Life's Crazy! Kick it in the Teeth!

21st century Shaman

2012-02-02T08:18:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

A caveman living in modern times.

Imagine how he would react standing in a loin cloth, covered in woolly mammoth skins, staring at the bright lights of Times Square.

Would he throw a rock at the Good Morning America banner? Would he run from the blinding array of lights at Toys R Us? Or would he embrace it all and buy himself a new suit at Lord & Taylors?

My friend Schultzy called me the other day. He is this caveman. He is a technological throw back to a time when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and telephones were big and square and connected to a pole outside.

Schultzy is old school, a techno-phobe, who still reads the LA Times. He doesn't own a computer. He doesn't Tweet. He doesn't facebook. He doesn't have a linked in account. He has never Googled, or dot commed or surfed the web.

Lobotomized lobsters have logged more time on line than my buddy Schultzy.

If it ain't in the L.A. Times or the Big Bear Gazette or on local news, Schultzy has never seen it.

So when he called me the other day, using a cell phone, I began making fun of him.

"Where'd you get a cell phone from?"

He laughed out loud.

He wants to talk and talk and talk and catch up on old times. I love the man, but who has 2 hours to talk on a phone in today's rat race.

"If you had a computer, I could email you stuff," I say. "Then when we spoke on the phone we wouldn't have to catch up on 3 months of crap. You'd all ready know what was going on."

He proceeds to tell me that he hates computers, like Eagles fans hate Santa Claus.

"Don't trust them," He says.

What don't you trust about them I ask.

I can't see him, but I imagine him whispering into his phone, looking nervously around his apartment, like spooks from the CIA are listening from a van in a nearby alley.

"I don't like it", he says. "I don't know how to use it. I have been having a hell of a time even putting in job applications lately. I go into the store and ask for an application and they ask me if I all ready applied on line. I am embarrassed to tell them I don't know what the hell they are talking about so I lie and then I don't get the job. Then I go out and start drinking," he says with a belly laugh.

Go on line? The only line Schultzy knows is the fine line between sanity and insanity.

I tell him about some pictures I found of him while cleaning out my garage.

"Remember that crazy weekend in Rosa Rita?" I say.

Send them to me he says.

I am exasperated.

"You mean, print them out, and put them in an envelope, and literally lick a damn stamp and mail them to you? Are you high?"

"Yes," he chortles. "How else would you do it?"

"Well for starters, if you weren't a cave denizen afraid of technology, I'd email them to you."

"I don't have email, i don't need no computer," he says in angry way.

"Yeah, I know, you've told me this before. That argument worked in 1986 when there was no damn Internet, but 3 year olds use the web now in pre school. You can't stick your head in the technological sand any longer."

I hear him guzzling a beer on the other end of the line disgusted with my thought process.

"What about your cell phone? It must get text messages right?"

"I don't know. I got something once. But I'm not sure how it got on my screen."

I feel like I am talking to the crew of the Nina Pinta and Santa Maria as we sail to the edge of the world, about to fall into oblivion.

"OK, let's try something crazy," I say as if I am some Native American Shaman about to conjure up spirits in the wind.

"I am going to text a picture to you from that Mexico trip we took. Let me know if you get it."

He hims and haws and tells me how his phone wont do that.

"Whatever Nostradamus," I say, telling him to pull his head out of the 80's.

I hang up and proceed to text the photo to his cell.

Five minutes go by and suddenly my phone rings. It's Schultzy.

"What now," I exclaim preparing for another war and peace round of discussions.

"Yes Schultz."

Suddenly my ear piece is filled with cackling laughter.

WOW. WOW. WOW.

He is giddy and all he says is Wow over and over again.

A smile comes to my face. A little technology from across the planet has brightened this dinosaur's life.

"Wow!"

"You can thank me later Schultz," I say. As I hang up, I hear him still cackling.
I don't know anybody in the whole world who doesn't own a computer. I don't know anyone in the galaxy who has never sent an email or a text or gone onto facebook.

I imagine the joy Schultz must be feeling. He is suddenly looking at a picture from a Mexico trip decades ago. He is viewing it on a little cell phone screen the size of a book of matches.

I can only think of the prehistoric apes in 2001 A Space Odyssey as they touch the monolith and gain "realization" that there is more to life than fire and sticks.

I plan to send Schultz more texts. I will probably call him first and warn him so he doesn't have a heart attack when his phone makes whatever sound it makes when it receives data.

It is good to be the 21st century Shaman of technological abundance.

And that is crazy.

S H C O O L

2012-02-01T08:34:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Misspelling the word SCHOOL outside of a school. We all learned to spell. We learned to spell inside a school. That's why misspelling school at a school is really uncool.

I know that our educational system is questionable but really?

Misspell the very thing that people are driving to and dropping their kids off at.

How very very sad.

Imagine driving up to the BUS and it says: SUB. You might not know whether to eat it or load a torpedo.

They say reading is Fundamental. But outside one Manhattan school, it's mostly just mental.

DATELINE: Manhattan

For months now the word SCHOOL has been misspelled on Stanton Street outside a Lower East Side high school.

For months parents drove up to the building marked by the word:

S H C O O L in huge white letters. It's on the street, in 10 foot tall letters. It makes up the cross walk.

Did nobody notice? Did nobody care?

If I drive up to a shcool, I'm going inside and asking someone what the hell's going on. Who runs this shcool?

I understand that mistakes happen. I can see a dyslexic painter messing this one up. H gets in the way of a C. It happens. But then you send out the non-dyslexic painter and correct it immediately.

Right?

Wrong.

S H C O O L was there for months. Parents coming and going. Buses driving over it. Principal must have driven over it a few times too. Who knows, maybe a couple of drive bys went down on the misspelled word.

"It's embarrassing for the city!" laughed Luis Maldonado, 50, a maintenance worker in the area. "Teaching kids to read and write correctly is very important!"

According to published reports, it happened when workers apparently cut into the asphalt to get to underground utility lines.

"It's sad," said Derek Pacheco, a Flushing securities-industry worker who passes by on his way to work. "It speaks volumes about the dumbing down of American culture."

Now that it has been publicized, everyone is blaming someone else.

Ah the American way.

According to published reports, shcool officials couldn't be reached, but the school's PTA president, Linda Surles, wasn't surprised that no one has reported the mistake.

"Nothing surprises me any more at this school," she said. "What's ironic is that the principal has probably painted the lunchroom and rooms inside over about five times since."

Well now they have some repainting to get to outside the SHCOOL.
And that is crazy.

Gasparilla

2012-01-31T08:00:00.004-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

A pirate festival called Gasparilla.

It's Mardis Gras on a pirate ship. It's wenches loaded on rum. It's
cut-throats gargling with sea water mixed with grain alcohol.

AARGH! Shiver me timbers Matey.

It's Capt. Morgans and beads, so many beads.

Gasparilla is a Tampa tradition, even if the rest of the nation has never heard of it.

The locals tell me its about someone named Gaspar and then the story gets fuzzy. Was he really a pirate or a local bureaucrat. Nobody ever really gave me a straight answer, and honestly I didn't care.

Some wench wobbling on the front deck of her home wearing an eye patch told me; "he was reportedly very well hung and had many mistresses."

Well there you have it.

Stay Classy Gasparilla!

Regardless the reason for Gasparilla, Gasparilla is a hurricane of gross decadence in a city that is all ready riddled with sin.

So here I am, in the middle of a swash buckling Saturday, bathing in a luxurious 75 degrees and not a cloud in the sky.

I am on a dock lined with little hot dogs and cheese and crackers and crab cakes. There is nothing but a constant flow of beer and rum sloshing out of little Red Solo Cups. And in front of us, a river full of drunken sailors in all manor of motor boats.

I see eye patch wearing skippers, many suffering from bouts of scurvy navigating so dangerously close to shore, I felt like reaching out and manicuring their nostril hair.

"CANNON" a fat buccaneer shouts as he lights a small incendiary device in my direction.

I'm sure blowing off a cannon from a twin outboard is illegal in 48 states, but at Gasparilla, laws don't really mean much.
Before I can shove my fingers in my ears...

BOOM

I am suddenly deaf and covered with smoke.

WTF?

Captain Cannon smiles as if he has just enriched the world with his bellicose auditory salute. I feel like taking a cutlass and slicing open his adam's apple and taking a bite.

Gasparilla; nobody said it was going to be nice.

Meanwhile the onslaught continues as more drunken pirates idle by, throwing shiny beads at the wenches on the dock. Most of the beads land short sink into the darkness of the river. I imagine a bed of shimmery beads where fish lay eggs and mermaids sleep.

I also watch adroit pirates who launch beads using ingenious air propelled mechanisms.
Wenches wearing a smattering of clothing and high boots and garters are like so much confetti in a ticker tape parade. The woman wear their beads proudly, pirate's booty don't you know.

There is too much food and too much rum and too little law enforcement.

This is a massive gas can undulating near an open flame.

Then the gigantic pirate ship comes chugging up the river. There are hundreds of pirates and wenches and brightly adorned drunks clinging to this life size pirate vessel.

And then there is the armada of floating craziness following behind and along side. There is screaming and cannon fire and music blaring from somewhere. It is chaotic and visually intoxicating.

Locals call this the invasion and it is certainly a sight to behold.

The boats are bow to stern, packed in like bumper cars at the local fair. There are cabin cruisers and fishing vessels. Big boats and small boats. There are cigarette boats and 10 foot dingy's. The river is so thick with exhaust fumes and rum and badly navigated vessels I believe I can literally walk across the river and never get wet.

It is a spectacle of danger and cut throat pirating.

I imagine hundreds of injuries each year. I am told nobody ever gets hurt.

Crazy.

Someone told me that open containers are prohibited in public. Yeah right.

The parade route along the harbor is one pirate ship looking float after another. There are high school pirate ships and car dealership pirate ships. Someone told me that one year exotic dancers from the local gentlemen's club were on a pirate ship float. Apparently they were working their pirate poles much to the delight of all landlubbers.

From an upscale apartment complex over looking bayshore drive, the parade is so precise, so orderly, so delightful.

Oh Gasparilla. What a lovely lady you are.

But below, on the parade route, it's like Vietnam during the Tet Offensive. Everywhere there is the stink of Agent Orange and lime flavored afterbirth.

It is a scene from Dirty Mary Crazy Larry. I feel like the prison doors have been left open and all the cretins of Tampa have escaped.

I see carts with beads and trinkets race by. I see stumbling college boys with shirts that say "Where all the sluts at?" It is a white hot spectacle of filth. I imagine that this is what the inside of Edgar Allen Poe's brain must look like when he was writing the Tell Tale Heart.

I talk to a girl who will walk 3 miles against the parade crowd. She will tell me a story of traversing through this horde of hell. She said it was like a movie where the spot light was on her and she was fighting to find sanctuary. She describes people vomiting and fighting and getting arrested. She said she watched as one man ran at a trash can and attempted to leap over it, but only managed to run into it like a football blocking sled. She said it made a concussive sound as the man bounced off the barrel which tipped over, trash spilling everywhere. She said a nearby cop told him to pick it up and he acted like that was some one else's job.

This too is Gasparilla. Drunken garbage can leapers who are just stupid.

There are tattoos and stink holes and puddles of vomit. The crowd is a scurvy filled wreck, wobbling, pillaging, falling down and walking a dead man's plank.

At one point, I see a house full of gay men. There are hundreds of gay party goers, their event sponsored by the Captain himself. The funniest shirt I will ever see in my life is at this house. It says, and I quote: "Butt Pirates enter here." There is an arrow pointing to the man's back side. He wears it like you or I would sport a Nike Swoosh.

Hilarious!

The police are positioned on every corner, but there is little they can do to contain the stench of spoiled rotting flesh incubating in a rum stew of too much heat and too little intelligence.

I am told Gasparilla happens this time of year every year.

Why?

Nobody knows. Perhaps it's because 3 weeks has passed since new years and Tampa residents need a reason to vomit on themselves.

As legend goes, Gasparilla once coincided with the weekend of the superbowl. That's pirating all Saturday and then Superbowling all Sunday. That's a lot of craziness to cram down one city's throat.

Apparently there were so many fights, so many arrests, so much pirate debauchery, that the Tampa mayor said it will never ever ever happen again.

So Gasparilla lives on even if the super bowl won't.

Gasparilla is a mardis gras at the end of a cutlass. It's a reason to say AAARRGGHHH and dress like a sexy wench.

Make your reservations now and don't forget to pack your eye patch.

All in all Gasparilla is a Gas, well hung or not.

And that is crazy.

steve jobs figurine

2012-01-30T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

A Steve Jobs Action figure.

Kind of like GI Joe. Kind of like Ken and Barbie.

Kind of creepy?

Who wants their kids playing with a dead guy doll?

How about a Truman Capote doll? please.
So anyway, according to published reports, a Chinese company was producing the freaky looking super genius dolls.

thankfully that plan has been scrapped after Apple's lawyers filed legal papers that essentially said "WTF?"

Who wants these things anyway? Apparently geeks around the world were pre-ordering the Steve Jobs figurine that would have come complete with a black turtle neck sweater, wireless glasses and blue jeans.

Did I all ready say creepy?

The figure stands about a foot tall and would have come with a stool and backdrop that read "one more thing" - his trademark phrase used to unveil the ipod, iphone and other mind blowing inventions he is so associated with.

A Steve Jobs action figure? Where do you put that? Do you dress him up and put him on a shelf in your office? Are you going to put him in the Barbie playhouse where he sleeps on the couch
with the Matel mega-hottie?

Hard core Jobs fans are bummed, but I am glad Apple Lawyers shut it down.

It's like sanctioning a seance, picnicking in a cemetery, dancing in the morgue.

Let the dead man rest, I say.

You want to remember Steve Jobs?

Ask Serie where to bury a dead body. That's a good start.

And that is crazy.

Wheel of Margaritas

2012-01-27T09:00:00.001-06:00

You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy. ™

Wheel of Margaritas.

I mean WHEEL OF FORTUNE. It is one of the most popular game shows of all time. It's a ratings juggernaut based on a simple kid's game; hangman.

The show is a hit because of its simplicity, and because of its long time hosts, Pat and Vanna. He of the quick wit and she of the long legs.

They are so damn perky, frisky, motor mouth ready to pontificate.

Well maybe these hosts are so good because they're high on the hard cider.

Who would have thought they were hitting the go go juice when they were turning the letters.

I'd like to buy an E Pat.

"F**k! your E you rat bastard."

ESPN’s Dan Le Batard asked a silly question of Mr. Sajak the other day. “Ever host Wheel of Fortune drunk?”

It sounds like a legit question for a sports network right?

Pat didn’t go bankrupt or buy a vowel. He answered with enthusiasm.

"Yes," the 65 year old said with a laugh. "When I first started and I was much younger and could tolerate those things. We had a different show then."

Translation? We use to go out and get faced between tapings. It's a game show based on a kid's game. Wheel of Fortune! It ain’t exactly brain surgery. It’s a wheel with buzzers and bells and a hot hostess flipping illuminated consonants.

I'd like to solve the puzzle Pat.

"Go to hell you insignificant flea. I'm drinking over here."

Maybe a few adult beverages helps keep things exciting. Maybe a shot of tequila, a scotch on the rocks, a Jack and Coke, help a spinning wheel of fortune become larger than life.

Sajak, apparently main lining truth serum during the ESPN interview also said; back in the day, he and the queen of the consonants, would toss back one or two or six – while working on the show.

A drink or two or SIX?

Wow!

Isn't spinning and drinking a felony?

Kind of makes me wonder what else you and Vanna did during your 2 and a half hour lunches Pat?

Did you spin her wheel? Play hide the S _ _ S A G E ?

Sajak says they had a two-and-a-half hour dinner break during the game show's early format.

2.5 hours? Well by all means, let's get our drink on!

Sajak says he and Vanna would drop by a Mexican joint in Burbank, for margaritas.

"Vanna and I would have two or three or six and then come and do the last shows and have trouble recognizing the alphabet," he says. "I had a great time. I have no idea if the shows were any good, but no one said anything, so I guess I did okay."

Troube recognizing the alphabet? That is freaking hilarious. Sounds like a field sobriety test for the CHP.

Though he insists he no longer imbibes while at work, Sajak has a feeling those old shows would be fun to watch. "They're really great tapes to get a hold of," he says.

Drunk or sober, Wheel of Fortune is still the number one game show going.

I'll take drunk Wheel of fortune hosts for 200 Alex.

Wait wrong host under the influence.

And that is crazy

nail brain

2012-01-26T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

The weekend news cycle.

Newt wins South Carolina. Joe Paterno dies. Romney releases taxes. Syracuse loses 1st game at Notre Dame. NFL FINAL FOUR. The sea continues to claim a cruise ship in Italy.

The world keeps spinning around the sun and that means stories of interest, importance and idiocy continue to flash across the horizon.

But some stories stay off the front page, until vacuum cleaners of crazy content like me scoop them up and present them for your approval.

DATELINE: ORLAND PARK, Illinois

An Illinois man was completely unaware that he accidentally shot a 3.5 inch nail into the center of his brain.

I bang my funny bone and I want to call 911.

This guy shoots a nail into his mellon and he carries on for almost two days before going to the hospital.

HUH?

I stepped on a carpet nail last night and it brought me down faster than a Middle Eastern regime targeted by a Twitter campaign.

This guy is either tough as nails or dumb as hell.

According to published reports; a hearty soul named Dante Autullo shot himself in the head with a nail gun.

When he looked in the mirror he saw a small cut.

"Whew," he whispered, wiping the blood away from his skull. "Close one."

Then he went out and did what any of us would do, he started plowing snow.

"Hey Bill, can you believe all this snow?"

La Dee Dah. La Dee Dah.

Then; a day later, the 32 year old began feeling nauseous.

An X-ray revealed the nail had lodged itself sideways in the center of his brain, just millimeters away from the section of the brain that controls motor functions.

According to published reports, most of his family and friends thought his X-ray image was a hoax.

It does look photo shopped, doesn't it?

"I hoped that it wasn't going to be as bad as it looked," Jerri Autullo said.

The father of four had successful surgery to remove the nail
where part of his skull has been replaced with a titanium plate.

And that is crazy.

Ugly Bar

2012-01-25T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Going to a fire code violation and watching the dance of the living dead.

crazy right?

It's a Friday night and I pull into the parking lot.

The place is packed. Cars are wedged sideways and on the grass.
I walk to the canopy marking the main entrance. The man at the top of the stairs tells me that no one is being allowed in. "It's too crowded," he says.

I look down the steep, concrete stairwell. It's dimly lit. It looks like a soiled crime scene, a perfect place to toss a body.

Just then the door to the club opens and some smooth groovin music pours out. I see the bouncers within and a gaggle of arms and legs. It looks like a sardine can ready to belch.

A woman exits the club and steps onto the small space at the bottom of the landing. She is furious and ranting.

"That's a fire code violation!" she screams, her words somehow carrying over the wail of muted guitar riffs within.

"It's so crowded in there, I cannot walk, I cannot move."

She is carrying on theatrically, her arms waving, her tight fitting leopard print skirt busting at the seems.

The bouncer stays calm and motions for someone to give her a $10 refund.

She walks up the stairs and looks right at me.

"You don't want to go in there, it's a fire code violation, someone is going to die."

I think back to the horrible footage from The Station Concert Club in Rhode Island where close to 100 people died in a night club fire.

I've been in this place before and I know that there is only one way in and one way out. Should a fire break out, i realize it could be a disaster. I've often said this to friends.

People who come here know it could all go bad at any time. It's a basement dive bar and a good place to grab an adult beverage, listen to a little R and B and tempt fate.

"It's crowded," the bouncer says softly to the woman. "But we are nowhere near a fire code violation," he says, handing her a refund. "Thanks for coming."

The woman wants to plead her case some more, but nobody seems to care.

She disappears into the darkness as the door opens and a wail of keyboards and people exit the sardine can of potential death.

People are coming out to smoke. They look like extras from the Thriller Video.

"Is it way crowded?" I ask a man with a boil protruding from the side of his nose.

"Not that bad. seen it worse," he says.

"Oh it's crowded all right," one drunk with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips interjects.

I walk down the steep stairwell and stand in the door that is now open. I can feel the drum pounding through my chest. The bouncer looks at me. Normally he would ask for 5 dollars.

"We can't let anyone in," he says.

"I heard," I say as I nod and look in.

It doesn't look that bad. I see a few places I could stand.

I look to the bar area. It's a narrow ledge, barely four feet long. Servers and customers all order at once here. It's crowded on a empty night. It's certainly crowded tonight.

Suddenly, a server carrying a stack of dishes emerges in the doorway. For some reason she is carrying the dirty plates from the bar below, up the concrete stairs to presumably take them to another part of the facility. Talk about bad architectural engineering.

Either she slips or the door hits her but i hear a CRASH CRASH CRASH.

Several plates hit the concrete and explode like mini atomic bombs on the ground.

A man and woman exiting the establishment at that moment are surprised and spin around.

I watch as the female server grows furious, her brain blowing up with embarrassment and frustration.

She literally takes the next plate off the remaining stack in her arms and throws it at the brick wall beside the stairwell.

SMASH.

I am stupefied.

Before I can say a word she starts firing plate after plate at the wall.

CRASH. SMASH. CRACK.

