Truth be told...

There was a movie starring Dustin Hoffman. Wait. Not Hoffman. Was it Richard Dreyfuss? Damn. Who was it? It was about an Advertising Executive that suffered a nervous breakdown. The pressure of coming up with extravagant lies about products he neither used nor believed in became too much and he lost it.
Completely.
Ended up in a loony bin.
What on earth was the name of the movie? You ever forget the details but you’re still able to see the thing that you remember but not what it was called?
I hate it when that happens. It’s like watching a movie with the volume turned off.
Screw this. Its for these moments that God gave us Google.
And IMDB.com (The Internet Movie Database…). Hold on a sec.

[begin = "blog on hold music"]

Tall and tan and young and lovely
The girl from ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, each one she passes goes - ah

When she walks, she’s like a samba
That swings so cool and sways so gentle
That when she passes, each one she passes goes - ooh

(ooh) but I watch her so sadly
How can I tell her I love her
Yes I would give-

[end = "blog on hold music"]

Ok, I got it. It turns out that it wasn’t Hoffman or Dreyfuss or Nick Nolte for that matter. It was, of all people, Dudley Moore. Go figure. I always thought it was Hoffman or Dreyfuss.
Anyway…
Dudley Moore plays an Ad Exec that goes coo coo for cocoa puffs and ends up in a mental hospital. The movie was called “Crazy People”, came out in 1990.
What did he do as he began to come unhinged?
Well, he didn’t do what you thought he was gonna do.
He didn’t go crazy…
Who’s coming with me? Huh? Come on. WHO’S COMING WITH ME!?!
Wait.
That was another movie.
Oh yeah. I remember now.
He did something extraordinary, something unthinkable, apocalyptic even!
He told the truth.
That’s right he came clean.
Volvos?
They’re boxy, but they’re safe!
Which, of course, brings me to my point.
Truth in Advertising.
Tell us what you mean when you say erections may last longer than four hours (and why, exactly that’s supposed to be a bad thing…) And why is it that when people on TV drink Pepsi they get invited to parties and hang out with supermodels and Puff Daddy, er I mean, P. Diddy, wait no, he changed it again…
Diddy. That’s right, it’s just plain old Diddy now.
Where is Diddy and the Swedish Bikini Team?
All I get when I drink Pepsi is an upset stomach and pimples.
What if, for example, Police Officers were more truthful in their advertising?
Now before you go sending that off to your friends via email as the real thing, make sure you read the snopes.com page on it first.
(If you don’t know what snopes.com is, your homework is to read the previous post. There will be a quiz on Monday…)
And that’s all I have to say about that really…
Ok. It’s late. It’s Friday.
I’m calling this one early people. Have a good one.

"I'm the ass man, Jerry!"

Ah, I just love Tales from the Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction Deptartment", (or TISTFicD for short), don't you? They make life so much more interesting and they make me wonder where guys like Stephen King get their ideas for their stories.
I liked Seinfeld. The wife hates it but then again, she also hates The Naked Gun and Spaceballs, so that goes to show you what kind of tastes in movies she has. Honestly, I don't know how we ever got married. How could I marry someone that doesn't understand the humor of Mel Brooks and Leslie Nielsen?
But that's another blog.
Did you ever see the episode of Seinfeld where Kramer gets a license plate for his car? He ends up getting a vanity plate that spells out ASSMAN. Needless to say he's mortified. The goofy, yet lovable, Cosmo complains to Jerry that as he drives around the city, people yell at him, "Hey Assman!"
"I'm the Assman Jerry!"
Eventually he figures out that he received the vanity plate of a Proctologist. Nice. A proctologist with a sense of humor. I guess if you hand you hand up the business end of a poop shute all day long, you might need a good sense of humor, n'est-ce pas?
Oui.
You like that? You like the French? Yeah you do. Try this one on for size:

"I'd help you, but I don't like you."
"Je vous aurais bien aide, mais je ne vous aime pas."
(zhe voo zaw - ray bien ai - de may zhe ne voo zaim - e pah)

You can find other great French phrases here.
(That concludes the multicultural portion of this blog...)
Anyway, at first Kramer's freaked when he gets the license plate, but as people start to wave and say hi, he gets into the whole Assman persona.
Color him important.
It was a funny episode and the license plate was a great plot device. But that could never happen in real life right? They have all sorts of strict controls on what gets minted at the local State Penitentiary for public consumption, don't they?
(I'd use the whole n'est-ce pas? thing again but as I mentioned before we have concluded this mornings multicultural session)
Well, despite the best efforts of man and the machines working at the Florida Department of motor vehicles, the assman has been one upped.
I found this at the very best site for internet rumor mongers.
www.Snopes.com

Here is the page that explains the mystery behind the Ass Orgy, License to Thrill. (Oh man, I hope my kids don't read this blog. Imagine having to explain ass orgy to a 6 year old....)

