Archive for August, 2010

A 3 Tone Nail Job

Tuesday, August 31st, 2010

This woman has a lot of time on her hands.

With 3 Packs You Get An Eggroll

Tuesday, August 31st, 2010

New York’s astronomical taxes on cigarettes and attempts to make Indian reservations pay sales tax is having a strange effect on the market.  A pack of legal, name-brand smokes in our state costs about $10.  That’s roughly $4 for the product plus $6 in various taxes.

Supposedly this is to force you to quit smoking but New York State really doesn’t care about your health – they just want added tax revenue.  And now the state is trying to discourage tax-free, cigarette sales on Indian reservations where the average price is a few bucks less per pack.

So what can poor smokers do?  More and more of them are buying cigarettes – like Marlboro and Newport – from street vendors for about $5 a pack.  On a recent 10-minute walk down a main Rochester street, I was approached by TWO furtive vendors whispering “Newports? Marlboro?” I don’t smoke cigarettes but I asked one if he had any weed (pot)?  He gave me a disgusted look and quickly walked away.  Obviously I was lower on the low-life scale than he.

These street cigarettes used to be smuggled by the truck full into New York from legitimate tobacco warehouses in the South.  But today, with increased demand because of the ridiculous taxes, there are now huge shipments of COUNTERFEIT cigarettes coming from China!  They look just like the real thing.  Taste?  Who knows?  And if an extra yak hair or two is in the mix, what’s the FDA going to say anyway?

How can you tell if you get counterfeit smokes?  Well if there’s a small fortune cookie in the bottom of the pack, chances are the R.J. Reynolds company didn’t make it.

Our Glorious Victory in Iraq

Monday, August 30th, 2010

(Oops! Wrong picture. DAMN! Folks, please pay no attention to the above picture and the men behind the curtain).

Uh, tomorrow is the official end of the US’s combat role in Iraq.  We won! we’ve toppled that horrible despot, Saddam Hussein, set up a stable government in the country – and Iranians are now free.  We eliminated all the weapons of mass destruction, sectarian violence has ceased, and Osama Bin Laden is now very close to being captured.  Right.

Please let us explain the picture above.  It was taken on December 20, 1983.  The gentleman on the left is Donald Rumsfeld shaking hands with you know who.  Rumsfeld was a special envoy for President Ronald Reagan in those days.  Later he became Secretary of Defense under both Presidents Gerald Ford and George W. Bush.

In 1984, the United States supplied Iraq with helicopters and other “dual use” equipment and materials including chemical weapons.  (“I KNOW he has chemical weapons – I have the receipts right here!”).  We also provided intelligence and satellite data to assist Iraq’s bombing of Iran.  Besides all the Iranians he killed, Suddam also killed over 500,000 of his own people.

You see, Saddam was our friend in those days – but then he became our evil enemy (although he had nothing to do with 911).  Something like that.  Sorry – I’d explain but Americans are too dumb to understand Mideast foreign policy. The Big O will explain it to you tomorrow.

No matter, just remember: these wars (Iraq and Afghanistan) have NO connection to the profits of the military-industrial complex (Eisenhower must have been senile) nor America’s arrogant, 1950’s self-image drowning in a puddle of cheap 21st century reality.  And, at only $1-Trillion Dollars, they were quite a steal for the American taxpayer.

He Fixed Her Flat

Monday, August 30th, 2010

awkward family photos

“Sure I’ll Take You Kids to Disneyland…heh, heh.”

Monday, August 30th, 2010

awkward family photos

Nobody Watches Ronald Pee

Saturday, August 28th, 2010

I discovered a lot about perception, reality, and life on a beautiful May afternoon in Hudson, New York. It was my first job as an Account Executive for an Upstate New York McDonalds’ advertising agency.  I was 23. One of my duties was to manage Ronald McDonald appearances.

Now here’s a big secret up front. There’s more than one Ronald McDonald; actually, there are many Ronalds.  Regional “Ronalds” looked alike, had various “talents” – like juggling Big  Mac boxes –  and their own unique personalities.

“My” Ronald was an old magician who was cranky and didn’t like kids very much. But for some odd reason, he liked me – and I liked him. And I loved the fact Ronald McDonald appearances were so bizarre, they were like LSD trips without drugs. Ronald was the world’s most famous clown – with a lousy attitude.

On that first appearance, I drove Ronald in full costume to McDonalds with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. When we arrived, he told me to pull up to the side entrance and guard the bathroom.