At least 5 more plates explode.

F**K THIS! she shouts at no one in particular. She throws her hands up and storms back into the club.

I exchange glances at the patrons who just left. The couple looks shocked. I laugh out loud. I love this kind of crap. Life is a pisser, isn't it?

The man begins picking up chunks of ceramic plate covered with mustard and chunks of burger. It looks like a garbage pail has been turned over in the entry way that leads into the club.

What a scene. A codes violation, a fire hazard, all in one.

The explosion of plates and cursing waitress sends the bouncer and door personnel scrambling.

I look around and shrug. I let myself in.

Not so bad, I think. I find a spot with some oxygen that i can call my own.

I watch the band play. I watch zombie people dance. I wonder where they have parked their lung machines. I see women who have been in the sun too many years and men who have done hard time in some Asian prison.

This is quite possibly the ugliest crowd of humans ever to assemble in one place. If the Merle Norman police were here, this entire bar would get a citation for being ugly in public.

I feel as if I am in the belly of a pirate ship where prisoners from uncivilized countries have been captured, placed in a cargo hold, that also serves as the place where the pirates relieve themselves after a long night of drinking rum and eating sour mangoes.

The dance floor is a festering disease pit of decrepit humanity, undulating and grinding on a dance floor the size of a picnic table.

I watch with delight, my brain filling and swelling with the imagery that makes me want to start writing.

She's a Brick House is pulsing off the ceiling as ugly chain smoking - plate breaking - zombies dance like robots needing oil.

It's like the Golden Girls go to Spring Break in Mazatlan.

I begin laughing to myself, the imagery as entertaining as anything I have seen in a long time.

It's a spectacle. There's the guy with the comb over and bulging belly gyrating like he's Danny Terrio from dance fever.

There's a woman with a face so pock marked, I expect NASA to ask for clearance to land on her cheeks.

I see the waitress who threw the plates. She looks calmer.

I stop her and shout. "what happened at the door."

She smiles. She no longer resembles a demon she devil.

"I lost one plate when the door closed on me. I got pissed and just threw them all."

I smile. Yep. that's pretty much what I saw.

She moves on and I finish my beer.

Between gulps I wonder if these people will go home with one another. I wonder if they will actually be drunk enough to take off their clothes, to touch one another. God help them if they like to leave the lights on.

For some reason this bar reminds me of a leper colony. Everyone here seems to be hideously infected, and they are here by design, ordered to avoid human contact with anyone but themselves.

As I walk out, I look back at the dance floor one last time.

The specter of grossness undulating with one another reminds me of some lab experiment gone awry. So much flaggy, saggy flesh, so drunk, so worn out like sea glass washed onto the shore in a tumultuous storm of life.

The scene is chaotic and it makes my eyes wince it is so unappealing.

This dive bar is so heinous, it makes the Star Wars bar seem like a star studded Studio 54. But instead of doing cocaine in the bathrooms, people here are snorting cheese.

I open the door and see the remnants of mustard and burger stuck to the staircase.

Just then a monsterously large woman trudges down the stairs.

They are going to have to charge twice, I silently think to myself.

"Careful," I say pointing to the mysterious crime scene splattered on the stairs. "Don't slip."

Her eyes, buried deep inside a skull that only a momma ape could love, probe the ground. I don't think she can see her feet.

The night is over and I'm up the stairs. The cool air of salvation fills my lungs.

As I walk into the parking lot, and take in the full array of the milky way. I hear the club door open and a blast of play that funky music white boy spill out.

Then bam.

the door shuts. The night is quiet.

The hideous grotesqueness a memory.

And that is crazy.

shame on you!

2012-01-24T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Douche bags who prey on the weak the elderly the infirmed those who cannot defend themselves.

I did a story recently that turned my stomach.

Just looking at this man's mug shot and thinking about his actions makes me sick.

I just threw up in my own mouth and then spit it on a pile of slugs procreating in raw sewage, and it still doesn't begin to describe the bottom feeding slime that this man is.

So here's the story...

According to police, this 39 year old in the wife beater t-shrit is wanted in multiple jurisdictions. Cops tell me this dirt bag who preys exclusively on the elderly, has been attacking citizens for almost a year now.

When police couldn't find him, they reached out to me for help.

According to the Metro Police, this piece of human filth, sneaks up on old ladies collecting their mail. When they aren't looking, he pushes his way into their homes and puts twine around their neck and lashes them to the chair.

In my victim's case, he flashed a gun and begins to terrify her as he demands drugs, guns and money.

"The guy is a coward," I say to the cop.

"You're right," the cop says without missing a beat.

"He would never try this on you or me."

Your damn right because I would pull his eyes out with a butter knife and force them down his throat.

This guy is a sub human who will only prey on those who cannot defend themselves.

This guy is more worthless than a single celled amoeba. He's spit that sticks to the heel of your shoe. This guy is moldy lint on the baseboard of a crack house.

I had to be neutral on this story, but I really felt like going off, using the story as a platform to indict this guy, and pull his pants down publicly. I wanted to give this guy a news wedgie with an ice scraper and hang him from a hook on the back of a bathroom stall for all to see.

If this guy is caught, he will be locked up and treated with all the rights that the legal system affords S**t bags. I wish I could impose some swift ass justice.

I would lock him in a broom closet with the kin folks of the elderly victims. I'd let them have tools donated from the Dr. Kevorkian collection and give them a few minutes of uninterrupted quality time with this chancer sore.

"We've been looking everywhere," the cop says to me. "Can you help us find him?"

I want to shine a light on this piece of vomit like a bright light on a cock roach. I want someone in Kmart to see this skid mark and say "Hey you're the dirt bag I saw on TV. Someone call the cops."

I want this piece of puss to feel the intense heat of the media scrutiny I'm about to shine up his skirt.

I can't punch him in his face, but I can publicly make him a public spectacle. As my dear camera man once told me; "Let's make him the star of the show."

Oh yeah.

This guy is going to be the star of the show, all right!

The senior citizen I interviewed thanked me profuesly for doing the story. I told her I felt bad that I had to even be there.

I asked her what she would say to this devil man.

She stared at the mug shot of the face that terrorized her, her hands trembling and said: "you have ruined my life, what is left of it. And I had open heart surgery when you came in here." Her eyes are blistering the mug shot I have handed her. "shame on you," she says. "Shame on you."

I want him behind bars, where the only one getting harassed is him, because I'm pretty sure that prisoners hate douche bags who tie ropes around old ladies necks and rob them.

and that is crazy.

Joe Paterno

2012-01-23T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

JOE PATERNO DEAD AT AGE 85.

Sadness.

Joe Paterno.

Living legend.

America's Grandpa.

born 1926 - died 2012

Dead at 85.

Sunday January 22nd 2012: ESPN is in Breaking News coverage, going wall to wall.

The interviews and the memories are poignant and lucid and full of history and meaning. Commentators are somber as they try to summarize a life that touched so many souls.

ESPN analysts call him a star larger than life. As the analysts pontificate from their memory and heart, the network cuts to live shots of the bronzed Paterno statue on the campus. It is surrounded by candles and flowers and cards. A mother and father and little girl walk up to the statue and bow their heads in prayer. It is poignant.

Paterno won 2 national championships and more football games than any man in history.

He touched lives beyond the grid iron. He rolled up his pants so as not to get his cuffs muddy. He wore coke bottle glasses that gave him an iconic look. He spoke with a simple honesty that came from his heart.

He wasn't ready to step down, but he was forced out during the Jerry Sandusky imbroglio.

It's a sad way to leave. Many say it broke his heart, his spirit, and perhaps his will to live.

Paterno is described as a man who affected untold lives, a man who died in the shadow of controversy.

But Jo Pa should be remembered for the great life he lead, and the lives he touched.

Matt Millen was a Penn State linebacker from 76-79 said this:

"I can't help but think he died of a broken heart and that bothers me," Millen says by phone. His impact on me was, a man who took what you had and he didn't try and break you but he formed you into what you could be. He opened you up to the reality of what you could be, not just in football, but for the rest of your life. He starts you on a path, and I speak for literally hundreds of whom he did the same thing for."

Millen pauses often on the verge of tears. "The way it ended - and to fall into this whole mess - i know this whole thing has been killing him, and that is the wrong words to say, but it is a sad day and we lost a great man on a lot of levels and it is so sad."

Mike Ditka says " this was a man of class. What the university did to him was grossly wrong. he has impacted so many lives. it is tragedy. His whole life was Penn State and coaching which is why he still did it at 85 years old."

Lous Holtz said; "I made the comment, he would not live six months, he lost his will to live. Penn State was his life. When someone takes away his will to live, it is diminished."

Brent Musburger said; "I asked him, Joe why won't you retire? Because of Bear Bryant. He didn't live long after he left Alabama. And i fear the same thing for myself and it came to pass. I send my condolences to the entire Paterno family. Paterno never complained. We seconded guessed him on a broadcast once. Dick Vermeil said the Penn State's passing game sucked. And Vermeil felt sorry about that and wrote him a note and the coach wrote him back and said you don't have to apologize, we did suck that day."

When asked about dieing with a broken heart, Mussburger said this: "No question. There is no question about that. he went to his grave wondering could I have done more."

Joe Paterno's passing makes me think about life's journey. It is not interminable. It is finite. We have limited time to better ourselves and those around us.

I look at my kids and how they view life. To the youth, life appears to be a long and winding path filled with so much time. But as the years pass, time moves faster. Taking advantage of time is important.

R.I.P. JOE PA.

His passing is reminder to live life with purpose, because to lose sight of that purpose is to waste time and perhaps life.

And that is crazy.

Madison Avenue Sucks

2012-01-20T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Television commercials that are so brilliant, so funny, so cinematically appetizing, I don't even know what the hell they are promoting.

I am watching TV tonight and I swear I don't know what the commercials are trying to sell me till the end of the spot, and by then, it's too late.

Color me synaptically challenged, but I don't know what the hell Madison avenue is thinking. Are they trying to win a Golden Globe for best use of esoteric visuals or is the goal to ultimately increase profits at Johnson and Johnson?

Unless these commercials beat me in the face with their logo, their slogan, their product set on fire pulsing off the screen, I just don't know what they are doing.

One insurance company ad looks like every other. One headache medicine is like the next. A car that gets good gas mileage in the city and drives on a dry lake bed? Been there done that. I like the idea, but who the hell is your client? Audi? Subaru? Mercedes? Dayquil? I sure don't know.

A smart phone commercial is as ubiquitous as weeds in an inner city park. Each commercial touts available minutes and friend plans and dropped calls. Are you Verizon or ATT or that chick with the Pink dress? Who does she work for? Nextel? Intel? Pen and Teller?

Want to make a good choice for your hair? Huh? That's what Pantene just asked me at the end of their esoteric spot. Healthier hair, healthier planet. WTF does that mean. How can my hair product save the Earth. I don't even care. Screw the planet. I want clean hair. Can it do that? who knows. At least they said the name of the product toward the end of the spot, otherwise I might have thought it was a seductive ad for condoms or internet porn. You see that's the problem, a hot chick with hair flying in slo motion can pretty much represent anything

Hey there's Mayhem. I like Mayhem. He's hilarious. He falls off rooves and streaks naked through stadiums. I Love Mayhem. "RECALCULATING!" OK quick - pop quiz? Who does Mayhem work for? What is he trying to sell me? I just watched him during the national championship game and wrote about him, and I'll be damned if I'm not drawing a blank. Mayhem Mayhem Mayhem? Nationwide right? That's my guess as he drives a riding mower across a lawn littered with rocks. Oh Damn. Mayhem just said he's All State. That's right, All state. See I know Mayhem. I just can't remember who pays his salary.

See this is my complaint. commercials that sing and dance and explode across the flat screen of my eyes, but I really don't absorb any of it. It's like a light bright set that illuminates but doesn't translate to my memory in a concrete way. I have no connection. It's like eating a delicious M&M and then swallowing it. The taste, while delicious, dissipates into my esophagus and is gone forever.

"What can a tiny grain of rice do?" the announcer asks. Well judging from this acid trip of graphics and animation, the rice can fly through time and space and across the world. I watch hypnotically as this rice granule flies across the globe, over the pyramids. Who is this ad intended for? What company is it promoting? Rice A Roni? I guess. GONG! The commercial is astoundingly well done and a Pixar work of art, but I will learn late into this production the little granule of flying rice belongs in a box of Uncle Bens. Hmmm? Honestly, I think they need to let me know this is an uncle Ben's commercial from the opening scene. It's not like a murder mystery where you need to wait until the final frame to learn who killed Colonel Mustard with the candlestick in the Conservatory.

I think these company's are wasting our time. They are certainly wasting their dollars. If I wanted to take hallucinogenics and gaze endlessly at my flat screen with drool pouring out of my mouth, I could go to a Pink Floyd concert.

Ok there's a guy playing a guitar with some words going up the side of the screen. It's certainly an acid trip of neon colored squiggly snake letters flying around the perimiter of this 16" by 9" screen. The announcer, high as a kite on sylicibin says, "Any pizza any topping any crust." Huh? What pizza? What fillings? What crust? What pizza company is this? I quickly hazard a guess? DOMINOES. nope. it's Pizza Hut. Again, who the hell would know. Who sells a product in such a secretive way. We want you to buy our pizza and we won't tell you who we are till the very last second. PIZZA HUT BUY PIZZAS FADE TO BLACK.

STUPID.

Have cold symptoms? Suddenly my screen is filled with tiny creatures that live under a purple light. "Jackpot" the creatures scream like old coin ladies saddled up to an Atlantic City slot machine. What is this commercial for? It's brilliantly loud and creative and a cinematic work of art. I believe it is for the common cold. Is it Nyquil? Nope. 5. 4. 3. 2. MUCINEX! The announcer shouts.

Hey Ad Execs, what are you doing? 2 seconds of product placement. What was the other 28 seconds all about? It was a Chinese Fire drill of sensory over load that confused me. I don't even know what Mucinex is. Somehow bugs wearing suits, and dancing around are suppose to make me want to patronize your product.

Now there is a gigantic Pink Bunny smashing into the side of a building like a fuzzy wrecking ball. The announcer says "to do a job well, this will take a while." Suddenly the commercial is about
H&R Block. I am not sure what just happened. I am confused. I thought the pink bunny was the energizer rabbit. It's a convoluted punch line that might entertain, but ultimately, today's commercials lose my interest and make me forget their product.

It's as if Will Smith just blasted me with the memory ray in MIB.

No time to dilly dally, another 30 seconds of something is coming at me at full speed. "Dear left brain. My car has a five star crash rating. Dear right brain, my car has a turbo and a sun roof. Now shut up." Like most car commercials it is predictable and formulaic. the car is silver and the street is glistening with water. It is pretty film making. Ultimately I will learn that this pedestrian, box like car is an Optima. It is sad, because I thought it was an ugly Lexus. Instead of trying to make me "hot" for 25 seconds, you should have been beating me in the face with OPTIMA. OPTIMA. OPTIMA. Who the hell makes Optima anyway?

Hey Madison Avenue? Your ads are not working. Maybe I'm stupid, maybe I've got ADD. All I know is that what you are dreaming up in Chicago and filming in a L.A. is creative visual eye candy, but it doesn't resonate with me. You need to sear your product into my cerebellum. I need to know what the hell you are selling me in the first 10 seconds. If you wait till 28 seconds in, before I can digest it, the next cell phone ad is all ready setting my pupils on fire and your message of Mucinex or Optima or Timex is scattered to the dusty corners of my aging brain.

The idea is to make me identify with your product, so I will utlimately put my hand in my pocket, pull out my wallet and buy your crap.

If I cannot remember if you make condoms or kid's diapers, then you suck at what you do.

And that is crazy.

orchestral beat down

2012-01-19T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

Cell phone interruptions.

They go off in movie theaters. They go off in elevators. They go off at your 1st graders finger painting exhibition.

Crazy maraca ring tones and Metallica power chord riffs. Beyonce and Jayzee and Frank Sinatra.

For the love of God - people, can't we freaking control our technological urges?

Cell phones ringing at all the wrong times! It's a GD shame, it's a joke, it's rude, it's got to stop.

DATELINE: NEW YORK CITY

New York Philharmonic is a hollowed place. It's a bastion of melodic nirvana. It's where angels come to watch humans try and create perfection.

Recently, a cell phone interrupted this splendid perfection, like a spear piercing the heart of a wildebeest.

There in the front row a cell phone began chiming and spewing digitally enhanced spit balls of annoyance.

It was ugly like a crack whore reciting the pledge of allegiance during a drug round up.

According to published reports, the orchestra was in the final movement of Mahler's Ninth Symphony, described as a slow rumination on mortality, with quiet sections played by strings alone.

That's when an iphone idiot began assaulting the crowd's senses with a jarring ring tone known as "Marimba".

Marimba? That's some margarita chasing vibe you hear in the South Pacific accompanied by a steel drum. It's not something that the New York Philharmonic needs or wants.

And making it worse? The cell phone belched it's nauseating sound from the first row at Avery Fisher Hall.

It ain't brain surgery folks. If you enter the venue, be it school play, movie or ballet, turn your damn phones off.

TURN EM OFF.

Women pretend it's your husband and he's asking for a minute of romance. TURN IT OFF.

Men pretend you are on SouthWest and there is a musical air marshal about to slap the bracelets on you if you don't power down your new millennium appendage. TURN IT OFF.

So when the first row cell phone douche didn't silence his offensive mechanism, the audience shook it's collective head and rolled it's gigantic angry eye.

Sources say musical director Alan Gilbert turned his head sharply to the left, signaling his displeasure.

Some say he flashed a Gene Simmons tongue wag at the offender, and spewed fire and pleghm.

You would think that would be enough, like when the nun in Catholic school casts that glance in your direction.

Then it happened.

Conductor Gilbert could take no more: He stopped the orchestra.

HE SLAMMED ON THE BRAKES OF THIS MUSICAL BUS and said "hey cell phone douche! get the hell off."

A Philharmonic spokeswoman the music director had never before halted a performance because of a cell phone.

The audience let out a collective gasp.

OH THE HUMANITY!

THE ANGELS FLEW AWAY once again realizing that man is not only imperfect, but basically asinine, set to a Marimba, down loadable beat.

Here's a suggestion. Next time, hire some jack booted Aryan Nation types to work the aisles. If a cell phone incident occurs, administer some seat side justice.

Your phone goes off, they go off. The sign on the lobby door should say just that.

One bloody ass whoopin in front of the entire symphony would be enough to get me to slide the button to mute.

Ah how the angels would rejoice.

And that would be crazy.

Captain Coward

2012-01-18T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™
Captain Coward.

The Captain is suppose to go down with the ship. It's one of the oldest sayings in recorded human history.

Christopher Columbus was willing to sail off the edge of the Earth following this maritime principle.

The Skipper and Gilligan hung in there during a tumultous storm.

It simply is the law at sea. Always has been, always will be.

That's what makes news out of Italy so appalling.

Instead of being heroic, instead of drinking brandy on the bridge, while violinists play and customers get into life boats, the Italian captain of the Carnival Cruise line fled like a thief in the night.

If reports are true, Captain Coward was eating dinner while the ship was sinking. While people were drowning and terrified and looking for direction, the Captain selfishly took care of his own needs, had some desert, dabbed the corners of his mouth with a fine linen napkin, then like a rat hording cheese, he left the sinking vessel.

His name Schettino. Which not surprisingly, sounds a lot like a common curse word for excrement.

The story is unbelievably unsettling. The stories of survivors are terrifying.

But the newly released coast guard tapes between Captain Coward and the Coast Guard are just so unbelievable, Poseidon is rolling over in his sea grave.

According to published reports, the Italian coast guard is talking by radio to Schettino who is reportedly on a rescue boat watching his boat sink and his crew struggle to help people survive, while passengers swan dive into 50 degree water.

COAST GUARD: You go on board the ship and you tell me if there are children and women or people who need assistance. Look Schettino, you may have saved yourself from the sea but this will put you through a lot of trouble. It will be very bad for you, get back on board. There are all ready bodies Schettino, Go!

The Coast Guard yells at the yellow bellied loser like a child being disciplined for not eating his spinach.

Schettino sounds like a weasel, like a man who has soiled the carpet and his master has taken him by the scruff of the neck and shoved his face into it.

SCHETTINO: how many bodies are there?

COAST GUARD. I heard about one.

SCHETTINO: Do you realize it is dark out here and we can't see anything.

COAST GUARD: What do you want to do? Do you want to go home? It's dark so you want to go home?

The captain is a limp prick, lacking guts, integrity, fortitude. He would make an excellent foot stool, but sadly he is in charge of a ship bigger than the Titanic with more souls on board.

SCHETTINO: We can no longer get on board, the ship has sunk completely.

COAST GUARD: And with a 100 people still on board you abandon ship?

SCHETTINO: I didn't abandon ship. The ship was sinking so we jumped into the water.

It is an appalling back and forth. The captain should be publicly flogged in the town square. He should be neutered by Bob Barker in a spectacle made for HBO.

Karen Kois is a passenger who escaped. She described it this way: "It was mass hysteria. there was no leadership on the boat. He (the Captain) is a coward. We are all fighting for our lives and he is more concerned about his health."

