The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

The good (and by good, I mean "phenomenal")


The bad (and by bad, I mean "100% retarded")

The ugly (and I really do mean ugly here)

Will someone please explain to Matthew that he's supposed to fully shave from the neck UP, not DOWN? And his Unibomber/bandana look is really unflattering.

Sometimes it's Okay to Wear Lifts

Tom "Mugsy" Cruise was spotted recently with Katie "Shaq" Holmes as they stepped out for dinner at the Beverly Regent in Hollywood. Tom -- who is generously listed at 5ft 7in but is dwarfed by his 5ft 8in fiancee -- has been trying to revive his career by appearing in a new Bollywood film. Here's a sneak previw of our favorite little action star.

"There's a Time for Politics"

"Holy Shit Video of the Day" #2 (thanks, B-Hug:

Thank God for Internet Video Clips

Here's today's "holy shit" video of the day. Unfortunately, I can only link to it and cannot post it here for some reason (mostly due to the fact that I am too lazy/stupid to figure it out).

My guess is that Michael Jackson would be kicking himself for building an amusement park in Ireland with all this natural talent in India if he saw this video.

(And yes, I know that it may not actually be India but let's not get bogged down in details here, people. It's the Internet. I'm really only aiming for 80% accuracy here).

*** UPDATE ***

I finally found the videoclip (for the few of you that haven't seen this yet):

Gaelic Fun

As a follow up to yesterday's story about Michael Jackson's plan of opening up an amusement park in Ireland with a leprechaun-inspired theme, it occurred to me that the best part would be naming the rides. And in case they haven't gotten that far yet, I would suggest the following:

"Michael Jackson's Gaelic Adventure"
"Potato Famine Funhouse"
"Spaced Out Mountain" sponsored by Guinness
"MJ's Magical Lap"
"It's a Small World in My Pants"
"The Lucky Charms Pants-Optional Funhouse for Boys"
"The Nude Shamrock Slide" (please note age and gender restrictions)
"Jesus Juice Splash Mountain"
"Pirates of the Nether-Region"
"Captain EO's Bed"
"IRA Shooting Gallery"
"Enchanted Tiki Closet"
"Mr. Toad's Really Wild Ride"
"The Matterhorny"
"Erin Go Bragh-less Tea Cup Ride"
"The 'Leprechauns and Girls Are Scary' Museum"

I imagine he'll also be able to easily recoup some of the $635 million investment by selling "Kiss Me Down There, I'm Irish" and Wanna Rub My Blarney Stones?" t-shirts as well.

Kudos to JP for contributing to the list. Of course, feel free to supplement the list as you see fit (as I'm sure Anonymous will do).

Random Thoughts

I was hoping to post the final installment of my St. Louis trip but my plans were derailed by this little thing called "work." However, I did want to post a couple of quick items:

* I forgot to mention that at one time during my all-day meeting, the company CEO was drawing an analogy and said that he wanted us to "think of the company like a hand."

Feel free to insert your own masturbation joke here. I still have no idea what the hell he was getting at, as I immediately starting snickering uncontrollably.

* In what can only be described as the bad luck of the Irish, Michael Jackson is reportedly planning to open an amusement park in Ireland with a leprechaun-inspired theme.

“Michael is deadly serious about this idea,” a source told Ireland’s Daily Mirror. “He loves the whole idea of leprechauns and the magic and myths of Ireland. It would cost around 500 million Euros [about $635 million] to do. He’s always wanted to open his own theme park and he thinks Ireland is the perfect place and it will all be built around the leprechaun theme.”

God there is so much wrong with this story, whether it be the odd preoccupation with leprechauns ... to the rather obnoxious idea of building some sort of Captain EO-inspired Disney (Ire)land that is supposed to draw Irish people to it ... to the ludicrous thought that someone would actually loan this person money.

Don't get me wrong, I am all in favor of capitalism as much as the next person. I just don't think that opening up an amusment park featuring a bunch of certain-to-be-drunk Irish dwarves dressed up as leprechauns is the most prudent financial investment.

David's Extremely Long Day

For some reason still unbeknownst to me, I was named one my company’s 100 key employees (company size is approximately 2,000). The prize? I got to fly to St. Louis as part of an all-day corporate strategy meeting.

