Category Archives: People

Was that really Billy Bob Thornton?

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Previously: Brilliant was right. In the same way a 15 watt light bulb is brilliant. This was not going to end well.

And now: Little did any of us towering intellects know that we would soon be needing a mouthpiece sooner than later and not just for resisting arrest.

Pops was down with the lawyer idea. He thought it might bring some here-to-fore needed class the pizzeria sorely lacked. F. Lee Bailey, Alan Dershowitz, and Johnny Cochran could not have brought class to this place, but, hey, I’ve crushed enough of Pops’ dreams to say anything about it. So, unbelievably, the resisting arrest scam was working. Look, it’s New Jersey, anything is possible here. And things were quiet. No PETA protests, Doris Day was happy with her new dogs, Pops was selling pizza and juris medicine in the back. It was too quiet. But we take our gifts where we get ‘em.

6327151234_bd3c0dbf8a Not the caliber of lawyer at O’Shea’s.

Now that all that was humming along nicely, the drama reduced to a low, barely-discernible moan, I could go visit O’Shea’s and watch Ahmed polish his new glass, and finally indulge in one of his falafels. Life was good. Yeah, for the moment. I know I told you about O’Shea’s before, but it does have the best falafel in town. Town being Newark. Newark is out there, hanging on in the dark by its fingernails to the border, right across the river from New York City wishing it wasn’t in New Jersey. It had pretensions once, but now it’s come to grips with itself. It even at one time had its own theatre district. Now why you ask am I mentioning that? Well, what remains of the old and decrepit theatre crowd of hangers-on and former wannabees like to come into O’Shea’s and reminisce over their falafels and gin and tonics. It’s a strange crowd. It’s like watching outtakes from the old Mel Brooks movie, The Producers. Usually, it’s a harmless and almost amusing group of farts. Usually.

Tonight, we’re about to experience an out-of-body event, but I’m not sure whose body. One of the old-timers, named Kippy Sewell, creeps up to the bar next to me and signals Ahmed to join us. Us? I’m just sitting there nursing my falafel. I didn’t ask to join this but it looks like I’m into it.

“Hehnnn… Ahmed. C’mere.” hisses Kippy. Hissing is about all Kippy can manage after Tranks and Barry shook him down, literally, for an unpaid debt of some forgotten nature. “Ahmed, c’mere.”

Ahmed is deep into polishing the glass and doesn’t want to be bothered especially by the likes of Kippy. But Kippy is that rare bird seldom found in O’Shea’s – he pays his tab, so Ahmed reluctantly wanders over, but not before slowly straightening every bottle on the shelf behind him. “OK, Kippy, whadisit? I got glasses to polish.”

“Ahmed, you’re going to love this. You too Fog. But you’ve got to keep it on the down low.” You gotta give Kippy this – he speaks really well, enunciating each word as if in a Shakespearean play, only with hissing sibilance. You can take the boy out of the theatre, but… well, you know the rest.

Neither Ahmed or I are particularly interested in this, but boredom seeps in quickly at O’Shea’s so we listen. “What is it this time, Kippy?”

“I’ve just come across the most unique and original script of a play that I’ve seen in a long time. It is guaranteed to bring live theatre musicals back to the top. I’m looking for backers and you two need to get in on the ground floor. You’ll get rich!”

8318342482_5eb31fdb56 Yeah, it is a Broadway musical, but it looks more like the PETA protest.

Ahmed looks around and realizes there are more bottles that need straightening and departs for his shelves, leaving me with Kippy. I have to decide whether to make an excuse and leave, not finishing my falafel. Nope, can’t do THAT. So, I stay and listen to what Kippy believes will make us all rich. Looking back, I realize I can get a falafel pretty much anytime, but too late.

“Fog, do you go to the movies? Do you like movies? Musicals? Dance numbers?” Kippy says. “This is important.”

“No, Kippy, not really. The last movie I saw didn’t have sound.” I really didn’t want to indulge him, so sarcasm was my only refuge.

“Fog, I know that’s not true. I remember seeing you removing Polly from a Dana Delaney film festival. So there.” he hehnned triumphantly.

“OK, Kippy, shoot. I can’t hide the truth from you any longer.”

