If you've been stalking me lately, you're probably aware of the fact that Miss Patty Labelle has joined me at my place of business. For the first three days, it was all gum drops and tickle fights; things were going smashingly. I show up today, though, and I am met with a ghastly sight: Mr. Lioi is dressed exactly like me. EXACTLY like me. It was doppleganger city up in that place. My first thought: ahh well, we probably just go to the same haberdasher. My second thought: holy crap, what if this is a Single White Female situation? First thing he does is he dresses like me. Next, he's stalking me, killing my ho's, and pinning the crimes on me. No way, man. I've walked that path and it's not happening again.
I see two options I could take. The first is that I could just start dressing so outlandishly that it'd be impossible to copy me. Black shirt and blue jeans are easy enough to imitate, but what about when I start wearing homemade parachute pants and strips of carpet taped to my chest? I like the creative aspect of this option. The second option is to just make Paddy stop by my apartment every morning before work so I can inspect what he's wearing. If we have a potential match, then I will select a tasteful choice from my wide variety of shirts featuring Bart Simpson saying "Ay Caramumba!" Not only will we definitely avoid any snafus that way, but he also gets the benefit of my legendary sense of fashion. Just how legendary, you ask. Well, prior to his passing, I was in talks with Redd Foxx to come on board and manage his wardrobe. We were going to bring the "shorts and cowboy boots" look back into business. I must seek another canvas now, and Paddy is perfect for that.
I guess my point with all of this is that you can copy my clothes, my catch phrases, and my pog collection, but you will never, never copy my savoir faire. I'm what the French call une beauté originale and that just can't be imitated. And now, I go back to freaking out over my lack of a Halloween costume.
I am going to a Halloween party later this week, so I need to polish up on my scary Halloween jokes in order for me to entertain my friends with positively GHOULISH laughs! How did I do this? I locked myself in the Goulash Joke Lab for a few days, trying to come up with the best Halloween jokes in the universe. You be the judge as to whether or not I succeeded. Here's hint: I totally succeeded.
Why was there no food left after the monster party?
Everybody was a goblin.
What has webbed feet, feathers, fangs, and an unstoppable hunger for the blood of all those he comes across?
Why did the skeleton have trouble with a bowel movement?
The short answer is that he had no guts. To elaborate, the worms had eaten his innards, thus complicating the act of defecation.
What did Oprah Winfrey change her name to when she became a zombie?
What did Dracula say to Miss Dracula, his loving wife?
Trick question, Dracula was a bat-chelor! That is to say, he preferred the company of other male vampires. What did he say then to his male vampire companion? "Let's have some gay vampire sex!"
Frank, your buddy that you're about to go out on the double date with.
"Did you bring an attractive lady for me tonight?"
I sure did, take a look through the peephole.
"Well, I'm looking through the peephole, you son of a bitch, and all I see is the Bride of Frankenstein. You said you were bringing a sexy girl. What the hell is going on here?"
No, I said I was bringing a sexy GHOUL.
"What? I don't get it. Ohh, okay. Ghoul instead of girl. You know, those don't even sound that similar, Frank."
I know, but the Bride of Frankenstein said if I didn't get her laid, she'd punch my head off!
Crapzilla! I had woven my usual tapestry of magic in here and then I clicked the wrong button on my mouse, only to have the entry poop its pants, die, and then bill me for the funeral. I've been thinking for a while now that my mouse is way too complicated for a simple caveman like me, but this just confirms it, now that I discovered the Self Destruct button. I'm tempted to go get another, more idiot friendly mouse, but then I can see this Self Destruct button coming in handy. Let's set the scene.
Overwhelmed by jealousy, the #2 result for goulash, those hungarian doofuses, storm the Powell complex. They slip in silently, and take out the armed guards and my squadron of attack hippos. Luckily for them, they catch me right during my bubble bath, or else I'd clean the house with them. They chain me up, make me smell their socks, and then decide to hit me where it really hurts.
They force me to divulge the password to the Goulash mainframe (JacottRules) and once inside, they go straight to sabotaging the internet's favorite site. They mark the whole thing up with all of this Hungary Rules, Goulash Drools propaganda. I'm getting so mad, I think about just busting out of the chains and biting their noses off, but I decide I will humiliate them before I destroy them. I say to their leader, "Hey comrade, if you want to submit that, just use that button over on the right side of the mouse." He clicks it, then looks over at me with one of those Eastern European smirks that I hate so much. He has no idea how I've tricked him.
He looks back to the screen, to gloat over the art he's just ruined. All he sees is a blank screen and the undiminished glory of goulash. "What the crap!" he yells in Hungarian. I break free from the chains and scream, "We call that one the Self Destruct Button, you filthy savage!" I take the beret from his head, stuff it in his mouth, then I throw him out the window, along with the rest of his crew. The killer attack hippos shake off the effects of the chloroform and begin a boisterous chant of "USA! USA!" I give out a round of high-fives to them and then go back to my bubble bath. Justice is preserved for another day, thanks to the Self Destruct Button.
