I'VE HAD THIS PHONE CONVERSATION COUNTLESS TIMES OVER THE PAST WEEK:

FEMALE VOICE
Hello?

ME
Oh hello, my name is Andres and I'm calling from Central Synagogue.

FEMALE VOICE
Yes.

ME
Um. We're trying to arrange tutoring time for all of the kids whose Bar/Bat Mitzvahs are coming up within the next six months or so, and I was wondering if you wanted to schedule some time for Aaron to come in.

FEMALE VOICE
Mmm hmm. Aaron. Ah...

ME
Are you...

FEMALE VOICE
You want to talk Aaron?

ME
Oh okay you're not --

FEMALE VOICE
Eh. Aaron --

ME
You're not his Mother?

FEMALE VOICE
You want his mother?

ME
Can I leave a message for --

FEMALE VOICE
Yeah. Yes. Call back and leave message.

ME
Okay, so you want me to [DIAL TONE]

I'm guessing cleaning lady. Why pick up the phone at all? WHY? Grrrr. When I'm a cleaning lady I'll know well enough to leave the phone alone.

"Hilarilog" is a word I've used on stage many times to refer to my little black comedy notebook that I sometimes carry with me. It's a clever little word that I made up by taking the first half of the word "hilarious" and the second half of the word "peanutlog".

Incidentally, I also made up the word "peanutlog", by taking the first half of the word "peanutopia" and the second half of the word "ploplog".

Peanutopia is one of the few places on this Earth that truly lives up to its name.

Ploplog, however, is yet another of my hilarious (there's that word again!) made-up words. I constructed it by rearranging the letters in the name of the famous author P.P. Gollo.

If you haven't read P.P. Gollo's latest book Rhino Pile, I highly recommend it. Though not quite as suspensful as his 1999 Gaymont Prize Finalist The Edge of Envy, and not quite as funny as his 2001 Schwartz-O'Neill Blue Ribbon recipient Scent of the Senator's Thumb, I still found Rhino Pile to be one of the most incisive books I've ever read about turn-of-the-century skiing.

It's random shit like this which earned me the White Rose Seltzer Genius Annointment at this year's Akron Stagetime Allotment Carnival.

Wow. It sure has been a long time since I've been THSI druk and attempted to blog, whew.

et's ee, what about toda. Well, I guess it was good, but I;m not theat craz¥ about my job ,and I don't feel like I'm getting enough writring done lately,.

My blog is not to good.

Man this was nt a godo aidea.

Ensign! Ensign hey. Hey! Whoah! Slow down! There ya go. Hey howzitgoin'. You're in an awfully big rush big guy. With your stun pistol drawn and everything! It's that thing that escaped from the Bio-Sciences Lab, huh? Yeah, well don't sweat it, someone'll find it. Anyhoo, I was wondering, just kind of thinking out loud here, if you could take care of a little something for me when you find some time, but really as soon as possible thanks. Okay here's the dealy-O. Somehow, don't ask me how but you know typical whoopsydaisy stuff, somehow there's this evil version of me on the ship now. And he's really charming and really persuasive and stuff, but believe you me he is evil. Okay, here's the kicker: he's been going around telling everyone on the ship that I'm the evil clone, and that he's ME. Kuh-razy, right? So here's what I need you to do. If you see another me - but with his hair parted on the left hence evil, I want you to zap him, got it? That's parted on his left, not your left. It'll look like your right. But it's his left. Got it? Cool. Alright, I gotta run. I think your creepy-crawly fella is about to come around the corner here, so good luck with that. And keep an eye out for the evil me. Hey, which way to the...ah forget it. I know the way, of course I do. Okay bye!

Inevitably, a bunch of us comics are all sitting around drunk, and someone will bring someone else up, and then someone else will mention how they heard that that person has a HUGE/TINY penis.

Every time.

"Hey I heard [NAME OF LOCAL COMIC HERE] has a huge shlong."

"Hey guess what I heard about [NAME OF DIFFERENT OR MAYBE EVEN THE SAME LOCAL COMIC HERE]? He's apparently hung like a peanut. Tiny."

I wonder what people say when my name comes up? Probably not much, seeing as my philandering days are way behind me, and also weren't that philandery in the first place. Hmm.

I just bought a T-shirt that says "I SURVIVED THE BLACKOUT OF 2003." I'm going to add this to my collection of event-related shirts, such as:

I ESCAPED THE GREAT MEMORY-ERASURE OF 1997!

I WISH IT WERE STILL 9/11! (then on the back) HOUSTON GREAT RIB ROUND-UP AND COOK-OFF, SEPT 11TH, 1992.

I MADE IT THROUGH "NO-LEASH LAWS WHILE EVERYONE WEARS MEAT PANTS" DAY!

