading this, I'm available.
Question #3 was, "What can I do to have the best chance at being the one that Justin picks out of the audience, goes on stage, and gets a bouquet of flowers?" The trick is to wear "a really awesome shirt. Justin likes those colorful tops." Armed with that little factoid, I'm off to Abercrombie & Fitch in search of the most colorful top I can find. When Justin picks me out of the crowd at his next concert, I'll bust a few of my moves on stage, thoroughly impress him, get hired as a backing dancer, and achieve job security until Justin's current concert tour ends or his voice changes whichever comes first.
You can't be afraid of a career change in this economy.
It was even better for a fortunate few students at an Allentown Dance Studio. Two of Justin's backing dancers made a personal appearance there before the show to demonstrate their moves and answer the students' questions. Naturally, Question #1 was, "What is Justin really like?" Predictably,they revealed that the tween idol is "just a normal 16 year old who likes to hang out at the mall and play video games (in between almost nightly concerts, writing his autobiography, and making a 3-D movie)" which is pretty much what every normal 16 year old is doing nowadays.
Question #2 was "How did you get to be his backing dancers?" The lads revealed that, of course, they had to audition and interview for the job, but what Justin's management team was really looking for was maturity in his entourage. These dancers are 21 years old! That's maturity? What Justin needs in his dancers is a truly mature 62 year old like me. With baggy, saggy jeans to disguise my paunch and an oversized, straight-brim baseball cap to cover my bald spot, I'd fit right in with Justin's entourage. Plus, I haven't been carded at the beer stand in forty years. Justin, if you're reading this, I'm available.
Question #3 was, "What can I do to have the best chance at being the one that Justin picks out of the audience, goes on stage, and gets a bouquet of flowers?" The trick is to wear "a really awesome shirt. Justin likes those colorful tops." Armed with that little factoid, I'm off to Abercrombie & Fitch in search of the most colorful top I can find. When Justin picks me out of the crowd at his next concert, I'll bust a few of my moves on stage, thoroughly impress him, get hired as a backing dancer, and achieve job security until Justin's current concert tour ends or his voice changes whichever comes first.
You can't be afraid of a career change in this economy.
Career Change
The Great Allentown Fair was the center of the musical universe Saturday night. Its grandstand act was none other than Justin Bieber. Will Allentown ever be the same? This is like getting the Beatles to appear at the Farmerama Theater in 1964 or Mozart to play at the Ritz Barbecue in 1780. Talk about catching musical genius at its apex.
It was even better for a fortunate few students at an Allentown Dance Studio. Two of Justin's backing dancers made a personal appearance there before the show to demonstrate their moves and answer the students' questions. Naturally, Question #1 was, "What is Justin really like?" Predictably,they revealed that the tween idol is "just a normal 16 year old who likes to hang out at the mall and play video games (in between almost nightly concerts, writing his autobiography, and making a 3-D movie)" which is pretty much what every normal 16 year old is doing nowadays.
Question #2 was "How did you get to be his backing dancers?" The lads revealed that, of course, they had to audition and interview for the job, but what Justin's management team was really looking for was maturity in his entourage. These dancers are 21 years old! That's maturity? What Justin needs in his dancers is a truly mature 62 year old like me. With baggy, saggy jeans to disguise my paunch and an oversized, straight-brim baseball cap to cover my bald spot, I'd fit right in with Justin's entourage. Plus, I haven't been carded at the beer stand in forty years. Justin, if you're reading this, I'm available.
Question #3 was, "What can I do to have the best chance at being the one that Justin picks out of the audience, goes on stage, and gets a bouquet of flowers?" The trick is to wear "a really awesome shirt. Justin likes those colorful tops." Armed with that little factoid, I'm off to Abercrombie & Fitch in search of the most colorful top I can find. When Justin picks me out of the crowd at his next concert, I'll bust a few of my moves on stage, thoroughly impress him, get hired as a backing dancer, and achieve job security until Justin's current concert tour ends or his voice changes whichever comes first.
You can't be afraid of a career change in this economy.
It was even better for a fortunate few students at an Allentown Dance Studio. Two of Justin's backing dancers made a personal appearance there before the show to demonstrate their moves and answer the students' questions. Naturally, Question #1 was, "What is Justin really like?" Predictably,they revealed that the tween idol is "just a normal 16 year old who likes to hang out at the mall and play video games (in between almost nightly concerts, writing his autobiography, and making a 3-D movie)" which is pretty much what every normal 16 year old is doing nowadays.