One of the great joys of running an internationally acclaimed website is the groupies. Another joy is seeing the search terms people plug into Google to get to this site. The top 3 terms people use to get here are: goulash, monkey pox, and Carlos Jacott. Let's see, do we have those three things on this site? Let me check out back. I think the answer there is definitely check, check, CHECK.
The next 3 terms people use to get here are a little harder to understand. They are: extreme foods, hair cuts, how to sabotage a car. While I haven't really gone into these topics at length, I'm definitely on the same wave-length as these people. You tell me, folks, is a combination of cinnamon toast, miniature pickles, and sea urchin EXTREME enough for you? Oh, did I forget to mention that the whole thing is on fire, and I eat it while I'm jumping out of an airplane made out of knives? Furthermore, anyone who doubts my ability to sabotage a car just needs to ask Mr. Paul "Crocodile Dundee" Hogan what happened last May when he refused to even look at my new script "Crocodile Dundee 4: That Ain't No Wallabee!" I don't want to brag too much, but I planted a bunch of Yeti eggs under his backseat. Six months later, those things hatched, totally ruining the upholstery. Not only that, but since they saw Paul Hogan first, they thought he was their mother. It just proves my old saying: revenge is a dish best served cold, with a side of Yeti eggs.
Looking at the rest of the search terms, I'm a little less impressed with the people. Fancy boy, corn dogs, basset hound diet. Who are you guys, my 2nd ex-wife? Inside joke, as she wanted to feed me, the fancy boy, and Little Bow Wow, the basset hound, a diet that consisted of nothing but corn dogs. How did we get her back, you might ask. Well for that, we utilized the 10th most popular search term, pee in a cup. And I'll leave the rest to your imagination.
PS: New entry up on CarlosJacott.com.
Folks, you don't have to tell me what you've been thinking. It goes a little something like, "We're approaching the 100th post on Goulash. I wish there was some way to celebrate this momentous occasion!" I wouldn't be #1 on you know who if I didn't anticipate stuff like this. So, put this in your pipe and smoke it: Goulash Centennial event on Saturday, November 22 here in Austin. If we are unable to book the city of Austin for this occasion, then I'm looking at you, Nuevo Laredo. Whatever the case is, bring your party pantaloons.
Again, let me guess what you're thinking. "Hmm, sounds interesting, but I'm a little wary. At the last event you organized, didn't Rick Moranis get mauled by some kind of a demon dog? And even if I did want to attend, how much would this hootenanny cost me?" As for your first point, you're referring to Ghostbusters. And as far as how much this thing will cost to attend, that's the best part: only $250 a person. Now, when it comes to exactly what is going to go on at this Goulash Centennial, I am not sure. I do know that I will be unveiling my infamous new mixed drink called Ralph Macchio's Hyundia. I won't tell you the ingredients, but they might just be tequila, motor oil, and a lock of Daniel-san's hair. Everybody drinks a gallon, or else I'll punch them in the goonies.
All of this crap right now is tentative, and as soon as I get the logistics figured out (read: where can I find a place that'll sell me 200 Fudgie the Whale cakes?), I am taking that info straight to the peeps. If anyone has an idea as to what we should do at this thing, then leave a comment below. One definite is a beauty pageant where we crown Miss Goulash. Aside from that, anything goes.
I have this little theory that it doesn’t matter at all what I type in an email, and people will just reply with what they think I said. I decided to put this theory to the test today. What I decided to do was to email a group of people, but translate my email into a foreign language and then back into English before I sent it. Here are my results, with the emailed stuff in italics for clarity.
I decided to send the first email to Mike, a coworker. Here's the original text that I wanted to be translated: "No lunch plans for today. I propose that we embark on a crazy lunch scheme and go eat somewhere. What do you think?"
Here's what I sent, which is the original text translated into Spanish, then back to English: "No plans of the lunch for today. I propose that we undertake a crazy scheme of the lunch and go somewheres. What you think?"
His response: "Alas and alack, XXXX has already grabbed today's lunch appointment spot. Tomorrow work for you?"
Conclusion: my coworkers must know I’m stupid and don't want to make a big deal out of it.
The second one was a bit of an extended correspondence with Nunchuks, trusted confidante and all-pro emailer. Here’s the original text I was going to send: "How impressive were the Marlins last night? They're scrappers! I accidentally fell asleep at 9:30 last night, then woke up at 11 just as they were going into extra innings. Scrappers!"
Here’s that text translated to Portuguese and back, which is what I sent: "How impressive was marlins last night? They are scrappers! I accidentally fell asleep in 9:30 last night, to follow I woke up above in 11 right ones while they were entering in times extra. Scrappers!"