I FUCKED A JACK-O-LANTERN IN THE EYE! (then on the back) GREATER SEATTLE AREA HALLOWEEN CANDY TAINT 'N' LACE, OCT 29TH, 1995.

I FELL ASLEEP WITH MY DICK INSIDE A DEAD PERSON! (then on the back) BOISE NECRO-NARCATHON 2000.

I SURVIVED THE ERUPTION OF KRAKATOA IN 1883! (then on the back) BUT THEN DIED OF NATURAL CAUSES IN 1906.

Hey I could go on and on with this, but it's just not that funny. Okay then!

Gooooood morning! Today should be fun. Today, I must create and then fill-in the tutoring appointment grid for congregation members whose Bar/Bat Mitzvahs are approaching within the next 6 to 7 months or so. Just another day here at my latest temp job, for which I am woefully underqualified and completely unable to muster any interest in performing with any...um...how do you say? Diligence.

Okay, I've made a few calls now. You know what's weird about talking to 13 year olds on the phone? Some of them stammer and uh and um just like you'd expect a kid to do, and some of them sound like freakishly self-assured, composed adults on helium. I hate those kids. That much composure and confidence at such a young age means one thing and one thing only - future douchebag asshole bastard. With an awesome car.

Today is too nice. Bye.

I have just gotten word that the DVD for The Lord of The Rings: The Two Towers may already be available in stores, despite its official release date of August 26th. This excites me to no end.

Get yourself a helium baloon. Take a puff. Hold it. Now exhale while grinning and saying "EEEEEEE!" That's about how I feel.

I'm off to seek it out!

But first lunch. Happy Saturday!

I have been passing gas continuously since 1971. I never understood why, until I ate a burger at 'The Corner Bistro' last night. It was delicious, but so dastardly in its fartitude that I am now convinced that all past squacks* and all future hurrrmdingers* are as a result of this burger. That's right. I am positing that this burger's gastrointestinal power was so immense that it's effects spread like a ripple THROUGH TIME.

*FARTS

The last time I felt this apathetic, slow, tired, and slam-dunk 'tarded was during my previous career as a small dollop of mayonnaise.

BLACKOUT 2003!

Like all New Yorkers, I saw the BLACKOUT OF 2003 as an opportunity provided by Jesus to prove my strength, resilience and infrared-vision to the High Council of Lizard Whorologists!

Um.

Alright, this post has gotten off to an awkward start. Let's send Non-Sequitur Lad to bed...

Okay, he's gone. Let's start over:

BLACKOUT 2003!

How did you spend it? I was in the kitchen of a friend, eating rice and beans by the flickering light of a menorah. His battery-powered laptop played some tunes. Five of us sat there and depleted his stock of alcohol. Mixed what we could. Thankfully he did have some tonic water. Eventually our host played the banjo for us. I slept on the floor. And all of this was supposed to be a bachelor party.

I guess we'll be rescheduling it.

And that's my exciting BLACKOUT 2003 story.

"whorologists"

The following is a rough draft of a monologue that will be performed on October 11th as part of a much larger collaborative work: "Welcome Home Chester Stanley", a comedy by 13 authors. Once again, you're getting in on the ground floor with this. ROUGH DRAFT! ROOOOUUUUUUUGH!!!

Lights up on a desk that is absolutely piled high with papers, knick-knacks, and many, many, many blue folders. It hasn't been cleaned in years. A large antique phone sits in front of all the blue folders on the desk. A coat rack and a wall-mounted county map are the only other things in the office, but it still seems cluttered.

The phone rings.

An arm drousily flops around the desk from behind the pile of blue folders, searching for the phone by feel. Finally, the arm just shoves everything off of the desk onto the floor, revealing: Lou Landry, Private Eye. And a bottle of bourbon.

The phone continues to ring.

Lou has obviously been awakened by the phone, and he is clearly very drunk. He struggles to gain his bearings, and finally picks up the phone.

LOU
Landr - (he pauses to clear his throat) Landry Detective Agency, this is Lou Landry speaking. Yes. No sir I just have a head cold. Sure, one second.

Lou puts the phone down, pours a tiny bit of bourbon in his hands, rubs his palms together and then rubs his face, still trying to wake up. He takes a swig of bourbon. He plucks a notebook and a pen from the clutter of blue folders on the floor and sits back down.

LOU (CONT.)
Go ahead. Uh huh. I see. Your wife. Okay. And how long has she been missing? Where was the last place you saw her? And what was she wearing? Okay. Let me ask you one last question: why did you murder your wife? What? Hey don't get all indignant, I'm just making an educated guess! Hello? Hello?

Lou slams down the phone. He notices the audience.