Question #2 was "How did you get to be his backing dancers?" The lads revealed that, of course, they had to audition and interview for the job, but what Justin's management team was really looking for was maturity in his entourage. These dancers are 21 years old! That's maturity? What Justin needs in his dancers is a truly mature 62 year old like me. With baggy, saggy jeans to disguise my paunch and an oversized, straight-brim baseball cap to cover my bald spot, I'd fit right in with Justin's entourage. Plus, I haven't been carded at the beer stand in forty years. Justin, if you're reading this, I'm available.
Question #3 was, "What can I do to have the best chance at being the one that Justin picks out of the audience, goes on stage, and gets a bouquet of flowers?" The trick is to wear "a really awesome shirt. Justin likes those colorful tops." Armed with that little factoid, I'm off to Abercrombie & Fitch in search of the most colorful top I can find. When Justin picks me out of the crowd at his next concert, I'll bust a few of my moves on stage, thoroughly impress him, get hired as a backing dancer, and achieve job security until Justin's current concert tour ends or his voice changes whichever comes first.
You can't be afraid of a career change in this economy.
Friday, September 3, 2010
They Called The Wind Earl
When the National Weather Service began naming hurricanes back in the '40s, it chose exclusively female monikers. The rationale was that hurricanes were dangerous and unpredictable. In those non-enlightened times, that meant female names. I recall Hurricanes Hazel, Connie, and Diane wreaking havoc in the '50s.
By the politically-correct '70s, the NWS began alternating male and female names. Hurricanes were no less dangerous and unpredictable, but somehow Hurricane Bob seemed less threatening than Hurricane Hazel.
Today, Hurricane Earl is working its way up the East Coast. Will it be as strong and vicious as football hall-of-famer Earl Campbell? Will it be as devastating as an Earl "The Pearl" Monroe drive to the basket? Or will it be as mild and meek as Earl Miller?
Earl Miller was a fellow staffer with me at Boy Scout Camp in 1964. In the immortal words of Alan Sherman's "Hello, Muddah; Hello Faddah", "All the counselors hate the waiters. And the lake has alligators." Earl was a waiter, or more correctly, a kitchen drudge, peeling and chopping, cleaning and scrubbing, all summer long for the princely sum of $60. Yet, Earl never complained. Earl was never envious of us counselors out there in the fresh air and sunshine while he cleaned the grease trap.
In fact, every Earl I've known has been a mild-mannered David Banner and never an enraged Incredible Hulk. It must be in the name.
I predict that Hurricane Earl will be a non-event. Had it been Hurricane Lady GaGa, I'd be boarding up the windows and retreating to the storm cellar right now.
By the politically-correct '70s, the NWS began alternating male and female names. Hurricanes were no less dangerous and unpredictable, but somehow Hurricane Bob seemed less threatening than Hurricane Hazel.
Today, Hurricane Earl is working its way up the East Coast. Will it be as strong and vicious as football hall-of-famer Earl Campbell? Will it be as devastating as an Earl "The Pearl" Monroe drive to the basket? Or will it be as mild and meek as Earl Miller?
Earl Miller was a fellow staffer with me at Boy Scout Camp in 1964. In the immortal words of Alan Sherman's "Hello, Muddah; Hello Faddah", "All the counselors hate the waiters. And the lake has alligators." Earl was a waiter, or more correctly, a kitchen drudge, peeling and chopping, cleaning and scrubbing, all summer long for the princely sum of $60. Yet, Earl never complained. Earl was never envious of us counselors out there in the fresh air and sunshine while he cleaned the grease trap.
In fact, every Earl I've known has been a mild-mannered David Banner and never an enraged Incredible Hulk. It must be in the name.
I predict that Hurricane Earl will be a non-event. Had it been Hurricane Lady GaGa, I'd be boarding up the windows and retreating to the storm cellar right now.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Parsley, Sage, Pomegranate & Raspberry
The emasculation of American males continues at an accelerating pace. Julia Roberts' "Eat, Pray. Love" has higher box office receipts than Sylvester Stallone's "The Expendables". The Miami Dolphins stop practice to search the field for a player's $50K diamond earring. Pro wrestling has mixed (Male / Female) tag team matches. What in the name of John Wayne is going on?
At least, we American males still have beer. Beer survived the Wine Cooler Craze of the 70s and Zima Mania in the 90s. The only permanent change in American Beer Culture since the Pilgrims is light beer but that is OK because manly former athletes argue whether it has "more taste" or is "less filling". We know that when we need a testosterone boost, it's time to hoist a few cold ones. A glass of Chardonnay or a Cosmopolitan makes you want to tune in "Sex and the City" re-runs. A can of Yuengling makes you want to tune in NASCAR.