Nunchuks' Response: "i threw something at the TV when oogy allowed those two runs in the 9th-then when they brought in that other guy i was so impressed that he didn't allow any runs. watching the rocket's last start was amazing though, even though i hate the yankees."
Nunchuks pays no attention to what I say, even though it was particularly gibberishy. I will try again, this time kicking it up a notch. The original text of my reply: "Yeah, Oogy was losing it. I was certain the Yankees would find a pathetic and lame way to win that game, but alas, they did not. Roger Clemens looks like he'd beat you up over a can of Meisterbrau, and baseball will be a little less cool without him."
That translated to Italian and back makes super gibberish: "Yeah, Oogy was losing it. I was sure that the Yankees would find a sense pathetic and cripple to gain that game, but the alas, not. Roger Clemens observes as it would strike them in on latta of the surplus to of Meisterbrau and the baseball it will be a less cold small without than he."
Her response: "are you on mescaline today? your sentense structure is like you translated from english to polish to greek and back to english. or mabye you just took 9 shots of jagermeister."
Uh oh, the jig is up. I will try one last thing, an act of desperation: "What does that mean? I think you are stupid."
To French and back: "What this means? I think that you are the stupid."
Okay, not getting anywhere here, so I move on. The next one I sent was to my Dad. Here's the original text: "Do I need to mail you some more money for car insurance? How many months should I send? $140, right?"
To Chinese and back: "I needs to mail you some moneys for the automobile insurance? How many month should I send? $140, is correct?"
His response: "Trying to cheat the old man? $145.00 is the amount." Then blah blah blah, insurance stuff.
Not only does he pay no attention, but he gets a little surly. He makes up for it a few minutes later when he sends the following email to me and my sister: "Here's a business idea for your two: interchangeable bobble heads. You buy a generic body.... I guess you would have to have male or female.... and just put whatever head you want on it. Or... Haley, fashion designer....bobble head clothes."
That email has nothing to do with the experiment, but I thought I’d get it out there in case anyone wants in on the gold mine.
Finally, one to P Diddy, where I went all in on the gibberish. Original text: "I don’t know what the deal is for this evening, so just call me whenever you make it into Round Rock. If I haven’t sold my phone for a quart of High Life, I’ll let you know what’s going on."
Spanish and back, cleaned up a bit. "Don’t I knows which is the distribution for this late night, so just calls to me whenever you do it on Round Rock. If haven’t of I sold my telephone for a quarter of gallon of High Life, I’ll let know what’s to him that they ignited. "
His response: "By all means, sell the phone. However, try to get a Busche Tall Boy thrown into the deal. Don't let Danza take you for a ride. I'll find ya."
Conclusion: Does it even matter what I say to this man?
So, I think what's obvious here is that it doesn’t matter what I say to anyone, which I think is what all of us sort of suspected to begin with. Note: I sent out quite a few emails like this today, but I only presented the cream of the crop. If you got a non-English email from me today, now you know why. Shout out to babelfish for doing all the hard work.
Ahh crap, Elliott Smith is dead. And this happens just one day after I added him to my launchcast station. Maybe if he had known about that last part, he would've delayed the suicide. Or maybe he already knew and he couldn't handle the pressure. Whatever the case, I refuse to blame myself, no matter what those bastards in Newsweek print. In any event, it is unfortunate, but then I think us fans of the rock and roll music won't have to put up with too many more unexpected deaths from our beloved musicians.
I say that because, with the eminent demise of CDs due to the RIAA, we're not even going to have rockstars anymore. I theorize that instead, we'll have web stars. They'll be super famous people with websites where you have to pay $15 to read 10 posts. They'll go on these huge tours, where they just sit in some cyber cafe and make their background typists post something to their site, because the web star will be too doped up on horse tranquilizers to type. Meanwhile a bunch of slobbering minions watch on with their lighters busted out, throwing their undies at the dude's laptop and trying not to cry. All of the worship will lead to lives of excess for the web stars, and they'll start dropping like flies from ODs and all that crap. What I wonder is if people will idolize the dead web stars the same way they do with dead rockstars. Here's how I think this would work out for 4 different budding web stars.
Webstar #1: Me (CWMP), keeper of the goulash. Tragically killed in 2009 when I try to light my space-cocaine with my gold plated bunsen burner. In honor of my accomplishments, Google retires the #1 ranking for goulash. An allstar group of web folk come together to create a tribute site, where they each do a cover of one of my greatest hits, including such classics as "Someone kill that goddamn possum", "More Proof of the Zionist Conspiracy", and "Whatever happened to quality velveteen?".
