Yep...

My Novel is Finished!!!

2007-02-04T10:54:00.000-06:00

It has been a while since I have added anything of value to the old blogeroo, but I haven’t been able to find the time. You see, I have been working on a fantasy novel. I have always loved fantasy stories and fairy tales, and have always wanted to write one. I never thought that I would be able to write one, but it’s actually happening.

I sat down at the keyboard a few weeks ago, and the words just started to pour out like they had been waiting in my head for years. And, I must say, I am quite proud of the result.

Today, I am the proud father of a 728-page manuscript.

I thought it might be fun to print an excerpt in this format, not only to share some of my work, but also to receive some input from readers. Please feel free to comment on the following portion of chapter 32: The Crixen Splooth...

*********************

Poboopoo cried out in despair as the phalanx of Cheetah Riders swarmed down upon him from the Xy’Exees Hills. If only he hadn’t lost the mighty Sword of Xenotavia while fighting Scrog in the foothills of the Dark Drylanthus Cliffs.

But lost it he had, and as the riders quickly closed in, Poboopoo threw his head back and screamed a curse to the great creator Lumis. He closed his eyes and spread his arms, ready to embrace the death which had been chasing him since the Rondo Barbarian horde took his parents so many years before.

He felt a tug at his shoulders, and a sharp rending on his tunic. Eyes still closed, Poboopoo felt the weight lift from his ankle and knees.

“So, this is death,” he thought as he was roughly jostled into the sky air. He opened his eyes and looked below where the cheetahs were snapping and jumping at his dangling feet. Their riders thrown and cursing as they rolled about on the ground, the cheetahs were snarling and whipping in the air, attempting to reach the magical Power Boots of Balookaw.

Poboopoo heard the flapping of gigantic wings and looked up. The creature blotted out the sun, and PoBoopoo blinked to clear his mind. The barbaric yawp of the massive Gryphon Vulture Man-Creature awakened him from his self-proclaimed stupor.

“I am surely safe from the Cheetah Riders,” thought Poboopoo, “But now I have been clutched in the clutches of a far worse enemy.”

He closed his eyes again, this time praying to the Great Creator Lumis that this Gryphon Vulture Man-Creature was flying to an empty nest.

Today was not a day to be torn asunder by the hairless young of such a horrific beast.

Another Realization

2007-01-17T18:52:00.000-06:00

As I was driving home tonight, I had another realization. I won't eat anything with a face, unless it looks like it's screaming.

The Accidental Collection

2007-01-11T18:28:00.000-06:00

I was just drifting off to sleep the other night when I had an epiphany that made my heart skip a beat in a bad way. I sat bolt upright with a gasp, waking Emily with a start.

"What's the hell.........?" she mumbled, rolling to face me and scowling even more deeply than normal.

"I just realized something pretty terrible," I said.

We have been together more than a decade, and Emily learned a long time ago that if something is actually terrible or contains even an inkling of real heartfelt emotion, I don't actually communicate it in words, so she turn her back to me with a snort. It was clear to her that I had startled her awake for no good reason at all.

"Go to sleep, stupid," she said.

"Grr..." said Spoof, our intrepid terrier.

So I went back to sleep. Or at least I tried to go back to sleep. The truth was that I couldn't relax. What I had realized was actually pretty terrible.

You see, I have accidentally amassed a collection of mustaches.

There is nothing worse than having an accidental collection. It starts simply enough -- you buy some silly item on a whim. Later, you pick up another one to keep the first one company. Maybe you find a picture of one somewhere and point it out to a friend for a laugh.

But this Christmas, I crossed a terrifying threshold. I was given several novelty mustaches as a gift.

As I lay there trying to sleep, I made a quick inventory of my mustaches. There was Son Of Mustachio, a plush mustache that actually sports a mustache of its own. There was a smaller version of Mustachio (the larval stage, according to its maker) that I bought at a recent art show. There was the Mustache TV game I purchased on-line. And now there was a cardboard card with seven different types of self-adhesive mustaches attached, one for each day of the week.

