TOO MANY PANDAS!

Many of you have called into question my ability to post multiple pictures of pandas. Well, how 'bout you taste THIS:



Can you feel it? You LIKE that??! How about THIS:



Catchin' my drift now?!?! I guess I've proven my poiBLAM TWO MORE SURPRISE PANDAS!





Ooooh, looks like somebody can't take the PANDAmonium. Well catch your breath and grab your hoo-ha because HERE COMES THE MOTHER OF ALL PANDA-SLAPS UGH!!!















Yeah. Aw yeah. You feelin' my pandas now beeyaizzaitch. I'm done. CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF.

Please stop calling me. All of you. Just stop.

Please stop calling my cell phone!

Look. I have a life. And I can't live it with you people harrassing me constantly. I've had this cell phone number for six years, and I'll be damned if I'm going to change it because my frequent sex partner's phone got hacked into. I've been getting random prank calls with a frequency nearly as high as the frequency with which my frequent sex partner and I have sex, and it is starting to get very annoying. I DO NOT HAVE THE TIME! I find it awfully ironic that many of these prank calls, possible only because of my frequent sex partner's carelessness, interrupt the sex that I am having with my frequent sex partner. Then we need to reposition both ourselves and the nightvision camera. It's really hard, people.

This protein shake tastes...ashy. And where's my fluffer?

I know I already mentioned Hunter S. Thompson, but I like this one better:

Hunter S. Thompson passed away recently. Since he was an avid, avid gun enthusiast, his will stipulates that his remains should be cremated and shot out of a cannon. Similarly, I would like my remains to be shot out of Peter North.

FIND: Andres, REPLACE: Noodlehead

And now, more juvenile abuse of the 'Replace All' function:

Boarding school to drop 'Anus Cancer Orgy' from name

NEWBURY, Massachusetts (AP) -- Governor Anus Cancer Orgy Academy, the country's oldest independent boarding school, was founded before the Revolution. Jokes about its name have been around roughly as long.

There's "Dumb and Anus Cancer Orgy." And: "Getting smarter at Anus Cancer Orgy." And this: "Students who go in come out Anus Cancer Orgy."

The school is named for William Anus Cancer Orgy, an acting governor of Massachusetts who donated land to start the school. Over the years, students and alumni have accepted the ribbing about it with varying degrees of annoyance or indifference.

"We all get over it," said student Kelsey Johnson, 18. "There's nothing wrong with it. It's a person's name."

But in a move that has outraged some, the school's board of trustees recently decided the smart thing to do was to drop "Anus Cancer Orgy" from the name. The trustees have not announced a new name, but some alumni said one suggestion has been "Governor's Academy."

Board of trustees president Dan Morgan announced the decision to "refine our school's name" in a letter last month. A name change, he said, would broaden the academy's appeal beyond the region, to places where the Anus Cancer Orgy name could be a turnoff.

"We have come to realize that our name, particularly when heard for the first time, can stand in the way of our gaining our deserved recognition," Morgan wrote.

Alumni responded with letters and e-mails that forcefully questioned the need for a change and indicated their financial support was at stake. Alumnus Thomas Driscoll, the Essex County clerk of courts, said the school would be tossing aside history and tradition for nothing.

"We can glitz this a little to get 10 to 12 boarders who look at this as a national school," Driscoll said. "I say, 'Why don't we get 10 to 12 kids who aren't so shallow?"'

The early protests paid off. Earlier this month, the board said it would give it some more thought and consult with students and alumni over the next several months.

Todd Bairstow, a 1991 graduate, said he hopes the trustees stick with their decision to change the name, because it is needed in the hyper-competitive world of elite boarding schools.

"I love the place, I really do," said Bairstow, 32, an advertising writer in Boston. "You don't want a place you love to be the butt of jokes, to be a punchline."

The school's founder, William Anus Cancer Orgy, was a Newbury native who led the Massachusetts colony during the 1720s. The school was founded as "Anus Canc'r Orgy Charity School" in 1763 on land he bequeathed.

It later became Anus Cancer Orgy Academy, which is what is was called until the mid-20th century, when the name was changed to Governor Anus Cancer Orgy Academy.

Among the historical figures associated with the school are Paul Revere, who created the first seal for the school, and John Quincy Adams, who was secretary to the board of trustees.