Webstar #2: Paddy, webmaster of Lioi.net. Meets his untimely demise in 2008 when he insists on piloting his own hovercraft after too many goblets of martian juice. As a tribute, a bunch of nerds get together and create a Lisp compiler in his image. Only 4 people understand what it does, but they weep like the dickens whenever they attempt to use it. Richard Dean Anderson closes an episode of Stargate the TV Show with a tearful recollection of the time Paddy stormed the set and threatened to kill him if they didn't put more feeling into their alien/human love scenes.
Webstar #3: Willie Ed, webmaster of DigitalInflux. Dies when a groupie accidentally shocks him to death with the electric eel they were attempting to have sexual relations with. All of those dorky Photoshop guys group together and create this sprawling anime porn image to honor him, where this japanese cyborg girl is smothering Will with her tenticles. His 78 illegitimate children get nothing, as Will has spent his fortune on robot porn.
Webstar #4: Schumin, webmaster of Schumin Web. Taken out as part of the East Coast/West Coast web star war. Many of his devoted fans refuse to acknowledge his demise, while others commit suicide in droves, particularly the females, seeing no reason to go on. It becomes a regular sight to see vans with enormous murals painted on the back, featuring Schumin with a pair of angel wings, sitting next to Jesus, and the words "Angels Belong in Heaven".
If you were growing up as a dorky white kid in the suburbs during the late 80s/early 90s, there was one true bastion of comedy: Mad Magazine. I will never understand why legions of us were so devoted to 90 black and white pages of bizarre movie parodies and psychiatrist jokes, but all of us were. You didn't question it; you just went with it. As recently as the age of 17, I still had an enormous box of old issues of Mad in my closet. I tried to throw them away, but I just couldn't. Maybe I secretly hoped that the key to popularity in college would be a top notch archive of comedy magazines with original covers. I think the fact that I am sitting here, typing all of this out, rather than partying on a houseboat with Star Jones and all-you-can-eat guacamole dip proves just how wrong that idea turned out to be.
Like most things I get into, I got really into Mad magazine. I got so into Mad, I realized that one issue a month just wasn't cutting it. I soon turned to buying these archive books of Mad. These even worse than the regular issues because they were all composed of really old material. They books were full of jokes about Spiro Agnew and CB radios, and being 10 years old, I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. Did that deter me? Hell no, I read on with gusto. The fact that my friends and family looked on in bewilderment whenever I'd start recycling zingers from Mad about The French Connection only drove me further. I realized I needed something besides my Mad subscription and the books to satisfy me.
So, in a sad move, I subscribed to Cracked. Cracked was a humor magazine that was exactly like Mad, except it was a lot cheaper and, if possible, less funny. It was the Sam's Choice to Mad's Coca Cola. If the humor in Mad was inaccessible and hit-or-miss, then the humor in Cracked was like trying to read a bunch of Family Circus cartoons with every other pane taken out. To make it worse, I couldn't even understand a lot of the words; it was like a large part of the magazine had been written in a foreign language. I guess those words were Yiddish, I don't know. All I know is that a lot of the magazine was like, "What are you kvetching about, you schmuck? What a nebish!" I had no idea what half of every sentence meant, as the suburbs of Fort Worth, TX are not known for their thriving Yiddish communities. I struggled with the weirdness for quite some time, then I decided to give up and go with it. If Cracked said these were funny words, I would use them as such and impress the hell out of everyone who hadn't gotten onboard the Cracked train yet.
And so, the first day of this master plan, I was sitting in science class on the floor. I hadn't had a chance to use any of the words from Cracked yet, but I was ready to unleash one at a moment's notice. This girl started to encroach on my space, and I decided to go ahead and tear into her. I picked a word that I took to be an insult, cleared my throat, and then proclaimed, "Back off, you schmendrick!" Rather than have the class erupt in laughter, everyone sat there silently, shaking their heads. People avoided me for the rest of the day out of the fear that I would unleash a bizarre, gibberish put-down on them. I went home that day and knew I had to break my addiction to Cracked.
It hurt to get rid of all of those magazines, but I had to make that sacrifice in order to shed my status as social leper. Thus, while my brief dalliance with Cracked ended in disaster, there's also a sense of triumph to it. I say triumph because I am absolutely certain that one day, this will be commemmorated as the strangest outburst ever in an Arlington, TX elementary school classroom.
I have discovered a great new way to distract myself at work. Yahoo offers a free service called Launchcast, where you create a little radio station for yourself. You rate a bunch of different artists and by doing so, the robots behind the scenes manage to craft a good playlist for you. It will come in very handy when the robots rise up and destroy humanity, so that you don't have to deal with the indignity of your Killbot blaring Fleetwood Mac as it lays its metallic pinchers upon you. For those who came here to rock, you can check out my station here. For those of you who didn't, let me show you to the door.