That was four separate mustache related objects, ten mustaches in all. Eleven if you count the mustache on Son of Mustachio.

And now people have started giving them to me as gifts.

I broke out in a cold sweat imagining myself as a middle-aged man hanging out in barber shops, pockets bulging with small Ziplock bags filled with mustache trimmings collected from customers. I saw myself living in a house stacked floor to ceiling with photos, toys and books about mustaches. I saw myself attending various meetings of mustache enthusiasts, and I imagined myself lighting a candle to place before religious icons of Jason Lee and Gene Shalit.

I have entered a very dark place. Please tell my parents that it's not their fault.

The Smell Of Death Surrounds You

2006-11-30T21:20:00.000-06:00

Is there anything in the world worse than a bad smell hiding somewhere in your home? You know the smell. It chews on the back of your nose for days on end, yet eludes every attempt you make to find it. It laughs at you behind your back, and eventually gets so strong that you are even willing to move the refrigerator to find it.

Sometimes it’s a dead mouse in your wall. It might be a pair of dirty underwear behind the steam radiator. Perhaps it’s that hot dog you lost. By the time the smell reaches its peak you have two options: Sell the house or clean like you’ve never cleaned before.

We had one of those smells this weekend -- a horrifying odor that seemed to come from either the kitchen or from a demon’s rump. With Vicks vapor rub smeared under our noses and more moxie than any seven people our age, we set out on our mission of shock and awe. We were going to find that smell if it was the last thing we ever did.

The difficulty was that it wasn't a single smell. The odor itself had several ingredients. So, to make a long story short, I have included the recipe. For an exciting multi-sensory experience, feel free to whip up a batch to sniff as you read.

1. A bag of four moldy, whole wheat hamburger buns
2. A soft clove of off-gray garlic
3. What we believe was a lemon at the bottom of the onion bowl
4. Poorly wrapped cheese
5. A garbage disposal which had apparently been the home of several dead squirrels and a fake beard
6. The brown goo in the sink which neither of us had dared to discuss before yesterday
7. Spicy Italian pork sausage, purchased when we bought our condo two years ago
8. A green stain on the bottom shelf of the fridge that (I swear this is true) had a face
9. Me
10. The dog
11. A wet sock found between the oven and the wall
12. A gym bag neither of us recognized
13. What was once either a tomato or a mouse
14. Nope, it’s a tomato
15. Old ice
16. Rancid milk
17. Older ice made from rancid milk
18. Another wet sock
19. Me, again
20. The carrot nose from my first snowman

It was a bad stink, but in the end, we killed it. I haven’t smelled it for a solid week, and I hope to never smell it again. All I can truly say is that if it weren’t for bleach, scented candles, and intestinal fortitude, I might not be alive to write this today.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some Lysol to spray.

Paul and Heather: An Imagined Conversation

2006-10-19T18:45:00.000-05:00

As you may know, Paul McCartney’s one-legged wife, Heather Mills, has recently accused Paul of abusing her during their marriage. In her story, Paul is a pot-smoking, physically abusive drunk who made her life miserable.

If things were that bad, I wonder why she didn’t just hop right out of his life. But she stuck it out for a bit, and now the divorce is getting ugly.

This afternoon, I heard that Paul is 64 years old. The irony of an ugly Beatles breakup at the age of 64 was just too tempting. Imagine Heather answering to the lyrics of the classic tune...

******

Paul: When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now, will you still be sending me a Valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine?

Heather: Nope.

Paul: If I'd been out 'till quarter to three, would you lock the door?

Heather: I do believe I would. Especially since you wouldn’t let me use a bedpan at night. You know I don’t wear my leg to bed, Paul. I had to crawl on my hands and knees to get to the toilet.

Paul: Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four?

Heather: Obviously not, Paul. I wasn’t feeding you when we were together.

Paul: You'll be older, too. And if you say the word, I could stay with you.

Heather: Don’t hold your breath.

Paul: I could be handy, mending a fuse, when your lights have gone.

Heather: Are you serious? You have people that hire people to wipe your shoes at the door for you. The closest you’ve ever come to being handy was when... I don’t know. I can’t think of anything.