Yes, I said meeting, singular. When originally told that I had to attend the meeting, my initial response was “uhhh, is there a dial in conference number?”

But no, my company felt that my presence was imperative, despite the fact that I would say nothing and gulp down caffeine at an alarming rate. Perhaps they wanted to be amused with reading my amusing anecdotes on this blog. Or perhaps they’re retarded. In either case, here it is in a nutshell.

7:30 a.m.: The day begins with breakfast at 7:30 (which is 5:30 a.m., my time) and my ass is dragging, having spent 10 hours traveling on what was supposed to be my day off and having gotten all of 5 1/2 hours sleep the night before. Surprisingly, alcohol did not play into this equation at all. Looking like hell, I join some colleagues of mine who work in D.C. and who have enjoyed the benefit of the time zone change. The exchange went something like this:

Colleague (chipperly): “Good morning! You look tired, what time did you get in last night?”
Me (under my breath): “Please die.”
Colleague: “Excuse me?”
Me: “About midnight. Doing great. Where’s the free coffee?”

And with that, I quickly gulp down a couple of cups of coffee and grab another cup for the meeting. “Operation: Feed Me Caffeine” has begun in earnest.

7:56: I poke my head inside the huge conference room and decide I probably better grab another cup of coffee. Just in case.

8:00: The meeting commences. Fortunately, the caffeine starts to kick which miraculously nudges me from “comatose” status to “barely functioning.”

8:07: The first slide of the presentation reads “Vision --> Mission --> Goals.” God, this is going to be a long day.

9:45: Time for our first break of the morning which is accompanied by a full on sprint towards the coffee machine.

10:23: The CEO urges us to improve our interaction with our customers: “Let’s touch our customers the first time as right as we can.” I start to giggle not-so-quietly as my boss glares at me.

10:45: Tuning out of the meeting (big surprise there, I know), I decide to take a little fashion inventory and assess the damage:

* There are not less than eight full-blown goatees in the crowd. I thought those were outlawed years ago?
* Surprisingly, there is not a single mullet in the crowd. For the first time today, I am proud of my company.
* Someone has worn a Tommy Bahama-style tropical shirt. I’m sorry, I didn’t get the memo stating that it would be “surf attire” at the meeting. What, no flip flops? Where’s the shark-tooth necklace?
* Another person expressed his individuality by wearing faded blue jeans, hiking boots and a huge foot long ponytail. I keep looking over in astonishment, wondering when the Fab 5 are going to bust in and take this guy out for a Queer Eye makeover.
* Someone is wearing brown and black topsiders with a black suit and a black striped shirt. And a goatee. Awesome.
* I spot what I initially think is someone wearing a black skull cap but upon closer inspection, it turns out to be his hair. He looks exactly like Jim Carrey from “Dumb & Dumber.” I can't post the photo I found on the Internet (yes, I know I need to get a camera phone), but you get the idea.

11:33: Easily the highlight of the meeting is when the CEO started playing the following videoclip:



Based upon the total silence, it’s obvious that few people in the audience even knew who Ali G was. Pathetic. Fuck it, I immediately start cracking up. My boss stares at me in disbelief like my hair is on fire. I don’t even care.

1:30: The second highlight of the day was meeting Yogi Berra who happened to be staying at the same hotel and who was in town for a charity golf tournament. I personally hate the Yankees, but thought it was pretty cool to meet a Hall of Fame baseball player.

2:45: As mentioned, the meeting was comprised of approximately 100 people. When glancing around at the bad clothes and the horrible facial hair, I noticed that the audience is really, really white. I mean, shockingly white. Of the 100 people, approximately 80 are white males. I counted about 15 white females or so, and 6 or 7 Asians (male and female combined). Of that number, it should be noted that 5 or 6 of them flew in from Singapore, leaving one token Asian male who actually works in St. Louis. There’s not one African American in the entire crowd. When responding to an anonymous question about the lack of company diversity, our new head of HR said, in what was surely the understatement of the day, “we could stand do improve in that area.”

My response to our new head of HR comment was “thanks for the statement in the damned obvious, you dumbshit.”