“Fog,” he always starts each query with your name. “Remember that actress with the big lips, Angela… what was it? Not Lansbury. No, no. Angelina, Yes, yes, Angelina… Jolie. That’s her. remember her? She was married to that weird guy who tattooed her name on himself. Well he made a movie that I’ll never forget.”

Oh great. He’s made a few. Which one and why? “OK, I’ll bite..which one?”

“Fog, you know the one. The one where he mumbles all the time.. Hmgnnhh. Right. Well, this script is marvelous. It’s a musical version of Sling Blade!”

2788022437_7cf29e2035 Hey, he does sing. Maybe it could work!

Good grief, I wish I had a blade so I could cut myself out of this joke. But, Kippy was serious.

PETA, pizza, Polly, and me.

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From the previous post:

In the meantime, her absence was all too short as she staggered back into O’Shea’s. “We need to talk, Foggy.” I hated that nickname more than my regular name. What the hell now?

And now:

Yeah… what the hell now did Polly want? Money probably. That was a given. Always looking for a handout – whether it had money in it or offering her a dance. Yeah, that was Polly alright.

“OK, Mom, what it is this time? How much? Have you called the personal injury lawyers again?”

Mom/Polly looked stricken by my tone. Well, that’s not exactly fair. She always looked like that. It was most likely due to the amount of roasted kale chased down by a bottle or two of Nyquil. “No, Foggy,” she slurred. Nyquil will do that to you. “It’s your father and the pizzeria.” Jeez.

6216242858_a30c3fb0d9 Goes really well with roasted kale, or so says Polly.

Before I go any further with this, let me tell you something about my father. We called him Pops. Everyone called him Pops, even when he was a kid. Don’t ask why, I don’t know. No one does. No one even remembers what his real name is. Pops was first generation this country. He was still in the womb when Grandpops and Stooky (his mom) came over from the old country. Grandpops pretty much lived the immigrants dream upon to coming to America. Got a job in a grocery store, made deliveries, swept the floors, ran numbers, and eventually bought the store shortly before buying the farm. Stooky kept churning out little Calamari’s until they ran out of places to put them all. Pops was the first born and the one with the most drive. He shared Grandpops work ethic if not his ethics. But all of the charges were eventually dropped.

So anyway, Pops opened the first ever vegetarian pizzeria. A real man ahead of his times. Naturally business was a little on the slow side as he had none of the traditional meat toppings. Pops did march to his own drummer. No else however could hear that peculiar beat though. So what could be the problem?

“Pops and the pizzeria?” I cleverly repeated. “What?”

“The pizzeria is being picketed by protesters! It’s a mob scene.”

Once again I engaged in clever repartee, “What?”

“It’s some group called Peter or Petra or something like. They really like animals and really hate Pops.”

Now we all know that Mom/Polly is prone to slight exaggerations. Well, gross exaggerations. Tell her something is ten feet tall and upon retelling, she’s made it twenty feet tall. It could be the Nyquil, we’re not sure. “Polly, that sounds like a group called PETA. They’re an animal rights group. What problem would they have with a vegetarian pizzeria? Especially Pops’?”

387142237_b0b49d357c Now why would anyone want to protest this? Jeez!

Pops’ pizza wasn’t very good but I would never tell him that. Thankfully, only once a year did I have to eat it as part of our traditional Thanksgiving dinner. But being boycotted by PETA? That didn’t make any sense at all. However, as a member of the Calamari family, one got used to such stuff.

“Foggy,” she cried. I did tell you I hate that nickname, right? “Foggy, it’s the cheese! They’re protesting his cheese!” I rolled my eyes as I thought of a number of less than civil comments I might have made about her last remark. His cheese? Aww, c’mon, that’s just too easy.

“OK, Polly. I give up. What’s the matter with his cheese?” I regretted saying that the moment I did. I hope no one else heard me say that.

“Foggy, you don’t understand. It’s buffalo mozzarella! They’re protesting the inhumane treatment of buffaloes during the making of the mozzarella and threatening to shut Pops down. “

Oh no, please don’t tell me that’s what she said! This was more than just her normal kale and Nyquil delusion. She’d really gotten into the Sterno now. But, still I now had protesters to deal with along with the ominous thick envelope on my dashboard.

Really? Another New Year’s Resolution?