Paul: You can knit a sweater by the fireside, sunday mornings, go for a ride.

Heather: And how much does a job like that pay?

Paul: Doing the garden, digging the weeds, who could ask for more?

Heather: Ummmm... me. I’d give up gardening for a new leg, and that’s just off the top of my head.

Paul: Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty four?

Heather: Please see above. I don’t think I need to lower myself to typing the same answer twice.

Paul: Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wightif it's not too dear. We shall scrimp and save.

Heather: ??????

Paul: Ah, grandchildren on your knee, Vera, Chuck, and Dave.

Heather: First of all, even if I had two knees, that’s one too many lap monkeys. Second, what kind of names are those? I know you were working for a rhyme, but those are terrible names.

Paul: Send me a postcard, drop me a line stating point of view.
Indicate precisely what you mean to say, yours sincerely wasting away.

Heather: Not worth the stamp, me bucko. Not after you smoked up and choked me.

Paul: Give me your answer, fill in a form, mine forever more.

Heather: If you are referring to a prenuptial agreement, I didn’t sign one. That’s right, sucker! I hopped down that aisle knowing that one day, I would be a very rich woman. Bwa-ha-ha!

Paul: Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty four?

Heather: This conversation is over. Any further contact will have to go through my lawyer.

A Stern Warning

2006-10-17T19:14:00.000-05:00

Mr. Moe:

Blogspot regrets to inform you and your readers, should they exist, that unless you begin posting entries in your blog INSERT BLOG TITLE HERE, we will be forced to take action. As you can certainly understand, the blogosphere can only continue to thrive and grow when writers take the initiative to create new posts on a regular basis.

In the beginning, INSERT BLOG TITLE HERE was regularly updated with new, often exhilarating, ideas. Your readership, should it exist, grew slowly but surely, and we were pleased with your performance. Sadly, you have forgotten your responsibilities within the blogosphere, and have discontinued INSERT BLOG NAME HERE.

Still, INSERT BLOG TITLE HERE is being carried by our service. This is unacceptable.

You have two options, sir. Either begin posting TODAY, or suffer pain and humiliation the likes of which you have never seen! You will tremble in the shadow of our wrath! The blogosphere will destroy your soul, and the soul of everyone you hold dear!

The choice is yours, Earthling.

Best Wishes,

Blogspot

Everyone Needs A Vacation, Right?

2006-07-16T16:28:00.000-05:00

That's right, True Believer! After a whole month of ignoring the fact that I haven't written anything on Yep..., I'm back.

To those of you who were worried that I might never post another entry -- thanks for your concern. I'm sure it was a long month for you. I don't think I could have made it if I were in your place. Nothing is more difficult than going cold turkey on the sort of wit and wisdom I supply.

To those of you who were hoping I had died a horrible, painful death -- wrong again, Mom.

And hey, visit my new website:

www.moesewco.com

Lost in the Purse

2006-06-05T18:17:00.000-05:00

I realized something this weekend as I was looking through my wife’s purse for a tube of lipstick.

(As an aside, and so nobody gets the wrong idea, she had asked me to look for the lipstick. It wasn’t for me, so don’t get any ideas, Bucko.)

Em’s purse is a multi-pocketed affair, a sort of two-sided saddlebag with a great number of oddly placed and shaped pouches scattered throughout. It is not, in any way, designed to be used or understood by a man.

She called to me from the bathroom to find the “redish-brown lipstick in the middle pocket” of her purse, and I was stymied. It seemed simple enough, but here is what I realized.

Looking for something in a woman’s purse is like getting born: You have no idea what’s happening, and at the end of it you are wet, crying, and hanging upside down by your heels while someone slaps you on the rump.

It was a long afternoon, I’ll say that much.

Relationship Advice

2006-05-24T19:51:00.000-05:00

Dear Adam,

I know you probably aren’t taking letters, what with your column being so full lately. But even though my friends all say it’s crazy, I need to ask you for some relationship advice.