But NASCAR and NFL ratings have decreased the past few years. Yesterday, I discovered the reason. Placed for recycling outside a neighbor's house was an empty case of Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry. Now, Michelob used to be Budweiser on steroids, a smooth beer that packed a wallop. Then came Michelob Ultra which according to its commercials is the thing to drink after jogging around the city accompanied by a supermodel with both of you clad in spandex. Healthy is good, especially when it gets you close to a spandex-clad supermodel.
Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry is too much, though. Fruit-flavored beer will never see you through a December game on the "frozen tundra" of Green Bay, Wisconsin. Half the guys in the stands at Daytona have no idea what a pomegranate is let alone how to spell it.
It's real beer that gives us drunken brawls in the bleachers. With fruit-flavored stuff, we would probably join hands and sing "Kum-Bye-Yah". It's real beer that frees us to urinate in public and get arrested. With Pomegranate and Raspberry, we would probably gather the rest of the guys and leave our dates to go "powder our noses". Our masculinity is threatened.
At least, we American males still have beer. Beer survived the Wine Cooler Craze of the 70s and Zima Mania in the 90s. The only permanent change in American Beer Culture since the Pilgrims is light beer but that is OK because manly former athletes argue whether it has "more taste" or is "less filling". We know that when we need a testosterone boost, it's time to hoist a few cold ones. A glass of Chardonnay or a Cosmopolitan makes you want to tune in "Sex and the City" re-runs. A can of Yuengling makes you want to tune in NASCAR.
But NASCAR and NFL ratings have decreased the past few years. Yesterday, I discovered the reason. Placed for recycling outside a neighbor's house was an empty case of Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry. Now, Michelob used to be Budweiser on steroids, a smooth beer that packed a wallop. Then came Michelob Ultra which according to its commercials is the thing to drink after jogging around the city accompanied by a supermodel with both of you clad in spandex. Healthy is good, especially when it gets you close to a spandex-clad supermodel.
Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry is too much, though. Fruit-flavored beer will never see you through a December game on the "frozen tundra" of Green Bay, Wisconsin. Half the guys in the stands at Daytona have no idea what a pomegranate is let alone how to spell it.
It's real beer that gives us drunken brawls in the bleachers. With fruit-flavored stuff, we would probably join hands and sing "Kum-Bye-Yah". It's real beer that frees us to urinate in public and get arrested. With Pomegranate and Raspberry, we would probably gather the rest of the guys and leave our dates to go "powder our noses". Our masculinity is threatened.
Parsley, Sage, Pomegranate & Raspberry
The emasculation of American males continues at an accelerating pace. Julia Roberts' "Eat, Pray. Love" has higher box office receipts than Sylvester Stallone's "The Expendables". The Miami Dolphins stop practice to search the field for a player's $50K diamond earring. Pro wrestling has mixed (Male / Female) tag team matches. What in the name of John Wayne is going on?
At least, we American males still have beer. Beer survived the Wine Cooler Craze of the 70s and Zima Mania in the 90s. The only permanent change in American Beer Culture since the Pilgrims is light beer but that is OK because manly former athletes argue whether it has "more taste" or is "less filling". We know that when we need a testosterone boost, it's time to hoist a few cold ones. A glass of Chardonnay or a Cosmopolitan makes you want to tune in "Sex and the City" re-runs. A can of Yuengling makes you want to tune in NASCAR.
But NASCAR and NFL ratings have decreased the past few years. Yesterday, I discovered the reason. Placed for recycling outside a neighbor's house was an empty case of Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry. Now, Michelob used to be Budweiser on steroids, a smooth beer that packed a wallop. Then came Michelob Ultra which according to its commercials is the thing to drink after jogging around the city accompanied by a supermodel with both of you clad in spandex. Healthy is good, especially when it gets you close to a spandex-clad supermodel.
Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry is too much, though. Fruit-flavored beer will never see you through a December game on the "frozen tundra" of Green Bay, Wisconsin. Half the guys in the stands at Daytona have no idea what a pomegranate is let alone how to spell it.
It's real beer that gives us drunken brawls in the bleachers. With fruit-flavored stuff, we would probably join hands and sing "Kum-Bye-Yah". It's real beer that frees us to urinate in public and get arrested. With Pomegranate and Raspberry, we would probably gather the rest of the guys and leave our dates to go "powder our noses". Our masculinity is threatened.