This all plays out today, while brave men, 100's of them, are risking their lives, diving under the boat, and blowing holes in the boat, looking for survivors.

All the while, the men report hearing the unmistakable sound of shifting metal as the ship teeters on the precarious abyss of what's next.

The sad irony; there are unused life boats still tethered to the vessel.

With a little leadership, all aboard could have gotten off the boat to safety.

Instead, Captain Coward now sits in an Italian jail pondering a life time of being thought of in the same vein as Benedict Arnold and the drunken captain of the Exxon Valdez.

Sure hope they find that Minnesota couple alive.

Chances are they won't.

Think about that Captain Coward.

And that is crazy.

rocking for candidates

2012-01-17T08:39:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Political rocking.

Have you watched a political event lately? Balloons are bouncing and people are clapping and the music is blaring as the candidate takes the stage.

The visual is powerful, and says a lot about the man or woman you might elect to be POTUS.

But have you ever stopped to think about the music? What is the music saying to you, about the candidate, about the image being conveyed?

Some candidates fit the motif. Others not so much.

ABC news recently did a segment on rocking the vote.

Mitt Romney comes on to the stage with all the fan fare of a birthday party for Kim Jung Il.

Then the Kid Rock song Born Free begins blaring.

"Like an untamed stallion."

Nothing says Mitt Romney like untamed stallions.

The segment shows Rock riding a motorcycle across the crack of a girl's thong, while Romney, hair perfectly coifed, walks onto the stage, stiff as an ironing board.

Romney waves to the crowd with a smile stolen from the dead. He is stiff and boring and rehearsed.

Kid rock riding a motorcycle through the wasteland of hell versus Romney standing at attention on stage like a tin soldier. It's a complete juxtaposition of imagery and life styles and morals, but there it is for all to consider.

BORN FREE. BORN TO DO TEQUILA SHOTS OUT OF THE NAVEL OF A STRIPPER. BORN TO PUNCH YOUR DEALER IN THE FACE CAUSE HE SHORTED YOU ON A DIME BAG OF WEED.

BAM.

Is this really the best imagery to use if you want to get elected President of the Free World?

Maybe he should use "I was born this way" from Lady GaGa. That might actually explain a few things.

Does anyone else find this incongruous? Mitt Romney and Kid Rock. Strippers and vacation bible school. Guzzling Jack Daniels and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

The whole concept is anomalyous. It's like showering then going for a 3 mile jog. It's like brushing your teeth and drinking orange juice. It's like washing your hair with bacon grease. Anyone for Barbed wire twister.

It's just bass-ackwards.

Like an untamed stallion? Mitt Romney? It's kind of greasy. Excuse me while I yak.

But the Romney campaign checked with Mr. Rock and he signed off on his song being played at Romney events. Great minds, right?

Popular songs are nothing new. Eisenhower played Happy Days are Here Again. I bet that played well during World War II. I wonder if Hitler was planning the Battle of Stalingrad with that playing in the background?

JFK played Sinatra's High Hopes. Maybe that was the theme song for the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Bill Clinton played Fleetwood Mac's Don't Stop thinking About Tomrorow. Maybe he should have played don't stop thinking about Lewinski"

Cigars anyone?

Campaigns and rocking is nothing new? And they all do it.

Fat boy Newt Gingrich plays Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger." Is there a song called Eye of the Pork Chop?

Rick Perry forgets his speeches right after American Ride by Toby Keith plays. American Idiot by Green Day might be more appropriate.

And then there's Michelle Bachman who promenades onto stage with American Girl by Tom Petty pulsing in the background.

At first glance it would seem to be a great marketing plan. Bachman with all that Clairol treated hair bouncing in slow motion. Bachman and that Pepsodent smile gleaming and that Cover Girl look just screaming "Hey I'm older, but still kind of hot."

Only one problem; Tom Petty doesn't think you are that hot. So Tom Petty ordered Bachman to stop playing American Girl at her Bachman for America Rallies.

Maybe Petty knew what the voters felt, and told the American Girl to go back to Minnesota.

Anyway. Music is a part of life and music is a part of Presidential Campaigns from now to eternity.

Here is the campaign song they should start playing.

AC/DC's Highway to Hell.

Because from what I've seen from the political spectrum available to us in 2012, we might be in big trouble.

And that is crazy.

To all the Haters

2012-01-16T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

Tim Tebow Haters.

Don't hate him because he is devout. Don't hate him because he is spiritual. Don't hate him because he thanks Jesus for every first down.

Thank him for bringing diversified interest to the NFL. Tebow literally brought an audience to the NFL dinner table who couldn't tell you what a neutral zone infraction is.

Thank Tebow for transforming a boring Denver squad into a team that found its way onto the nightly news for issues unrelated to football.

Thank Tebow for stealing a playoff victory from the Steelers in record setting fashion and giving the Rocky Mountain time zone and anyone who can recite 316, something to cheer for.

Can Tim Tebow play quarterback in the NFL? You betcha. Tebow deserves props. He took over a sinking row boat of a Bronco team and learned how to play NFL quarterback on the job. His arm might have been questioned but never his heart. His desire to win and to lead other men is crystal clear, like a finely cut gem. He is a winner.

Give his coach credit. John Fox adapted the offense to cater to a quarterback with the skills of a full back and the mind set of a pastor.

Tebow was almost bigger than the game. He seemingly over shadowed the showdown Saturday night with Tom Brady. That is until the first snap. All Brady did was come out and kick the Bronco's ass, throwing 4 TD's by half time and 6 TD's over all. Brady is this era's Joe Montana, who was his era's Joe Namath.

Tebow haters can hate, but if you are going to hate, better look at your Bronco defense first. Tebow wasn't letting Gronkowski run wild for 3 td's. If you want to hate, maybe look at the offensive line that let Tebow get dumped on his ass much of the night.

In NFL parlance, it's all about winning and losing and it's about quarterbacks. Tebow's Broncos lost in an embarrassing way and so by transitive properties - the QB - Tebow lost.

The Tebow experiment was excting but I will say I am glad it is over. I'm tired of the incessant media attention. I'm tired of the endless facebook photos of people bowing down on the great wall of china and the bottom of the ocean and in front of garbage trucks in Singapore. I'm tired of Tebow thanking Jesus for 8 yard runs and 4th down conversions. He is so vanilla and so boring, he makes Tony Dungee look like a gangsta rapper.

If God cares about things as insignificant as touchdowns, it has to make you wonder. But maybe the plan is bigger than that. Maybe Tebow is a lightning rod that gets people talking about religion, about God, about a higher power. Maybe his role on the football field is miniscule compared to his greater purpose in life.

I'm glad the Broncos are out, but don't hate Tebow. He brought excitement to a region and belief to a world in desperate need of something to bow down to.

And that is crazy.

Bank Robbery

2012-01-13T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Driving up on a felony bust.

I've done it a hundred, maybe a thousand times in my career, but it's still a rush.

Thursday afternoon I'm checking out some scanner traffic about a man reportedly shot in the head.

I'm at the apartment complex. Crime tape is strung across the driveway. There are a handful of police cars on scene. I haven't even begun working this scene yet when the phone rings.

It's the assignment editor.

"I need you to break off on a bank robbery that just went down near you ."

"Where?," I ask watching detectives take pictures from the breeze way.

"On nolensville road," he says. "And it sounds like they are coming right at you."

Just then I look up and see 3 squad cars flying down Harding Pke.

The sirens are whaling as the cars zoom by.

"I'm on it."

Like a coffee pot starting to percolate, I feel that jerk of adrenaline shoot into the back of my neck.

I jump in the car and hand the camera to the intern.

"keep it rolling," I say to the wide eyed kid.

VROOOOM

we make a left turn and travel all of 500 yards.

BAM

It's all right there in front of me. There are blue lights and motorists stopped on the road.

"You think this is it? the intern asks neshiently.

I cast him a glance, as if to say, "of course this it, kid."

I go into the turn lane, driving past dozens of stopped cars. I get to the crest of the hill and stop.

There in my windsheld is crime scene nirvana. There are a dozen cops out of their cruisers. I see blue lights swirling against the cold January sky. I see a myriad of glocks and assault shot guns trained on a red "hooptee" car.

I get my bearings, sense that I need to get out and grab for the camera.

I get in front of my news vehicle and stay low. Guns are drawn, the air is electric. I don't know if shots are about to be fired or what.

I zoom in to the chaotic scene around me.

Then I hear a cop screaming through a bull horn.

PASSENGER INTHE REAR SEAT EXIT THE VEHICLE

I see a young man with his shirt off being frisked by cops.

I see officers tensing up, their hand guns at the ready.

I tell the intern to stay back.

Just then a young woman named Jasmine gets out of her car and stands beside me.

"This is crazy," she says over and over again.

"It's like COPS on TV," I say.

She laughs. "Yeah, it's crazy," she says smiling.

Within a few minutes the crime scene goes from percolating unpredictable to secure. All three suspects are in the back of any number of police cars.

Authoroities will later say that two of the men went into the Bank of America up the street, pulled a hand gun and made off with the cash.

Cops give credit to a witness who followed the bad guys and called 911 reporting their position. The men were taken into custody easilly, without incident, without a shot fired.

I drive by one of the suspects while parking my vehicle, and I hear him angrily sneer. "someone snitched us out."

I will later walk up to the officers on the scene and we will share a smile. I know these guys. I have been on raids with them in the past. They are good men and work hard.

We set up our camera on a nearby parking lot to get a few lock down shots.

I all ready got the gold, so I let the intern shoot.

"Practice kid," I say giving him the camera.

The kid is thrilled, later telling me this is the greatest day ever.

I'm glad he is having fun. He should be having fun. It is fun. I told him that 30 years later and I still get a rush off this.

If he wants to do this job, he needs to feel that feeling, or get out now. Go sell F**king insurance.

He seems to understand.

Just then another photographer from the competition shows up.

I say hello to this grizzled vet and then wink at the intern.

"He has cops standing around," I say. "We got cops with guns screaming and laying dudes on the Earth. We win!"

The inern smiles. He knows the action is gone, and the perps are all ready back at the station house being interrogated. You only get one shot at this moment and we owned it, exclusively.

He smiles back understanding a little of what goes into making this job so cool, so competitive.

"See ya on TV boys," I say waiving to the officers.

They wave back, as we drive away.

By the way. The guy who was reportedly shot in the head? He fell off the 2nd floor by accident.

Never report scanner traffic they say.

And that is crazy.

slave test

2012-01-12T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Math problems that make people feel uncomfortable for reasons unrelated to arithmetic.

Math is hard enough. Do we really need to make it a course that insults as well as infuriates?

DATELINE: ATLANTA

A school system here is under fire for administering a math test that asked students inappropriate math questions that featured elements of slavery.

Here is a sample: Each tree had 56 oranges. If eight slaves pick them equally, then how many would each slave pick?

The answer is 7 and are you kidding me?

Slaves picking oranges? Why not cotton? Why slaves and not farm workers?
What bothers me is that the kids were upset. When my kid gets upset it upsets me. And some of these parents were understandably upset.

Why?

Because it was a math test.

2 + 2 = 4.

NOT

2 + 2 = beat the slaves and count their oranges.

Here's another idiotic test question:

"If Fred got two beating per day how many beatings did he get in one week?"

The answer is 14 and someone at that school needs to get their ass beat.

Is Fred a slave? Maybe he's a victim of domestic violence? Maybe he's a soldier in an Iraqi prison. Either way, Fred taking an ass whoopin is not cool.

And it's certainly not a math question for kids. It does make me question the sensibilities and scruples of the teachers however.

One dad interviewed by ABC said; "why is slavery and beatings the focus of a math question?"

The tests were handed out at Beaver Ridge Elementary.

According to school officials, the teacher's were incorporating history and math lessons.

Hmmmm? History and Math. At the same time.

I suppose that is a laudable goal. I mean the students in this country are dumb. Perhaps forcing as much knowledge into their skulls as possible is a good course of action.

We've all heard of killing two birds with one stone right?

But would you teach chemistry in spanish, or crunching algebra with Western Civ, maybe that is too much.

Math questions about beating slaves works like juggling lit torches, fireworks and pumping gas, all at the same time, kind of works.

Sloan Rich with Gwinett County Public Schools says "we understand there are questions and we agree these questions were not appropriate."

According to published reports, the work sheets were destroyed, but that is not enough for many parents who think teachers need to be counseled or disciplined.

Maybe we should just all learn from this mistake and move on.
Maybe the lesson here is if it feels wrong it probably is wrong.

Keep the math simple and keep the subjects separate.

Kids don't need to learn two subjects at once. They have enough trouble with one subject at a time.

So don't count your oranges before they're hatched, or something crazy like that.

And that is crazy.

The Men's Room

2012-01-11T08:16:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

The Men's room.

Go to any bar in any town and chances are the men's room is an EPA quarantine zone. It's a gigantic, petri dish of human excrement clinging to floors and toilet seats and dripping from walls.

It's as if a urinating Jack the Ripper was set loose upon the Lavatories of America and created a fermenting crime scene.

If you are lucky, your men's room has a urinal with a partition. This affords you a bit of privacy and often provides for some good reading and opportunity to employ skilled men or women for services rendered.

If you are less lucky, you enter a Men's Room that is a desecrated pit of muck and papertowels. It is usually illuminated by a single light bulb hanging over a broken mirror. The filth makes you question whether Big Foot has been using this bar as his nocturnal saskwatch box. This Men's Room is the cover story for Tia Juana jail Illustrated.

If you have rolled snake eyes and your luck has gone the way of Herman Cain, then you enter the barn yard zone of the metallic trough.

This is the ultimate insult of the sexes.

Women get perfume and pink and puffy clouds. At least that's the way I envision it.

Men? Not so much. It's as if we are farm animals and because of our standardized external plumbing, we can stand in line, at attention, and release the urinary hounds.

The trough is an effective way to eliminate a large amount of body waste simultaneously, in a communal setting. But it is certainly anything but civilized.

What's it like? It's strangers with their flies open, standing shoulder to shoulder. These poor men staring into a dark cinder block wall of oblivion. Behind you a horde of men chortling and making barnyard sounds. Below you, a constant flowing river swirling into a collective drain.

Why are men still forced to urinate like farm animals that end up in your frying pan on Sunday mornings?

I guess that's just one of those things that only men will know and live to ponder.

And that is crazy.

National Championship Ruminations

2012-01-10T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

The BCS National Championship Game.

Since most of you will be drunk soon, I decided to be your scribe of history, your Oscar Madison of Sports, documenting random ruminations that I see, feel and hear.

So this is my crazy tribute to the game, to the city of New Orleans, to the teams, and to the broadcast.

It starts like all games, with a 90 minute pregame show. If you count the entire ESPN network dedication to this event, it's been like a 12 hour docu-drama.

There are a million aerials of the Superdome lit up like an electricified spaceship. For some reason, all I can think about is Katrina, and people standing on roofs with signs that scream HELP.

After hours of hype, finally the national anthem, sung by opera star Anthony Laciura.

He looks like a good fella from the Sopranos. He steps to the microphone, puts his hand on his heart and begins to wail. There is no background music. He just starts powering through words.

OH SAY YOU CAN YOU SEE?

Somewhere dogs across the Bayou are barking and windows are breaking.

Laciura wails and bellows and he damn near blows his face off with the final Salvo.

The American flag unfurls, and it is awe inspiring.

The crowd is panned early and often. There is an elephant with his elephant fingers on his gigantic heart. There is an LSU tiger with his paw on his heart.What says America more than animals ready to do battle in costumes, reciting the pledge of allegiance.

The camera zooms in on a large man with a big black shirt that says: 8732. What is that? It's not a zip code? It's not an area code? Is it a penal code?

It might mean something to him, it sure makes my brain say WTF?

Brent Musburger calls this "the game of the century rematch." I hope not. The first game of the century was kind of boring with LSU barely winning 9-6.

The Tide come out of the tunnel first. There is a smattering of boos from the heavily partisan Louisiana crowd. Red and White pompoms shake. Running back Richardson looks like a monster.

Then LSU comes out amidst a roar and flying technicolored confetti explosions. It feels mean and spirited and raucous.

A lady with a tiger paw print on her face screams so loudly and bounces so readily I imagine her bosoms breaking off and falling over the railing.

I like Musburger, but he is all ready equating this to the Thrilla in Manilla. Ali and Frazier? I don't think so. It makes you wonder if Madison Avenue is at the helm of this ESPN ship.

The Coin flip is Tails never fails. The crowd screams and someone in Vegas just won some bank.

Bama wins the toss and defers to the 2nd half. GAME ON.

First series and Bama looks like some crazed wolves looking for meat ponchos. The hits are ferocious. This doesn't resemble college. This looks like the NFL, perhaps prison ball.

There is a fumble. Bama forces a three and out. LSU sucks.

The game is ferocious at the start. There is obvious intensity. It's like a pregnant woman going into labor on spring break during an LMFAO concert. It's intense and something is going to blow. Compared to this start, other bowl games have been limp.

Six minutes of football and the first commercial break.

And of course it is an All State Commercial featuring the character Mayhem. I love Mayhem. He is streaking or falling off a roof or yelling out GPS coordinates; "TURN RIGHT NOW" "RECALCULATING." HILARIOUS.

MAYHEM could be the poster child for Crazy. I remember when he was in the HBO series OZ, a gritty series about prison inmates. I'm pretty sure Mayhem had a shower scene where he did a little full frontal nudity. I'M JUST SAYING.

I look up and LSU is punting again.

Are the Ford Commercials for real? Are these real Ford owners? Are these real questions from real reporters? What do you like about your Ford? Hard hitting, huh?

My first impression of the commercials? Lame. Boring. I saw them all yesterday during the NFL playoffs. Compared to the Superbowl of Superbowl commercials, these seem like tired youtube videos of cats playing banjos. And I don't even know what that means.

And of course, the first score is another freaking field goal. That's six field goals in a row in 5 quarters in two games so far...Please!

11 minutes in and LSU gets its first first down.

3rd series. 3rd punt for LSU. The Tigers look a little disheveled.

So far I'm a little bored. After his win in the regular season finale, Gundy, the Oklahoma State Head Coach said wouldn't you rather see us play for the title, wouldn't you rather see a 39 to 36 national championship game? Starting to wonder about that.

ESPN game break lets me know that Tim Tebow makes a quarter million dollars for winning the playoff game against Pittsburgh. Wonder if he'll donate that to charity or end up in a gentleman's club making it rain, like a bible thumping Pac Man Jones.

A leaping catch at the end of the first quarter takes the Tide 26 yards downfield. The crowd erupts. If this is Oregon or Standford or Ok St, 26 yards is a yawner. But in this slug fest, every yard is contested, where Ali is fighting Frazier, it's like a kick to the groin. It wakes you up.

END OF 1ST.

BAMA 3-0.

Musburger ponders aloud? Where is Trent Richardson? They give the ball to number 42, whoever the hell that is.

They cut away to Richardson, the best running back in college standing on the sideline and nobody can explain why he is on the sideline. Is he hurt? Is he tired? Did he break a curfew violation between commercial breaks?

At 11:58 in the half, LSU blocks another field goal. It's certainly a defensive struggle to this point. Starting to wonder if 2-and-a-half men is on somewhere in the DirecTv universe.

The hits are ferocious. I'm sure other fans are watching saying "my team could do better." I don't know. These are two NFL teams playing college football. I think this NFL team playing college football might just put your college football team in a wheel chair.

Bama is throwing the ball a lot.

"Smelley with the catch. That play was well sniffed out by LSU." Funny line by Brent Musburger.

4:18 to go in the half. Bama hits another freaking field goal. Are you still watching? Are you wishing Oregon or Oklahoma State was playing?

Are you more excited about Tebow playing the Pats Saturday night?

LSU punts again. That's 4 THREE AND OUTS.

Musburger says "they (LSU) burn a timeout, come up with another sloppy play and it continues"

Hey guess what? Another 41 yard field goal for Bama to end the half.

END OF 1ST HALF 9-0 BAMA.

My first half assessment.

BORING BORING BORING!

ESPN asks Nick Saban what he needs to do. "We need to score some touchdowns," the stoic coach retorts. No S**T Sherlock.

Les Miles is a little more garrulous ; "it's been interesting, we had fumbled snaps and cadence issues and we gotta chuck that and do what we came here to do."

At halftime I check in to see what the counter programming is.

ABC is offering the bachelor and it is the dreaded rose ceremony. lots of blond babes and kisses and angry sniveling wenches watching on.

NBC is going with fear factor. I watch as an idiot jumps from a moving car into a moving school bus attached to a tether. It looks dangerous. I'm sure it is dangerous. And in 10 seconds, to me, Fear Factor is more action packed than the championship game.

I flip over to CBS: Mike and Molly is on. Nothing says counter programming like a fat cop and his fat girlfriend.

FOX is bringing another episode of HOUSE. And get this, Dr. House is recalcitrant and smarmy and talking about STD's. Interesting plot line.

Back to ESPN and more coaching blah blah blah.

So far, not supremely impressed.

Makes me think a playoff system would sure be a better way to decide this whole thing.

On to the halftime show. A guy comes out his task is to nail a field goal.

He has a minute and 5 chances to hit a 40 yard field. If he does it he wins a boat and an RV and a home makeover.

The guy shanks it left, then left again, then short.

The crowd boos and it's another Mayhem commercial.