But as cool as it is to play around with Launchcast, I can't help but think it'd be a little better if they gave the user total control. Imagine if they let you play DJ, so you could come up with little promos between the songs. Here's how one of mine would go:
Bippity Boppity BANGARANG! This is Nikita Von Booyuckis, and I'm rocking, knocking, and restocking all day long today, playing only the finest booty-shakers and ravioli makers. If you don't like it, feed it to the Skunk Ape (cue the sound of Skunk Ape roaring)! You can really get your Truffle Shuffle on to this next one... Working for the Weekend by Loverboy! (cue another Skunk Ape roar)
I could probably just devote my entire work day to that station then. I could say things like, "The 5th caller gets a packet of staples and last year's yellow pages," at least until I ran out of office supplies. Whenever a coworker would try to talk to me, I'd just queue up a quote from Short Circuit on my soundboard and let them have it. And if it's too loud, you're too old! Nikita Von Booyuckis, signing off.
PS: New post on CarlosJacott.com by yours truly.
Some of you people don't know this, but I try to do some good deeds every now and again. If I see a person who has been set on fire, perhaps I will put the fire out, or at the very least, wet down the grass around this person so the blaze doesn't spread. If you were attacked by a turkey, perhaps I will organize a turkey posse to administer some vigilante justice. And if you are in need of guidance, perhaps I can hook you up with some answers. I present to you then the first installment of Ask Cody.
Question: What's a good idea for a Halloween costume this year?
Answer: Good Halloween costumes begin and end with Slimer from the Ghostbusters cartoon. Everyone knows this, so why do you waste my time? However, if your local costume shop is sold out of Slimer, there are a few other things you could try. If you have a buddy, consider going as formerly conjoined twins who are now separated. If you have enough smocks, then get a bunch of friends to be the surgeons who separated you. Then you could do little vignettes on the separation, which would be both topical and educational. And if you happen to be vampire conjoined twins, it is extremely scary.
If you have no friends who would engage in such a Halloween hootenanny and are utterly alone in this big, scary world, then consider going as Vampire Hulk Hogan. It is a timeless and classy choice, provided you don't run into Vampire Andre the Giant. Then the shtick goes out the window and you run for dear life.
I am struggling with whether or not to do an entry tonight, because what I really want to do is spend all night hyperventilating over the Red Sox/Yankees game. As a way to combine the two, here are a few predictions for the game tonight.
The Yankees will cunningly fill the Red Sox's locker room with crocodiles. One will bite Manny Ramirez's hand off, adding to his legendary hatred for reptiles. Determined to play in the game, Manny will cut Derek Lowe's hand off and staple it to where his own used to be. Ramirez is now 1000 times stronger, and called Crocodile Manny by the announcers. This only makes him madder.
Pedro Martinez and Don Zimmer will begin the game with a hug on the pitcher's mound. This embrace will go from merely a friendly, conciliatory gesture to an all-out, balls-to-the-wall make out session in front of 50,000 people. The crowd will start chanting, "Get a room! Get a room!" At this point, Zimmer will grab his megaphone and yell, "We have already picked a venue for our love-making and it's going to be right here on this field!" No one can stop them at this point.
The Red Sox will take an early lead, only to blow it when Vikings attack and Leif Ericsson insists on playing pitcher. He gives up a home run and then loads the bases, only to be thrown out for having a foreign substance under his loin cloth. The foreign substance? You guessed it: the blood of Odin.
The Yankees will be comfortably ahead in the bottom of the 9th when the Red Sox stun all the spectators by calling Reversies No Take-Backs, forcing the Yankees to switch scores with them. Blinded by arrogance, Joe Torre forgot to say No Reversies before the game started. That's rule #1 in baseball, man! Derek Jeter, but no one cares. Thems the breaks, Jeter. Sox win.
Let me make something clear. There is one thing, and only thing, that I am devoted to: shameless self promotion. That being said, check out The Letters of Uncle Murray, a little yarn that I spun in the latest issue of Haypenny. I have a feeling that when the press gets wind of it, it's going to burn a few journalistic pot-pies. Can you say Watergate II?
BUT SERIOUSLY FOLKS. That's how I'm going to start all new paragraphs from now on, I just want everyone to know that. Actually, that revelation leads to something I've been thinking about lately: I'm going to need to come up with some catch phrases if I'm really serious about becoming the sweetheart of the Internet. And just ask anyone who's seen my locker at the YMCA: I'm as serious a case of monkey pox when it comes to becoming the sweetheart of the internet. That being said, I've come up with a few catch phrases I'm going to start working in to my entries and also just general conversation.
You'll be seeing all of those soon on t shirts, lunch boxes, ponchos, mocassins, possum traps, bottles of pancake batter, and velvet fanny packs. Before you know it, sassy black kids on sitcoms and dope-smoking grannies in movies will be shouting these out and then pointing to their privates. I refuse to be called a hero, though.