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It’s that time of the year when the weakest among us of which I of course do not count myself, make New Year’s resolutions. It’s the same old, same old – “I’ll drink less”; “I’ll eat less”; “I’ll lose weight”. Yeah yeah, yadda, yadda. Come on. When are you going to get realistic? All of that will last a week or so before you come up with a rationalization for breaking it. I know because in the past I’ve been there.

So, the rest of you reading this probably have already started on how you will attempt to turn your lives around in 2013. My advice to you: don’t bother. You won’t keep the freakin’ things any way and will just embarrass yourselves when you finally admit your genetic weaknesses regarding commitments. Never, never make commitments around the holidays unless it’s to meet for drinks. And even then, be careful. You never know who you’ll wind up going home with.

2541584717_d7b509fc33 You never do know who you’ll wind up with.

And that’s another thing -  why is it so many people insist on making life commitments (marriage proposals, etc.) around the holidays? Isn’t there enough pressure to be falsely happy at this time of year? That’s what all the booze is for. Don’t ruin a good gin buzz for crissakes making a promise you’re almost certain to break!

4124361638_f79e6f80e3 Second thoughts already!

I know someone who is convinced they will find a new job in 2013: one that is fulfilling and financially rewarding. Really? Do they not watch or read the news? Yes, it’s true, that that practice will most likely lead to more drinking but not of the socially acceptable irresponsible holiday imbibing. But a new and good job? Maybe they’ve been dipping into the cooking sherry a little too much already. Resolutions just suck.

A few years ago, I made a resolution I’ve actually been able to keep completely. It’s simple – I resolved never to make another resolution again. And I’ve stuck to it. The good news? It hasn’t interfered with my drinking at all!

Cheers and Happy New Year!

The world’s most disinterested man.

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It’s true. I don’t always drink beer. I don’t care. I prefer wine. But what kind? I don’t much care about that. Your kids are sick? Too bad. No, that’s not right. I just don’t care.

6314300858_17c0be6411 Not me. Who cares?

As I said, it’s true. I could care less. There isn’t much of anything I do care about. My investments perhaps, but they are so many and so large, I just don’t care anymore. My trophy wife? Take her! She’s already my fourth one – they’re all the same anyway.

If I sneeze, no takes notice. Mosquitoes don’t fear me. I’m not on the Pope’s Rolodex either. And that’s all OK.  I’ve never excelled in sports, educational attainment, work, you name it. You see, I just don’t care. What I did care about at one time was that I’d been very good at making money. Don’t bother asking how, my attorney says it’s none of your business. Did I hurt your feelings by saying that? So what? I don’t care. Money can have that effect on one.

The funny thing is that at one point in my unbelievably fortunate life, I did care. Almost, but not quite bleeding heart liberal care. About everything. But after a while, a certain sameness crept in. I kept looking for greater thrills and stimulation. Oh, I found it and wallowed in it dirtily and happily. I had it all and I didn’t care any more. At this point if you’re still with me, and if you’re not, who cares?, I’ll tell you what happened.

Pure and simple, I ran for elected office and won. Would you expect anything else? I was able to convince the electorate that I cared. Isn’t that a joke? But I did. Deeply. And they believed it. And now I had to make good on all those bloated but hollow election promises. Do you know how impossible that is?  I’m surprised no one has been hung for some of the things we are forced to say in order to get elected. I guess it’s not perjury unless there’s a crime involved. Even then.

So, the first day in office, I was inundated by sycophants wanting something or to attach themselves to what they perceived as a newly minted seat of power. It was flattering at first but became tiresome rather quickly. I had my issues I wanted to advance. But, nooo, they had their issues too. They wanted snow removal; new pet pooper laws; real estate reassessments; zoning variances; that kind of crap. Before long, I started not to care any longer. It was that easy. And believe me, that quick.

So, while I know there’s a beer company advertising it’s “World’s Most Interesting Man”, the truth of the matter is that’s not me and I don’t care. He’s never been elected to office. He probably knows better than that. However, if he was, he wouldn’t care. And neither do I. And neither should you.

Not guilty.

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I just can’t stand to read the news anymore. Somehow or another, I’m terrified that the media will find out about my misdemeanors, felonies, and general poor behavior and have a field day with it. When one who is so famous and yet shuns the media spotlight, one lives in constant dread of being found out. One does. Really.