Opening drive of the 3rd. Bama comes out all cylinders thumping. But then they stall and guess what? They bring out the field goal kicker yet again.

IT'S GOOD.

Jeremy Shelly 12. LSU nothing.

How many more Mayhem commercials must I watch. If this was a drinking game, I might be a big loopy.

It's closing in on 9:30 CST and I'm begining to wish this game would speed up or end or both.

I just texted a friend "This game blows."

Did i just write that? I did.

CBS is now showing hawaii Five O. ABC has Castle. I'd rather pick my nose with a snow blower. NBC has Rock Center with Brian Williams. Rock Center? Really? What a terrible title for a show.

ESPN shows a shot of Bourbon Street. it looks like a dirty cat box. Glad I'm not there.

Then the first major mistake of the game. At 6:59 to go in the 3rd, LSU QB Jefferson throws it away "a horrible mistake," Musburger says.

Brent is right. Jordan Jefferson tosses the shovel pass forward, panicking, and it is intercepted.

Bama would seem to have the momentum.

A Sportscenter Break. RG3 says heisman trophy winner not sure if he will go pro. Go pro young man. Take the dollars.

Back to the game...

Jeremy Shelly, the junior from Raleigh N.C. comes out for another 41 yard field goal. The Bama kicker misses to the right. Such drama. Amazingly, LSU is still very much in this game.

1:15 to go in the 3rd. The closest thing to a scoring play is an incomplete pass by Bama at the one yard line.

Jeremy Shelley again on the field. It's the Jeremy Shelley show. it's pretty sick when a field goal kicker is the star of the damn game. This is a 45 yard attempt. It's good. Bama is now up 15 to nothing.

I think Shelley is getting laid tonight.

"Now the heat is really on LSU," Musburger says.

45 minutes and LSU converts their first 3rd down coversion.

Herbstreit "LSU looks lifeless." They show the honey badger on the sideline. He looks like he has fleas in his honey.

"Alabama defense is playing like the 50 yard line is the goal line," Musburger says alluding to the fact that LSU has yet to cross midfield.

That is pretty impressive, if you are interested in defensive stats, but I think America wants a barn burner that makes you want to watch. And this is a defensive clinic. Defense does win championships, but it don't sell tickets, so they say.

"Never has there been a shut out in a BCS title game," Musburger quips.

I hear America yawning and pulling the blankets up over their heads.

Best line of the night; "Fear the Tide Honey Badger." Brent Musburger commenting on a punt where the LSU Heisman candidate has his gall bladder removed by the Bama punt return team.

The bump shot coming back from the commercial break is fun. It says welcome to New Orleans. It's a fortune tellers room with lots of lights and purple nick nacks and spookiness.

"The Voodoo Spiritual temple established by Priestess Miriam," Musburger says.

53 minutes into the game and the LSU QB crosses the fifty for the first time in the Championship Game.

Unbelievable. It really is a stagnating, collapsing, neutron star, black hole type defense. It would shut down some weak NFL teams. Bama is literally jacking up the number one team in the country.

With 6:30 seconds to go in the game, "Alabama has not had one penalty. This is a very special defensive performance," Musburger says, once again capsulizing the unique quality of this Bama domination.

6:15 to go and the Tigers fumble. Bama recovers.

"This is a mauling folks! It's a mauling."

Musburger is on a roll, just like the Tide.

ESPN shows the crowd. Women with purple face paint are crying. Men stare quietly, in disbelief.

Thank God Bourbon Street is only a few blocks away Tiger fans. Go and drown your sorrows.

And to those of you who felt Oklhahoma State would have been a better game. We'll never know, and it might have been fun, but I think they would have been decimated, perhaps humiliated. LSU has a special defense. They have also kept Bama's offense in check. The Tide would have carved up a regular BCS college team tonight, beating them like a blanket on a back yard clothes line.

4:36 to go and finally, after 8 quarters in 2 games and a TD is scored between these two teams on a 34 yard TOUCHDOWN run by Trent Richardson. The LSU tiger fans begin to gather their beads and head for the exits. Richardson is the number one running back in the draft and its easy to see why. He is a mobile adonis with the balance of a cat burglar and the strength of a plow horse. He simply blows people up. He just blew up the dreams of the LSU tigers.

21-0 Bama.

Kind of sad when you think LSU was the number one team in college football since late summer. Now they look defeated and flat and like losers.

"There are a lot of LSU fans heading to Bourbon street. There are many empty seats. They don't want to see the awarding of the trophy to their arch rival," Musburger says.

The game is so one sided now, it is becoming more fun to watch. It's like watching a motorcycle gang beat up an old lady with a walker. Suddenly, you realize that you might have just watched the best college defense ever play in the biggest game. It is a little chilling to think about.

Musburger ends the broadcast bringing up the tornado that destroyed much of Tuscaloosa.

"This is for the great people of Tuscaloosa," he says.

It is a fitting way to end the broadcast.

ROLL TIDE

And that is crazy.

Petey Plasma R.I.P.

2012-01-09T08:00:00.001-06:00

you know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

putting your plasma at the curb with the garbage cans and recyclables.

After 2 weeks of looking at the big rectangle of cracked dreams in the front room, I finally decide to get rid of it.

The constant reminder of what it was and what it had become was too much and it was time to go.

I thought about burning it and placing the ashes in an urn over the mantel. I was unclear how the toxicity of melting plastics and transistors would affect me and I don't need any more citations from the EPA so I scrapped that idea.

I thought about calling together old friends to have a eulogy, a memorial, a proper burial. Anyone who had ever watched a last second touchdown pass or Snooky getting a high hard one from any number of vampires in an enchanted field on this picture perfect screen would be invited to reminisce.

So there Old Petey Plasma sits, in the front room by the door. Once the center point of my existence, like the sun in my solar system, Petey Plasma is now a black hole of interplanetary nothingness, where no light or sound will ever escape again.

I walk up to Old Petey and stare at him lovingly. He is quiet and reflective. I see specs of dust gathering on his perfect glass face.

He reminds me of an old dog you have loved through thick and thin who finally has to be put down. I stare at Petey Plasma. I stroke his smooth metallic head and tell him I love him. I tell him that nobody ever ate my slipper like he did or chewed the leg of the coffee table better. I tell Petey there would never be a better audio/visual device ever and I believe I wept a tear.

I yell for my son and his friend to do the deed.

My son's friend laments; "This is so crazy!"

They too feel the awkwardness. It is uncomfortable and just wrong.

It's wrong like showering with young boys is wrong JERRY SANDUSKY.

It's blasphemous like covering the Holy Bible with bacon grease and setting it on fire.

It's disrespectful like pushing an old lady off a bus bench.

In case you missed it, my 50 inch plasma was destroyed by my daughter prior to Christmas. She had a few minutes to kill so she decide to kill my TV.

It was an accident. She was flicking quarters, whatever the hell that is, and the little metallic sphere got away from her.

I wasn't there and the details of the incident are slow to be revealed. Getting the true account is a little like going to the Magic Castle and hoping Houdini will tell you how he escaped from locked boxes.

I think back to that James Bond Movie; Gold Finger. Remember the big Asian body guard, TOP JOB. He was a portly fellow just a hair under 400 pounds. He didn't talk and wore a bad suit. He sported a fedora that he threw at his adversaries when the mood struck him. He tossed that hat like a magical death Frisbee through the air. It sliced off the heads of statues and chased James Bond across the planet. This is how I envision this horrifying moment. My daughter is the Top Job of my house and my plasma is James Bond trying to save the world.

The way she describes it, the quarter left her fingers like an assassins blade and just errantly whizzed through the glass.

HUH? REALLY? WHAT?

But this is how she describes this atrocity.

She says one minute there was Jersey Shore and the next, just silence, plasma gas escaping, and the flabbergasted faces of several teenagers suddenly wondering how to fix a plasma without a father finding out.

Did you yell? everyone asks. Did you beat her like a Russian Spy with a NYC phone books so as not to leave any marks?

No. Strangely, I was calm.

I figure she told me the truth, that it was just an accident. I can't bring back the dead. I'm no technological shaman, so what are you going to do right? What use is it to yell?

So the boys pick up Petey and carry him to the curb. They place him on the grass with the boxes and the other refuse. It is a shock to my senses. It is like rolling in a field of fire breathing skunks. My eyes begin burning and my skin turns to fire.

We stare at the Plasma on the front lawn like a Viking funeral pyre is about to erupt.

I feel like someone needs to say something.

"Can't they fix it?" my son's somewhat dense friend blurts out.

No they can't fix it, I retort. We can kill Osama Bin Laden with a hand grenade tied to a Garmin unit strapped to a kite from half way across the world, but patch Petey's broken screen? Not a freaking chance.

I tell the boys that a repair man does offer me 30 bucks for the parts. The boys eyes light up. They are 19 years old and 30 bucks will buy them something they want.

Really, they inquire at once. Can we have it?

I stare at them blankly.

You want Petey?

Yeah.

Whatever.

And like that, the boys toss Petey into the back of my son's pick up truck and drive away.

I feel like the old Indian in the Give a Hoot Don't Pollute commercials as a tear streams down my face and Petey drives away to an uncertain burial of hijinx, roof testing, or diabolical transistor organ harvesting.

Poor Petey Plasma.

And that's crazy.

SUE THE DOO!!!

2012-01-06T08:33:00.004-06:00

You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.

MOUNTAIN MOUSE SODA

DATELINE: MADISON COUNTY, Illinois

It’s here that 52 year old Ronald Ball claims he drank a Mountain Doo flavored with fermenting, rotting mouse.

Yuck.

Nothing ruins a good buzz like rotting rodent.

So Mr. Ball shot gunned some vermon. Instead of doing the Doo, he did the Ralph, yakking up a stomach load of sour mouse cheese.

According to court documents; the contents of the Mountain Dew were immediately poured into a Styrofoam cup where a dead mouse was found.

Pepsi is a multi billion dollar corporation with a squadron of attorneys at their disposal. They have barristers like burger king has grease. This should be an easy case to fight right? You'd think one of their thousand paid counselors would come up with a good strategy right?

Wrong!

Apparently Pepsi's defense team is weaker than a missed 720 in the half pipe. Their plan is straight out of
Sesame Street
where Ernie and Bert and stoned skateboarders wearing toboggans become bong hitting Johnnie Cochrans.

Pepsi lawyers plan to argue that there couldn’t be a mouse in a Mountain Doo because the product is so powerfully acidic it would dissolve any living creature into gelatinous goo before the man had a chance to drink it.

THE DEFENSE RESTS YOUR HONOR!

Based on that defense, once could argue that Mountain Doo is the carbonated version of a Delco Battery.

Wow.

So Doing the Doo not only helps you leap high mountains and bus benches with a single belch, but apparently the liquid doubles as an accelerant preferred by 4 out of 5 arsonists.

If it can melt a mouse, can you imagine what it can do to the lining of your stomach?

A Ball Park frank doesn't stand a chance in a digestive track saturated with carbonated Doo.
Mr. Ball is seeking $50,000 dollars in damages. Too bad he sent the evidence to the company which conveniently destroyed it. Hey Ball, are you a moron or what?

Veterinarian Lawrence McGill noted the mouse would have dissolved into a "jelly-like" substance after 30 days.

The only part of the rodent that could survive, added McGill, was "a portion of the tail."

Wow. A soda with a tail. I guess that’s good to know. What a tremendous marketing concept for an Anti-generation soft drink.

Do the doo, swallow the tail.

So the next time you take a swig of a Pepsi product, try not to think about the after taste oozing down your throat as a new flavor of gelatinous rodent scum. If your soda chirps I suggest grabbing a bottle of Pepto.

And That's crazy.

Lucky or Good?

2012-01-05T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

The saying: I'd rather be lucky than good. Whoever coined that phrase was probably a lazy ass complainer who needed to say something to someone who out performed him.

A rival news director said this to me once. It pissed me off.

He called me after I aired a story of a prisoner escaping. I was walking out of a building with my camera man. We were relaxed, but ready.

I look up and say, "hey look at that."

There in the field across the street is a scruffy faced convict, wearing black and white stripes, running through high grass.

"He's escaping," I scream to my camera man who instantly tapes the fleeing man.

We are suddenly in the middle of a man hunt.

I remember the buzz of excitement, the hair on my neck standing straight up.

Long story short; The man is caught, we air the exclusive footage and I eventually win a local emmy for spot news coverage.

The day the story airs, the rival news director did something so out of character, it caught me off guard.

No news director calls another station's reporter to say anything. He doesn't call to say you messed up, or you suck, or that was a great story. It just doesn't happen. Never.

It did this day. It was a first for me as the newsdirector gave me a back handed compliment.

"Cordan, you once again prove it's better to be lucky than good."

I didn't take it well. I got pissed. I let him know that his words were not appreciated and that I would continue to use my anger toward him to kick his station's ass every single day. I actually told him that he was as big an ass as all his crews in the field always said he was.

That's pretty harsh, but that's how I roll. Lucky or Good.

I love NEWS it's a competitive blood sport. It's a four letter word.

I've had a couple of days like this recently.

And Wednesday I was lucky and good.

My assignment: Find the Fieldstone Farms Flasher. This is the 22 year old accused of exposing himself to women in three different cities over the last 2 weeks. He had just been arrested and I learn he has bonded out of jail.

So I go to the address on his booking sheet.

The problem is; the address is a 250 unit apartment complex. I don't know what apartment he lives in.

CRAP.

So I drive around for 15 minutes looking for a vehicle matching his.

Police say the car is a blue Scion. I find one in an open space. I am sure it is his, but I don't know which apartment he lives in. There are 3 dozen doors around me.

I begin calling police sources trying to see if I can get an exact address. I have his mug shot nearby and the camera on the floor boards behind my seat.

Suddenly I look up and see a man walking to the Scion.

"That's him," I exclaim to the intern who is with me.

I grab the camera, turn it on, set it to outdoor brightness and leap out of the car.

"Mr.Tullis, hey there Mr. Tullis, stop and talk to me. There are two sides to every story. Stop and tell me yours."

The young man, wearing no shoes is startled like a squirrel crossing a road in front of a UPS truck. He begins walking rapidly toward his apartment.

I chase behind him like a hunter stalking his prey.

"They say you have been exposing yourself, is that true. Come on Mr. Tullis talk to us."

The man says nothing. He could tell me to go to hell or flip me the bird or turn around and kick my ass. He does none of the above. The man enters his apartment and slams the door.

My heart is racing. The adrenaline is pulsing through my veins like nitrous through a carburetor.

"That was awesome," The intern says.

I laugh. The kid learned more on a 20 second walk down with me than he did in an entire semester of journalism class.

So I get the exclusive and it leads the 6pm news.

A buddy of mine at one of the other station calls me and says, "You chased down the flasher, that was awesome."

He also tells me that other reporters are watching my story. He says everyone in their news room turns on my channel to watch. He says my face is on every monitor in their newsroom when one reporter in particular begins making fun of some of the graphics I edited into the piece. My friend tells me that his station owned this story while I was on vacation. He says they did a bunch of stories on who is the flasher and let's catch the flasher blah blah blah.

Then he says, I come back and WHAM I take the story from them in one moment in time.

Lucky? Good? Whose to say?

My friend says his newsdirector came out of her office and said "what's the commotion."

"Did you see Cordan's story" the assignment desk operator said.

"No," she responded.

He says people derided the story for some of its visual production values.

Then my friend says, the newsdirector pauses, and says bluntly; "Yeah, but he got the flasher didn't he?"

My friend said it was beautiful vindication that stopped the laughter immediately.

Just hearing this made me happy.

I love the game, I love the hunt. Few jobs exist where you can go out and you either win or lose every day, sometimes several times a day.

Sure it is good to be lucky, but I like to say that you have to make your luck.

I made it the day the prisoner escaped in front of me. I made my luck on this day.

I didn't have to show up at his car when I did. He didn't have to come out to his car when he did.

It was the fickle winds of journalistic fate blowing my way.

Lucky? Good? Hmmm?

Lesson learned: It's better to be lucky than good. It's also good to be good.

And that is crazy.

Oakland Raiders

2012-01-04T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Raiders fans.

Commitment to crazy.

I was watching the Raiders vs. the Chargers on Sunday.

It's week 17, the last week of the season. Many teams are all ready in the big dance. Many games are irrelevant. But not the Raiders' game. This one is for all the marbles.

Raiders win and they are basically in. They lose and they basically join the Dallas Cowboys as the most pathetic football team in the NFL.

Raiders lose and they might as well be an old guy in Tia Juana shopping for black market Viagra.

Raiders Win and dare I think it? Raiders win and they ride the donkey of life with a sombrero on their heads and a golden wind at their backs full of colorful ink.

Raiders fans are known for many things. They dress up in Darth Vader gear and wear spikes on their face and prison tattoos on their scrotums.

To say a Raiders fans is crazy is like saying Farah Fawcett was pretty. It doesn't even begin to encompass the full breath of the statement.

Raiders fans come in many shapes and colors. Certainly the L.A. County prison institution is well represented by the Silver and Black.

COMMITMENT TO EXCELLENCE.

Say it loud. Say it Proud. We are Raiders. Watch us gut your sister after a loss at 101st and Wilmington.

You know you are crazy if if you go to the Oakland Coliseum and dare wear the other teams jersey. Walk around cheering for anyone other than the silver and black and prepare to be beheaded as if you are one of Henry the 8th's wives.

My best buddy is a Raiders fan. How much of a Raiders fan?

I was with him once in Manhattan Beach, California and the Raiders lost.

Most of us cuss and then go home and cut the grass after a loss.

Not my best buddy. He wears his silver and black on his sleeve. It courses through his veins like Irish whiskey through a St. Patricks day bar keeper.

So the Raiders lose. My buddy goes into a zombie trance. He throws something angrily and then walks in disgust into the Pacific Ocean.

WITH HIS CLOTHES ON.

"should we call 911?" people ask.

"nah, he'll be OK," I say. "His team just lost. he needs to think things through."

"Oh," they respond blankly.

I watch my best friend while scanning for random shark fins near the pier.

He stops about waist deep and stairs at the setting sun. I can only imagine he and God are having a discourse on life, liberty and the pursuit of wins in the AFC West.

So it is with no surprise that his black and silver seed does not fall far from the fanatical tree.

Fast forward 20 years and I find myself in his living room. His oldest son is there with us. This kid is an excellent young man. He is compassionate and literate and a poet at heart. He is about to graduate with an English degree and ultimately he will teach children. He all ready coaches young athletes, getting them to give more of themselves than they ever thought they could. He is why America's future is in safe hands.

But when the Raiders play, this young man is count Dracula in search of blood. He is a pit bull that someone burned with a lighter. He is a die hard Raider fan who has gone to Charger games, wearing a Darren McFadden jersey.

When 50,000 chargers fans offered to fight him he stood his ground.

His younger brother is another wonderful kid. Good grades, Catholic School sports star, chicks dig him and his new Christmas car. But like big brother, he was bitten by the Raider gone crazy bug.

If there was a crazy draft for crazy Raider fans, this kid would be high on Mel Kipper's draft board.

So I am coming out of the shower upstairs in a good sized home and suddenly I hear screaming. It sounds like a group of zombies have broken into the house and are tearing apart human flesh.

NO WAY. CHARGERS SUCK. WHERE'S THE DEFENSE!

The house is shaking with fury.

I come downstairs.

"What the hell happened?" I ask, wondering if I need to watch this game wearing an athletic cup.

Younger son throws the remote at the couch in a fit of rage.

"Raiders got called for holding that brought back a huge play."

And so it goes.

Every play is life and death. Every day is an ocean to walk into.
Every play is Dante's inferno, a battle of good versus evil.

At one point, after another terrible Raider play, Number one son, screams at his dog; "Scout if you don't get out of here I will punch your face."

It's so absurd I laugh out loud. The little cute dog looks at his owner with a bewildered, almost calm stare as if he has seen this Raider craziness before.

I love the intensity in this house. It is surreal, it is real, it is electrically fanatical.

Though I am in a living room, it's as if I am at the stadium. Every play is important. I half way expect someone to pour a full beer on my head from the upper deck.

After a game in which the Raiders commit an NFL season record for penalties, in a game that sees the Raiders play defense like they are going to Julia child's cooking school, on a day that sees emotions teeter wildly, the Raiders lose.

It's the scene where all the Whos in Who-villewake up and find that the Grinch has stolen all their Christmas presents.

The father and his 2 sons leave the tv room. They are silent, they are mad, they want to break something but know their mother will kick all their asses.

The Raiders could have won. They should have won. Had they played like the Raiders of John Madden's era when Snake Stabler partied till 3 am and then vomited in the huddle before throwing a game winner to Freddie Blitnekoff, they would have won.

Instead these Raiders are the new NFL where a team wins and loses and then wins and then loses in a 17 week dance of mediocrity.

At least teams that really really suck like Indianapolis get the first pick in the draft. Teams like the Raiders and the Chargers and the Cowboys that suck an average suck, just exit the playoffs and dream of what might have been.

On this day of Raiders despair, there is no ocean to wallow in. There is only the sun setting on this beautiful season and the hope that next year, the Silver and Black will play for Al like Al would have wanted them to play.

If not, the family dog better get the Humane Shelter 9 1 1 hot line on his speed dial.