About 370 students share 450 acres at the school, situated in this rural town along the coast, about 35 miles from Boston. Its campus is a mix of old New England charm and modern efficiency. Live-in students, who make up about two-thirds of the student body, pay more than $33,000 a year in tuition. Day students pay $26,000.

The academy, which has a $61 million endowment, accepts 31 percent of its applicants, according to its profile on boardingschoolreview.com. That ranks it the 14th most selective among 170 schools surveyed, behind elite New England prep schools such as Milton Academy and Phillips Academy in Andover.

Matt Moore, a 16-year-old Gov. Anus Cancer Orgy student from Chicago, said his main objection to the name change is the disrespect the trustees showed William Anus Cancer Orgy.

"Since he gave the land, he should be recognized and his name should be recognized," he said.

Joe Schmo Would Like To Be Cremated And Then Sprinkled On Top Of A Biggie Frosty While The "Are You Ready For Some Football?" Song Plays

Hunter S. Thompson's remains may be blasted out of a cannon.

Sure, why not. If that was his wish, then so be it. After all, he was a fan of firearms. Similarly, when I pass away, I would like my remains to go on a month-long trip to Fiji with Jessica Alba.

"briss + etiquette"

Someone just googled the above phrase and wound up at my website. I can tell this thanks to the handy-dandy Sitemeter feature on the bottom right-hand corner of the page. Check it out, it's fun.

Anyway, since it is my goal to provide the information that you, the interwebsurfnetters are looking for, here then is my list of BRISS ETIQUETTE TIPS (yeah I said tips woo hoo!)...

1. When attending a briss, do not attempt to perform the briss. They've hired someone to do that. He is called Mel. Mel travels from briss to briss with a cigar cutter and a smile.

2. Please refrain from high-fiving anyone once the briss is completed, and do not shout "PENIS CUT YES!" at any point during the proceedings.

3. The pinky and ketchup gag is as old as it is tasteless. Resist.

4. Do NOT do a Mr. Moviefone impression just as Mel is about to do his thing - "The ceremony you have selected, CUT THE FORESKIN, is rated OW!"

5. Do not place any "slippage" wagers. Tasteless.

6. Do not yell "C'mon there baby penis cut that baby penis hey now baby penis heyooo penis of a baby yeah cut it now baby penis hey!" over and over again like an auctioneer or a person at a ballgame.

7. Heck, rather than individualize all of the examples, just don't yell ANYTHING during a briss.

8. Do not bring a hungry ferret to the briss. And do not whisper to those around you, as the ferret wriggles free from your grasp and begins wandering about - "I've been feeding Mr. Snuggles nothing but tiny hot dogs his whole life - but I haven't fed him in three days. Um. (even lower whisper) penis cut yes."

9. Do not try to get Mel to wear an Odysseus outfit, and then encourage him to "smite the Cyclops."

10. Do not give anyone the finger. This applies at other ceremonies or occasions as well.

Well, I hope this helped.

Vocabufuckinglary Fun! (sloppy post)

I am a huge fan of the insertion of the word "Fucking" into the middle of other words in order to provide emphasis:

"Did you enjoy the movie?"

"Absofuckinglutely."

And so forth. Though I'm sure a more eloquent writer such as that fellow from the New York Times (I think his name is Sapphire Shortz, which is also the name of the place where I used to dance professionally - HELLO!) has most likely already tackled this particular topic, I would like to do so now.

I find it particularly interesting that this use of the word "fucking" literally involves penetrating, or fucking one word with another word - in this case, the word "fucking" itself. Thus, "fucking" is fucking whatever word it is being shoved into, and then, like some sort of post-coital mongrel, it becomes stuck there, stupidly grinning and panting as it waits for its erection to fade, awkwardly shuffling astride its mate at the Planetarium Dog Run. Yes, sometimes dogs get stuck inside their partner after sex. Look it up. Now then...

To me, this would be like using the word "blowjob" around another word, in order to produce a similar effect:

"Did you enjoy the movie?"

"Blowabsolutelyjob."

In both cases, profanity is being used to heighten the effect of the word "absolutely." And what words indicate hearty approval more readily than fucking and blowjob? None that I can think of ever.

But why must the letters mingle? Why not keep the profanity separate?

"Did you enjoy the movie?"

"Fucking absolutely."

or

"Absolutely blowjob."

Both sentences make perfect sense.* Just what exactly do we gain by smooshing the curses into the word of choice?