Actually, it’s not a relationship -- YET! See, I have a date with the hottest girl. She works at the coffeehouse down the street, and I’ve spent months trying to get the courage to ask her out. Anyway, I scored some Hot Tuna tickets, and I asked her and she said yes.

Awesome, right?

Anyway, any advice for a guy about to go on a first date?

Cool.

Hans Brinkletter,
Baton Swinger, Florida

***

Dear Hans,

Hmmm... That’s quite a poser. Advice for a guy going on a first date...

Well, I can only speak from my own experience, which has been slight and extremely unsuccessful. I guess the best piece of advice I can give you is the following list of words that should never be uttered during a first date if you want to see a second date in the near future.

This list was given to me by an old man at a bus station fifteen years ago, and I think it’s as true today as it ever was.

In order to have a good first date, never use any of the following words in any combination:

1. Gut
2. Longstaff
3. Anus
4. Ukulele
5. Beard
6. Obey
7. Crust
8. Hat
9. Syphilis
10. Peppermint

Some of these words are obvious, while others are unexpected, at best. All I can say is NEVER utter them during a first date. Other than that, you are on your own.

Thanks for writing, and good luck.

Adam

Failed Magician, Blaine, Announces New Project (In A Perfect World)

2006-05-15T19:17:00.000-05:00

David Blaine, the “magician” who recently failed in his prime-time attempt to beat the world breath-holding record while simultaneously performing an escape that anyone who has read even one magic book could complete, has announced his next stunt.

Blaine will lock himself in his bathroom and cry for a week.

He hopes to smash the crying-in-the-bathroom record currently held by former country music legend Kenny Rogers, who cried for six days, three hours, twenty-two minutes after seeing the results of his most recent plastic surgery.

"It made me really sad when I found out that I was going to have to start shaving behind my ears," a tearful Rogers told the press before his extended cry. "And have you heard that new song of mine? It ain't The Gambler, I'll tell you that much. What a piece of crap."

Blaine, who has been training for his new stunt by eating gallons of Cherry Garcia and talking to his college roommate on the phone late into the night, said that the week-long soak in his own juices and his ultimate failure on national television, "really made me feel like a pile, man."

"I just need some me time," a teary Blaine told no one in particular. “This is one stunt I’m confident I can complete. After that, I don’t know. I guess I’ll start looking for a job or something.”

“It’s about time David found a job or something,” said Blaine’s mother from her bed in a cheap Iowa nursing home. “And would it hurt him to write? He can stick needles in his eyes, but he can’t write a letter?”

Blaine will begin his self-pity marathon as soon as someone agrees to televise it. He is currently in talks with the WB.

Dangerous Politics

2006-05-02T19:25:00.000-05:00

Well, I got a chance to bare my political teeth during the drive home tonight.

Every time some fuel-inefficient SUV drives past me with a Bush / Cheney sticker proudly displayed on its rear bumper, I take the time to look inside and see what kind of dunderhead is behind the wheel. Let’s just say I’ve seen a lot of pastel polo shirts and former trophy wives.

(By the way, I recently decided that one of the most offensive things you can call a woman without breaking the rules of social conduct is Former Trophy Wife. It’s mean, without the hassle of being fined by the FCC.)

Tonight, a pink and perspiring ball of fatty corpuscles in a black Hummer passed me and then cut me off in a way that was not only dangerous, but showed complete disdain for anyone outside of a black Hummer. The last thing I saw before swerving to safety was a Bush ‘04 bumper sticker.

That was it. I stomped my foot to the floor to keep up with the big, black Republican (?) Hummer. At the same time I grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper and scrawled BUSH SUX in huge letters.

As I pulled up alongside of the Hummer, I honked and flashed my lights. When I had the big guy’s attention, I smashed my sign against my window and held it there for a long time so he could read it.

From the look on his face, you would think I had flicked him in the beanbag. His pink face turned red, and he started yelling what I can only imagine were obscenities the likes of which Republicans only utter on the Senate floor.

Sure, it was probably silly and dangerous for me to do such a thing. But you know what? It energized the rest of my drive home.