So, Fox is doing Joe Millionaire 2 soon, where they'll trick lots of European ladies into falling for a poor American by telling them that he's rich. They did that last year; why not break some new ground? Here are a few options.
Joe Lactose Intolerant - Women are wooed by a mysterious man who refuses to eat any cheese, claiming he's allergic. In the end, he reveals it was all a ruse and that he really, really likes String Cheese.
Joe Only Male Genitalia - Women are wooed by a mysterious man who cannot stop referring to his genitalia. All he ever talks about is how happy he is with his solitary set of genitals, and how he wouldn't take another set if they were giving them away. In the final episode, he informs the lady that he is in fact a hermaphrodite.
Joe Regular Height - Women are wooed by a mysterious man of regular height. He starts off every date by announcing, "The pants I'm wearing are 32/32 and they fit me just fine." The ladies are intrigued. He finally tells the girl he's chosen that he's actually Hakeen Olajuwon, and was walking on his knees for the whole show.
Joe Human - Women are wooed by a mysterious man who only oinks and walks on all fours, reputed to be a superfamous oil baron. They think he is just being an eccentric rich dude. On the final episode, it is revealed he is not a human but a pig, and is actually only the head of HR for the oil company.
Joe Bill Pullman - Women are wooed by a mysterious quasi-movie star named Bill Pullman. Every date starts out with them watching a movie from his extensive catalog, and then writing a precis on the astounding range of Bill Pullman. In the final episode, he reveals that he is in fact Bill Paxton, not Bill Pullman, and that Bill Pullman is a total weiner.
If you haven't been paying attention to the baseball playoffs this year, then you missed a sign of things to come. Don Zimmer, a 72 year old coach for the Yankees, charged at Boston Red Sox pitcher Pedo Martinez during a brawl in the game on Saturday and was promptly thrown to the ground. The old folks are finally rising up, determined to destroy us all. Their first target, of course, is our most precious resource: our professional athletes. It's time to start poisoning the Metamucil, people. We take no prisoners.
Actually, I think what Zimmer did was pretty cool. I hope when I'm 72 years old, I am attacking All Star pitchers; that's a sign that you're living right. Rather than getting some stupid job as a Wal-Mart greeter, I will instead devote all of my time and energy to a set of ruthlessly creative assaults on everyone associated with the sport of baseball. I'd probably start with the guy who sells the hot dogs in the stands, move up to the bat boy, then maybe go for a utility infielder. You don't just start out by going after the starting pitcher; you have to climb the ranks a little. It's like getting a part-time job at McDonalds. They don't let you flip the burgers right away, you have to wash the lettuce first. By climbing the ranks, I'd prove I was worthy to attack Pedro Martinez. Then when i finally made my move, the average spectator would wipe a tear from his eye and say, "What a hero that belligerent senior citizen is."
However, I'd be a little smarter than Zimmer was when he charged right at Pedro when Pedro was clearly on his guard. I'd set a trap. I'd call him up and say I was thinking about leaving him some money in my will. He'd start planning out how many illegitimate children he could afford to support on that amount, and while he's doing that, I'd give him a big purple nurple. Then when he's too stunned to react, I'd shave my name into his eyebrows. That'd be my calling card. Anytime you saw an athlete with a broken spirit and eyebrows that read CWMP, you'd know the legends were true. You can't stop me, MLB.
Well chums, another weekend has slipped through the cracks. I didn't manage to see Kill Bill as planned because Paddy and I got lost on the way to the theater, which is like a mile and a half from where I live. This is another reason why I wouldn't have been a good conquistador: I never know where the hell I am going. I'd set out to go conquer Lima and end up attacking Reykjavik instead. Can you say public relations fiasco? Not to mention the fact they'd probably call a special meeting of the conquistador's club to throw me out and take away my conquistador helmet. What a bunch of assholes.
I decided long ago that if I ever were stricken with a terminal illness, I would ask the Make a Wish Foundation for a chauffeur. Then I could spend the last few months of my life getting where I need to go. I imagine that such an arrangement would also help my lifespan because when I started to feel death's cold grip, my chauffeur could probably find the hospital, whereas I would get lost and then crash through the front of a Church's Chicken out of desperation. I'd be set if the secret cure to my disease is coleslaw, but that seems unlikely.
I wouldn't be mean to the chauffeur, like I'm sure the rich people are. It wouldn't be unheard of for me to say, "What radio station do you want to listen to?" Whether it be R&B, Hot Country, or Sports Talk Radio, we'd listen to whatever he wanted every Tuesday from 3 PM - 5 PM. And if we need to run an errand for him, that'd be fine. I'll go in and pick up the dry cleaning for him while he sits in the car. If any of you ladies are bummed because I am referring to my chauffeur as a male, you shouldn't be. Nothing is stopping a woman from coming on as my chauffeur, I just expect that if I were to be on death's doorstep, I'd be even more scared of a succubus stealing my vitality than I am now.