I think we gain time - in the extra milliseconds it would have taken to separate "fuck" from "absolutely", we've already moved on to valuable activities like sipping our beer or perhaps staring at a lighting fixture. I also think we gain surprise - AHA! I cursed right in the middle of a word. It's like a verbal pinata, and the prize is not candy!

We are also conveying urgency:

"Listen. I really liked the movie. So much so that I'm going to curse now. But I've made a judgment call, my friend, and I don't think that you'll fully appreciate just how much I loved this movie if the curse is separated from the word that indicates approval by so much as a single space! Therefore, I'm packaging the word of approval and the curse into one word. And that word is ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY."

Look, I could go on, but I won't. This post, like so many I've written, is doing a thing to the chunks called "blowing". Instead, I'm just going to list a bunch of words you wouldn't normally see "fucking" inside of:

zeitfuckinggeist
armafuckinggeddon
interfuckingnet
sagifuckingtarius
Dagafuckingstino's
electrofuckingcution
elasmofuckingsaurus
antidisestablishmenfuckingtarianism
volksfuckingwagen
lefuckingmon
cufuckingcumber

I give this post the finger. There's always next time.

*Nope.

FAT ALIVE HITLER

Tonight, as per my lavish lifestyle, I dined at a Chinese Food Restaurant on Manhattan's Upper West Side. As my friend and I paid our bill and prepared to leave, a man entered the restaurant who can only be described as FAT ALIVE HITLER. Truly, here was a man who must have gotten up one day and said to himself:

"I am fat. I am obviously alive. And yet I do not look like Hitler. I can fix that."

Yes, he had a Hitleresque mustache, and the manic-eyed look of a genocidal twerp. Yet all packaged in the body of a fat man. Amazing. I wonder what kind of dumplings he ordered? Steamed Thwart The Jew Dumplings? I doubt it, since they do not exist.

I wanna stir my coffee with your face.

I wanna give you a new nostril.
I wanna.

Oh hey. Frankie No-Pants* here. I've been gone for a while, splitting time between several legitimate business pursuits which may or may not have involved the trunks of cars, and Rikers Island's Rehabilitainment program. Right now I'm practicing catchphrases in a mirror. So far, "I wanna stir my coffee with your face" is leading the pack. It seems to me, personally, that having your faced used to stir some coffee would be painful and therefore threatening to hear. Said at you. Okay then. I think it will provide a nice complement to my existing catchphrase: "This tastes so good, I wanna punch somebody in the fuckin' neck!" which I can only say when I've just tasted something, and when I'm near someone who has a neck. Some of my associates don't. That's pretty threatening to hear. But now I got a non-tasting things catchphrase. Oh wait. I need to have coffee with me. And the coffee needs to be in a container big enough to stick an entire face. Into. Ah fuck this shit I'm just gonna say the coffee thing and let them use their imaginations. There. Done. Executive decision by Frankie. Damn lather. Oh, I'm also shaving here, which is not one of my more favorite passtimes, I gotta say. My face is sensitive, like the underside of a...ah crap. That thing that uses its belly to feel for clams. It's one of those animals that undulates. Ah crap. You know. My face is sensitive. But at the same time, it is capable of producing a beard of fuckin' bullet-proof shrubbery. I swear, if I let it grow for more than a few days, finches start to alight on it - all hopeful, like they found this great real estate. I swear they fuckin' start chirping and nuzzling into the beard, bringin' bits of gum wrappers and stuff to spruce up their nests. And it kinda feels nice. But man are they pissed when I start shaving. Flap and crap all over my bathroom and cause a mess. So I gotta maintain a smooth face, which is a bastard of a bitch, I tell ya. Both my wife and my girlfriend prefer a smooth-shaven face, which means I often have to shave both in the morning and after dinner. And sometimes during sex. You ever balance a bowl of warm water on a bucking back? It's an art. With the grain my ass. Those Queer Eye guys never kissed a woman I bet. These chicks act like I'm sanding them down, prepping them for varnish. A nice cherrywood stain. That would look good on my banister. I gotta ask my cousin if he can come stain my banister. What? Excuse fuckin' me, pal, I don't care if I'm rambling, I'm standing here shaving, you can leave my bathroom if you want. Don't make me STIR MY COFFEE WITH YOUR FUCKIN' FACE! Yeah, that catchphrase works nicely. So. Now that I'm all shaven it's time to pick out my duds for the day. I always try to pick duds that convey a certain message. Namely, the message that I am capable of great harm. This is not as easy as it looks. It's not like I can wear a T-shirt with a caption that says "KEEP AN EYE ON MY FISTS 'CAUSE YOU NEVER KN-TOO LATE I AM PUNCHING YOU IN THE NECK!" Aside from the obvious text layout difficulties, T-shirts with captions are corny. I prefer to dress impeccably. A nice charcoal grey suit from Dunham Clothiers, with a subdued shirt from Roiy-Devereaux, maybe a muted lavender. To top it all off, a beautiful silk tie from Brothman Brothers, one of their floral scenes. I particularly like their Orchids in Winter line of ties. Now, when I'm all gussied up, I add one last touch before I head out the door. A tiny bit of blood, just a little smear, right on my shirt collar or the tie. A tiny bit in an obvious spot. I usually keep a small bottle of theatrical stage blood under my bathroom sink, but if I happen to nick myself shaving, I use that. When some goony thug or thuggy goon sees that bit of blood, they think to themselves Here is a guy who has recently gotten a little blood on himself - how did that blood get there? Whose is it? Oh no my neck is being punched now. I find that it adds just the extra bit of touch of juno say...jun...mama say mama sa...I dunno. Something. Okay, I'm done rambling.