So, while waiting in the ne plus ultra waiting room of some mid-America airport, I happened upon the worst purveyor of such treacle, nay, trash – USA Today. While the paper itself has shrunk in on itself in size, it still harbors ambitions, however misplaced, of being a real newspaper. But one read of it will inform you otherwise. Unless you are entertained by the state-by-state snippets in the back of this publication passing for news, everything reeks of low-level sensationalism. Such is the fodder of the masses.

But read it I did for I am always in dread as mentioned before of being found out. Happily, there was no mention of my name or any of the aliases for which I’ve been known. Yet, I fear it is only a matter of time before things not perpetrated by me are soon ascribed to same. So it is with that in mind, I wish to inform all dear readers of the following:

I did not get Kate (or Pippa) Middleton pregnant. While an enticing proposition, I am innocent.

5445264466_e5e821d25d

I did not get anyone elected. For that, one would have to vote. I categorically did not. Nor am I responsible for the “fiscal cliff”. That’s just hearsay.

I did not bench Mark Sanchez – whoever he is.

I'm just gonna dance right over there, and tackle your ass...

I have no friends with benefits. But they are grateful for universal healthcare.

I have never seen a trilogy of anything nor will I. I do have some pride left after all.

That is not me in those nude photographs, but I wish it was. Whoever it was was having a good time and looked really good.

I am not the love child of Dr. Phil and Roseann Barr. The resemblance, while remarkable, is accidental and unfortunate.

306665517_6d5b9d947a

I did not, have not, will not leak any information to any intelligence gathering organization ever…unless a substantial advance is provided. And even then, I reserve the right of exaggeration as a negotiating tool.

I will never have a phone smarter than me.

I did see the movie ABBA, but I don’t talk anymore with the people who took me there. No use in encouraging them further.

I have never been caught in a compromising situation with Lindsay Lohan. Yet.

I have never made an illegal campaign contribution to a candidate who lost.

I have never cheated on a test unless you count paternity tests.

I do not believe in digital technology without latex gloves.

397164782_cc260a7bf0

That’s about it. I could of course claim innocence for so much more and maybe some of that would be true, but it’s getting late and there are people outside with cameras and lights. What in hell do you think THAT’S all about?

Job opening.

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You’ve got to keep this under your hat. but I’m about ready to give Bruce his walking papers. He’s just not pulling his weight which by the way is quite considerable. As I wrote the last time, it doesn’t seem like it’s working out. But, I can’t do this myself. Between my daytime responsibilities as a senior citizens crossing guard and part-time mercenary, my hands are pretty full. I have a full-time, unpaid position available for another to help me with this load. I’ve listed the qualifications here.

At work.

1. Must be able to construct sentences using the Ludovico Sentence Structure Construct. This consists of nouns, verbs, pronouns, adverbs, adjectives, participles, punctuation, and of course, correct spelling – no spell-check allowed. Compound sentences allowed only with poly-syllabic words.

2. All posts must use injunctive reasoning. If you do not know what this, do not bother applying.

3. No use of crayons allowed. What do you think is? Kindergarten?

4. Plagiarism is not permitted unless it actually enhances the post.

5. The use of legalese is discouraged. No “whereas’, “party of the…”, “wherefore”, “henceforth”, or anything that might be construed as a subpoena. Hell, we got enough of those already.

6. Correct use of tense and gender a must. This is not a PC blog and I don’t want it to be, ever. The goal is to call it as we see it. Tenderness is prohibited.

7. Cliches are encouraged. The more the better.

8. Check your snark index. If you border on being polite, try writing for the Christian Science Monitor. Politeness is for church, not here.

9. If you’ve won any awards or prizes for journalistic excellence, think twice about applying. This would probably end your career and I don’t want that on my hands.

10. If you’ve aspirations of moving up in this organization, then you’ve got more problems then I willing to handle. Walmart would be a better career move. Come to think of it, you would probably look good in one of those greeter’s vest.

11. If you are an illegal alien, that is in your favor since the pay is non-existent anyway.

12. Any political affiliation can be a problem. That’s just more baggage you’ll have to lose.

13. Do you have a record? If so, call…now! (This is for felonies, misdemeanors, grand theft, embezzling, etc. Any other need not apply.)

14. What is your favorite pizza top[ping? This can be a deal-breaker.

15. Are you currently under a restraining order(s)? If so, please list the name(s) of that/those person(s)? This is the kind of character reference we’re looking for. The larger the restraining order, the better your chances are to considered.