LOU (CONT.)
Oh hi. (sarcastic) I didn't see you there. Alright let's get this out of the way. My name is Lou Landry. I'm a private detective. And I'm not from here. 'Here' is Logan, Ohio. Founded September 19, 1843, population 321. Now Logan boasts about ten times that many people, including me. I came here back in 1980 (he starts rummaging through the blue folders on the floor until he finds one red folder - the only red folder)...because...of...this.

Lou pulls a newspaper out of the red folder and holds it up - the big frontpage headline reads '6 Year Old Boy Missing'.

LOU (CONT.)
This is Logan's only paper, 'The Logan Paper'. I'm not shitting you, the damn thing is called 'The Logan Paper'. Anyway, ahem...(reading from article) "July 9th, 1979. Six Year Old Boy Missing! Logan's own Chester Stanley, the six-year old son of Leonard and Martha Stanley, was missing from his bed this morning. Police have no leads. Blah blah blah tragedy blah blah reward yadda yadda town rallies around blah vows to yadda Chester Stanley blah blah shock and yadda blah." (tosses paper back onto the floor) Little Chester Stanley. The sweetest, nicest, smartest, spunkiest little tike in this whole Gosh darn gee willickers little town. Gone. Without a trace. In the middle of the fucking night. Before Chester's disappearance, Logan was about as perfect as a town could get. (snide again) A smile on every face. Clean. No crime. The only disease you could catch was Picnic Fever! Or maybe Softballitis! The town had one fire alarm, and it was in the Goddamn ice cream parlour. For birthdays! It was a charmed fucking town. Before Chester's disappearance, the worst incident in the town's history had been the infamous Bingo Night Scuffle of 1952. After Chester Stanley was abducted...

Lou trails off, his sarcasm softens into something more somber.

LOU (CONT.)
After Chester Stanley was abducted, the local police tried for six months to track him down. The whole town rallied around the Stanley family. Everyone looked for him. But he had literally disappeared without a trace. Eventually the police got so frustrated that they hired me. (self mocking) Lou Landry, Private Eye! I'm from the big city! I'll find your kid, just stand back and let me get to work! I never found Chester Stanley. Whoever took him did such a good job of covering their tracks. Or maybe the tracks had all been stomped out by the incompetent locals. Or maybe something else. I dunno. Never found him. I tried for over two years. And I never found him. But I found an office with cheap rent. I found I could make a few bucks doing surveillance for suspicious husbands and tracking down missing dogs. Sometimes ferrets. I found a great liquor store around the corner where they let me keep a tab. I found...hey, try this on for size - one time a tornado hit the Logan Museum of Sewing Technology, blew the whole building apart and scattered its contents across a nearby farm. The town hired me to help recover all of the museum's exhibits. I found them all, including the needle that was used to sew Logan's first town flag. You know where it was? In a fucking haystack. I found a Goddamned fucking needle in a haystack, but I couldn't find Chester Stanley. I couldn't find him. And since that day he disappeared, this lovely little town of Logan, Ohio has completely gone to shit. When Chester disappeared, this town lost something that it was never able to recover. But it still has a happy hour. I'm going out for a drink.

Lou grabs his coat from the coat rack, puts on his hat, and beckons the crowd to join him with an obviously fake smile. He waves it off with a look of disgust and begins to walk out the door. He turns back.

LOU (CONT.)
Oh yeah, one last thing. The whole town's about to be bought, leveled and turned into a corporate Megaplex. It's practically a done deal. Just one more city council vote oughta do it.

He pauses and gets angry and defensive. He points to the mess of blue folders.

LOU (CONT.)
The blue folders are cases that I've solved!

He leaves and slams the door behind him.

ROUGH I SAY!

Hi. Allow me to apologize in advance for not taking the time or making the effort to actually edit my stream-of-consciousness writing in any way shape or form as I ask you the following:

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME...

FANTASY FOOTBALL!?!?!

I most assuredly am. Now, I've always considered myself something of a GURU when it comes to Fantasy Sports. You want evidence? I've got two Yahoo rotisserie baseball titles under my belt, and you know that keeper football league my friends and I have been doing for the past six years? I'm the reigning chapion. I MEAN CHAMPION.

Now then. You're gearing up for the big draft. You've got your lists, charts, rankings, tip sheets, magazines, spreadsheets and ointments, and YOU ARE READY TO KICK SOME (fant)AS(yfootball!)S!

Before you start picking and flicking, take a moment to peruse my handy and also dandy list of "DOS" and "DONUTS"...

1. DO make sure you have the latest rankings from a site such as ESPN.com, cbs.sportsline.com, or armchairjerkoffcoach.com

2. Boston Cream!

3. DO check the injured reserve list before the draft! You don't want to get stuck with some guy with a case of Reticulated Dysplasia or worse...Congenital No-Toe Flu.