And that is crazy.

air travelers

2012-01-03T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

Air Travel During the Holidays.

Oh My God!

It's not just the cattle car mentally. It's not just the homeless shelter garb. It's not just the smell that some people think substitutes for soap.

It's the attitude that people fly with now a days. And I was smothered in that attitude on a nauseatingly long flight home from the Golden State.

It didn't help my travel plans any that I decided to burn the candle at both ends the night before.

Party like a rock star and you're gonna pay the price, is what a young woman I know recently told me.

Well that young woman knows of what she speaks. I'm still paying the price.

It's a new years weekender and the night doesn't end till well after last call.

3 hours of sleep sees a 5:30 wake up call.

Somehow my buddy gets me to get me to the airport. What a stud.

He pushes me out of the car and I am among the throng of meandering sad sacks.

The line of travelers circles the concourse. Cars are three deep at the curb. It's a bad way to work off a hangover in the foggy dark of a cool California morn.

The airport is unattractive like 1970's shag carpet. It's spartan and cement like, roomy like a shoe box with all the charm of wet lint.

People stand in line like automatons on their way to the Soylent Green factory.

It's the usual array of security lines and TSA douches and machines x-raying me for nuclear espionage.

I get on the flight in boarding group 4. That means I am one of the last people to get on the aircraft.

As I enter the vessel, I immediately notice that the plane is a stinky smelly stuffed cabbage of tubular transportation.

I take my seat on the aisle. The window shades are pulled down adding to the claustrophobic feel.

The two boys in the seats next to me are large and have electronic equipment on their laps.

I quickly learn the boys are of Chinese descent and they are flying with their elderly mother and father seated behind us.

The boys talk to their parents in a sing song dialect very unfamiliar to me. The parents respond more loudly, their dialect piercing my ear canal from a foot away.

Behind the Chinese family is a large woman with a French accent. I don't know anything about her, but she apparently has a real problem with the Chinese family.

Ready Set Fly.

The plane takes off and everything starts routinely.

I close my eyes trying to recapture some of my lost beauty sleep.

It lasts all of 30 minutes. Then the in flight movie comes on, and the Chinese mom and dad start laughing out loud. They are laughing so audibly I'm concerned the sky marshal is going to pull his service revolver.

The family is wearing head phones and reciting lines from the movie in broken Chinese - English.

They are litterally shouting. I wonder if they are mentally disabled. One of their sons turn to shoosh them.

It lasts all of a minute before China Mom begins screaming from her seat.

"Look. Monstah say he no powah up. That funny."

I try and pretend it's a bad dream, keeping my eyes firmly shut.

Meanwhile, my hangover is exploding like fireworks over the Sydney Opera House.

I have never sat this close to a Chinese woman with tourettes. I am hating this next 4.5 hours.

Not only are mom and dad loud in a strange dialect that makes me want to behead a live chicken, but their little daughter is kicking on the seat back adding to the cacophony of disruption and rudeness.

Pencil in any number of bathroom breaks by the brothers-irritant and you can see I am excited to land this big beast.

To make a long story short, the plane finally touches down. Just when I think it can't get any stranger, the French lady behind the Chinese people begins swearing and yelling in her native tongue. I don't speak Chinese or French and I don't know what the hell is going on.

The French lady keeps saying she has to get off this plane and claiming she has whip lash from sitting behind the Chinese people.

How this could happen is physiologically escaping me at this moment.

I don't know what this all means.

The plane is full of people standing in the center aisle waiting their turn to the get their over head items and begin moving to the exit.

But the French woman is animated telling the Chinese father she needs to get out.

"Go ahead. Go ahead. walk by me, go ahead get out," the Chinese man says in angry broken English.

Everyone around us is staring. I am in the thick of it. I move my iphone to video mode, preparing to document the possible fist fight for Good Morning America should this escalate.

Suddenly the Chinese man is telling me I have to let her by .

"Why?" I ask, a plane load of people staring at me.

"She wants to leave," he says repeatedly.

"Yes I want to leave," the French woman says in a thick French accent. She begins moving past the Chinese man and is now right behind me.

I look at the woman and the Chinese father.

"Yeah I bet she wants to leave. I want to leave, that lady over there wants to leave too," I say pointing to a young woman watching all this unfold.

"But you know what, she isn't going anywhere. There's a plane full of people waiting their turn to exit, and you'll do the same."

I'm pissed that I have been drawn into this lunacy. The French woman mumbles inaudibly. The Chinese family is talking amongst itself like a ping pong machine gone TILT.

The plane slowly empties and the group behind me is full of angst. It's a little uncomfortable.

We exit the plane. I walk up the gate with the young woman I pointed to earlier. She says; "I speak French. She was angry having to sit behind the Chinese people. She said she just needed to get off the plane."

I laughed. I know her pain.

People today are sadly misbehaved, misinformed, and aerial miscreants.

and that is crazy.

California Beach

2012-01-02T08:00:00.003-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

California.

What's crazy about it? How nice it is on the last day of 2011. While much of the nation is bundling up, huddling around a fire, throwing on another turtle neck, I am standing on the deck of a local beach bar.

The wind is blowing off the Pacific making it feel cooler than it really is. The sun is brilliant and dancing on waves before me.

Toby Keith's "Red Solo Cup" is blaring over the deck loud speakers and people are swaying back and forth. I'm only half way finished with my beer, but the song makes me excited to order up another.

I am wearing shorts and a short sleeved shirt. The Ray Bans are on. The ocean breeze has tossed my hair into a blond, quintessential San Diego mop.

I watch a myriad of skateboarders and beach cruisers and joggers filter by. It is a popcorn machine of humanity.

As I toss back the contents of the bottle, I think about what the rest of the world is doing right now. Are they bundled up? Are they inside staring at the tv?

My view point is the Pacific Ocean and it is breath taking. It sparkles, it commands attention, it makes you ponder the edge of the horizon and wonder what else is out there.

As a bevy of spandex bounces by, I think about 2012. The possibilities and the probabilities. The opportunities and the life course that must be corrected.

Little Red Cup and a swig of a golden beer with the hint of lime. It is delicious and the time right. The ocean is the back drop for a new begining. I smile at a beach girl. She smiles back.

"Another round?" a salty looking bar tender asks over the din of the bar.

"Why not?," I shout back.

It's a brand new start.

Get ready world.

Here it comes.

See ya 2011, hello 2012.

And that is crazy.

2011-12-30T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

Knowing "That's Crazy" is a global force for good.

It's a brand whose time has come. More than 100,000 hits in 2 years and now is the time for the viral infiltration to commence.

With all the angst in the world, there is a need for a platform to vent and to laugh and to communicate our thoughts.

That's Crazy is going to be that landing sight on the world wide web.

I have been going through the motions for the last 2 years. Some funny stories here and some insightful banter about quirky life situations there, but it's time for more.

2012 is the door step to the future.

I see much much more. I see crazy art on people's living room walls. I see Crazy Art on T-shirts and greeting cards and surfboards and skateboards and snow boards and towels at the all inclusive resorts.

That's crazy works in every language. I see thousands of hits a day and brand recognition from Prague to Peru.

Why am I stating this here? Now?

Because to achieve it you must see it, you must believe it.

With a few days left in this year, I see a transition, a portal that will only lead to crazy sunsets and marketing madness around the globe.

I am predicting, prognosticating the future. Will I be right?

The Magic 8 Ball of life says "it is so."

Stay tuned. I think Crazy is about to take on a whole new dimension.

And that is crazy.

iPhone

2011-12-29T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

Writing a that's crazy story on my new iPhone!

The screen is 3 inches wide.It's like typing through the bottom of a coke bottle. The alphabet is so damn small I need a magnifying glass to see what I'm doing. It's like trying to learn Quantum physics on flash cards. It's hard like making love standing up on a skate board.

The key board is only good for Lilliputians. I feel like Gulliver wearing a thong 29 sizes too small. It's as if my thumbs are monstrously large, like dinosaur feet and I'm tip going through a mine field.

BANG

My fingers hunt and peck, like a pair of opposable Godzillas stomping through an illuminated boulevard of alphabetical cars.

One missed key stroke and KABLAM!

Auto correct changes the word to something it thinks I wanted to say!

I said Godzilla iPhone not geo-synchronous gobbledygook.

I wanted to try typing this story directly on my iphone since this is the way the next generation plans to communicate.

really? is something this small really the future?

Young people Tell me this is the path of a higher existence.

Well, If that is true -get me a shot of Patron a hollow point and a .357 cause I am going off.

This tiny little screen gives me a panic attack. Sure it takes pix and texts and connects me to the Internet where I can live a cyber existence in relative bliss.

But as far as typing this CRAZY blog, the iphone is woefully inept. It's too small and not responsive to a writer's needs.

It can tell me the temperature in Prague, but I can't even hit the enter key without an Asian porn web site trying to download something filthy.

The iphone is essentially a battery operated Swiss Army knife of the new millennium. It won't open
a can of soup, but I am sure there is an app that will make me think I not only opened the soup but consumed it
In a fine Paris cafe!

And the future comes complete with a sultry old lady voice. Her name is Sirie.

You can ask her where to hide A body or how to get to the local liquor store. I told her I loved her and she slapped my
Cyber face. Thankfully my cyber face is tough.

I don't know! I am typing slow and don't feel very creative writing this way. Two opposable thumbs slamming away at this microscopic glass typewriter. It is certainly laborious.

I'm not sold on this device as a do everything mechanism. It's cool and I am glad I have it, but this was certainly an interesting writing experiment.

It is so hard to write, and write with expediency, that the thought I wanted to communicate is often lost by the time I get the words on the tiny screen.

It seems to be a good communicative tool but today it turns my creative expression into a slovenly hay ride of frustration.

So Give me a 15 inch lap top that can't talk and I'll rule the world.

Oh hold on Sirie is buzzing in with a reminder that I'm scheduled to hide a dead body in the nearby dump.

For goodness sakes, Serie.

And that is crazy!

NBA WHO CARES

2011-12-28T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

The NBA.

I don't care.

They struck. Now I'm striking.

It's not football. I'll watch it when it comes down to tennis or professional rodeo or NBA. Until then, who cares?

ESPN has the rights to the games and they are playing it up like a new Pope has been anointed. It's Christmas and New Years all tied up with a big bow. They are excited. I'm not.

The story lines, according to ESPN, are many. Will the Lakers make the playoffs? How is Kobe's wrist? Why didn't his wife sign a pre-nupt.

Are the Lakers even the best team in LA now that the Clippers have added some players, namely Chris Paul who will surely be alley-ooping the rock to big Blake Griffin. It might be a sportscenter highlight, but do I care? Not so much.

Story lines from South Beach where LeBron and Wade and the rest of Miami mice are back in Dallas to open the season where they have to watch the hoisting of the championship banner they helped the Mavs win. Will the Heat be hot? They should be. But do I care? Not really.

Bulls had the best record in the league? Are the Celtics too old? Can the Knicks finally bring hoops back to the Big Apple?

It's a lot of story lines, but you have to care. I'm not sure I care.

There are some good dudes in the NBA, but no matter who they are, it's not Magic and Larry and Michael. Add to the fact these guys make 25 million a year and then they went on strike when most of us are trying to get our loans modified with B of A, and buy Christmas presents and well it just pisses me off.

The NBA doesn't get it. They play a game. They don't live in the reality we live in.

So good luck NBA.

I might care in June.

But right now, give me Dallas vs. New York. Cowboys Vs. Giants that is.

And that is crazy.

teenage girls.

2011-12-27T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

teenage girls.

There are three of them in this house right now. It's like a cackling coop hair and estrogen. It's an onslaught of high pitched run on sentences and generation X angst.

I'm on the couch, my back to them in the kitchen. I am only 10 feet away, and it's like I am invisible. They are talking a blue streak, their sentences rolling over one another like a rip tide at a beach.

It's fun to listen to them talk. It does not seem so long ago that I was a teenage girl full of angst. OK, maybe I was not a teenage girl, but I certainly had my share of superfluous teenage anger.

Their topics range from school and boys and dates and boys and teachers and slang and study hall.

It's Crazy.

Listening to these young women pontificate is like a trip down memory lane. It is it makes me realize how hard it is to be a teenager.

There's a lot of crazy to contend with. Perhaps more today than a generation ago. It's like the black plague of peer pressure now-a-days with the instantaneous embarrassment and realization of social media. And then there's the constant pressure cooker of parents and rules and dating and body image and clothing choices and hair styles. There's the in crowd and the out crowd and groups known as hipsters. We didn't have hipsters. From my vantage point on the couch I cannot determine if this is a good group or not.

All in all, it seems like a social gauntlet of barriers and choices, each leading to a door lined with razor blades and booby traps.

As I sit here playing the part of quiet dad, I realize what I'm hearing is a treatment for the next MTV reality show.

Forget the Jersey Shore.

16 year old high school girls gabbing about virtually nothing is a sure hit. It's Seinfield for teens. Instead of the soup Nazi, the wrong pair of jeans or a bad hair day will be a reason to lock yourself in the bathroom. A blemish or lumpy sports bra, must see TV, like a nuclear show down with the illegitimate son of kim jung il.

All I'm saying is teenage girls are crazy. They are young women which means they are young crazy women. They can't help it, as I've stated many times before, it's primordial. It's part of the DNA of the universe.

Teenage boys are jacked up too, it just doesn't seem like it's Armageddon on roller skates flying off the cliff.

A pink barrette? A blue hair ribbon? I hate you.

Door Slam!

Teenage boys are dumb, just not teenage girl dramatic.

Ah the angst of high school. Study hall and crowded hallways and chemistry lessons you will never use again.

How I miss it.

NOT!

Crazy.

christmas eve

2011-12-26T08:00:00.001-06:00

you know what's crazy. I'll tell you what's crazy.

Christmas Eve in the facebook millennium.

No carolers knocked on my door. But telemarketers from ADT security did try and sell me an enhanced security system.

Don't you realize it's December 24th I said. Sir criminals don't have calendars they responded.

Nice sales pitch.

Man it's bad if you want to bitch slap someone on Christmas Eve.

So here I am on the day before the DAY and I am thinking, man, I could be at midnight mass. And instead, what am I doing? I am watching Independence Day on a borrowed tv.

(SEE PREVIOUS STORY OF XMAS SMASHED PLASMA)

Man that Will Smith is a diversified actor.

I could be sipping egg nog on this night of nights. Instead I'm drinking Makers Mark with a splash of lime juice. Few things shout holiday cheer like this fine Kentucky Bourbon.

I could be consuming Chateau Brion on a table adorned with silver and fine table linen. Instead I'm at Outback Steak House. I order cheesy fries and a fillet. Not bad it could have been a Whopper.

I could have opened up one present for Xmas Eve. Instead I opened up 2. That's all I received.

I could have put up a tree, instead I hung up a strand of lights.

I could have, I should have, I would have.

It's a brave new world and it's a brave new Christmas Eve.

It's a time for family and a time for giving.

It's a time when only 2 of the three major networks are live from the Vatican in Rome. What's the other channel showing? A CSI from 2005. Nice. Merry Crime Scene.

Christmas Eve 2012: A time to remember not to buy your recalcitrant 16 year old daughter the 2nd book in a series before she has read the first. Yikes. Watching her open that gift was excruciating. It was like watching open heart surgery on a sick stomach.

Christmas Eve 2012: a little naughty a little nice. It's a time when one of your kids hands you an unwrapped toaster in a box and says, "here, Merry Christmas."

New Millennium Christmas Eve.

Anyone want toast?

That's crazy.

Christmas Baby

2011-12-23T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

Christmas Birthdays.

I am a Christmas baby. Well sort of. Born four days after Christmas and 2 days before New Years.

I arrived on planet Earth between two of the greatest holidays known to man.

Hello Baby Jesus. Hello Baby New Years.

And in between, hello Baby AC.

Doesn't have quite the same ring, does it?

I love the holidays, but my birthday is always sort of an after thought.

People are tired after Christmas. They have been fighting crowds at Target for weeks. They've been hunting for parking spots in a wasteland of concrete. They've decked the halls and egg nogged till they're arteries are gorged. And then there's the grouchy, flatulent relatives over-staying their welcome. Add in the occassional rancid turkey and the gift returns with acerbic customer service agents, and it's all a bit much.

And when one holiday tsunami finally ends, unbelievably, another one begins to swell.

New Years Eve. There are parties to plan and year enders to edit.

A look back. a look ahead. The year's most intriguing, those to watch in 2012. Blah Blah Blah.

It's a vomitorium of excess.

And then right in between, there's my birthday.

It's tough to be a Christmas baby.

You usually get one big present, called the Christmas/Birthday gift.

That's good for dad; bad for baby.

And people don't come to your party. They're at the beach or skiing in Steam Boat.

People are broke from Christmas and concerned about lay-a-ways for that new New Year's party dress.

When you are an adult, all this is palatable. You do a shot of Jeigermeister and move on. When you are a kid, it makes you cry.

You never have your birthday in school, because everyone is on Christmas break.

You don't get the class singing happy birthday, or the special cookies or streamers.

Cupcakes are for the kids born in March. Late December babies. Do even have a birthday?

Birthdays are special. You only get one. Sadly when you are a Christmas baby, you don't always feel that way.

So enjoy Christmas and New Year's, everyone. And along the way, think about those days in between.

Tell someone happy birthday. And if they invite you to their party. Bring them a cup cake. It will make up for years of frustration.

And that is crazy.

cracked plasma

2011-12-22T07:00:00.002-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

Staring at a 50 inch rectangle of muted dreams.

What was a brilliant, expansive, orgasmic plasma tv is now a massive grey paper weight.

What once blistered my eyes and ears with spectacular moments is now a quiet, ugly black hole in my living room.

I feel like a monkey in 2001 a Space Odyssey. Suddenly there is this huge monolith in my living room. I am drawn to it, I sit before it, I want to touch it.

But why?

It's dark and dead and destined for the curb.

This monolith was a state of the art plasma tv. Now it's a reminder that just when you think you got life figured out, life kicks you right in the jewels.

My monolith was the focal point of my home existence. It brought me football games in crystal clear clarity. It informed me with news from around the globe. It once serenaded me with the music of my choice through digital satellite exuberance.

In fact, the last damned thing this son-of-a-bitch thing broadcast this morning was the death of Korean dictator, Kim Jong Il. That's irony. I knew those big lady glasses were evil.

Now this 50 inch Panasonic is a quiet reminder of a happier phosphorescent time.

Why is my Panasonic dark and dull like a Tim Burton movie?

Because my daughter cracked the screen.

"How is everything going?" I ask over the phone.

There's a strained silence. Not the usual dad you are an idiot and I am a cool 17 year old girl vibe.

No, it was quiet. Too quiet.

"what's wrong," i say.

"everything was great till we cracked the tv."

My brain becomes a pin ball machine tilting out of control.

"Cracked the Plasma!"

"Yeah we were flipping quarters and it hit the screen. Now it won't turn on. I'm sorry.

You could cook an omelet on my forehead I was so hot.

"It wont' turn on? How the hell? The glass is Cracked? How in the world..."

I can only try and stay calm. What's the sense of blowing a gasket.

"We'll talk about it when I get home," I say hanging up.

I sit there staring at my cubicle wall. Wont' turn on? What the hell did they hit it with? a wrecking ball.

I am no Maytag repair man, but I can only imagine that the gas that fills the mechanism escaped through the crack. All I know is the power light comes on and the monolith of dullness stares at me, screaming in silence.

Am I depressed?

Hell freaking yes.

Merry Xmas, AC.

Got another 700 dollars you can drop on an audio visual center?

Well sure, if I don't feel like heating the house this month. What a drag.

OK. I need to do a Bill Clinton and compartmentalize. I mean, my house didn't burn down, and nobody was killed in a car wreck. For that I am grateful. In the over all context of life it is just a thing.

But damn if I didn't love this thing.

And the irony is, I paid 200 dollars for a 3 year warranty.

"Of course we'll take it back and replace it," the sales girl says with alacrity over the phone.

No questions asked?, I think to myself.

"What happened?" she says.

"The screen is cracked," I say not wanting to immediately indict my own off spring.

The manager gets on the phone.

"There's no way they will pay for that," he says solemnly. "A cracked screen is customer abuse, and the company won't pay for it. I can offer you a new model for 650 dollars," he says.

Take your dirty sales pitch and go lay down on the tracks wise ass. I'm in mourning here.

Would you offer the widow who just buried her husband a new deal on snow tires.

Get off my damn lawn, I think to myself.

A new set. The warranty on the monolith won't even cover this new set. I have a 2 year warranty on a gigantic paper weight that cave monkey's want to fondle.

it's ridiculous.

What a Grinch who stole Christmas moment.

I told my daughter S*** happens.

She was honest and even offered to pay.

That's nice. But I want to watch the Superbowl this year.

Her part time, minimum wage job will see me pushing a wheel chair by the time she pays this one off.

I appreciate her offer, but I have come to the audio/visual fork in the road.

Do I buy cheap, buy used, buy smaller, or try and replace my penthouse deluxe plasma Ferrari with a comparable unit.

I sure like the way it felt when it took me around the planet at the click of a button. It was like a girlfriend who never said no.

now that girlfriend has a huge ass crack in the front of her plasma screen face.