And really, at the end of the day, Bush really does suck.

The Numbers Game

2006-04-25T19:04:00.000-05:00

I was looking over the news yesterday and I saw a headline that both annoyed and amused me. According to the report, six people had been killed by seven car bombs somewhere in one of the America's war zones.

Now, I'm no math genius, but killing six people with seven car bombs seems pretty weak to me. Not only was one car missing a driver, but the targets were utterly unpopulated.

Of course, I'm sure the writer wasn't counting the drivers in his final analysis. Even if he were, 13 dead from seven bombs is a pretty poor death to explosion ratio.

Can anyone tell me why we can't get out of there? With "enemies" that can't even break even with the car to death ratio, shouldn't we be able to get whatever we're supposed to do there over with and bring everyone home where they belong?

Of course, Bush had a hard time getting out of that Japanese press room not too long ago. And there wasn't even a car bomb involved.

It's just all so embarrassing.

And confusing.

This Is Dated, So You Can't Steal It!

2006-04-10T21:24:00.000-05:00

I just had a great idea for a new business venture. This might even be bigger than my JUST MARRIED tattoo designs.

Every day, all around the world, women break their legs. Those women eventually heal enough to be fitted with walking casts.

Walking casts are great, especially if you’ve been laid up for weeks with a full cast. But while they might offer easy perambulation and the satisfaction of putting one foot slightly in front of the other, they do so at a great price.

Walking casts offer protection for one foot, but women are forced to wear one of their own shoes on the other foot.

What’s the problem, you might ask. So what if our victim is wearing half a pair of shoes?

True, but what happens when that cast is fully removed and our healed lady is able to wear shoes on both feet? That’s right, the heartbreak of UNEVEN SCUFFING! One shoe appears pristine and new, while the other looks like an abused pile of lunchroom puke.

Here is my business plan (and if you steal this, I’ll be very, very angry). I call it EvenWear Industries (EWI), and it is a matchmaking service for women in walking casts. For a fee, EWI will match you with a woman (or man, in what scientists claim are 10% of cases) who shares your shoe size and taste in footwear, and (here’s the kicker) who has broken the leg you didn’t break.

The matched couple could then exchange shoes and walk with confidence, knowing that each and every pair will be scuffed evenly. Talk about a load off their minds, I’ll bet!

I think this could be huge.

I am currently looking for investors who want to get in on the ground floor of the fast-paced, exciting world of opposite-leg-walking-cast-matching. Any interested parties can contact me through this site, or call me directly at home.

Still A Loser

2006-03-28T17:27:00.000-06:00

Why is it so hard to get noticed?

I know it sounds like I'm whining a lot lately, but today I got the final slap in the face. Scarlet Johansson is the sexiest woman of the year according to a recently released FHM poll.

Again, I get left in the dust. I've been working all year to be named FHM's Sexiest Woman. Now I don't know why I even bother.

Excuse me, please. I have a date with a spoon and a gallon of Rocky Road.

Hold my calls.

Unless it's Scarlet Johansson. She's hot.

Is Shorter Better?

2006-03-27T18:44:00.000-06:00

I recently heard a piece on the radio (or it might have been at the gym) about how to write a successful blog. The expert (it was either the inventor of weblogs or that guy with the fake tan who leaves a butt-print on the sauna bench every time he leaves -- I don’t remember) said that length is an issue.

“The story of my life,” I said, to no one in particular.

Now that I think of it, I must have heard it on the radio, because I would never say anything like that at the gym.

Apparently, I guess people don’t have the time or inclination to read a blog if the entries are too long, no matter how awesome those entries are. So I’m going to try and keep it short this week.

Thanks for reading, and tell your friends.

Results of the Contest, Even Though You Don't Deserve It

2006-03-12T17:12:00.000-06:00

Last week I offered a veritable cornucopia of prizes for anyone who could answer a few simple questions based on things I have recently learned from the children I work with. Alas, not a single person tried their hand at answering those questions, proving once again that if a tree falls in the forest, no one really gives a rat’s rump.