A valuable asset.

16. And finally… Is your name Bruce?

So, that’s it. Most of you reading this blog probably meet some of the qualifications already. But, I am going to be quite specific this time around. The last Bruce… well, if you’re hired, I’ll tell you over drinks. Your treat of course.

Liam Neeson, where are you now that we need you?

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I called like I usually do to see if the other Bruce was ready to have our regular morning cappuccino, but there was no answer on his Star Flight 89 phone. That was odd as the Star Flight 89 is supposed to be capable of receiving and answering calls even when off. This didn’t distress me too much as Bruce was probably sleeping it off after being out the night before celebrating our housekeeper Mrs. Crosby finally getting her GED. Now we can probably expect her to ask for a raise as she is now a high school graduate or some such paper equivalent. Fat chance on that one! She came highly recommended but still is a thorn in our sides.

Mrs. Crosby before the party.

Anyway, I did not pay it much attention until lunchtime rolled around and Bruce didn’t show up for our daily stir-fry lunch of radicchio and tofu with a little Prego sauce tossed in for color. He never misses that one. So I tried calling him again but to no avail. I went to his home but his wife wasn’t there as well. Where the devil could they be? I must admit I was getting worried as Bruce had earlier testified in the trial of a politician who had sent incriminating photos of his nether region to the National Enquirer in hopes of getting a photo spread for his re-election. No surprise it didn’t work; but he did get an offer as a back up singer to Lady Gaga. He declined as he swore he didn’t know who she was – more proof that the electorate once again sent a total doofus to Washington. The politician swore Bruce would pay for his testimony. Could it be the Washington insider had already wreaked his revenge on Bruce, his wife and their beautiful children Taffy, Tad, and Milo?

Law has it that an adult is not missing until 24 hours have passed. With Bruce’s notorious short attention span, that 24 hours may as well have been 24 weeks. Time passes both slowly and quickly simultaneously for Bruce. Maybe Einstein was right about his theory.

Dinner came and went and still no Bruce. I called the police and inquired about an Amber alert but was told it was only for children. I tried to convince them of Bruce’s childlike wonderment of the world which made him eligible, but they would not cooperate. If anything happens to Bruce, I will personally hold them responsible. In the meantime, I think I’ll call Liam Neeson for help – he’s been down this road a couple of times.

Not the Liam Neeson I envisioned, but hell, he’ll do.

It was a sleepless night for all of us. Bruce’s lawyer called for whatever reason we’ll never know. Perhaps he was psychic. He wanted to know how Bruce was. How did he know? Was he involved somehow? Very strange until we found out he was looking for Bruce for an unpaid invoice. Typical lawyer.

This absence of Bruce carried over for a full week and a half with no sign of Bruce. And then we got a postcard from Bolivia. It seems he was taken hostage by a bunch of striking Bolivian tin workers demanding a ransom or they would separate Bruce from some of his vital organs. Needless to say this would put a big crimp in our plans for the upcoming opera season. It’s always something.

In a masterful stroke of diplomatic genius, I took over all the negotiations. It seems after a week and a half the tin workers were more than willing to turn Bruce over, ransom or no. Between his demands for a bed made properly, food cooked to his liking, and a general overall non-stop week and a half of whining, they had seen the folly of their undertaking. But they were not going to get off the hook so quickly. Oh, no.

While it’s true we wanted him more than they did, we would parlay this into a positive and come out smelling like roses, though when we did retrieve Bruce, he smelled nothing like any rose we’ve ever seen. Our negotiations went quickly, so desperate were they for relief. We got everything we demanded and probably could have gotten more but why be greedy?

Suffice to say, they paid royally for their misadventure. We now have: a lifetime subscription to Opera News, unlimited car washes for the Pignasaurus, five years worth of those entertainment coupon books, and a promise that sometime in the next couple of months they will take our housekeeper, the insufferable and over-paid Mrs. Crosby off of our hands. Hah, and they thought Bruce was a handful! I can hardly wait to see what she’ll get us!

Edible idiocy.

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“People are stupid. They have no couth. They also have criminally small vocabularies. I don’t want to talk with them any longer.” So sayeth the other Bruce. Come to think, I’m the other Bruce too. Who is writing this then? But I, the other other Bruce, digress.