On a side note:
All you yahoos out there that like to inundate your friends email inboxes with tales of highjinks, public stupidity, strange animals, tear jerking tales of children lost at Wal-Mart for six days before they are found in a cardboard box in Pago Pago and proof that the Chupacabra exists need to run your stories by snopes.
It's what a real friend would do.
(And I don't mean it in that creepy 'I'd pee on you if you were stung by a jelly fish and we didn't have any amonia spray handily available' kind of way or in that 'If you and I were trapped in the Himalayas and we needed to consume human flesh to survive, you could eat my ass" kind of way either. I squeezed another butt joke in there. Sorry, couldn't help it.)
They have covered most of the common urban legends that you get in your mail box and, you might be surprised to discover, they actually confirm a few of them. I care about my friends a great deal, so when I get that "Proof that the Chupacabra is really Jennifer Lopez" or "If you don't send this to ten people in the next six seconds your nipples will fall off and sea monkeys will fly out of your anus" (And yes, I got another ass joke in there... BAHZING!) I just pop over to snopes and I invariably find the file on the suspect internet message and poof!
Another urban legend bites the dust.
I want my friends and loved ones to be well informed.
Don't you?
Well. Now you know.
And knowing is half the battle.

The other white meat!?!

Don’t know what to do for breakfast when the lights are out? Tired of having Green eggs and ham? Looking for some green ham and eggs? We’ll Taiwan has the answer you’ve been looking for! Now you can get fluorescent green pigs, farm fresh! So what if they are genetically modified freaks of nature?
There’s nothing wrong with that.
They’re green, like money! And we all love money don’t we?
You what I want to know right?
Do they come in Candy Apple Red?
Oh yeah. I’d be in Hog Heaven! Get it? Huh? Huh?
Sweet googily moogily! Just because we CAN make day-glow bacon, does that mean that we should? (and would you really want to eat green meat?) Of course these particular swine are not destined for the meat market.
They are going to be used to advance the frontiers of science!
According to the MSNBC article, they were genetically manipulated at the embryo stage to make it easier on the (mad) scientists while they are conducting their Stem Cell research.
*cough, cough, FRANKENSTEIN!, cough…
Sorry, I had a little tickle in my throat there.
And hey, what’s wrong with a pack of secretive and conspicuously unaccountable geneticists playing god without any oversight with human DNA and farm animals?
What could possibly go wrong?
What’s that you say?
Pfft. I’ve never even heard of the Island of Dr. Moreau!
Really.
(I preferred the Michael York version to the Val Kilmer / Marlon Brando one… )
Can they do that with other animals too? Like cats and dogs and Manatees?
You know, that might be a good idea to make Manatees glow in the dark. Would make them easier to see at night and thereby prevent them from being sliced and diced by boat motors.
Sure it might make them a little easier to see for alligators but really, I don’t think that Alligators even like day-glow manatees.
Maybe we could make celebrities Day-glow! Can we do a day-glow orange? I have always been partial to day glow orange myself.
Think of the human applications! You could make all murderers day-glow red and pedophiles day glow orange.
You know what? I’m starting to like this idea more and more.
Hey Taiwan, rock on with your bad self! Make sure that you try cross breeding pig with eagles (who doesn’t want to see a pig fly? Really…) and if you can do the same thing with a nice elephant (‘cuz I be done seen about everything, when I see an elephant fly…)
Zuckerman’s famous pig needs to step aside, we have the new other white, uh… I mean green meat!

And I think to myself… what a wonderful world.