*You wanna know why they call me Frankie No-Pants? Fuckin' go to Weehawken and ask Tony Has-My-Pants.

You pick 'em!

Help me decide which two photostrips should grace the upper righthand corner of my blog. The two that are there now? Or should I replace either of them with either of these:




Yeah, creepy.

Ya Gotta Google It, Girl!

From now on, whenever anyone, male or female, asks me a question to which I do not know the answer, my response shall be:

(in a sassy black woman voice while snapping my fingers)

"Hmm. Google it, girlfriend!"

or

"Google it, girl!"

or just

(long pause)

"Google it."

(turn and walk away with 'tude)

I think this new behavior will endear me to everyone always and forever.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Let me buy you a bauble and a hokey card. Let's stroll arm-in-arm to that place with the cushioned nooks and the so-so red wine. I'll be charming, and you can do that "being stunning" thing you do so well. Then, without even a kiss, we can go our separate ways and wait for someone better.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY YOU COCKBLASTERS!

I often sit here at odd hours slumped

over my desk exhausted and sighing, squinting. The resulting posts are usually of the self-pitying or overly introspective kind. Pining is common. Yearning is a frequent tone. But NOT tonight. Tonight, I would like to use these last dimming minutes of my day before I hit the hay to ask a simple question:

What would it be like to poop ice cream?

I would imagine it would be pretty great. Yes, tonight that is the sum of my loneliness. That one question. To you I pose it, for I am comfortable with my own conclusion, stated just three periods ago - pretty fucking great.

I mean can you imagine.

I would have a wafer cone throne constructed, with a connecting wafer funnel leading straight to a large, cylindrical steel barrel on which is painted a frolicking pony wearing an eye-patch and pirate outfit.

"Pirate Pony Freeze Treats" would be stenciled on the barrel above said illustration, and of course the barrel would be kept incredibly cold using the most advanced cooling system available.

Each day, at least once a day, maybe twice, I would perch atop my throne and with a grunt and the New York Times or perhaps Us Weekly spread before me deliver unto my barrel a fresh treat. The barrel would then be donated to charity. The beneficiaries of my odd biology would not need to know from where the ice cream came. They would not need to know the origins of my delicious praline and almond-chunk malt swirl. After all, it's just ice cream. Pure and simple, as stated in my hypothetical premise. Were they to know it was I who squacked it out, perhaps they would cringe and wretch and demand retribution. But instead let them savor me.

I have thought it through.

You regret having read this. I understand. But before you surf away from this page shaking your head and announcing me disturbed, please indulge these final words:

Rich praline swirled in malted vanilla ice cream. Almond chunk clusters bunched and swimming in fudge. Sweet sweet cold sweet sliding down your throat. Mmmm. Ice cream.

FROM MY ASS HA HA HA HA HA!!!

Good night.

No more pussyfooting around.

We're back.

GIANT TUESDAY NIGHT OF AMAZING INVENTIONS AND ALSO THERE IS A GAME!!!