And I am sad. And holding a warranty as useful as carpet lint.

That is crazy.

another stupid study

2011-12-21T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Stating the obvious.

does it surprise you that...

Skinny people get more dates.

People with hair buy more shampoo.

Homeless people love subway grates.

If it does, then stop reading now, and pull life's emergency exit please.

Either way, there's another study out there and it's as stupid as any I've encountered.

According to tax firm Deloitte's annual holiday spending survey, People with more than $100,000 to spend have more optimism about the economy than those who are poor.

Well. That's a revelation. Part the heavens and serve me a ham sandwich boy. I am down right impressed.

Imagine that? That's like saying sharks floss with surfers or super models have bony hips and a propensity for ugly rock and rollers.

The survey goes on to waste your time by saying; the big spenders intend to fork over three percent more on gift-giving than they did last year, in contrast to lower-income households, who said they would spend 12 percent less.

BREAKING NEWS.

RICH PEOPLE SPEND MORE. POOR PEOPLE SPEND LESS.

This ain't exactly Albert Einstein's theory of relativity, now is it?

And in case you needed proof that rich people are going to make it; luxury-car dealers report sales are strong from New York buyers, many of whom are snapping up Rolls-Royces.

The car of the moment is a Rolls Royce Phantom Drophead Coupe, which costs a cool $500,000. The Ferrari 458 Italia for $300,000 is also sold out. "There is a waiting list, but we can fill it, most likely," according to Adam Gordon, who owns several luxury-car dealerships.

What a coincidence. There is also a waiting list for free underpants and canned squash at the local homeless shelter over by the bus station.

Give me a break.

According to the report; wealthy New Yorkers are also buying high-end foodstuffs, caviar entrepreneur Alexandre Petrossian said.

For example, Petrossian Special Reserve Ossetra caviar, which is "exceedingly rare and exquisitely rich," is $12,000 a kilo.

Poor people can't get that much green for a bus load of plasma.

So in conclusion; let me simplify the report's findings.

Rich people are happy and confident about the future and spending more to pamper themselves with obscenely expensive gifts.

Poor people are wetting their pants and selling their own blood and generally a bit depressed about the course of world events.

Have I covered this illuminating survey adequately?

What's next. A study to tell me that metal is hard? Blue ink pens a better document signer? Kryptonite - still a thorn in the side of superman.

Nah....

Instead, I'll just wait for the next study to let us know if coffee and or chocolate is killing us or prolonging our life or making us hornier.

And that is crazy.

scamp the tramp

2011-12-20T08:27:00.003-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Trying to bury a live animal.

I submit for your approval the nebulous tale of Scamp the dog.

This story begins with poor Scamp's untimely death.

"Paw go get a shovel and bury Scamp."

"Maw I can't right now. My hemorrhoids is acting up."

"Then leave Scamp out by the shed and we'll bury him tomorrow."

And so it goes.

So Scamp the puppy is dead, right?

"not so fast," as Lee Corso might yell.

This story is either a Christmas miracle or another American story of stupid showcasing the brain power of a gerbil.

DATELINE: YELM, Washington

Reta McKinlay, also known as Maw, thought Scamp was dead.

Why wouldn't she? The grand kid's puppy scooted through a fence at her home.

Bam.

Scamp was smashed by a car. The terrier-Shih Tzu mix was bleeding, his eyes fixed. He wasn't breathing.

He had all the life of cold bacon.

Maw may be a good grandmother, but a veterinarian she ain't.

According to published reports, grandpa wrapped little Scamp in a blanket and then with all the love you would show a leaf blower, grandpa put Scamp under a wheelbarrow to keep the weasels and buzzards away.

Nothing says merry Christmas like Weasels and Buzzards.

So in a heart warming tale straight out of the Old Yeller hand book, the family gathered to bury little Scamp.

After telling her grand kids Scamp had gone to heaven, after shedding a few tears, the family gets a surprise.

Grandpa, hemorrhoids feeling better, goes to the shed with his shovel, prepared to do the deed, and there is the ghost of Scamp, sitting up.

It's not said whether he is scowling, growling, or smiling, but I bet Scamp is confused.

"Hey ya'll left me out here to die," the little dog is thinking.

Grandpa is probably confused too.

"Damn, I thought that varmint was dead."

"MAW!"

So is Scamp a Christmas miracle? Maybe to the grand kids.

To Ma and Pa?

Scamp is a hefty $3,000 vet bill, and a reminder that stupid is sadly not a crime in America.

And that is crazy.

Sam Hurd

2011-12-19T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Chicago Bear wide receiver Sam Hurd is certifiably loco.

Can you say idiot? Can you say loser?

This guy just signed a new 5 million dollar contract.

He arrived. He made it. He's one of the elite, highly priced athletes.

If the federal indictment is remotely accurate, then Sam Hurd is the stupidest guy on the planet.

This multi-millionaire pro athlete is out of jail on a $100,000 bond after federal investigators say he tried to put together a cocaine and marijuana distribution network.

If this plan was remotely accurate, investigators say he would have been the king of a drug empire moving close to a million dollars of dope a week. Now he's going to federal prison where he will be a butt pirate of the good ship lollipop.

The idiot now faces 40 years in prison. 40 years in prison? It's hard to believe.

Last week he was catching TD passes in the NFL. Soon he'll be coming to a prison near you, where dropping the soap in the shower is the highlight of the day

Federal prosecutors say Hurd was negotiating a deal to buy 1000 pounds of marijuana per week.

1000 pounds!

Seriously.

Some media reports describe Hurd as deeply religious.

Yeah, apparently devoutly devoted to narcotics trafficking.

So the sky has fallen for this young athlete. The wide out has all ready been fired from the Bears.

Bears GM Jerry Angelo said; "We have a sound research plan for all players and we spend an inordinate amount of time on character issues and we can tell you with transparency that we did all we can do and we found nothing that would create a flag or concern in Sam Hurd's case."

Whatever.

Sam Hurd.

The new poster child for moron.

If Tebowing is something positive.

Then I propose a new word. "HURDING" Doing something so ridiculous that you scratch your head and ass at the same time and say WTF?

And that is crazy.

Toys 4 Hookers

2011-12-16T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Toys for Hookers.

Christmas for call girls.

Merry Christmas Mama-cita.

Now that's crazy.

I've heard of toys for tots. I've heard of gun drives where you get a gift certificate at the local supermarket when you turn in hand guns.

But I've never heard about a two for one deal because you brought a Thomas the Train to the party.

DATELINE: HOUSTON, Texas.

According to TV station KTRK, it's the buy one get one free extravaganza.

The ad reads: "Santa's little helper/Toys for Tots special."

According to the rules, Johns who pay for a hooker at regular price and bring an unwrapped toy for the US Marines' "Toys for Tots" will get a second hour free.

Wow.

Now that is some holiday marketing even St. Nick can get behind.

Ho Ho Ho.

If you get what I'm saying.

Real Yule Time Bang for your Buck if you're getting my drift.

According to published reports; when KTRK called the phone number attached to the ad, Robin Jordan answered. The TV station says Jordan was convicted last month of operating a prostitution business. She spent 12 days in jail. Not surprisingly, she did not immediately confirm that she placed the ad.

Brian Murray, vice president of Marine Toys for Tots, said the charity did not know anything about the advertisement.

"We don't want to associate with any person who would besmirch the reputation of the US Marine Corps ... or the Toys for Tots organization," he said.

The Houston Police Department is investigating the advertisement.

Yeah good luck boys.

Remember to wrap them Johnsons when you are unwrapping those toys.

HO HO HO.

I don't even know what that means.

And that is Crazy.™

tebowing

2011-12-15T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

TIM TEBOW MANIA.

He's become a national phenomenon.

ESPN spent 10 minutes debating what is a bigger story this year; the Green Bay Packers winning the super bowl and being undfeated

OR

TIM TEBOW winning 7 games.

Superbowl MVP Steve Young was almost giddy as he talked about the phenomenal, crazy, unbelievable, last second come backs of Tim Tebow and how it just might just be the story of the year.

Can he walk on water? I don't know. Some people say he can't play quarterback. I'm not sure Tim Tebow knows this.

The Quarterback is loved and hated.

I'm not really sure what is to hate. I think people hate Tim Tebow just because they are haters.

These same people probably hate puppies and xylophones. No reason for the hate, just hate for hate sake.

I mean the kid is positive and is a leader and great role model and a winner.

What's to hate?

Nothing.

Do you want your kid to emmulate Tim Tebow or Marilyn Manson. I know my answer to that one.

I think Tebow is controversial because he plays quarterback like a running back who plays quarterback. He thinks run before throw. He doesn't drop back conventionally. He rolls out and runs over cornerbacks.

And when he scores, he drops to a knee and bows his head.

He is deeply spiritual and for whatever reason, this too offends some people.

It's America people, we have the right to worship as we want. Can't help it if he chooses to display his faith on the grid iron in front of millions.

Whether you like him or hate him, Tebow is becoming a pop culture icon.

There's even a word in the dictionary now related to him.

According to published reports; The Global Language Monitor announced Monday that it acknowledges that the word "Tebowing" has officially entered the English language.

As I mentioned, after a win, Tebow will drop to one knee and bow his head and give praise to God.

Well the symbol has gone global with people copying this with something now dubbed: "Tebowing".

The internet is filled with pictures striking the pose from China and Germany and US troops in Afghanistan.

I even saw a dog that was ostensibly Tebowing.

Bow Wow Wow.

Tebowing has gone to the dogs.

Now that is Crazy.

Warning Zuchini Ahead!

2011-12-14T08:00:00.002-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

The danger that elongated fruits and vegetables reportedly pose to members of the fairer sex.

Remember Otter in Animal House meeting Dean Wormer's wife in the Food King.

"Mine's bigger," he says to her holding a cucumber.

She smiles at him salaciously.

"My Cucumber is bigger than yours," he says with a Cheshire cat grin.

Cucumbers and Pickles.

It's a punch line in America. In The Muslim world it's a punch in the gut.

According to published reports; an Islamic cleric living in Europe reportedly has warned Muslim women not to get too close to bananas, cucumbers or other produce that could promote "sexual thoughts."

Sexual Thoughts?

What's the spiritual message here? Stay away from cucumbers?

Hey Gladys. Stay out of aisle 3. There's carrots over there!

According to the Cleric, if a woman must eat these food products, a man should prepare the meal. The Cleric says the items should be cut into smaller, less arousing pieces.

You can't make this crap up.

Sounds like a game plan straight from the Lorena Bobbitt cook book of marital discourse.

Clean up in aisle 5! Woman with cucumbers!

News of the cleric statement quickly spread online, leaving many liberal Muslims embarrassed and angry, evoking a flurry of mockery in online forums.

I wouldn't take it too seriously ladies. This is probably the same religious leader who prompted the saying "where clerics are clerics and sheep are nervous."

I don't even know what the hell that means, but it makes me laugh.

And that is crazy.™

Republican Debate

2011-12-13T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Making so much out of something so innocuous.

"Wanna make a $10,000 bet?"

The news readers questioned what would be "The Fallout."

The deep voiced announcer spits into the microphone. Who won? Who lost?

Mitt Romney and his $10,000 bet!

As you know, the Republicans had a debate in Iowa.

By and large it was more of the same. White bread candidates standing at their podiums talking most of the same themes we have all heard before.

Newt acted like he's been there before.

According to most pundits, he didn't do anything to hurt himself, and perhaps distinguished himself as the most capable to run against President Obama.

The other candidates acted like they were trailing in the polls. Many were forced to go on the offensive to try and make their mark. It's usually the sign of a campaign floundering like a run-a-way Thanksgiving day float.

Because the debate had no high octane spark, a low combustibility issue might just capture the headlines.

That moment came when Governor Perry questioned a Mitt Romney health care strategy.

Romney didn't like it and smugly reacted.

Instead of winning the moment, he became the punch line of a late night joke.

"Wanna bet? Wanna make a $10,000 dollar bet?" he said.

The hefty bet might have rubbed Iowa voters the wrong way. Many said it showed that he was out of touch.

ABC which hosted the debate, says that TWITTER blew up.

But I wonder if the media hadn't made such a big deal about it, would it even be an issue today?

If he had said I'll bet you a million dollars. Would people have cared? How about a dollar? How about a billion dollars?

What do the high school kids on Facebook think?

Who freaking cares.

Why not let it go?

Why? because the media has to consume something, like a Japanese Hot Dog eating champion must consume something.

The debate is a dura flame log that must be doused in kerosene and set ablaze.

And the problem is the debate was kind of a non event with no major new issues, so something as trivial as "wanna bet" becomes news.

So here's my bet. I'll bet you 10 gazillion dollars that in a week or so something new will fill the fire place of news.

It might be big, it might be small. It won't matter. The animal is hungry and must consume and set the world on fire.

So the networks will toss a match into the mix and scream "burn baby burn."

Then they'll say Twitter Blew Up.

Yeah Right.

And that is crazy.

xmas zombies

2011-12-12T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tel you what's crazy.™

Holiday Shopping.

It should be a biblical experience filled with the good will and merriment of the season.

It should be children on Santa's lap and little elfs handing out candy canes as you park your car. It should be Moses inscribing your Christmas boxes with the ten commandments.

Sadly it is never any of this.

Today I braved the cold and waded into the frozen pool of shopping and I didn't like it. I felt like a hostage in a foreign land. I felt like a dirty American in Beirut, blindfolded and stinking of fear. I felt like I was being water boarded with perspiration squeezed out of Rosie O'Donnels sweat towel.

Yuk.

So there I am, moving through a retail outlet with five hundred
other people full of territorial angst. Normal Americans looked like retail Al Qaida? Soccer moms looked like credit crunching terrorists.

Damn is everyone Crazy?

People are fondling merchandise like a Penn State football coach at a junior high sleep over. People are tugging at shirts on disheveled racks, opening them up, looking at them with disgust, then leaving them wrinkled like a cat playing with yarn.

The racks are a mess and shoppers don't care. Clothing is falling on the floor and being shoved in a wad on the display.

It's so disrespectful. It's as if these patrons are homeless people who have just crawled out of a refrigerator box.

As I move through the narrow aisle of clothes, I am smelling something. Is it body odor? No, I believe it's the stench of fear from nervous shoppers, clutching their wallets, sensing past and present cash flow problems.

I look at a woman with 5 shirts tucked in her arms. She is mumbling like a transient at the bus station. Her head is tilted, lowered into her shoulder. Her hair is frazzled and shirts are covering most of her face. I can't tell if she is crazy or talking into a cell phone stuck in her neck fat.

As I round the row of winter coats, I come across more scowls of more people trying to stretch a dollar like a third grader stretches chewing gum.

I'm in a store full of Shopping zombies.

As I move through the aisles, I am forced into a gauntlet of racks stuffed with winter coats. Negotiating the narrow passage is difficult due to over weight patrons holding arm fulls of items they are considering, but will never buy.

I am starved for air and space. It's like I am aerobicizing inside a shoe box. People are sucking up all the oxygen making me light headed.

I need to get out of this Pandora's box of retail hell.

I exit the building to a whoosh of relief. There is sunshine and a breeze on my face.

Momentary respite.

I quickly see the throng of disenchanted shoppers, mindlessly walking across the parking lot.

I half jog and get in my car. I feel like an anonymous perp is eye balling me, ready to pounce.

I begin to pull out. Immediately, 2 cars put on their blinkers ready to take my spot. It's a frenzy, like piranhas nibbling flesh.

It's a dicey proposition getting out of the parking lot. Cars are everywhere, driving fast, stopping suddenly to avoid hitting pedestrians.

I get to the intersection and its wall to wall metal. People are swarming, every lane filled. It woudl be safer to coat my belly with chum and swimming in shark infested waters.

I force my way into the gridlock. People don't want to let me in, but they also don't want me to dent their cars because I'm coming through.

Eventually the light turns green, but the traffic ahead is so congested, nothing moves. People are agitated so they honk. Honking gets people angry and more agitation leads to angrier driving. Suddenly it's mayhem at 5 miles an hour. And it's all happening with cars stacked on top of each other on one of the busiest boulevards in the city.

It takes 45 minutes to drive a route that normally takes 15. I get back to my house.

Man what a day. I decide to try on a shirt I bought. Damn it doesn't fit.

Ah man, I have to go back to return it. I close my eyes and scream at the ceiling. Nobody seems to care.

I pop open a beer and throw the receipt on the counter.

Not going back today. I cherish freedom too much. Leave the shopping to the terrorists.

Ah that is crazy.

dirt nap

2011-12-09T08:18:00.003-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Going 143 mph on a motorcycle.

With your family jewels gripping the seat, and the wind ripping the flesh off your face, the world is a blur of speed and adrenalized fervor.

At 143 mph, a pebble could catapult you into a ditch where your only option is a dirt nap that lasts forever.

143 miles an hour on a motor-cycle is like riding a taser gun set to kill.

So what would prompt a man to climb onto a revving chain saw, and ride it like a wild boar into the concrete ether?

Love? Crazy? Lust? All of the above?

DATELINE: Melbourne, Austraila.

Joshua Kelly has apparently never had conjugal relations with a woman. So when his girlfriend said come on over stud, I want you to take me like a thief takes a carton of cigarettes from the Circle K, Kelly's blood pressure went through the roof.

Kelly climbed aboard his Japanese Rice Rocket and gunned it.

Next thing you know the American born wild man is being chased by cops Down Under.

Kelly was a bat out of hell, traveling down roads at speeds 3 times faster than what 4 out of 5 dentists would recommend.

Kelly didn't explode like a water mellon stuffed with M-80's during fire works prevention week. He survived, and was taken into custody.

The dude's lawyer told the judge: his 27-year-old client had been swept away by love but was sincerely remorseful, the Herald Sun reported.

"He says it's the stupidest thing he's ever done."

Police say Kelley was initially caught on a laser speed detector doing 111mph, then he gunned it up to 143mph in a roadworks zone where the speed limit was 50mph.

97 over! But who'se counting, right.

A little weave in and out of traffic. A little driving on the shoulder. Blue lights.

Bam. Handcuffs. It's over.

The court fined him $2,000 and put him in the pokey for four months.

And all for the physical love of a woman? Kelly. Dude you are nuts.
Despite the roaring start to their relationship, Kelley and his girlfriend plan to marry in February.

143 MPH.

After a couple of years of marriage, Kelly will wish he had hit that wall.

And that is crazy.™

Yes Ms Eng There is a Santa Claus

2011-12-08T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

An elementary school teacher with the audacity the TEMERITY to tell a bunch of 7 olds that there is no Santa Claus.

Hey lady are you stupid?

Are you high?

Are you a Communist?

According to published reports; Leatrice Ann Eng apologized to the kids, but the damage is done.

No Santa Claus?

Why not hose them down and ruin their dreams.

The 58 year old educator reportedly called each of the students' parents to say sorry.

SORRY?
How did that phone conversation go?

"Hi I'm Mrs. Eng. Ah, I hate to inform you that I might have told your 7-year-old that you and not Santa puts the presents under the tree. Hope that doesn't inconvenience you."

According to sources; Eng was in the middle of a lesson about the North Pole when one of her students said that's where Santa Claus lives.

Under normal classroom situations, where the teacher isn't huffing paint, that would be an opportunity to say something sweet like "yes, Suzy, that is where Santa lives. And he has to bundle up because it is 40 below zero."

But holiday cheer isn't what Ms. Eng is about. She's spoiled Egg Nog dripping down the velvet curtains.

"No he doesn't," she snapped. Adding, "Your parents leave the presents under the tree."

THIS IS AN EPIC FAIL LADY. AND YOU CALL YOURSELF A TEACHER?

OF COURSE THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS!

CAN YOIU SAY "ANTI-CHRIST."

"It's sad. She was wrong," according to Irene Hoffman, a mother of three students. "This whole thing is being blown out of proportion. I think we should focus on our children's education and just move on."

Well of course we're going to move on Momma Kind Heart, I mean what else can we do? String her up and tie reindeer bells to her short hairs? Yes we will move on, but not before we condemn Eng a few more times for being a witless twit.

Hey Eng.

Do you believe in luck? Because you are lucky to still ahve a job.

Are you not a parent yourself?

Were you not a child?

OR

Were you created in a petri dish in some sort of sperm donor experiment gone horribly wrong?

Did Santa bring you a lump of coal and knock you in the noggin with it?

You know Bad Santa has a temper, right?

I'm glad you apologized to the kids. Now you should apologize to Santa. He's tired of non-believers like you mucking up Christmas for the rest of us.

Maybe you should work after school. Try something more to your skill set like a custodial position waxing floors, far away from children.

Merry Xmas Eng.

And that's crazy.

get off the plane

2011-12-07T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Flight attendants drunk with power.

Wearing their blue smocks and their pinned on wings, they sashe down that three foot runway like the gestapo of the air.

They tell us to buckle our belts more times than a roadside squeegee man asks for a dollar.

They tell us to turn off all electronic devices, especially those with an on/off switch.

They ask if I have the strength to open a door in an emergency and would I be willing to help others.

"No lady. I'm saving my own ass if this flaming tin can goes down in the drink! Of course I'll help the others. If I'm not playing on my ipad or doing shots of flaming sambuca."

Ah the aerial hostesses with the mostesses are nice until you cross their path. Then they turn from coffee, tea or me to NAZI's with badly fitting blue slacks.