3:00 Good news - the final afternoon break has arrived. Bad news - the freshly brewed pot of coffee has not. Shit. There’s no more coffee, so I’m stuck drinking sugar-free sodas, which is all that’s left.

4:00: I am dying here. I didn’t keep officially tally, but unofficial estimates listed my caffeine intake as follows: 7 cups of coffee, 2 Cokes, and 2 iced teas. And despite all this, by my eyes are heavier than a “Celebrity Fit Club” participant. My brain is so lacking activity, that I half expected Missouri Republicans and outraged Christian groups to intervene before my employers pull the plug on my coma-like existence.

5:20: Mercifully the meeting finally ends. Now it’s off to cocktails, followed by dinner and finally a few hours of sleep before I head back to the airport to fly back to the Bay Area. This has been a colossal waste of time, but at least I got free coffee and frequent flyer miles out of it.

(Tomorrow - “Hey You Dumb Asshole, You Just Ran Over My Luggage!!!”)

DIA (a/k/a "Damn I'm Aggravated")

To continue yesterday's story .... I finally landed safely at Denver International Airport (or “DIA,” as it has been creatively nicknamed). And as previously noted, I am lacking any keen sense of smell and am running about 20 minutes late, but am otherwise in one piece. Hooray.

Since I won’t get to the hotel until around 11:00 p.m., I decide to eat dinner at 5:00 p.m. (4:00 Pacific time) rather than miss my second meal of the day. Sorry, but the savory mix really isn't that filling.

I know what you're saying, "dinner at 5:00?" I feel like a goddamned senior citizen at Red Lobster during the early dining discount hour, for crying out loud. But screw it, I’m really hungry and this is pretty much my last chance to eat for the day.

I make my way to one of DIA’s fine eating establishments and order a sufficient amount of food to tide me over. I’ve got 2 hours until my flight, so I'm hoping that I will be able to enjoy my meal in a relatively stress-free fashion. I also hope that Jessica Alba will get my name tattooed on her inner thigh, but of course that won't happen either.

Now up until that time, my hunger wasn’t really bothering me. But that changed when I allowed my mind to drift and dream about the food that would soon arrive. At this point, my stomach has basically convinved my brain into thinking that I'm a long lost member of the Donner Party.

I wait ... and wait ... and wait for my food but it never arrives. About 15 minutes have passed and they’ve jumped ahead about twenty numbers, so I finally ask, “uhhh, do you have order number 6108 back there?”

The partially-toothed fry cook looks at me and says, “uhhh no. We're on number 6132. Someone must have grabbed it.”

Now I am not an expert on Colorado law, but I think I have a pretty good defense for murder at that point. Where's Mrs. T's lifeless arm when you need it? Sadly, the to-be-deceased has quickly left the scene of the crime with my food.

Fuck me. So instead of searching for the thief, I instead try to explain how I never received my food. Surprisingly, they were very understanding and started to prepare me another order of food. Not so surprisingly, they took another fifteen minutes to prepare it. At this point in time, I'm sure I would eat a shoe slathered in cheese so I quickly devoured whatever it was that they gave me to eat. Finickiness and patience are long gone.

After searching in vain for a replacement toothbrush and toothpaste (what the fuck, am I the only one shopping for this?) and blogging for a period of time while sitting next to an overflowing trash can next to the only available electrical plug (glamorous, I know), I finally boarded my plane. I start to make my way towards the back of the plane when I begin to play my favorite game of “guess who’s my seatmate this time?” Will it be the a tri-state murderer? A chatty person with a weak bladder? Perhaps Mrs. T again?

Nope. I am sitting next to the woman traveling with her 7-month old baby and a 3 year old.

(((Sigh)))

Now I know what you're thinking. This is going to be the absolute worst. I guarantee you that no one on the plane would be eager to switch seats with me? But you know what, the kids were cute and while they cried a bit, it was fine. In fact, they did not hog the armrest at all nor did they reek of incense. My sound tolerance was aided by the “Arrested Development Season 1 DVD,” but I digress. By my low travel standards, this part of the trip was actually not too horrible. No my friends, the horrible part was yet to come in St. Louis.

(Tomorrow - a sneak peek into a business offsite meeting and the fashion norms of St. Louis. Hilarity to ensue.)