I promised to list the answers and the names of the winners this week. Following is the list of winners, none of which actually exists.

1. Nobody McNotTry
2. Blank McZero
3. Lonely Never-Write
4. Adam Sad’n’Cry
5. Cipher Nowhere

Fortunately for you, I can supply the answers without the aid of active readership. It’s pretty fortunate for me as well, because I had nothing else prepared. After so many years of disappointment, I have learned not to rely much on readers of this column, so I knew I could always fall back on whining and supplying the answers to the quiz.

I will repeat the questions for those of you who didn’t read last week’s column and are too lazy to check it out, and as a courtesy to those readers with extremely poor short-term memory. Mom, I’m looking at you.

For those of you reading this aloud, either because you are very lonely or are spending your free time reading blogs for the blind, remember to read each answer in the voice of a five-year-old child who can’t believe you would be so stupid as to not know these things without help.

(Also, feel free to supply your own drum roll by beating your hands on the table or an empty oatmeal box. Blind people can’t really tell the difference, and even if they can, they’ll appreciate the extra effort.)

Question 1: What is the opposite of chili-dog?
Answer: It’s totally obvious that the opposite of chili-dog is pie.

Question 2: As a five-year-old girl, what word must you chant every time you dance?
Answer: Booty.

Question 3: What sound do you hear after lightning hits?
Answer: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzap!

Question 4: One day after Christmas last year, the world was shocked by the devastation caused by a giant wave. What is that type of giant wave called, and how can we best help the victims?
Answer: The wave is called a salami, and the best way to help is to send them money to buy new clothes so they won’t miss their moms so much.

Question 5: Most children are not allowed in the pool without supervision. What is supervision?
Answer: It’s like when you can see through things like clothes and walls.

Let this be a lesson to you, dear readers! With very little effort, you could have won some wonderful prizes and mention in a blog with readers all over the world. Maybe next time you won’t be so cavalier, eh?

Now go to your rooms and think about what you’ve done.

Contest Time!

2006-03-05T12:34:00.000-06:00

I have learned a lot in the past couple of weeks. The children I work with have a certain way about them, a special way of looking at the world, and every day it seems they teach me something new. With wide eyes, they inform me of various things, voices spilling over with a tone that screams, “Only an idiot wouldn’t know that, Fat Boy!”

So, here’s the deal.

The following column is a contest. I just took a stroll over to the Yep... prize closet, and came up with some sweet booty for anyone who scores 100% on the quiz.

What booty, you ask? Winners will receive two-and-a-half rooms of carpeting from Jim’s Remnants of Oakton Heights, a year’s subscription to Lactose Intolerance Weekly - The Magazine for People Who Suffer from Lactose Intolerance, and a paper bag full of steak bones from Cyd’s Steak Society in West Bend, Arkansas.
And it goes without saying that this contest is not open to any employees of this column.

1. What is the opposite of chili-dog?

2. As a five-year-old girl, what word must you chant every time you dance?

3. What sound do you hear after lightning hits?

4. Most children are not allowed in the pool without supervision. What is supervision?

5. One day after Christmas last year, the world was shocked by the devastation caused by a giant wave. What is that type of giant wave called, and how can we best help the victims?

Answers can be sent directly to me via Yep... , and a list of winners will appear next week, along with the answers. And it goes without saying that this contest is not open to any employees of this column, so don’t even try it, you cheaters.

Hair Cuttery Lessons

2006-02-20T17:30:00.000-06:00

I don’t have a lot of time to write this week, but I do have an important message for any man out there who does not cut his own hair. I went to the Hair Cuttery today, and I learned a valuable lesson.

Haircuts are always challenging for me. There is a lot of pressure. As a man, I have no way to answer that all-important haircut question, “So, what would you like today?”

My DNA makes it impossible to answer. I have no idea what I want, other than a haircut. When Emily, my patient and forgiving wife, is along for the ride, I can rely on her to tell the stylist what I want for my hair. I can stare dumbly while she tells the scissors jockey what needs to be short and what needs to stay long. They can laugh and giggle and talk about girl things while I imagine myself in front of the television in my underwear watching poorly dubbed kickboxing movies on Telemundo.