And now - in this post 911 world - flight attendants can also decide who flies and who gets the hell off the plane. They can look you up and down and decide who is a pain in the ass, who is a security threat, and who is a passenger about to be looking for another way to get home.

In back to back days, flight attendants have grounded two super-stars.

On Monday - Country singer John Rich didn't "make it to his city" after a Southwest flight crew determined he was too inebriated to make the trip from Vegas to Nashville.

On Tuesday, Alec Baldwin was escorted off an American Airlines flight at LAX because he reportedly refused to turn off his ipad.

According to published reports, the Big and Rich singer was reportedly drunk and may have engaged in a verbal argument with passengers.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, just not in row 13!

And when Alec Baldwin - the "30 Rock Star" - refused to turn off his ipad, he was given the boot and then tweeted about it.

"Flight attendant on American reamed me out 4 playing WORDS W FRIENDS while we sat at the gate, not moving. nowonderamericaairisbankrupt, he tweeted.

It's amazing to me that these high profile, ultra-famous, super rich men are treated no differently than you are me. They are just part of the flying cattle packed into the flying haywagon.

So let this be a lesson to you.

Next time you decide to get wasted and fly, or not pay attention how to buckle your seat belt, or refuse to sit down when asked you've been told to take your seat...

Then be prepared, because the Jack Booted bitches of the air will give you the evil eye ball and then have your sorry ass escorted off the plane.

And nothing good can come from this. This is where sky marshals, FBI and low brow TSA employees will probe you, prod you, interrogate you, and generally feel you up and make you feel dirty.

It happened to Rich. It happened to Baldwin. It can happen to you.

And that's crazy.

Hampton Inn

2011-12-06T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

A bunch of boys cooped up in a small motel room. It's claustrophobic. It's suffocating. It's like the biggest loser crammed into a Yugo full of rice pudding.

Keeping 12 year old boys quiet in a motel room is like trying to herd cats with tuna fish scented yarn.

As I write this, I am watching 12 year old enthusiasm over flow. I am witnessing pre-teen shananigans with a piercing shrill. I am watching boys jump from bed to bed, pretending to be superman leaping off tall buildings.

These boys are trapped inside this Hampton Inn room, a 10' by 10' box, like adrenalized hamsters crabbed in a tube.

The kids should be tired. They should be worn out. We drove far, got in late, got no sleep and got up early, but they are 12 years old and they never stop moving. They are the fountain of youth.

If you could hook them up to an electric grid, you could power the elevators on this floor. Crap, just the kids in this one room could run all the slushee machines in all the 7-11's in Atlanta.

Why is all this happening? Why so much energy, so much jumping, so much screaming in the halls?

Because we are on another soccer trip and the first game is over. Boredom has set in and the hotel is like Spring Break for pre-teens. The Hampton Inn is like Girls Gone Wild for 12 year old boys with a parental free pass to act a fool.

Getting the kids to game 1 was a military operation. It was like storming the beach. 15 kids. 30 parents. 20 siblings. A dozen more stragglers. The goal, to move them all to a field 20 miles away at 6:30 am.

It's dark, it's cold, there is grumpiness in the air.

The boys play well and run their hearts out. They sweat and kick and tie the game.

But now the game is over. So much time to kill. Lunch will only hold them off so long.

Four hours to go and the kids are peaking like Beckham in a tattoo parlor that offers free hair sculpting.

Their laughter is louder, their pushing more physical, their shouting more vociferous.

You can just see the energy level inside this Hampton Inn turn up a notch. It feels like a neutron star beginning to implode.

I am inside a whistling tea pot and my ears are ringing.

Right now, as I write this sentence, one kid is standing on my bed putting the fire alarm cover back on the device.

Why?

Because he and another boy are throwing a small sponge football around the room and the cover has been dislodged and will not reattach.

Bam. Whap. Bonk.

I am watching this laughing internally.

Nobody would allow this in their own home, but the decor of the Hampton Inn is not exactly Buckingham Palace, so it's sort of a who cares kind of moment.

Bonk.

The ball hits the wall.

Laughter and squeals of delight.

Another boy launches himself into the air and lands on the queen size bed, snagging the ball off the top of the comforter.

He looks like Jerry Rice making a Sports Illustrated catch.

"Why don't you boys take this into the hallway," I ask, not giving a damn about the old folks down the hall.

"We got in trouble," one of the boys says.

"What trouble?"

"A big guy yelled at us in the stairwell."

"Oh."

A quick smirk and the football smashes off a lamp.

2 hours till their unbridled energy and youth can be directed onto the pitch.

Sorry Hampton Inn.

And that is crazy.

we need a national championship

2011-12-05T08:02:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy™

The college football National Championship?

Can anyone say playoffs?

LSU kicked the crud out of Georgia, pasting them 42 -10. When it was over, the dogs were getting done doggy style in front of a national tv audience that got to see a mediocre NFL team playing college football.

LSU beat everyone put in front of them, nationally ranked or not. They play college football with a bunch of defensive guys who will be playing on Sunday.

LSU decimated everyone, but Alabama who they beat by a field goal in OT. 9-6 is not exciting, but it's hard to argue the defensive battle that it was.

LSU is a no brainer. They are the best team and they belong in the title game.

The football world gets murky after that. There are a bunch of teams with one or two losses who can say they belong in the big show.

Sunday night, the BCS voted that Alabama will play LSU again. Many people don't want to see this rematch of the 9-6 slug fest from earlier this year.

I heard one guy say "the ratings for this broadcast are gonna suck. Nobody wants this."

Many say Oklahoma State is the team that should play. They score points like a pin ball machine set on fire. They made a definitive case this weekend by Rocking Bedlam, tearing down the goal posts, leading the league in ambulances called to the field.

Oh and by the way, they destroyed in state rival Oklahoma 44-10.

OK State's only loss is to an Iowa State team and many say the pokes lost because they were mourning the loss of 2 women's basketball coaches in a plane crash.
ESPN's Robert Smith says the Crimson Tide is the number two team in the country. He says it comes down to wins and losses and who they played and how they won and what color underarmor they wore.

Blah blah blah.

He says between OK St and Bama, the Tide's body of work is slightly better.

This is where the BCS sucks. You have to be a bean counter to know who should play whom. You need to file a 401K and a W-2 and while you're at it, a BCS championship ballot.

Both teams are 11-1. Bama lost to #1 LSU. OK State lost to Iowa State, a relative nobody on the road.

Bama did't even win its conference. How can a team that didn't win its conference play for the national title some argue?

And then there are wins vs top ten teams. OK STATE has 2 and Bama has Zero.

It's ridiculous that there is no playoff. Just lace em up and play the game. That's the way they do it in Pop Warner and that's the way they should do it college.

Who is to say that Oregon wouldn't get hot and win it all? Why not give Boise state a chance? Clemson is hot again too. I sure wouldn't want to play a pissed off USC.

I hate the BCS. I hate the computers and the human polls. I want the teams to get on the field and grind it out. At the end, the two best teams will play and the obvious, and unadulterated national champion will emerge.

The reason they don't play?

I've never heard a good argument. College presidents say their "student athletes" would have to play longer and sacrifice their education. Some say it would jeopardize the bowls and only reward a handful of teams in the playoff.

Don't kid yourself, it's about the money.

The bowlS drum up a lot of money. So would a play off.

Sooner or later someone has to put up or shut up and just make it happen.

LSU vs Bama.

coming to a disgruntled nation near you.

And that is crazy.

Bag O Snakes

2011-12-02T08:00:00.004-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

Dumping a bag of snakes on the tax man.

DATELINE: LUCKNOW, India

It's here in the land of the sacred cow, that 2 farmers walked into the local tax man's office and dumped a bag of 40 slithering serpents on their desk.

Awesome.

The clerks and tax officials went scurrying.

Woosies.

Whose afraid of a couple of slithering pythons?

The farmers laughed a mighty, Indian toothless grin and walked out with a sense of satisfaction.

What a bold act.

The question is why? What led to the bag o snakes?

According to published reports; the farmers were fed up with what they say are bribery demands from local tax officials.

All the farmers wanted were their tax records. but tax officials withheld the files for weeks while allegedly demanding bribes.

"Give us our tax records"

"Give us a bribe"

BRIBE THIS!

The farmers, one of whom is a snake charmer, did it because they wanted to make a statement.

Game. Set. Statement made.

Game on Tax Dude.

Wouldn't it be great to just do what you want when you want because you were pissed.

Credit Card rejected? Dump a bucket of spit on the waiter.

Guy cuts you off in traffic? Throw a molitov cocktail at his car.

Pizza guy brings a pie with the wrong toppings? pepper spray him in the face with draino.

I'm not saying I approve of anarchy, or throwing buckets of chum on Miss America pageant contestants, I'm just saying, sometimes it's nice to kick ass and get some retribution.

And if the tax man is trying to solicit a bribe, and you have a bag of snakes, Hey what you gonna do.

Sometimes you have to say WTF and just cleanse the emotional pallet.

If it takes a python to cleanse it, then so be it.

and that is crazy.

Cain Cain Gone.

2011-12-01T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Herman Cain is crazy. His campaign is crazy. His belief that he will be the President of the United States is crazy.

Herman Cain is a Sherpa wearing butter coated roller skates. He's a ballerina twirling over hot coals.

When he couldn't figure out the situation in Libya, his campaign told us he was tired. They should of told us he was crazy.

Cain's life got all crazy when an Atlanta stepped onto the balcony of her apartment complex and unloaded. The woman claims an off an on relationship for more than a decade. It was a relationship that she says included money, and trips and sex. Not sure how safe it all was.

She knew Cain was married. She kept it quiet. Now it's being broadcast through a turbo charged mega-phone.

Cain says he and the woman are just friends, but admits to writing her checks here and there.

I don't know about your wife, but if you are giving money to a secret female friend, and she's ok with that, then you are high.

Cain rose to the political summit on a crazy campaign of 9 9 9.

Now his presidential run is about to get 86ed.

Cain is in free fall. He is an anvil falling out of an airplane hurtling to Earth. He has no heat shield, no retro rockets. When he burns up, he will be gone; a charcoal reminder of a candidate who really had promise.

Cain told his troops in a conference call "this is cause for reassessment. We have to do an assessment as to whether or not this is too big a cloud."

Cloud?

This is a firestorm. This is Vietnam and Napalm is raining down from KC 30's thundering over head.

Little naked Asian children are running for their lives as the world explodes in a fire ball of what if.

Her name: Ginger White.

She is to Cain what Kryponite is to Superman.

Cain is staying crazy by saying he is still in the race. He says it doesn't matter what the media says as long as people keep supporting him,

The problem; people are falling off the band wagon like Miami Heat fans.
"as long as my wife is behind me i will stay in the race," he says.

Cain's wife is crazier than Cain. She either doesn't care that he is a pizza-pimp-a-holic or she's just plain stupid.

Do they sleep in different houses? Different zip codes? Different universes?

How could she not know. counting Ginger "napalm" White there are 5 women all claiming some sort of inappropriate behavior.

All the women say Cain is unfit to be President of the United States.

The blood letting is so bad, Newt Gingrich, as popular as ham in a synagogue, is surging in the vacuum of political stupidness.

"my heart goes out to him," Newt says.

Yeah, sure thing Newt. Without Cain, you are a doormat at the next GOP debate.

This past Spring Cain was the unknown pizza guy.

By October Cain was the man to beat.

Then the harassment allegations and the foreign policy gaffe and now the decade long sexcapade.

Bow out Herm, bow out.

George Stephanopolous said this when asked if Cain can weather this storm; "he cannot last. His staff members are putting out feelers. There are too many questions about judgement and honesty.

Few politicians are honest, but the public expects some semblance of judgement.

With Cain going down like a hooker in East Jersey, the field opens back up for previous dead candidates like Bachman and Perry.

What a mess. When Cain was your best hope, it makes you wonder if the GOP is a row boat taking on water.

Stay tuned, more skeletons lurking in the shadows.

Crazy.

Jet Man

2011-11-30T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

JET MAN IS CRAZY.

It's truly one of the coolest videos I have seen in a long long time.

Flying like a bat out of hell on rocket fuel.

This guy looks like Super Dave Osborne with wings.

He's like a flying squirrel with rocket boosters.

This guy is literally is a human jet who can fly as fast as a jet, at some 125 miles an hour.

The man is flat out crazy, and not only does he fly through the sky, but he flies in formation along side real jet aircraft.

The video is out freakin rageous. The Swiss Alps as a backdrop, this crazy dude jumps out of a chopper and hits the switch.

The crazy switch.

And....ZOOOOOM.

The daredevil is Yves Rossy.

According to published reports, Mr. Rossy did a back flip out of a helicopter to launch himself.

That would have me soiling myself plenty for one day. Not Rossy.

Ignition, blast off.

This guy suddenly is swooping into formation with the Swiss version of the Blue Angels.

The 51 year old use to fly fighter jets with the Swiss Air Force. I guess that wasn't enough. So now, after watching Iron Man, 500 times in a row, he has designed a human jet costume with a six and a half foot wing span and a jet pack with four engines.

According to published reports; Rossy is still the first man in the history of aviation to fly with a jet-propelled wing, a feat he first achieved in 2006.

I can see NASA asking this guy to fly their next mission to the stars.

Better yet, I bet the Pentagon is interested in a 6 foot fighter jet with testicles of steel and nerves like ice water.

Seal Team 6 watch out.

There's a new Sheriff in town and his name is Rossy.

He's crazy. Cool. But Crazy.

Times Square

2011-11-29T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

Times Square.

It was the night after Thanksgiving and the temperature was in the low 60's.

The yellow cab smells of incense and cheap air freshener.

Our driver is named Ahmed. He is obviously frustrated by the thousand other vehicles crammed on the same small street.

The cabbie is flipping off a moving van in front of us in a universal language all of us can understand. The driver of the moving van laughs and motions to the cabbie, flipping the back of his hand against his chin.

Along the sidewalks, the Theater crowd is moving into the buildings that line the neon way.

As we get closer to Broadway the glow of the neon sun can be felt on our face.

After a few more curse words in a dialect from another time, we tell the driver to pull over.

"That's good driver. We'll walk from here."

He grunts like a goat and throws the flag up.

We slide our card through the machine and wish we could tip less than 20 percent.

We move to the street corner and bask in the glow of an exploding atomic bomb.

All around us are TV monitors the size of buildings. Disney and Good Morning America and Barclay's Bank.

It's a pin wheel of neon, phosphorescent colors.

I can't help but stare into the glare. it's visually intoxicating. I need 30 SPF to protect my skin. I need sunglasses to keep my pupils from
bursting. I am hyperventilating on neon.

The crowd is a jambalaya of colors and smells. I hear French and German and a hint of Ozark Arkansas.

I see women in cocktail dresses and heals. I see guys in wife beater cut offs. I see children and old people. If the airport is a great place to watch people. This is an orgasmic place to watch people.

It's an amazing array of humanity and technology and excess and commercialism.

I take my eyes off the building's glare for a moment to look donw while crossing the street. I see 3 huge steaming piles of horse crap.

I quickly point out the log sized obstacles to the others.

We cross and I look back. I watch as a woman from Indiana or Illinois or wherever, staring into the sky steps with her high heel into a slippery mound of mush.

She knows something is wrong as she gets to the curb. She stops and looks down at the street and the mushed poo now clinging to her shoe.

Unbelievable I think to myself.

I see the culprit a few feet away. It's a New York City Police horse.

I ask the cop if I can take his picture.

He's an ass, on his steed, and sneers at me as if I am wasting his time.

I snap the picture and feel like telling him to apologize to the woman whose shoe is smeared in poop.

We need a break from the onslaught of tourists banging into each other like Angry Birds, so we step into the Toys R Us.

It's the mother ship of toys. There is a full sized barbie house you can walk in and a Ferris wheel in the middle of the lobby. It's truly impressive.

We step outside and begin looking for a cocktail. I see the Ed Sullivan studio and Muppets flying from the rooftops.

I see a naked guy playing a guitar. He's talking to the crowd. He obviously doesn't care about his man pouch spilling over his briefs.

We are accosted by street level hucksters who try and get us to buy tickets to a comedy show somewhere, someplace.

"Fah-Get-About-it"

We step into the Marriot Hotel and jet to the View on the 48th floor. My ears pop as we whiz into the darkness.

We exit the elevator and are lead to a revolving rooftop. It's moving at a mile an hour, but it's still a bit disorienting.

The cocktail woman is all New York, cock-sure and a voice like a subway grate.

"It's going to be an 8 dollar a person coverage charge," she says.

I roll my eyes. 8 dollars a person for the right to buy a 16 dollar drink.

"Yeah, whatever," we say as we order.

We zip past the Chrysler building and the Empire State building.

It's a pretty amazing city from above and below.

We buy our 3 drinks and give the waitress damn near 85 dollars.

Wow, that's maximum effort, minimum result, I think to myself.

We zip down the elevator like exlax through a goose.

"Oh no," someone in my group says. "Theater is letting out."

She's right. The Lion King and Mama Mia and all the doors are open. People are running like musical zombies into the great white way hailing cabs that are suddenly more valuable than water in the desert.

I walk to the cab stand as a cab pulls up. The man gets out, we get in, and we are suddenly off to the Battery, the lights a fleeting memory behind us.

Time Square.

Crazy.

Black Friday

2011-11-28T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy!

Black Friday is crazy.

I still don't understand the concept.

I mean how much am I am saving exactly?

And what is my time worth? What is my REM cycle worth? What is my patience being tested worth?

Is the one flat screen on sale at Target for 99 dollars worth rushing the doors like the running of the bulls? Is it worth checking an old woman into the glass like I'm a New York Ranger on the Power Play?

And after that one flat screen is gone, snatched up by the fat guy with no teeth and suspenders, what am I going to do, not buy the other flat screens at twice the price?

It's a scam. It's a sham. It's a farce of national proportions.

I'm watching TV and every commercial tells me that I need to be in the store at 4am or else.

Or else what?

Or else I might get to sleep? I might get to enjoy the holiday? I won't be angry that I paid too much for something I really didn't want, but I bought anyway, because I was up at 4am so what else was I suppose to do?

K-Mart and Macy's and Target. Screw em!

They are blowing up the airwaves with warnings of mass shopping hysteria so ferocious, so pernicious, so forcefully, you'd think that we were being invaded by North Korea.

Attention citizens digesting you dinner! We interrupt this program to inform you that America has been attacked by WalMart.

Hold on..

This just in: ToysRUs is having an After Thanksgiving Day sale so amazing, so shocking, so incredible, if you don't take part, you will be considered the stupidest person on Earth.

And get this. The Door Buster extravaganza doesn't even make you wait till after Thanksgiving. It actually begins at 10pm Thanksgiving night.

Isn't that great. You can eat Turkey and pumpkin pie and stuffing and gravy and giblets and cranberries and deviled eggs and ham and celery and cupcakes and ginger bread and wash it all down with beer and liquor.

Then while you are close to a cardiac arrest and having trouble breathing, you can button your pants, fasten your coat, and push yourself behind the steering wheel of the car to go stand in line at Toys R Us.

I pray to God that the Rapunzel Let Down Your Hair gift set is still available.

Give me a break, PLEASE.

Save Save Save.

It's a national hallucination.

Like they aren't going to sell laptops after Black Friday.

I swear to Snow White and the 7 dwarfs that this Black Friday thing is a manufactured day of merchandising tom-foolery.

It was conjured up by 3 Macy's Managers smoking dope in a back room dreaming of a way to save their jobs by getting people to part with their money.

So here's my crazy advice. Forget the Black Friday. Don't cater to the wishes of corporate America. Stay in bed and love the one your with.

Shop on Saturday and Sunday and even Tuesday. Treat Friday like the 7th day when God expects you to rest.

Don't fall prey to the hypnosis hysteria, Shop wisely. Make sure you are awake and not wearing your house coat in the dark.

Personally, I think the best deal is Christmas Eve. Everything is priced to move.

So be safe K-Mart Shoppers. Don't shop under the influence of Triptofan.

And that is crazy.

$1000 vomit

2011-11-25T08:00:00.003-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy™

Trying to buy a new car with bile soaked, vomit stained, Bulldog scented, scotch taped, soggy $100 bills.

DATELINE: ST. AUGUSTINE, Fla.

Straight from the dog ate the homework file, I submit for your approval, Tooty the Lab-Chow-Bulldog who aparently has a taste for the Benjamins.

According to dog owner, Christy Lawrenson, their pup ate their cash, money that was suppose to help them buy a new car.

The Florida couple discovered the problem when the husband came home and found pieces of hundred dollar bills scattered about the apartment.

When a dog eats your cash, you have two options.

1. wait for him to digest the expensive meal and then chase him around with a plastic bag.

2. induce vomiting and get your money back before your pooches digestive enzymes can get a foothold on your cash.

The family chooses option 2.

According to published reports; after a dose of a peroxide mixture, Tooty threw up what he'd eaten.

I'm sure that was attractive. Nothing says a fun saturday night like making your dog barf and then sifting through partially digested Milk Bones and anal hair, to find bits and pieces of U.S. Legal Tender.

This couple must really want a new car, because they say they were able to salvage $900.

That's astoundingly crazy. A dog chews, tears and swallows ten $100 bills and you are able to get 9 of the 10 bills back? Wow!