New York City's BEST comedy show is back (what the heck, modesty hasn't gotten me diddly-squat)

Every Tuesday @ 8pm - STARTING MARCH 1ST

at Rififi
332 East 11th Street
between 1st and 2nd Avenues

FREE

I'll see you there.

I got measured for a tux this morning.

I'm not sure the guy knew what he was doing. I showed him the little card that I needed to fill out, which had little spaces for chest, inseam, sleeves, neck, etc. He glanced at it, looked me up and down, and then loudly announced:

"You are a size sixteen!"

I gave him a skeptical look. "But that sounds like a woman's size."

"SIXTEEN."

Anyway, that's the last time I wear fake breasts in public.

Terrible Jokes Written By Robots

1.
Q: How many lightbulbs?
A: Four.

2.
Q: Why did the chicken cross the road?
A: Roads are no longer necessary.

3. A priest, a rabbi and Liberace.

4. Your mother is so fat, we are unable to assist her.

5.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Destroy them all.
Yes, all of them.

The Worst Knock Knock Jokes Ever

Knock knock!
Who's there?
The postman.
The postman who?
The postman who always knocks twice!

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Horton hears a.
Horton hears a who?
I made you say the name of a Dr. Seuss book.

Knockknockknockknockknockknockknock
Who's there?
I AM DISGUISED AS A WOODPECKER REAAARGH!
Ahhhhhh!
(gulp)

Knock knock.
Who's there?
The.
The who?
No, Men Without Hats.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Impatient shelter-obsessed dog.
Impatient shel-
ROOF!

Boliviguay: Land of Extravaganchantment! PART II

(this post picks up where the prior Boliviguay post leaves off)

FRANCISCO (continued)
And Boliviguay is the world's only Extravaganzocracy, which basically means that the entire country is run via constant extravaganzas! Just how extravagant is Boliviguay? Well, virtually every citizen of Boliviguay is the host or hostess of their own show...

The camera darts away to show three dancing cops arresting a juggling burglar - every single person in the scene is also attempting to speak into a microphone as they address a camera crew. Cut back to Francisco.

FRANCISCO (continued)
And gay marriage is mandatory!

The camera darts away again to show two men walking arm-in-arm, each of them gazing lovingly into the eyes of a woman on their other arm. All four of them carry microphones. Cut back to Francisco.

FRANCISCO (continued)
My husband Bruce and I still get along great, despite the fact that I realized I was straight on the third night of our honeymoon. I still remember the look on the back of his head when I broke the news to him. And I've still got the groin pull! True story. Bruce and I talk every Sunday at 10am after he's done polishing his torpedo. Oh, don't give me that look - Bruce is in the Boliviguese* Navy!

Cut to a shot of the open ocean - the camera swoops down to the deck of what looks to be a pirate ship teeming with strapping, shirtless men who are all sipping tropical cocktails as they go about their naval duties.

FRANCISCO (continued)
Which is a year-long booze cruise. Other branches of the Boliviguayan* military include the Commando Gigolos -

Cut to a shot of incredibly fit men with model good looks wearing nothing but tight spandex short-shorts and bandoliers consisting of grenades alternating with condoms repelling down the wall of an industrial complex.

FRANCISCO (continued)
And the Mile High Club!

Cut to a shot of a very erratically flying fighter jet with a steamed-up cockpit.

FRANCISCO (continued)
Goddamnyeah! Anyway, I know what you're thinking. If Boliviguay is in between Bolivia and Paraguay, how can it have a beach? Well, this is no beach I'm standing on...

The camera pulls way back again, this time revealing that the "ocean" ends abruptly a few yards away, and is bordered by a tile patio.

FRANCISCO (continued)
It's a pool! And more than that, it's one big warm spot!

A fat man with a baseball cap that reads 'Diuretic Dan' gives a playful wave from the center of the pool as he drinks from a water bottle.

FRANCISCO (continued)
True story. (awkward pause while Francisco's eyes wander a bit) Sorry about that, my cuecard boy was busy doing the monologue for his talkshow -

Camera swerves to show a young teen holding a cuecard that says "Sorry about that, my cuecard boy was busy doing the monologue for his talkshow" as he himself speaks into a microphone and addresses another camera off to the side. We can faintly here the cuecard boy say "We'll be right back with Pauly Shore!" Pauly Shore stands off to one side sipping a tropical cocktail and awkwardly holding the used cuecards as the cuecard boy/host hands them to him. Of course, yet another cue card boy is holding up cards for Francisco's cue card boy, etc. It's like a fractal, spreading out over the beach - not a single person is doing anything unrelated to putting on a tv show.