PS: I just put something new up on CarlosJacott.com. Print it out and frame it.
To all my friends that I sold down the river today in order to get extra entries in some stupid contest to see Return of the King's premiere in New York, I am sorry. But when you're partying with me, Samwise Gamgee, and Theoden in the streets of the Big Apple, you'll see things a little differently. The sad thing is that right now, I am coming up with more people I could've sent this to. I hope it's incredibly clear now that the only reason I talk to anyone is so that I can win Lord of the Rings related prizes. You're all just pawns in my attempt to see how hairy Frodo's hands really are (and yes, I mean that sexually).
One thing about me is that I have a scary memory. The scariest instance ever was a few months ago when I met a guy for the first time and I remembered seeing him at a concert a few years ago. He pooped his pants out of terror, and I can't blame him because at the time all of this happened, I was naked and clenching a machete in my teeth. Sadly, my powers of recognition never help when it comes to useful things like studying for a test/remembering where my pants are/recalling my reason for lighting Wil Wheaton's undies on fire. It's like my parents fed me radioactive gin seng when I was a baby, and instead of making me Super Memory Man, it's made me Super Retarded Shit Memory Man.
Do I have a point? No. It's just that I feel the constant urge to remind all of you what an enigma I am. Every time you begin to think you've got me figured out, I can whip out an extremely strange fact about myself. It's just one of the many reasons why there's been such demand for Cody Powell Trivial Pursuit. What would the categories be? Phobias, Crazy Schemes, Things I Accidentally Said and then Had to Go Along With, Bizarre Talents, and Irrational Hatreds. This is something to expound upon in a later entry.
Here are a few letters I've sent lately to various corporations.
I get it; Chris Matthews likes to yell a lot. But it seems to me that if you're going to name a show Hardball, then a hard ball needs to play a big role in the show. There should be a big dodgeball that Chris can throw at his guests, or better yet himself, when things start to get out of hand. The balls should squirt something on contact too, such as gravy, tar, or hot lava.
I swear to Christ that if you don't start paying me royalties from Windows, I am going to come up there with Chris Matthews' new hard ball and lay some fools out. I have told you time and time again that I formulated the idea for Windows in a letter I sent to Universal Pictures in 1980. I have enclosed it AGAIN for you to look at, you miserable bunch of jack-offs. Send me money, Gates.
Not joking around this time,
Dear Universal Pictures, dated June 11, 1980
I am so fucking sick of Dom DeLuise. I insist you remove him immediately from Smokey and the Bandit 2 or I will never another trucker movie again. I wish to Jesus I had a computer that could display graphics so I could watch that fat sack of pardon-my-french get hit right in the nards with Chris Matthews' hard ball.
I'm About to Rip Some Shit Up,
Well folks, Hollywood has bowed to the pressure applied to it by the forces of goulash, and has come out with Scary Movie 3. Finally, a little resolution to the questions all of us had after Scary Movie 2. My only complaint is that they didn't do something funny with the title, like Scary Movie 3.14: Pi Up Yo Ass. I think that's a lost art, doing something funny with numbers. Back in the olden days of the mid 90s, it seemed like every summer, we would get a movie title with a fraction or a crazy number in it. Everyone can come up with poop jokes or testicle gags, but it takes a special sort to come up with a good joke based around a number in the title. Let's see what i can come up with for Scary Movie 3.
As everyone can see, I have a bright future ahead of me in titling. And now, because I can't think of a way to end this whole thing, I will share with you a haiku I wrote about Halloween.
Come get candy. Check
for razors, werewolves, and the
ghost of John Ritter.
Sho nuff. Hopefully tomorrow will make more sense.
Some of you may've heard through the grapevine that I had snagged carlosjacott.com, with the intent of creating a site devoted to everyone's favorite actor, Mr. Carlos Jacott. Well, believe the hype. I haven't put much stuff up yet and I'm not really sure what to do with it just yet, so if anyone has any ideas, let me know.
What I was thinking of doing is posting once a week there with something that is marginally related to Carlos Jacott. It's pretty much impossible to find anything at all on the web related to him, so I thought I would just make stuff up once a week and make it like the Carlos Jacott Gazette. It'd be sort of like Entertainment Tonight, but all made up and all about Our Man Jacott. If anyone wants to help, give me a shout and you'll be in like flint. If you don't want to help, then I am not responsible for what the forces of Jacott do to you.
In other news, there's a strong likelihood that Arnold Schwarzenegger will be voted governor of California tomorrow. If there's one thing I learned from the Jesse Ventura debacle in Minnesota, it's that electing one of the stars of Predator to the highest office in the state isn't as cool as it might seem. How can education and taxation matter at all once you've faced that beast from outer space? It'll be all, "Budget meeting? Can't make it, I've got to go down to Brazil with Carl Weathers to set some alien traps."