The Lawrensons said they could not find all of the serial numbers, though they did find a shoe, a set of car keys, and a tennis ball that had been missing for weeks.

"I didn't really see that one coming and I guarantee we'll keep money away from now on," Lawrenson told a local TV station.

Good idea Mr. Lawrenson, good idea.

And that is crazy.

NEW WORDS OLD WORDS

2011-11-24T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

All the new words in the world.

Words like TWEET and FIST BUMP and DOWNLOAD and FACEBOOK.

As the Earth travels around the sun, year after year, the times change, and the words that describe them evolve.

Thanks Meriam Webster for being the caretaker of the global lexicon.

In my opinion, words are like stars in an interminable nebula of space. There is ample room for all of them.

Words twinkle and sparkle and grace the heavens like brilliant Christmas lights twinkling in the mind.

So when Merriam Webster adds new words to the old words, I say "bring it." In my mind, the old words are like old friends, sitting around a fire, in a warm living room, and opening the front door to a stranger.

"Come on in and grab a beer," the old words wave to the new words.

Merriam Webster is the keeper of the sacred words - so sacrosanct, so definitive, it is the Holy Bible of written history. And like any publication, bound by a hard cover on front and back, MW acts like there is only so much room, only so much ink, only so many pages.

In this new millennium of cloud files, why must we discriminate?

Why must MW add two words and eliminate two words? Is this Southwest Airlines and once your luggage goes over 50-pounds you have to pay an extra fee?

I say keep all the words. They are our friends. They are the building blocks of humanity. Without our words we are animals grunting at fire.

Celebrate the old words like we celebrate our grandparents. You wouldn't just kick your Nana to the curb would you?

So why is Merriam Webster tossing Cassette into the scrap heap?

Merriam Webster's out with the old and in with the new is upon us, celebrated and derided like Mr. Blackwell's best dressed list.

What this means is that Merriam - Webster's Collegiate Dictionary is keeping up with the times. It is their list, and they can do what they want. But I want them to remember this list is really OUR list.

2011 words being put out to pasture are antiquated words like Cassette and typewriter. Why? because Middle School kids don't even know what the hell these words mean. CASSETTE is so 1970's, right.

Why get rid of words? It makes no sense. Just because middle school kids don't know what words like fastidious and duplicity and assiduous mean, should we eliminate them? Just because the world is too stupid to know what words mean, to use them in every day situations, does that mean we should just replace them with words we know, words that are safe?

Kids today can barely conjugate and we are going to cater to their stupidity?

Does that mean words like CAT and DOG and HUH are forever etched into the Merriam Webster tablet of indelible vocabulary?
Merriam Webster has just opened the door for new words like "Helicopter Parents" and "mankini" and "jeggings" and "sexting" and "cyberbullying" and "Woot."

According to published reports: Sadly, the new edition has no room for tremendous words like brabble - meaning 'paltry noisy quarrel'. It has lost space for a word like growlery, meaning 'place to growl in, private room, den' – what we might call a man cave these days.

SAY IT AINT SO MERRIAM - SAY IT AINT' SO.

And back to the deletion that says hey old guy, you don't matter. "cassette tape" is no longer an entry worthy of your data base.

Bucks Burnett, owner of the Eight Track museum is very upset. "I'm going to ban the Oxford Dictionary from the museum. I have a copy and I'm going to recycle it! This decision to remove the word was made inside a Starbucks by 20-something editors on their lunch break."

Eloquently and judiciously stated Mr. Burnett. Said with celerity and a visceral flavor, that is rarely seen in today's cerebrally dysfunctional culture.

And that is crazy.

Christmas Burglar

2011-11-23T08:00:00.002-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Breaking into a man's home and putting up his Christmas decorations.

The burglar who does this is also the burglar who subscribes to Martha Stewart then gets high on the pipe.

The bandit who does this thinks he is a good samaritan for giving you back a little bit of your own stuff.

So who breaks into a house and accesorizes with a distinctly St. Nick theme?

A dumb ass, that's who.

Hey dumb ass; If you are going to burglarize, have some common courtesy.

Rule 1. Steal and get the hell out. Don't come into my house and desecrate, fornicate, obfuscate, denegrate or break stuff. Just steal like the worm vomit you are and get the F out.

Just steal my Nana's gold watch - she left to me on her death bed -and vamoose.

But whatever you do, don't go into my Christmas decorations and start trimming my damn tree.

DATELINE: OHIO

According to WHIO-TV, Terry Trent broke in to a Central Ohio house, lit a candle and turned on a television before doing some Christmas decorating.

How Bed Bath and Beyond of you Trent.

According to the local cops, the 44 year old has a history of drug charges. Now brace yourself. The cops say he was high on bath salts when he decided to deck the halls.

Hey Trent, while your smoking incense, why not make some Jiffy Pop Pop Corn and pour yourself a shot of Maker's Mark.

Why not fill the kid's stockings with candy canes and wrap a few presents while you're all up in their business getting your Perp on.

Why do you think you can just come into a home and touch their Christmas decorations? You want to touch something, go pet a cactus!

You are the worst kind of criminal, one who is so stupid, you feel entitled.

Now here's the kicker; the family's 11 year old son came home and found Trent just sitting there, on a couch.

I can imagine that magic moment.

"Hey kid. I'm Trent the burglar. What up?"

The kid called his mom, who called police. According to published reports, the stupid burglar was polite telling the kid "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I'll get my things and leave."

Not so fast Martha Stewart. Christmas lights and a polite disposition don't exactly give you a free pass.

Cops arrested bath salt santa and locked him behind bars. It just goes to show you that Christmas cheer, and good House Keeping magazine will only get you so far.

And that is crazy.

super failure

2011-11-22T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

The Super Failure.

Man this pisses me off.

There was suppose to be a deal today by the super committee in charge of cutting our super debt. But apparently the super committee is a bunch of super losers, and no deal got done.

What's so damn hard people? This is your job. It's what you are hired to do. It's what Mr. and Mrs America do every day when they open their check books and balance them. They do without and make hard decisions.

No salami this week. Raman noodles for dinner again Suzy.

What the hell is so damn hard?

Just do it. Nike would just do it. So you should just do it too.

But you didn't do it. The super committee, 12 esteemed members of Congress, hired to cut America's debt by 1.2 trillion dollars have failed. No they didn't just fail, they Epically failed. They failed publicly and harshly and landed on their faces for the world to see.

CNN and FOX called it Breaking News. It should have come as no surprise that they couldn't get a damn thing done.

So now words like defeat and fail fill our Thanksgiving thoughts.

Because the super losers couldn't do the only job assigned to them, markets around the globe dropped like a rock. The Dow was down 250 points Monday.

Some say it is the reason the system is broke. Democrats hate Republicans, Republicans despise Democrats. It's a big pile of steamy hot gridlock in a city known for stagnation.

So the super losers, the super douches, the super idiots, did the only thing they were not suppose to do. They gave up. They gave up like a crack head using food stamps to buy Ripple gives up. They gave up like a trust fund baby asked to pull weeds gives up.

President Obama came to the briefing room and blamed Republicans who would not agree to tax the richest Americans. Republicans would only agree to some loopholes in the tax code.

It's a piping hot mess. It's like stepping in a big pile of dog poop and letting it squeeze through your toes.

So in a time when Congressional ratings are at an all time low, the super committee of Congressional losers failed.

Americans are livid. Americans are sickened. Americans are not surprised.

You congressional idiots need to remember you work for us, not for you.

Stop the political horseplay and get the job done. It's our asses on the economic line.

ABC news Capitol Hill correspondent, John Carl said; "what this means is that the political system is unable to deal with the biggest problem facing the federal government, the runaway federal debt.
This super committee had taxing and spending powers to reduce the budget mess. And they couldn't agree on anything."

Now the fail safe kicks in and 1.2 million will be cut, but the cuts will not be judiciously or expertly executed which means the defense budget will get slashed dramatically possibly leaving the U.S. Military, in the words of one Defense official, a Paper Tiger.

Way to go super losers. You can't balance our budget and you jeopardize my safety both home and abroad.

Epic Failure.

And that is crazy.

Lee Corso F Bomb

2011-11-21T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

Lee Corso saying "F*** It" on live TV.

He could have said "Oh Fudge" or "The heck with it." Instead he dropped the F bomb heard around the world wide web.

It all starts on ESPN Gameday, college football's Bloody Mary of Saturday morning.
It's 2 hours of endless banter about which college football team is number one and which teams win.

The stage is set in the middle of the quad or in front of the library or stadium. Students arrive in the wee hours of the morning to wave their signs and jump around trying to get on TV.

Like any good program, the show builds with anticipation to the end where long time coach, Lee Corso picks his winning team.

He does it with animated flamboyance by choosing the school's mascot head and putting it on.

On Saturday, the Game Day Crew is in Houston where the undefeated Cougars play long time rivals SMU.

With Gold Medal Winner Carl Lewis on set, Corso is screaming through a megaphone about his pick. Then, suddenly, in a purely Corso moment, he throws the megaphone down and reaches for the big cougar head. While he does so he utters aloud,

"Oh F*** It!"

Kirk Herbstreit's jaw drops and he pushes away from the anchor desk. Chris Fowler cannot believe his ears and lays his head down. Carl Lewis is clapping like he's got a ring side table at an all male cabaret.

Facebook explodes with people asking one another "did Corso just drop the F bomb?"

Herbstreit opens the Cougar mascot's mouth and looks in at an obviously embarrassed Corso as if to say "hey you senile old man, have you lost your ever loving mind?"

As the show fades to black, Fowler is heard saying that the cougar needs to wash his mouth out with soap.

It makes you wonder if Corso just signed his broadcast death warrant?

Corso would later come on and stoically apologize for the broadcast gaffe, saying he is sorry and it will never happen again.

Did he say "F It" on live TV. He sure did. Was it the end of the world? Hardly. It was in the middle of a pep rally, barely noticeable. It was extemporaneously uttered in a loud blender of chaos.

I dare say without the immediacy of the internet, it would be no more than a pimple on the back of a rhino. People would say "hey did you hear Corso drop the F bomb?" And you'd say, "He did, really?"

But with the power of a Facebook universe, there was no doubt.
Thanks to social media, you could be under anesthesia having your gall bladder removed, wake up, and still find out a full 24 hours later.

That's the difference between an incident today and 5 years ago.

Today you are caught like a tuna in a viral long line fishing net. There is no escape, no deniability, nowhere to hide.

You can only do what Corso did; own up to the mistake and move on.

It wasn't that big a deal, and actually was pretty cool. The mistake shows he's human and he got caught up in the pageantry of the show.

Hopefully ESPN producers won't get their panties in a bunch and take further disciplinary action.

"Hold on one second" ESPN.

And that is crazy.

TGI FRIDAY

2011-11-18T08:00:00.001-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Having fun at your job. Taking something ordinary and making it
extraordinary.

There's an old saying; find a job you love and you'll never work a day in your life.

Can you say that? Are you working for the weekend? Are you working for the paycheck? Or do you laugh at work and genuinely enjoy your co-workers?

I came across a fun video out of Manchester England and it features bartenders at a Thank God its Fridays'.

What's so fun about TGIF? The hot wings? The eclectic decor that makes you wanna order a barf bag?

Across the pond, TGIF has wait staff who treat mixing an adult libation like its cirque du soleil.

DATELINE: MANCHESTER, ENGLAND

It's here that Candy Cane clothed, suspender wearing tequila trickster's are spinning bottles and doing cartwheels behind the bar.

Perhaps they do it for tips, perhaps for kicks. Either way they have turned the ordinary into the extra ordinary and for this I salute them as part of the Crazy work force.

I wish I could spit fire onto my desk in a desultory salute to nothing in particular.

There are some astounding bar tricks to be sure. One guy flips 6 napkins and they all spin onto the bar in a neat pattern. It's like a paper version of the blue angels. I can't even pull a kleenex out of the box without 500 pieces coming out too.

The bartenders splash five cherries into 5 cocktail glasses at once.
I can't even get my lime into my corona bottle without green pulp spilling over the side.

The mixologists even get physical, using suspenders to launch a heavy metallic drink tumbler 30 feet across the restaurant.
I once poked myself in my own eye with a fork. How the hell did I do that? don't ask.

The patrons that don't lose an eye clap feverishly.

Fire is always a good way to end a performance and these bartenders do flaming shots of Sambuca like candy striped fire breathing dragons. I drank a flaming shot of sambuca once. It was heart warming. My buddy did it too. He didn't quite extinguish the flame and he drank the burning brew. In the next moment his face was covered in a blue flame. We all started laughing. He was not seriously hurt, at least I don't think he was. Who really cares, right? It's a flaming shot of sambuca. You know what you're getting into when you order it.

Anyway....Thank God It's Friday everyone.

And that is crazy.

surfing safari

2011-11-17T08:00:00.002-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.™

Jumping off the roof of a 9 story building -Driving a race car down the side of a cliff - Rocket sledding over Niagra Falls on a plank.

That's essentially what Garrett McNamara did recently when he surfed over the lip of a 90 foot wave.

Cameras from the beach capture this unbelievable feat. The surfer looks like a popsicle stick figure as the jet ski pulls him into position.

There's no way a surfer could paddle out and catch this wave in the conventional manner. That would be like metal trying to paddle through a super conductor.

So the surfer hitches a ride behind the jet ski to get up to speed. At the last second - as the wave suddenly swells into a water mountain of unequaled proportions, the jet ski driver does the smart thing and hauls ass to safety.

Not McNamara. He sling shots like a crazy roller derby skater into the pipe and lets gravity do its job.

The wall of water is formidable, like a liquified mastodon, charging the beach, forming angrily, growing into a force of moving energy.

And there, through the frenetic fury of it all, McNamara is glued to his surf board, riding, like a NASA test pilot, rocketing down the face of the wave.

The surfer has stones. If he is scared, he doesn't show it. If he were a poker player, he 's ALL IN. There is no do over or time out. It's a one in a million shot and he's gambling with his life.

The video shows him racing down the wave, the white foam, like an angry hand trying to snatch him off his board and pound him into oblivion.

He even has a surf cam. Spray and spit and water exploding all around. He is flying on a jet stream of crazy, riding into the belly of the blue beast.

This video is totally rad, and maybe the craziest thing you will ever see a human do.

Check it out from the comfort of your easy chair.

Hang 90.

And that's crazy.

jerry sandusky is a perp

2011-11-16T09:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

Jerry Sandusky is crazy.

The former Penn State coach is accused of molesting children, and raping a young boy in a shower at the university.

The former coach says he is not a pedophile, but quite frankly, I don't believe him.

The accusations are poignant like snorting tear gas. The allegations have destroyed the reputations of young lives, and Penn State's station among academic institutions.

The university president was fired, and the tragedy has severely damaged the saint like persona of beloved football coach, Joe Paterno.

And then Monday night there was the bombshell itself. It was an interview, a "phoner", that allowed the toxic tones of Jerry Sandusky to ooze all over the nation.

Quite honestly it was uncomfortable, almost nauseating to listen to.

In a move that surprised even interviewer Bob Costas, Sandusky did a phone interview and his voice, his words, his demeanor, made a nation cringe.

I heard it and it made me feel dirty. I felt like showering, alone, without a 60 year old man to help cleanse me, without the hands of an old man touching me or making sure I didn't fall during any inappropriate horse play - in the damn shower.

Come on old man, Get real!!

In a major journalistic coup; Bob Costas did the first substantive interview with the man who is in the filthy eye of this salacious hurricane.

But Costas says he didn't know that he was going to do a "phoner" with Sandusky till about 10 minutes before he did it.

The long time sports anchor says he had prepared to interview Sandusky's lawyer, Joseph Amendola, who then said on his own, ‘What if I could get Sandusky on the phone?’

Hmmmm?

Let me think about that for a micro-second.

Get him on the horn NOW.

I'm sure the eyes of Costas' producers were spinning in their sockets like drunken dashboard hoola girls.

"In retrospective, I know I shouldn't have showered with those kids," Sandusky said.

UNDERSTATEMENT!!

Now the man is charged with 40 counts of child abuse and it's his first on the record interview.

Costas calmly asked the accused; "are you sexually attracted to boys?"

Sandusky paused and repeated the question “as if he was pondering it,” deciding how to answer.

To me it was like he was deciding to come clean and say hell yes I'm a pedophile and I'm sorry as hell I did this. But in the end, some 16 seconds later, he answered the question by saying he is not sexually attracted to young boys.

NOT VERY CONVINCING JERRY. You don't even sound like you believe yourself.

While Costas played down the interview, fire breathing sports journalists like Jim Rome climbed in their clock towers and sniped Sandusky's head clean off.

Jim Rome is a salty pirate of a sports analyst and he wasn't pulling punches.

With flames burning around him, Romey went off calling Sandusky a perp and his legal team a bunch of morons.

"What the hell was his legal team thinking?" the animated, volatile TV host screamed.

Rome's guest said "I cringed watching that."

Sandusky denied being a pedophile, but Rome says it was hardly convincing.

Sandusky is now accused of sexually abusing 8 boys, but the line of victims is growing like homeless people outside the Y on Thanksgiving morning.

Rome went on a toxic bender of angst questioning how a grown man can even rationalize taking a shower with a child.

Sandusky's lawyer said that after athletic events, people shower. The lawyer tried to play it off as something that is natural.

"But old men don't shower with children," Rome hollered.

"Yeah, maybe you are innocent, but grown men don't touch the legs of boys and don't horseplay around with children in showers!"

Rome was incensed.

"How could anyone look at this and say this guy is innocent?"
Then Rome and his guest attacked the lawyers.

"He didn't help his client," the guest said. "He hurt his client," Rome chimed in. "I spoke with a defense attorney who said he may have added years to a potential sentence."

"What kind of legal strategy was that? Did the attorney think that was a good idea?"

"It might have been the worst legal strategy imaginable," Rome said his voice crackling with anger.

"EPIC FAIL!" Rome says in typical Rome style.

The interview was a great get for NBC but it only reinforces the fact that this horror is just a few layers deep, and this onion is going to have to be peeled back.

Prepare for a lot more tears America.

And that is crazy.

OOPS

2011-11-15T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know what's crazy? I'll tell you what's crazy.

having a brain fart witnessed by the whole world.

All of us have lost our train of thought - forgotten what we wanted to say.

Maybe it happened at the grocery store and you forgot to put mayonnaise in the cart.

Maybe you blanked at the sports bar and you can't remember who threw the TD pass that won the game.

It usually isn't an issue. It won't normally change the course of your job or your life.

Your momma told you if you can't remember what you wanted to say, it probably isn't all that important.

But when you are running for president, everything you say, or don't say is important. When you are running for the oval office, the smallest of things are measured. Your hair is analyzed. How many times you blink per minute is dissected. Your foreign and domestic acumen are on constant display.

So when Rick Perry stumbled and bumbled through a memory lapse, it was excruciating, and potentially damaging to his faltering campaign.

As you know - Perry said he would eliminate 3 agencies. He lays out the first two just like he practiced it with his tactical team. And then he gets to the third agency and he loses it.

His brain hits a tree and explodes into a fiery mess. Unlike a one car wreck on a secluded mountain pass, this MVA happens in front of the entire globally connected world.

Perry laughs and fidgets and then says OOPS.

OOPS is not what you want your presidential candidate to ever say.

Oops I pushed the wrong button. Oops I invaded the wrong country. Oops, I pushed the wrong economic plan through Congress.

Oops is not a very reassuring campaign platform.

Even the other candidates were trying to fill in the blank for the hiccup heard round the world.

Ron Paul even offered "you mean the EPA."

A relieved Perry said yes, even though he didn't mean the EPA.

Perry would have said yes to the Department of Hookers and Transvestites at that point. His brain was on lock down and all fire exits were blocked.

Saturday Night Live of course spoofed the gaffe with a fake Republican debate.

The comedic moderators asked about growing the American Economy?

"The three agencies I would cut immediately," the actor playing Perry said; "are Commerce and Education." And then in a world where reality is stranger than fiction, the pretend Perry smiled awkwardly and looked down like a third grader whose dog ate his homework and then mumbled to himself. "uhhh, and what is the third one there?" He looks around nervously, anxiously while the audience is belly laughing. "Ah, that one got away from me," he smiles.

More awkward pauses and then "OOPS."

The SNL moderators pressed him for the third agency he forgot and he says "come on man, I said Oops."

Then he tilts his head and bangs the side of his skull and says "it is up there some where. I can feel it dancing around." He slaps his head trying to shake out the answer as if it's trapped water inside his ear.

The real Perry did a good job with damage control on all the news shows the next day talking about not being a good debater but being a good candidate for president. He even formed a web featuring agencies you would most like to forget.

SMART.

As far as damage control goes, it was helpful, but still doubt lingers and doubt is not what the American voter likes when they are pulling the lever for a President.

Every day in a presidential campaign is an unpredictable crap shoot. Like spinning a wheel in Vegas, where it will stop, nobody knows.

There is still time for Perry to recover. There is also time for him to implode.

Which way he goes is any one's guess.

If the Republicans want to take President Obama out next November, they need less about Cain's women, less about Perry's forgetfulness and more substantive discussion where issues are forefront and candidates appear presidential.

And that is crazy.