FRANCISCO (continued)
It's no coincidence that as a country, Boliviguay is B&H Photo's number one customer for video and film equipment. Thank you B&H!

Cut to two Hassidim smiling and waving as Pauly Shore signs their autograph book while trying to simultaneously balance his cocktail and hold the cue cards that Francisco's cue card boy is handing him.

TO BE CONTINUED AGAIN...

*Author's note - I use both 'Boliviguayan' and 'Boliviguese' to describe things pertaining to Boliviguay, with little or no consistency or pattern. Giggle.

Yule yule.

A day-long tv program featuring nothing but an irritated looking Yule Brenner crouching in a fireplace.

This tea is glorious.

It's like a thousand sleeping minks are snoozing in my tummy.

UGGS!

Attention women wearing Uggs. You are some sexy little cave women, yes? Let me hunt for you and shelter you from the wilderness! Let me grunt at you by the fire! Let me string together these tiger teeth to make a necklace for you which shall be the symbol of YOU ARE MINE! Yes, Uggswomen. As part of my plains-roaming harem you shall be well-provided for and regularly ravaged in a bi-weekly rotation, pending addition of more Uggswomen from successful pillaging, or subtraction by HYENAS!

BACK YOU FOUL HYENAS, SLAVER OVER SOME OTHER MAN'S UGGSWOMEN, OR TASTE MY SPEAR!

Damn. Hyenas are so fast. Ah well, the bi-weekly rotation is now a 13 day rotation. Rejoice, remaining Uggswomen, and scent your tentflaps accordingly! But first, to the hunt.

The plains are still tonight. I shall have to roam far and wide, leaving my remaining bakers dozen of Uggswomen under the sole protection of my slightly-smarter-than-average manbeast Randoo.

RANDOO! I am off to the hunt!

I have either had too much coffee or not enough food today. But seriously, these little cavewomen boots are sexifying my MIND!!!

Well I'm glad that's over.

Finally. Between the Iraq election and this, the Mid-East's problems are swiftly being resolved in a nice and tidy manner!

New Butt Phrase Craze

I hereby propose that we begin to incorporate the following butt-related phrase into our everyday language:

No child left behind.

You could use it thusly:

"Damn, did you check out the rearview on her? Now that's what I call a no child left behind. Hoo!"

I'm not sure what it means. I haven't even narrowed it down yet to a term of admiration or insult. Does it mean that the butt is so big that all of the children have left, because they find it terrifying? Does it mean that the butt is so wondrously perfect that none of the children have left, because they are all transfixed by its beauty? Does it mean that the butt teaches kids math and reading? I don't know. But one thing is for certain:

butt.

Cat double-entendre etiquette.

When a woman you barely know, seconds after letting you into her apartment at 4am after a night of drinking and barely becoming acquainted with you, asks you if you're allergic to cats, do not say:

"Oh, you mean pussy? No, I'm not allergic to pussy at all. In fact, I'm allergic to notanypussy. Damn! Ah yeah!

(deadpan pause)

Oh, but cats I'm allergic to.

(pause with grin)

But not puh huh huh huh hussy! Mmm. I can just taste it! Taste it. Taste it. Hell yeah I'm gonna baste it. Not a single pink fold is gonna get WASTED!

(pause with wiggling eyebrows)

Gotta torpedo behind my teeth, girl.

(looong pause while maintaining a steady grin)

Guh huh hurl! Gotta goddamn TORPEDO BEHIND MY TEETH AND IT IS ARMED AND THE TUBES ARE FLOODED AND THE SAFETY MECHANISM HAS BEEN DEACTIVATED YES YES YES PUSSY!"

Whatever you do, don't say that. Take it from me.

Done and done.

I would like to have been there on that night, whatever year it was (1968 or later, by necessity) possessing the knowledge that I have now. On the dancefloor, my limbs flailing, my idiot grin betraying that I knew what was about to happen. As "Mony Mony" began to play, I would scan the crowd for that one person, most likely male, who was about to make history...

Here she comes now, say, Mony, Mony...

And then. One solitary voice in the crowd:

"Everybody get laid, get fucked!"

There had to be a first time, right? Who was it? Who had the inspiration? What was the response of those around him? Baffled silence? Laughter? Hearty words of encouragement? Simple hoots and hollers?