At least, we American males still have beer. Beer survived the Wine Cooler Craze of the 70s and Zima Mania in the 90s. The only permanent change in American Beer Culture since the Pilgrims is light beer but that is OK because manly former athletes argue whether it has "more taste" or is "less filling". We know that when we need a testosterone boost, it's time to hoist a few cold ones. A glass of Chardonnay or a Cosmopolitan makes you want to tune in "Sex and the City" re-runs. A can of Yuengling makes you want to tune in NASCAR.
But NASCAR and NFL ratings have decreased the past few years. Yesterday, I discovered the reason. Placed for recycling outside a neighbor's house was an empty case of Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry. Now, Michelob used to be Budweiser on steroids, a smooth beer that packed a wallop. Then came Michelob Ultra which according to its commercials is the thing to drink after jogging around the city accompanied by a supermodel with both of you clad in spandex. Healthy is good, especially when it gets you close to a spandex-clad supermodel.
Michelob Ultra Pomegranate and Raspberry is too much, though. Fruit-flavored beer will never see you through a December game on the "frozen tundra" of Green Bay, Wisconsin. Half the guys in the stands at Daytona have no idea what a pomegranate is let alone how to spell it.
It's real beer that gives us drunken brawls in the bleachers. With fruit-flavored stuff, we would probably join hands and sing "Kum-Bye-Yah". It's real beer that frees us to urinate in public and get arrested. With Pomegranate and Raspberry, we would probably gather the rest of the guys and leave our dates to go "powder our noses". Our masculinity is threatened.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Paris Hilton Defense
Paris Hilton is taking on a new persona - groundbreaking legal genius.
Las Vegas police stopped Paris and her boyfriend last weekend when they detected a cloud of marijuana smoke issuing from their car. When Paris opened her purse to get a tube of lip balm (one should always have moist, kissable lips when dealing with the gendarmes), a small plastic bindle containing a gram of cocaine fell out of her purse. Here's where Paris exhibited her legal genius. She claimed that the purse was not hers!
Apparently, her defense strategy is that she has so many purses that she can't be expected to recognize every single one. She must have picked up that particular purse by mistake from some unknown cocaine abuser. The fact that the purse also contained credit cards and prescription drugs in her name is a remarkable coincidence. There must be some other Paris Hilton running around Las Vegas. That's the key to this case! Find the other Paris Hilton and you'll have your drug abuser. Put the CSI Team on it. They solve a crime in Las Vegas every week.
What if the ingenious Paris Hilton Defense had been available throughout history:
"Sure, that's one of my monogrammed daggers sticking out of Caesar and I have blood on my hands, but there are lots of guys named Brutus and I cut myself shaving this morning."
"What a coincidence! I have a derringer just like the one that shot the President and a lot of people in Ford's Theater probably thought that it was me leaping from the President's Box after the shot, but it was my stunt double. John Wilkes Booth doesn't do his own stunts, you know."
"Officer, we thought it was suspicious when that good-looking young couple tossed a bank bag full of money in our car. We were speeding out of town trying to catch up to them and give it back. You say they looked an awful lot like us and had submachine guns just like ours? It's a small world."
Brutus, Booth, and Bonnie & Clyde should have hired Paris Hilton as their defense attorney.
Las Vegas police stopped Paris and her boyfriend last weekend when they detected a cloud of marijuana smoke issuing from their car. When Paris opened her purse to get a tube of lip balm (one should always have moist, kissable lips when dealing with the gendarmes), a small plastic bindle containing a gram of cocaine fell out of her purse. Here's where Paris exhibited her legal genius. She claimed that the purse was not hers!
Apparently, her defense strategy is that she has so many purses that she can't be expected to recognize every single one. She must have picked up that particular purse by mistake from some unknown cocaine abuser. The fact that the purse also contained credit cards and prescription drugs in her name is a remarkable coincidence. There must be some other Paris Hilton running around Las Vegas. That's the key to this case! Find the other Paris Hilton and you'll have your drug abuser. Put the CSI Team on it. They solve a crime in Las Vegas every week.
What if the ingenious Paris Hilton Defense had been available throughout history:
"Sure, that's one of my monogrammed daggers sticking out of Caesar and I have blood on my hands, but there are lots of guys named Brutus and I cut myself shaving this morning."
"What a coincidence! I have a derringer just like the one that shot the President and a lot of people in Ford's Theater probably thought that it was me leaping from the President's Box after the shot, but it was my stunt double. John Wilkes Booth doesn't do his own stunts, you know."
"Officer, we thought it was suspicious when that good-looking young couple tossed a bank bag full of money in our car. We were speeding out of town trying to catch up to them and give it back. You say they looked an awful lot like us and had submachine guns just like ours? It's a small world."
Brutus, Booth, and Bonnie & Clyde should have hired Paris Hilton as their defense attorney.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)