Breaking The Law

Murphy’s Law? Are you kidding me? I am sure that most, if not all of you, have come face to face with Murphy’s Law at some unfortunate jucture in your life. This immutable law of nature is as incredibly simple as it is painful.
It reads as follows:
Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.
So, exactly who is this Murphy character and when did it start being okay for him to start making up rules that dominate the space, time continuum? Apparently he is a leprechaun that had someone steal his pot of gold once and he got pissed. So, he ran for public office and got himself elected to the Senate.
(This explains the ridiculous tax laws concerning lottery prizes…)
Isn’t there some board of directors for Evil Leprechauns or something? Somewhere where we can air out our list of greivances?
Flat tires?
Burnt roasts?
Broken condoms?
Where is his customer service department?
Son of a –
I want to kick his tukas.
Tukas. It’s Yiddish for kulo.
Kulo? That’s Spanish for Badonkadonk.
(It's ass okay!?! Ass! Man, get out more... Sheesh!)
Never mind.
So this half-pint, watered down, jacked up, sorry excuse for a Lucky Charm has made it his personal mission to make as many people as miserable as he is. Kind of like a gremlin, except less fur and teeth. Mucking about, tossing a few wrenches into some well planned scheme or design or complicated piece of machinery.
(Just like in dubya-dubya eye-eye - thanks for reminding me Mr. Futterman.)
Doing nothing to contribute to society with the possible exception of a suger-ladened breakfast cereal stuffed with marshmallows and playing with small children.
It's unseemely at the very least, a grown Leprechaun playing with children. Frolicking even!
Scandalous!
But his most egregious sin is, of course, that he ruined my exquisitely planned weekend. I had it all planned out. Friday, Battlestar Galactica and Stargate shows on Sci-Fi, up early Saturday to attend to my poor invalid Toyota. I was planning on completing the rebuild of my engine Saturday and installing it by Sunday. The hopeful part of the plan was to try and get it started by late Sunday evening.
Nothing doing.
My second vehicle (the venerable and normally reliable Mini Van) suffered a ruptured strut mount (I know, it sounds like a spleenish injury but it’s not… think more along the lines of an ACL or knee thing or a broken hip or something…)
Anyway, any hopes of getting my car quickly vanished as the immediate focus shifted to repairing the primary vehicle. You know, so we could to trivial stuff like go to school and work and buy groceries.
Nothing important.
Well, I will spare you the profanity laced narrative and just cut to the chase.
None of the repairs worked.
When ever I tried to do something it failed. Often spectacularly! It was really impressive. I’m lucky I didn’t lose a finger or something equally important appendage and this time the Van didn’t fall on me.
Still, I can’t really remember the last time I spend 48 hours where absolutely nothing I tried to do went right.
If you happen to run across the aforementioned Murphy, give him a swift kick in the nads for me. Unless I get my hands on him first.
You never know. I might get lucky.
I might be walking in the mall one day and suddenly, standing right outside the Victoria’s Secret shop looking up the dresses of women coming in and out of the shop, there he is.
Finnegan Seamus Murphy.
“Murphy… Murphy… is that Irish? “
“Aye. So what if it is?”
“Hmm. You’re not the same Murphy that wrote that Murphy’s law are you?”
He chuckles derisively in that irritating little high pitches squeaky voice.
“Aye, so what if I am?”
Can you believe my luck? Oh goody, goody, goody!!!
“I have a limerick for you.”
I set my pack down on the floor and place my hands on my knees so we are eye to eye. My face is just bursting with excitement. I am really just too happy for words.
“So you have. Well… I haven’t got all day boyo. Let’s be hearin’ it now.”
“I once was walking the mall,
And I met the man ‘made Murphy’s law.
I set down my pack
And went on the attack
And kicked him quite hard in the-“
So yeah. If I ever get my grimy, grease stained, busted knuckled hands around his scrawny neck, I’ll snap it.
Die Murphy, you nasty, evil, vile little leprechaun and take your stupid law with you.
(No, I’m not angry. What would make you think that?)

Where have you gone Han Solo?