Of course, when the Predator does attack the USA, California will be laughing all the way to their new alien overlord's space plantation. That will probably be Arnold's only major accomplishment in office, the Predator Protection Act. Of course, when it doesn't work and we're all being gathered up to become alien sex slaves, he'll be full of, "Gray Davis crippled my administration's power to stop the Predator! Gray Davis, not the Predator, is the real enemy!" This, and many other reasons, is why Gary Coleman has received the coveted endorsement of Goulash. Good luck tomorrow, GC.
I forgot to mention that Haypenny turned 2 this week. I continue to be astonished that a group of unabashed polygamists can continue to produce such great stuff. I wrote a little piece to commemorate the occasion.
I remember the first time I heard about Haypenny. I had spent that afternoons running errands around town with my dog, Woofs McBoogaloo. We were just about done and getting ready to head home, when I saw a sign in front of Sears advertising a gravy boat sale. Not that my gravy boat at home wasn't sufficient, but I had been looking for a back-up in case of an emergency for a while, so I decided to go in and peruse the wares. I left Woofs in the car, thinking I'd only be gone a minute.
Well, Sears ended up being a bunch of royal jack-offs with the gravy boat sale. The merchandise was choddy, the prices were too high, and the cashiers kept trying to fondle me. I sighed theatrically and left the store, expecting to find Woofs McBoogaloo in the same spot where I'd left him. He wasn't there, though. Instead, there was a note written in crayon from Dennis Proctor. It said:
"If you ever want to see Woofs McBoogaloo again, you will write a piece for this website, haypenny.com. If it doesn't bring tears to my eyes, your days with Woofs are over.
Vengeance is mine,
I was astonished. How did he know Woofs's name? And what the hell was haypenny.com? I did a lot of soul searching that night, and finally elected to write the piece. It was hard to spin a yarn of a hilarity when all I wanted to do was dress Woofs up in his sailor costume. Somehow, I found a way. I wrote it, sent it in, and the next morning, I found another note in my car. It was from Dennis. It said, "The test has been passed." I have yet to see Woofs, though.
There's a group of individuals who like to hang out in front of my apartment. They're all around 17-ish, I think, and they seem to be the fruit of my neighbors' loins. They seem to be perfectly fine people and I have nothing against them chilling by my abode, but there is one fact that frustrates me. They've never once acknolwedged me. Why the hell not? What's going on here? It's not like I long to be in their group, but they could at least give me a head nod since it's possible we could've gone to high school together, had I either been held back a few times or they been genius children.
I've been trying to get their respect. Tonight, when coming home, I greeted the group with a boisterous, "Kowabunga, dudes!" They didn't respond, so I got up closer and said it louder. Still, no response. When did that stop being a standard greeting? I think what I may do next is to wait for them to walk by my door, and when they do, I'll snatch one of them, yell "Kowabunga, dude!" again, and bring them inside. Then I'll tickle him or her until he or she pees his or her britches. If that's not enough to prove that I am one cool individual, then I don't know what is.
In other news, I have been having some site problems the last few days. Mad props to the crack staff at my host for getting that straightened out in a timely manner. You may not know this, but the term "giving props" has its roots in early 20th century aviation. If one pilot really liked the way another handled his plane, he would give that guy his propeller. I really have nothing more to say about that, except that it sounded funnier in my head.
Some people say that courtesy is dead. For me, it isn't. Here's a sampling of a few thank you notes I've sent in the past week.
Dear Art Garfunkel,
Thanks for the peach cobbler. Also, thank you for the enlightening discussion after our cobbler. I had no idea Paul Simon was so mean to you. Try not to let the past get you down; remember who has the cobbler recipe.
Your best friend,
Dear Terry Bradshaw,
Thank you for the antique harpoon collection. I sure had fun last weekend, chasing you around the park with them. The only question mark now is what to do with these harpoons. I have been hearing some bad things about Paul Simon lately, maybe I will turn them on him. Thanks again.
Your best friend,
Thank you very much for the mermaid costume. Leave it to Aqua-Man to find the only truly realistic one I've ever seen! I plan on using this to lure Paul Simon to his watery demise, with the help of Terry Bradshaw's harpoons. I'll let you know how it goes!
Your best friend,
Dear Paul Simon,
How can I thank you for not informing the authorities after our dreadful misunderstanding down at the beach? It was all a big mistake. If I had known it was Art and not you that it had been the aggressor in most of the tickle fights, I would've never tried to assault you. Let me make it up to you, Paul. Let me use Terry Bradshaw's harpoons and my mermaid costume to set Garfunkel straight. What do you say?
Your NEW best friend,