So, so uncouth! (gamergirl.hubpages.com)

We were traveling through middle-class, middle-of-the-road, mid-size, mid-America the other day when it dawned on Bruce that the language some use in a pejorative fashion tends to categorize the lesser thinkers among us as nothing more than poor food substitutes. And the longer he prattled on about it, the more convinced I became he might be on to something. But then again, it might have to do with the air-conditioning in our Pignasaurus doing its best impression of global warming and I was in the early stages of heat stroke and thus not in complete control of my faculties.

Now unless we or you are strolling along the African veldt, it’s highly unlikely that any of us would be mistaken for dinner. So why do some persist in putting others down by naming them as food? Unless it’s their secret intent to have us for dinner and I don’t mean over for dinner.

How about meatball: a tasty ball of indeterminate chopped meat usually accompanying spaghetti in a marinara sauce. This was a favorite name for Archie Bunker’s son-in-law Rob Reiner who now looks like a meatball. Life imitating art we suppose. Go figure.

Meatball! (steeshes.com)

Or that man is a cold fish. Scaly with dead eyes? Smelly after a few hot days? Not really very nice unless you’re a sushi aficionado or do a mean Christopher Walken impression. Even then as a term of endearment, it falls very short of giving as a goof gift around the holidays. After a while, you too would also smell very badly.

Crackers? We like crackers with pate on them. But this is used in a couple of different ways. That guy is crackers. OK, maybe he is crazy, but you wouldn’t call him Triscuit, would you? And there is the “those crackers over there” use. Do not say this out loud near them. This is far worse. We’re not certain of the origin of this and are afraid to Google it as well. You can’t be too safe, you never know who is reading this. Nah, why worry, they’re just a bunch of dumb crackers anyway.

How about “That is a cheesy outfit.”? Or a cheesy mustache. On the mustache side, one runs the risk of looking like a seventies porn star. Cheesy indeed. Unless of course that is the desired look one is seeking in which case yes, it is definitely cheesy and we have some land in southern California we’d like to sell you. Cheesy outfits are inexcusable. They are usually found in Walmarts where most of the merchandise is Chinese. I don’t know about you, but my Levi’s better be made here…or at the very least Sri Lanka.

Some people are just by nature crabby. Is this due to a childhood deprivation or a nagging infestation that is not generally discussed in polite company? Or were their parents not really interested in finding Nemo after all? This being the Two Bruces, being crabby does not ever apply no matter what affectations we are displaying at the time. We are always of good nature and gentle heart and demeanor until our lacrosse team loses. Then just leave us alone unless you want some cheap sherry thrown at you.

Oh, yum! (gourmetsleuth.com)

We of course could go on…and on. There is pork/pig, beefy, juicy, tomato, ham, turkey. Wait, that sounds like an awfully good sandwich. Maybe on a ciabatta roll? Stone-ground mustard please. But why bother? If one feels reduced to denigrating another by calling them a food name, go ahead. Breeding will always out. And so will the uncouth.

An Olympian fever.

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Everywhere I look, it’s Olympic this or Olympic that. It’s all Bruce has on TV these days. I think it reminds him of his halcyon days as an alternate for the Olympic Snipe Hunting Team. One could not see a sadder face than when Bruce was told he wasn’t going to the 1986 games. Crushed is too mild a word for his disappointment. He was in the best form of his life only to be beaten by some toothless guy from the Ozarks. So sad.

Winning Snipe Hunter! (the collaredsheep.com)

But this year, Bruce and I have come up with a remedy for that – one that will open up entirely new opportunities for hopeful athletes everywhere. It’s one where a number of the cable networks will be clamoring for involvement. Just the sponsorship possibilities are staggering. We are certain at this time you’re asking, “What could this incredibly marvelous thing be? And how do I get involved?”

The Over the Hill Olympics (Othympics or OTHO for short) – pure and simple. Of course some of the current events will have to be modified to accommodate the increasingly fragile participants, but hey, no pain, no gain, right?

All events measured by time will now always have the time rounded up to the nearest minute. We’re not trying to fool anyone into thinking world records will be set by this, we’re just trying to be realistic. And fair. After all, these will be everyday Othympians.

The premier section of the games will be track and field. There will be an ambulatory set of events and a set for those Othympians with walkers. All walkers must conform to specifications lest anyone hold an unfair advantage, such as NASCAR-style drafting design elements. Some events will be shortened in time and/or distance in consideration of eventual darkness, commercial breaks, and nap time. Others will allow for some assistance as in the not-so-high jump. We are trying to be considerate of the injuries that may occur and the infirmities with which the Othympians arrive.