Seeing my puzzled look, he said, “Look, you go in first , clear everyone out, then go outside and guard the door.  Shit, kids can’t see Ronald taking a leak!”

That made sense, so I did as I was told. Soon I saw two junior high punks walking towards me. The larger delinquent spoke first.

“We gotta use the bathroom.”

“You can’t use the bathroom right now. Ronald McDonald is using it,” I said with a straight face.

The punks looked at each other and burst out laughing. They obviously weren’t there for the appearance.

“Ronald McDonald is really in there pissing?” one sarcastically asked.

“Hey guys,” I said, “I don’t know what he’s doing in there. But you can’t go in until he comes out.” Of course this produced more loud laughter.

Suddenly the men’s room door burst open and there stood “Ronald” immediately taking in the situation.  He put his hands on his hips.

“Oooh Ronald,”one laughed, “why can’t we see you pee?”

And then in a voice cracked by more than 60-years of cigarettes and alcohol, my Ronald growled, “Because, you little bastards, I’ve got a schlong that’s this long (here he put his hands about a foot apart) and it would just scare the shit out of ya!” With that he turned and started clumping towards the McDonald’s entrance in his size 22 clown shoes.

The punks and I stared at each other in silence. After a second or two, I rushed to catch up to the world’s most famous clown.

I’m an Accountant . . .

Friday, August 27th, 2010

. . . a rollerblader,

. . . a Tiger Woods lover,

. . . a collector of porcelain phalluses.

I’m a Mormon.

OK – what is it now with this Mormon media blitz?  People who are LDS (NOT LSD!) Latter Day Saints or, more commonly, Mormons, are telling us in television and print ads how normal they are.  So what?  I always thought them respectable, good people.  It’s not like they’re Scientologists advertising in the back of Popular Science magazine – or bizarre Christian sects which worship snakes.  They’re white bread, American Mormons for chrissakes!

OK, so their underwear is a little strange (see mormon-underwear. ) but compared to the costumes they wear at the Vatican, Mormon undergarments are definitely understated.  But I’d love to see Marie Osmond wearing hers – wouldn’t you?

Question: “Do you smoke after sex?”

Thursday, August 26th, 2010

Answer: “Don’t know – never looked.”

An Oklahoma City Salad

Thursday, August 26th, 2010

The American College of Sports Medicine named Oklahoma City as the unhealthiest city in the United States.  If you live there, chances are you’re fatter, exercise less, and are more likely to die of cardiovascular disease than in any other American city.  There are also fewer primary care physicians per person to tell you “hey buddy, throw in a salad now and then” and “Don’t always use the remote.  WALK to your TV to change channels”.  The chirping you hear on a summer night is not crickets – it’s the clicking shut of your neighbors’ arteries.

Maybe that’s why Oklahoma is such a threat.  During the Vietnam era, George W. Bush joined the military – in the Texas Air National Guard.  He was protecting Texas against Oklahoma.

Cell Hell

Wednesday, August 25th, 2010

I went to lunch with my ex-wife “T” a few weeks ago.  It was great seeing her and we had a few laughs – and then my cell phone came up.  I hate cell phones and never had one until five months ago when a friend gave me a fancy one because I lost my car. I was supposed to use it for emergencies and bus schedules and all I wanted to on nights and weekends.  I never really like calling anyone.  It’s always a bother – to me.  For all these months, I’ve used it five, maybe six times – and no one has ever called me on it.  “T” asked for my cell phone number.

“I don’t know what it is,” I truthfully said.

“You don’t know what your number is?  Well then how can you expect anyone to call – obviously, no one else knows it either.”

“I don’t expect people to call,” I said, “I don’t even want people to call.  I never answer my phone at home – I know too many nuts.”  T quickly agreed. She played with a lot of buttons on my phone but couldn’t come up with the number.

“OK,” she said, “you call me on my cell phone and it will tell us the number.”  Great idea.  It didn’t work. It seems my number is “anonymous” to anyone I call.  She couldn’t “unblock” it – I really didn’t care.

In the early ‘70’s, I was one of the first on my block to get a telephone answering machine.  I rank it right up there with the wheel, the electric light bulb, and vulcanized rubber in terms of mankind’s greatest hits.  I wish I’d saved over 30-years of my recordings. Many of them would go like this:

“Pick up the damn phone, you sonofabitch!  I know you’re sitting there listening!