4. DO wear a shirt at the draft - as impressive as your ability to use the folds beneath your manboobs to hold a pencil, or worse, a bundle of several different-colored magic markers, your friends will find this disgusting.

5. Plain!

6. DO announce your picks in a clear, loud voice. You don't want to wind up with Firmden Hurmelnurn on your team! HE'S NOT REAL!

7. This is not a particularly entertaining or coherent blog entry. Um. With coconut shavings!

8. Donut From Space!

9. Okay, I've clearly stopped trying.

10. What did the octopus say to the four steelmill factory workers whose company routinely ignored basic safety rules? "I have one more arm than the four of you combined!"

11. Hey - has anyone EVER had sex with twins? At the same time I mean. EVER? I think that's total bullshit.

12. Cinnamon!

13. What does the dyslexic perve like to grab? SBOOB.

14.

The preceeding blog entry was nothing but an unedited stram-of-consciousness ramble. You can tell right?

stram

When I was in high school, I made up a silly name. And that name was:

Charlie Chacklackloogamistafrictamosis

Oh, how it tickled me to say that name. Such a funny name! And so long! Can you imagine such a name? "YES!" I would think to myself, "I just did!" And then I would skip home to eat an entire bag of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies.

Ah well. In all the years since I have tried to replicate the success that I had enjoyed with Charlie Chacklackloogamistafrictamosis, but to no avail:

Donut McGee
Assless Hyena-by-Proxy
Stentorian Horse

That's it. Nearly 15 years of brainstorming, and the above three names are the only...wait a sec...

Fart Clamfth6

Nope. False alarm. Thought I had a new silly name. Damn. Did Da Vinci hate the Mona Lisa as much as I hate the name Charlie Chacklackloogamistafrictamosis? Did Men Without Hats hate 'Safety Dance' the way I hate the name Charlie Chacklackloogamistafrictamosis? Do Ben and Jerry hate Chubby Hubby ice cream the way I hate the name Charlie Chacklackloogamistafrictamosis?

Oh Dear Sweet Jesus Lord Up In Heaven Above. Please inspire unto me a new silly name worthy of being on the same mantle as Charlie Chacklackloogamistafrictamosis. Charlie Chacklackloogamistafrictamosis is the only silly name I've ever been able to come up with, aside from Sexualica Bonertaster and a few others that are pretty funny but NONE of them come close to the majesty of Charlie Chacklackloogamistafrictamosis! Dear sweet Lord.

WAIT! I feel it. Here it comes! Oh Dear God thank you...

Poop Krzyzewski

Dang. Another false alarm.

So sleepy.

Nipple Jones?
Bermuda Halitosis-Rex?

Fuck.

Whenever I hear the phrase "Home Owner", it totally sounds like "Ho Moaner". AWESOME!

I also saw Seabiscuit this weekend. I'll tell ya something. He may be small, and he may be ugly, and he may be ill-tempered, and he may eat out of a bucket, and he may crap in the middle of the street, AND he might like to fuck female horses, but [NAME OF PERSON IN THE ROOM] was a perfect gentleman when he took me to see Seabiscuit.

OH! It's like a little roast joke! Go ahead, you can have that one free of charge.

I saw Gigli this weekend. And you know what? It didn't really do much to change my opinion of J. Ben Lo-Fleck.

Alright, I'll be honest. I didn't see it. But I DID let an angry swarm of fire-ants bite my eyeballs for ninety minutes, so I still feel like I can speak with some authority on the topic of Gigli.

Incidentally, the pronunciation of Gigli has been a source of much debate lately. I'm not sure what the official pronunciation is supposed to be, but here are the various ways I've been pronouncing it of late:

GIG LEE

GIG LIE

GUY GLEE

JIGGLY

GEE LEE (with a hard G sound, like in gaffer or gonad)

GEE LEE (with a soft G sound, like in gee whiz)

ZHEE LEE (with a fucked-up french G sound, like in je ne parle pas francais)

JEEZ LEZBO! (not sure why I say it this way from time to time)

ZEE GLEE

EEL GLEE

ZEEL GOO

EL GIGOLO Z! (nope, that's a Spanish anime-influenced softcore porn film)

GEL PEE

GIGGLE PEE PEE JEEZ LOUISE HEE BEE JEE BEE NA NA KA KA POO POO BLEAH

And so forth. There's hilarity here to be mined, but I simply do not possess the heavy mining equipment to accomplish the task. Consider this the first shovel full. Or something.

Can you find the fresh tomato?

Looks to me like "Chuck the Movieguy" has got his head way up his Gigli.