Other games will have new measurements. Take the shot put for example. Throwing it will not be the determining factor who wins. Rather, it will be who can pick it up the fastest without hurting themselves. This will be must-see TV.

Gymnastics will be reduced to one event, but one so important, it’s impact cannot be over-looked. This will the “I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up” competition. All participants will be bodily thrown to the ground. The one who gets up the quickest without using their Life-Alert (TM) wins. This will be incredible on slo-mo instant replay as it will probably be faster than the actual competition and will provide ample commercial opportunity.

Uh-Huh. Gold! (flickr.com)

So, you get the idea. If you have any events you would like us to include, shoot us a comment. We’re open to any ideas.

As we mentioned, this will be ripe for commercial sponsorship and participation. All events can be co-branded by their sponsor. We’ve already compiled a partial list of these. If you have any contacts within these companies, please let us know. Anything that greases the skids will help immensely. Speaking of greasing the skids, one sure-fire sponsor would be Metamucil. Others would include but certainly not limited to: Depends, Life-Alert, One-Touch monitors, Ensure, Beltone Hearing Aids, Flomax, Dollar Stores, the large print edition of the New York Times, Phoenix Life Insurance, the Lillian Vernon catalog, Gold Bond powders, Walk-In bathtubs, Denny’s, and much, much more. The possibilities are staggering. Corporate greed knows no boundaries.

How often does an opportunity like this come along? With the increased amount of baby-boomers going on Social Security, they have more time on their hands to compete or watch on their big-screen TV’s complete with audio assistance. It’s a marketers dream. Who’s with us?

Dummies for Dummies.

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This is the moment of truth. How many of you out there have purchased one of those “_____ for Dummies” books? Don’t sit there and deny it. We’ve seen the sales figures and we know what you’re up to. Get the hell over yourself already! That book ain’t gonna help you! If we can’t help you, then no one can and you’re just SOL. (Look it up, Einstein!) See what we mean by Dummies? Jeez!

Aww, c’mon! Really? (emmettferrret.org)

The publishers have pretty much made their statement as to what they think of you. It’s simple – to them, you’re all dummies. Why else would they keep printing these books?

There is a “Dummie” book for just about anything in the world or so we thought until exhaustive research proved that these, so-called smart guys, (the publishers), over-looked some categories that without these books, you’d all be real dummies. With the exception of course, the two Bruces who will now happily join those so-called smart guys. So before long, you’ll be able to get these new books and enrich your wretched little lives. (Sorry about that, Bruce sometimes forgets his very humble beginnings.) These will be available at all popular book stores not including Borders.  Hey, we’re not dummies here!

For those of you who have mastered writing or some such approximation, take down these titles and buy these books if you want to move up to the position of shift manager of your local Dollar store. That guy in front of you isn’t any smarter than you, he’s just the owners’ idiot offspring from his second wife.

“Breathing for Dummies” – You’d be surprised how many schools have private remedial breathing classes. This should be mandatory to achieve citizenship. It has an advanced section on exhaling which should be read several times to perfect this activity.

“Walking for Dummies” – Left, right, left, right. How hard could that be? Amazingly, not following this can lead to serious and sometimes fatal tripping. The book comes with many simple to follow diagrams and one syllable words for easy reading. (Special discounts offered on crutches.)

Yeah, this is what we’re talking about. Read the “Walking for Dummies”" one first so you can then strut like a pimp. (secularcafe.org)

“Blinking for Dummies” – Once you get the hang of this, it’ll take forever to read.

“The Dummies’ Guide to Drinking Water” – This is not to be confused with the advanced book “Drinking for Dummies” which is all about alcohol consumption. This, through extensive research and illustrations, will demonstrate the correct way to consume water. Such chapters as “Not through your nose, Dummy” and “Ears are for Hearing” are must-reads.

“Hair-growing for Dummies” – Just look around and you decide who you want to give this book to as a gift. Special six-packs available.

After all of this, if you’re still struggling with life or whatever, we have just the book for you. Do not attempt to read it while walking, talking, eating, any natural process, or for you really big dummies out there, reading.

Let’s be careful out there. (laughingsquid.com)