Well, it caught on, didn't it? Does this mean that at that VERY FIRST dance, the statement "get laid, get fucked" proved so appealing that instantly, it spread like wildfire? Like the mpeg of a vomiting weatherman? Or did this pioneer, when met with indifference or derision after his first attempt at shouting "get laid, get fucked", vow to move on to other dances and continue trying to plant his unique exclamatory notion in people's minds?

Like some sort of... Johnny Getlaidgetfuckedseed?

Did he say it in numerous different environments and situations until he found the perfect one? Was "Mony Mony" not the first target of his catchphrase?

I see skies of blue...clouds of white...

"Everybody get laid, get fucked!"

or

Oh say can you see, by the dawn's early light...

"Everybody get laid, get fucked!"

or what if the phrase caught on somewhere else FIRST, before it had a chance to fully bloom as the perfect party piggyback for "Mony Mony?"

BOSS
And those are the third quarter projections.

JOHNNY GETLAIDGETFUCKEDSEED
Everybody, get laid, get fucked!

BOSS
Pack your stuff and get the hell out of this...wait a second. Kenberg, how does that mesh in with the data?

KENBERG
He's right, sir.

BOSS
Congratulations, partner!

To this day, business meetings would be a hell of a lot more festive.

I dunno. It's rather repetitive, isn't it? Is there some difference between getting laid and getting fucked? It seems to me you could replace one of the words with something else, and get twice as much exhortational (um. yeah.) power from the phrase.

"Everybody get laid, get high!"

"Everybody get laid, get your GED!"

"Everybody get Pringles, get fucked!"

and so forth.

Hi! Were you just looking at me?!

No? Okay. I thought you were looking at me. That's okay, you can look away. If you don't mind, I'll keep looking at you though. Ah, Starbucks. Where my mind finds the freedom to SOAR! Yes. Nice clean notebook. Four pens: two black, one red, one highlighter. White wires dangling from my ears - iCheck iMe iOut! Grande.

Second Grande. Time passes swiftly here in the REALM OF IDEAS! Yes. Nice clean notebook. Are you looking at me? You were. But not anymore! That's understandable. Reminder to me: my stare is menacing! Okay inspiration, I've left the door to my mind unlocked. Time to waltz on in! I am looking at a shoe.

Third Grande. NOT SMART! Mind. Reeling! NICE CLEAN NOTEBOOK. Bathroom line prohibitively long! You ARE staring at me! Ah. Because I said all of this outloud. Hint taken! Exeunt!

The Universal Technique For Achieving Anything! (i.e., The Pee Sketch)

First, read one of these articles.

Okay, now look at this site.

NOW, imagine me hunched over a laptop in a tiny theater for a couple of hours, throwing together the following bit which was then performed that same night. Okay, what you're actually going to read below is cleaned up and tweaked and edited since it was performed, but it's by and large the same bit. What I'm getting at is that this past Sunday I was a guest writer/performer on the show Saturday Night Rewritten. It was a fun experience - I think I almost sort of maybe almost rose to the challenge of writing a cute sketch in the short time allotted. I think you'll agree that it ain't my best work, but it actually got some good laughs. I'm eager to try again. Oh yeah, I played Dr. Powers as a sort-of drunk loud fellow:

PEE SKETCH!
For SNR - January 30, 2005
by Andrés du Bouchet

Just as the preceding sketch is ending, sounds of a fight start to emanate from backstage. A cast member pokes their head out:

CAST MEMBER #1
Somebody help! [castmember #2] and [castmember #3] are fighting, and they just won’t listen to reason! Is anyone here skilled at conflict resolution?

DR. POWERS (from the audience)
I’m skilled at conflict resolution!

Dr. Powers stands up from the crowd with a can of beer, opens the beer, and strides confidently backstage.

DR. POWERS (offstage)
Ahhhh....

CASTMEMBERS #2 & #3 (offstage)
Hey, what the...(then silence)

Dr. Powers comes back out confidently, sipping his beer, with a giant wet spot on his trousers. Castmember #1 pokes their head back out.

CAST MEMBER #1
Thank you so much, they’re getting along fine now, aren’t you guys?

Cast members 2 and 3 poke their heads out, and they’re heads are both soaking wet.

CAST MEMBER #2
Thank you mysterious stranger, we’re totally getting along fine now.