Back to the Loo

Hello Boys and Girls …. I am headed back to St. Louis. On an airplane. And you know what this means. More amusing stories for you, the avid reader.

This being my first flight since the London bombings and our corresponding heightened security standards (“Operation No Liquid”), I make sure to give myself ample time to park, walk to the airport, check in, proceed through security, and locate my gate. And by “ample time,” I mean 45 minutes.

As I park my car I realize that I am cutting it really close so I have to calculate whether I have enough time to check my bag. I figure that I will get to the check-in about 45 minutes before my flight. Should I roll the dice and hope I get checked in before the cut-off time (which is usually 45 minutes before the flight) and risk having to discard all the liquids that I have in my checked bag? Or do I play it safe and take out the my hazardous liquids in case I am too late to check my bag and am forced to carry it on instead. Given that I don’t wish to donate all of my personal toiletries to the Oakland Airport refuse bin, and that I have horrible travel luck, I say “fuck it” and leave my entire travel bag in my car. In the process of ridding myself of my contraband liquids; however, I also managed to throw the baby (i.e., my toothbrush) out with the bathwater. Which, as far as my travel goes, is pretty par for the course.

I arrive at the check-in with less than 45 minutes to spare. As I congratulate myself on my prudent decision to leave my travel bag in my car, the gate agent advises me that the cutoff at the Oakland airport is 30 minutes - not 45.

There’s not enough time to head back to my car, so I forge ahead and make my way through the serpentine security line. I am pulled over for special screening when the protein bar in my bag fools the screener into believing that it’s either a gun or a tube of lotion. I’m not sure, but comply quietly as they search my bag. I think of volunteering for a strip search just for the hell of it, but decide to bite my tongue.

Despite being pulled over for special screening, everything is proceeding relatively normally and I am on time for my flight. Yippee.

As the herd of passengers wait to board, I lean over to tie my shoe when all of a sudden, some asshole smacks the side of my head with her oversized purse. Semi-concussed, I look up to see the assailant happily walking away, seemingly oblivious to her act of 3rd degree assault. Now, I don’t know how this could be since she hit me hard enough to cause my head to turn.

“Must … control …. fists …. of …. death ….” I whisper to myself.

As we start to board the plane, I notice that there is another woman drinking a smoothie. Evidently she is the only person in the United States that is completely unaware of the new “no liquids of any kind” security standards which compelled me to abandon part of my luggage. Being the asshole that I am, I sidle right behind her, hoping to position myself well for the inevitable conflict when she is asked to dispose of her nearly-full smoothie.

“Now boarding Seating Area 2,” comes the monotone announcement and the next group of us begins to funnel our way towards the gate. The moment of confrontation is nearing and I am standing right behind her, ready to relish every moment.

And much to my surprise, disappointment and anger, the ticket taker simply relieved her of her ticket -- but not her illegal smoothie. What the fuck?! There’s no way he didn’t see it. Was there a change in the rules in the video I just watched while waiting in the security line?

My sense of justice momentarily thwarted, I tell myself that she’ll surely be stopped by one of the flight attendants, who are tasked with safeguarding our flights.

And nothing happened. She just kept sipping her smoothie as she sauntered past each and every flight attendant. Somehow, I resisted the urge by innocently asking “hey, I didn’t know we can bring on beverages like her. Is that the rule now?” No, I avoided the temptation (and corresponding bad karma) and instead made my way to my window seat in order to prepare myself for the first leg of my flight to Shit Louis.

(Editor’s note: It later occurred to me that you can probably bring on liquids that are purchased within the airport itself, but they should make that clearer).

It’s in the 80’s today in the SF-Bay Area, so it’s really warm on the plane. And my air isn’t working. And I’m wearing a long sleeve shirt for some reason.

As I’m stewing in my window seat (which adds a few more degrees), the captain calmly announces “the auxiliary power unit is inoperative, so we won’t have any air back there until after we turn on the engines.”

WHAT THE FUCK?! Look, I’m not a pilot, so I have no idea what the “auxiliary power unit” is or what happens if it’s “inoperative.” Nevertheless, it can’t be good.

Couple the elevated temperature and the foreboding announcement, and I’m sweating like Mark McGwire testifying before the House Sub-Committee on steroids. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able luck out and sit next to a supermodel or, alternative, Frosty the Snowman.