Have you ever wanted to be a movie hero? When I was a kid I wanted to be Luke Skywalker. I was, what, five or six when Star Wars hit the silver screen? That movie had a profound impact on me. On a lot of people as a matter of fact.
I wanted to be an astronaut after that.
I wanted to be a hero.
Raiders Of The Lost Ark was also another favorite.
Eventually I discovered that Han Solo was who I wanted to be. Dr. Jones. The hat, the leather jacket, the whip!?!
I mean come on! This is Doctor Henry Jones, PhD. we are talking about (who knew he was "Junior" back then right?). Did I mention the man had a whip and traveled the world finding the rarest of treasures, trailed by hot chicks (and the occasional orphan) and kicking the crap out of Nazis!?!
Women pretended they hated him and yet they were irresistibly drawn to him.
Moths to a flame, my friends.
They would smack him and he'd smile in that smirky sarcastic way, pull them real close while they pretended to struggle against him (feebly I might add - "What are you doing!?!? Wait! Oh my... a little to the left... ) and plant a big fat sloppy wet one on them.
And they were putty.
Putty I tell you!
Now I have never actually been slapped by a woman (though I got kicked once in the thigh in junior high, very traumatic – we’ll file that tale away for another blog...) but I have pissed a few chicks off in my day and I am sure they have wanted to smack the crap outta me. I have spontaneously kissed women once or twice in my day, but that’s not the same thing. Mostly I learned cool new ways to piss off members of the opposite sex as a teen.
And yes. I enjoyed every minute of it.
Why shouldn't I?
It's really the only weapon a man has against a woman. Physically, it’s not a fair fight. And that's ok. I'm not here saying that men are better than women or that women are better than men. We are different and that's why it works. Emotionally? Please. Men can't hope to compete in the waterworks department.
Really.
And it's just a little wrong to even try.
Seriously... a guy crying for attention?
"Why I outta pound you!"
Men crying should be treated as a myth, just like the myth of women farting. Women don't fart in case you didn't know, that's just an Urban Legend. In reality, they release beautifully scented pheromones and flowery fragrances that enthrall the senses and dull the mind. And their pooh doesn't smell either by the way (just ask them!)
Anyway.
Henry Jones, aka Indiana, aka Han Solo, was my hero growing up. I really started to appreciate Han Solo long after he had faded into pop culture, replaced by gaggles of metrosexuals characters, men that are sidekicks to the women, mere accessories.
Again, I am not saying that this is necessarily a bad thing.
There are some guys who are destined to be the handbag.
Captain Prada? The Fendi Kid?
Not me.
I can’t imagine being that way anymore.
But times have definitely changed and I find myself more and more alone these days. Like Shane on horseback, riding off into the sunset. My brothers would call me Captain Testosterone.
Like it’s a bad thing?
Now they are too busy plucking they eyebrows (don't get me started...)
Before you start calling me Captain Caveman, let me state the following for the record:
I’m sensitive.
I shed a tear or three at the end of The Notebook.
But I like grabbing a woman by the nape of the neck and planting a deep, penetrating, toe curling kiss on them.
(that last for three whole days...)
Just like that.
Bam.
(When wifey starts to go all Princess Leiah on me, I get all Han Solo on her – it’s fun, you should try it and if you can get your hands on the Jabba the Hut slave girl outfit? whoa…even better!)
But where in the blue hell did the 'Man's man' go? Where’s the guy that’s not afraid to grab his crotch in public, get pissed off when his favorite team loses the big game and spits and throws a punch when insulted and well...is glad to just be man. Show me the man who’s sensitivity is limited to kicks in the jimmy and when Old Yeller eats a bullet.
There are no John Waynes, no Cary Grants (who, I think, was the original metrosexual prototype yet somehow still managed to stay manly, God bless him!). Today we are stuck with Jimmy Fallon, Rosie O'Donnell (who is pretty manly) and Will Ferrell (who is freakin funny - I love the guy, really, just not in THAT way...) and Tom Cruise.
Tom Cruise!?!
Are you kidding me?
He’s what? Four foot, eleven? Sure he’s got a winning smile but I’ve eaten sandwiches bigger than him.
Brad Pitt?
Same thing.
Certifiable pretty boy. Cool guy to be sure, but still a pretty boy (although when he goes mental in movies its pretty freaking sweet - Remember Fight Club?).
In fact, any man that's been one of People Magazines 50 most beautiful people already has a strke against him.
Russell Crowe?
Ok. I’ll give you a pass on Crowe, Gladiator rocked and he had one of the coolest guy names of all time.
"My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next."
That was freaking cool...
But blast it all, I miss Han Solo, the insane grin on his face as he secretly hoped that the pile of scrap he was flying by the seat of his pants would hold together just a little while longer, the cocky self assurance, the sneer, the way Leiah worked overtime to convince her self that she hated him.
"You're a scoundrel!"
"You need more scoundrels in you life, your worship."
All the while he’s rubbing her hand and she turning to putty.
Putty I tell you!