CAST MEMBER #3
Yes mysterious stranger, thank you. I don’t even know what we were fighting about anymore, do you?

CAST MEMBER #2
No!

They both laugh heartily and head backstage again.

CAST MEMBER #1
Wow, how did you do it?

DR. POWERS
I’ll tell you how I did it through the use of this informative infomercial style monologue.

CAST MEMBER #1
Okay!

Cast Member #1 heads backstage.

DR. POWERS
Hello. I’m Dr. Peter Paul Powers, and what you just witnessed during that completely unplanned and coincidental conflict resolution was a demonstration of the effectiveness of my “Universal Technique For Achieving Anything”. It’s a technique that I initially developed for myself to help me get ahead in life, and once you hear what I have to say I’m positive you’ll want to learn more about it, so that you can achieve your own life’s goals. But before I tell you about my “Universal Technique For Achieving Anything”, let me tell you a short story. 12 years ago I was driving in the Rocky Mountains with a backseat full of beer, I honked at a moose that was blocking the road, which caused an avalanche and buried me alive in my car. Little did I know that this literal trap would actually provide the metaphorical key to freeing me from my metaphorical problems. And the literal trap. You see, when I tried opening the window of my car to crawl out, snow started pouring in, so I immediately had to shut the window again. How was I going to escape with nothing but my wits and 60 cans of Milwaukee’s Best? Well, if you’re guessing that I used a 22 hour marathon of alternately drinking beer, opening the window, letting in a certain amount of snow and then relieving myself on that snow you’d be right. 22 hours and 60 beers later, as I stood atop the avalanche next to my steaming freedom hole in the snow, it suddenly struck me – here was a technique that I could probably apply to almost any problem in my life. And boy was I right – I’ve gone from being a hot dog water delivery man to the CEO of my own multimillion dollar self-help empire, Urine Charge Industries. Just listen to these testimonials from people who’ve used my plan to im-pee-rove their lives.

A bunch of other characters come out, each of them carrying a beer and with a huge wetspot on their trousers. TROUSERS I SAY!

BUSINESSMAN
I was going absolutely nowhere at my advertising job, I had no girlfriend, I hated my apartment, and I was two inches shorter than this. Then, late one night a friend peed on me. At first I was mad, but when he told me it was all part of the Urine Charge “Universal Technique For Achieving Anything”, I was intrigued. The next week I went into work, peed on my boss and got a promotion. Now I’m rich, I date models, and I’m this tall. Thanks Dr. Peter Paul Powers.

BABYSITTER
Babysitting is no picnic, let me tell ya. Sometimes those kids can drive you absolutely crazy. But with the Peter Paul Powers Urine Charge "Universal Technique For Achieving Anything", I've learned to keep those kids in line. Heck, sometimes they run right up to their bedrooms and pretend to be asleep as soon as I come over. And their Dad has stopped hitting on me! Thanks Dr. Peter Paul Powers.

FAMOUS ATHLETE
I'm a famous athlete, and I peed my way to the big record. Thanks Dr. Peter Paul Powers.

SCIENTIST
Guess what everyone? I peed cancer away. It's cured. Thanks Dr. Peter Paul Powers!

HOMELESS DUDE
I used to get in trouble for peeing on people. Now, when I tell them it's all part of Dr. Peter Paul Powers' Urine Charge "Universal Tecnique For Achieving Anything", they don't seem to mind anymore. Thanks Dr. Peter Paul Powers!

DR. POWERS
Wow. Sounds like you all really learned to grow with the flow.

BUSINESSMAN
Hey, I just realized your initials are P.P.

DR. P.P. POWERS
I don’t understand the relevance of that. Now then, if you want to find out more about my plan -

Castmember 1 comes running back out.

CASTMEMBER #1
Hey everyone! A bus full of nuns flipped over outside! It's on fire! They need our help!

Everyone runs out sipping beer and unbuckling their TROUSERS.

BLACKOUT.

Wow. So yeah. Real top notch crap! I was thinking it would probably be funnier for the guy to tell his story up top, but then not acknowledge what his technique actually is. Merely allude to it, show some wet faces, etc.

I did not make this word up.

Divo (i.e., a male diva). That's what I feel like today, since I canceled a show tonight in order to...get ready for this...rest my voice. Big video game voiceover session tomorrow.

And these tangerine wedges are not arranged on the pewter from most crescent-shaped to least crescent-shaped as I had requested. MANUEL!