As luck would have it, a rather husky woman (I am not a weight-phobe; keep reading) makes her way towards back of the plane …. right towards the open seat next to me. Hello seatmate. She looks like a female version of Mr. T, but with slightly larger arms and thinner mustache. She has on several gold chains and gold rings on every finger, and has donned a gold-rhinstoned BCBG velour sweat suit for her flight.

As she sits down next to me, I notice that she reeks of cheap, sickly-sweet perfume. It smells like a combination of incense and rotting rose petals. I also notice that she has helped herself to both armrests. Thank you for sharing.

The temperature on the plane gets worse. Because of vague “problems on the ground,” we end up sitting in the airless crock-pot which is United flight 444 for over 1/2 hour. The plane is, by most conservative estimations, 150 degrees. The heat is compounded by the “sweat suit” (emphasis added) of my seatmate, whose arms and legs are spilling over into my seat. My right leg, which is unavoidably pressed against my seatmate’s veloured quadriceps, is cooking. It is right about this time that I first consider strangling her.

And so it goes. Despite the inoperative auxiliary power unit, we manage to take off and the heat begins to subside.
My seatmate’s aroma persists and, as a result of the air, is now blowing directly into my face.

Adding to that lovely fact is that today’s Savory Snack Mix” offered by United is a fragrant combination of “pretzels, BBQ corn sticks, and garlic & soy nuts.” “Savory must be United’s ironic way of saying “nauseating.” My seatmate grabs two bags. Within a minute she has gulped them both down and is now emanating a combination of incense and Corn Nuts. Fantastic.

I whip out my laptop in order to work (i.e., blog) and get my mind off everything, when I notice I have absolutely no room to type with her ham hock resting on the armrest. She looks at me and says “there’s not a lot of room, is there?” .. and continues to leave her arm firmly planted.

At this point, I slip into a Kate-like fantasy, where I envision ripping off her enlarged arm and then bludgeoning her to death with it, the smell of her warm blood covering up the awful perfume she has doused herself with. Passengers cheer as I vanquish the fragrant Mrs. T. The plane lands safely and Scarlett Johansson greets me as I exit the plane.

Instead, I awake from dream to find we’re on our descent into Denver International Airport. I prepare myself for the inevitable turbulence, shut down my lap top and realize “shit, I’m only halfway to St. Louis.”

(Tomorrow - “Leg Two of the Trip” or “My Bout With Irrepressible Rage”)

It's Rugby Season

I'm stuck on an awful conference call (story of my life), but saw this classic clip from MTV's "Jackass" where 2 members of the cast participate in a early morning practice with the London Irish. Hilarity ensues. Do not try this at home kids.

The Overly Sensitive Weatherman

Suffice it to say, sound is a must have for this video clip.

Sorry if it's slow to load, but I couldn't find it on YouTube.

And yes, I am having a very productive day at work. Thanks for asking.

Gwen Stefani Makes Love Dolls

Gwen Stefani -- the singer, actress and fashion designer -- recently announced that she will bring her trademark rock ’n roll style to the toy industry with a series of limited-edition dolls.

There are eight dolls in all, which Stefani has dubbed the line "Love. Angel. Music. Baby. Fashion Dolls." Each 10-inch doll looks like the platinum-blond rocker or one of her Harajuku Girl dancers (whatever the fuck those are) and are dressed in outfits based on her latest world tour (which I somehow missed, goddammit). The dolls, which retail for $24.95, each come with Stefani-inspired collectibles such as posters, pocket mirrors or trading cards.

First Paris Hilton, now Gwen Stefani. Who will be the next marginally talented, wanna-be entrepreneur to come out with own next self-adulating doll? When can we expect the Jessica Simpson Barbie (self-esteem not included), or the Lindsay Lohan GI Ho (complete with bikini and eating disorder!) model dolls ?

Oh dear 8 lb, 6 oz baby Jesus, please make this insanity stop.

Cameron Diaz Scares Small Children

I've never understood the facsination with Cameron Diaz. She looks like the Joker with bad skin. And based on this photo, it appears that she has developed an allergic reaction to food. Good god, I think I just threw up in my own mouth. Ack.