Captain Solo is also responsible, in my humble opinion, for the greatest man's line in a film of all time. Solo's reply to the Princess as he is being lowered into the Carbonite freezing chamber (and please bear with my total fan boy, Star Wars geek moment - I swear I am not carrying a light saber or wearing jackboots and a blaster... honest!) was a defining moment in my young life.
The love theme from John Williams' musical score is building the tension as Han Solo, having been tortured by Darth Vader for no other reason than penis envy (hey sad clown? Did someone lost their Mister Winky in the fiery lake of lava?) is bound and resigned to his fate, forcibly pulled away from the Princess as they kiss.
She is heartbroken. (Daddy how could you!?!)
You know what? I just had a thought (scary huh?) What if Darth Vader had know that the fair Princess was, in fact, fruit of his loins? I can guarantee you that a flick of Vader's lightsaber would have taken care of Solo's, uh.... maverick spirit...
As a father with daughters, I will tell you that me no likey the bad boys. In fact I have a shotgun and a shovel for just such an emergency (but that's yet another blog).
You can see the fear in her eyes. She is afraid for him. Afraid that she will never see him again. (Afraid what Vader would do to him if he found out what they were doing in the Millenium Falcon's smugglers compartment...)
And in that moment, she realizes that she was afraid to admit how she really feels. The emotion builds within her stoic frame and she can no longer hold back the tears or the words. A crack in her tough facade develops and they escape; those three scary little words.
"I love you."
And what, pray tell, does our scoundrel, the irascible Captain Solo, say by way of reply? Exactly what a man’s man would have.
"I know."
Jumpin Jehoshaphat!.
How cool was that moment!?!
I had fully expected "I love you too." I was expected some sappy moment to develop and for him, finally hearing those words from the woman he loved, to just lapse into some namby pamby "I love you too" schpiel.
It's what I would have done if Brenda Colon (only the hottest girl in the sixth grade) had said yes to me when I asked her "Will you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to the dance?"
I Swear to Burger King.
That's exactly what I said! Word for word.
I know! I'd kick my ass too if I could.
You wanna know what she said?
"Uh, no."
And then she laughed derisively. Well, it sounded derisive. It could have been a girlish giggle at having been asked to the dance for all I know. What do you want from me? I was in the sixth grade!
Anyway.
I was completely flabbergasted when he smirked and said "I know" like he had won a bet with the Stormtroopers holding him captive.
"Psst. I bet you losers fifty bucks I get her to tell me she loves me."
"No way Solo. Not a chance in hell."
"C'mon you pansy. It's not like you're going to have to pay up anyway. I'm getting freeze dried in a minute. Sheesh"
Alright Solo, you're on."
"Suckers!!!!"
You know, just like Freddie Prinze in that teen movie with the ugly duckling girl thatnobody likes who suddenly turns into the hottie and...
Nevermind.
She fell for him like a ton of roasted Ewoks.
It took him a while to melt that Ice Princess down some. And he was human enough to not always be sure of the outcome.
"I don't know Luke, you think a girl like her and a guy like me could-"
"No. No I don't."
And then, just there, you see that sneer, that smirk, spread across his face like suntan oil on a supermodel, as he thinks to himself, "Oh yea. She soooooo wants me. Screw you farmboy..."
Now, as I look back I see that Luke was sipping the Haterade (it’s like hate flavored Gatorade, tastes great but leaves you all empty inside). A Jedi controls his emotions? Ha! That just means that they eat the crap people deal them and like it. You know, I could go off on that whole 'she was his sister' tangent but I will leave that for my Alabama rant.
Not Solo.
He was undeterred.
He smirked.
And do you know why? Because he won! He knew it and she knew it. Game over man, game over! He had been a bad boy. Rude, crude and just cocky enough to annoy the living piss out of a Princess.
Damn he's good!
And she wanted him. She craved him like fat kids do cake.
What a rapscallion!
I’m not even sure what that means but it sounds really cool and makes me think of Errol Flynn and Robin Hood and Pirates for some inexplicable reason. I need to swing from a rope and wave a sword or something.
I realized, just as his smiling face dissapeared into the fog of carbonite gasses, that women get bored very easily with the goody-two-shoes guys (like I was way back when). They respond much more favorably to the bad boys and tough guys. Not fake tough guys like Fonzie and Michael Knight (seriously... the effeminite sounding K.I.T.T. was more macho than he was). He was a tough guy like Charles Bronson, Bruce Lee, Magnum, P. I., The Terminator and Laurence Fishbourne (Neo? Neo!?! Screw Neo...)
Now it took me while to hone my Solo powers. they are just like Jedi powers except you are more likely to have sex. Generating excess levels of testosterone and all around manliness doesn't happen overnight. The process was not without pitfalls and setbacks. It was, at times, painful and humiliating (there are scars on the heart of Solo and well, lets just say I know why…). Women are a most dangerous adversary. But you live and you learn, as the saying goes. I think I am a better man for it.
Now if I can only find me a Wookie for a first mate and a pile of Nazi Storm troopers to beat the snot out of.
Where’s my whip?