But today, I was on my own.

Normally, I can survive this situation. I try to get my hair done by the most attractive woman on staff, timing my entrance to approximately coincide with the hottie’s schedule. Then, when I get the question, I just tell her to make me look like someone she might talk to in public without embarrassment. Typically, she likes my self-deprecation and feels flattered in some backwards sort of way, and the haircut is good.

Today, though, the hair gods were against me. My name was called, and I sat in the chair, preparing to turn on the charm. Like a lightning strike, my stylist appeared in the mirror.

It was a man. And judging by his walk, voice, and the wedding ring on his finger, he was straight.

Long story short, I didn’t know what to say and now my head looks like a gray puffy ball. Too short to lay flat, but too long to spike, it stands out from my head an equal distance on all sides. My head is larger and more round than ever, and I’m guessing there wasn’t a person in the shop who would choose to talk to me in public.

So take a tip, Mr. American Male. Should you ever find yourself sitting under a straight male hairstylist, find an excuse to leave. And then run. Run like the wind.

I’m off to get my hats out of storage.

Cheney Comes Clean

2006-02-14T18:47:00.000-06:00

By now, you’ve all heard that Dick “Cyborg” Cheney shot one of his best friends in the face over the weekend. Apparently, our Vice President became confused while hunting for quail and fired on Texas lawyer Harry Whittington (78), a longtime friend and hunting buddy. Whittington, a tough old codger, has pulled through, proving again that lawyers are really, really hard to kill.

It would be easy for me to make fun of Cheney this week. Hey, everybody’s doing it.

But I decided to take the high road and offer some fair and balanced coverage of the event. I contacted Mr. Cheney and offered him the chance to tell his side of the story. I asked him to send me a short note explaining what happened, and what he learned from the accident.

The following is his reply, with any inappropriate language and vulgarity edited for the delicate eyes of the Christian Right.

*****

Mr. Moe:

First, let me -------- thank you for this ---------- chance to clear the air. I am not in the habit of shooting my friends in the face, no matter how much I want to ---------- them over. For the record, I have always had other people do my dirty work, and have never actually pulled the --------- trigger myself.

Whitty should have known better than to put his face in front of my gun.

Also, I would like to say that during his reign of terror, Bill Clinton shot hundreds of lawyers in the face. And he spied on Americans. And he was one of the 9/11 terrorists. And he has weapons of mass destruction. More importantly, although I have no evidence that Bill Clinton shot anyone during his Presidency, it’s clear he shot several people, in Washington and in Arkansas, while leading the free world into the downward spiral we find it in today.

So I feel justified in shooting a -------- lawyer.

What did I learn from this -------- situation? Not a whole ----------- of a lot.

I guess the big lesson is that I should leave the assassinations to the experts. I might be a crack shot when it comes to quail and blindfolded political prisoners, but lawyers are a different breed. Especially when they ----------- duck.

I also learned that nothing is funnier than a blood-soaked lawyer rolling around on the ground screaming, “MY GOD! YOU SHOT ME IN THE FACE!”

You’d think a guy would get used to watching men scream and roll around in pain. Lord knows I’ve seen a lot of it in my life. A lot! But man, it just never gets old! By the hooves of my dark lord Satan, I laughed until I wet myself.

It’s SO ---------- funny. And hot. Really, really hot.

Oh, and I also learned that if you squint just right and smoke enough weed, an old friend can look like a quail.

Thanks for letting me get the truth out there, Adam. You’re a good --------- guy.

Satan rules,

Dick “Have A Heart” Cheney, VP of the USA

I Want To Be Spied On!

2006-01-29T17:19:00.000-06:00

With all the talk about illegal spying and a dimwitted president gone power crazy, I only have one burning question: Why aren’t I on the watch list?

I have been on airplanes in the past year, and I haven’t run into any problems that would lead me to believe that I am on the government’s list of threatening people. That’s all well and good for most folks, but I want to be on the list. It seems to me that if various peaceful Quaker groups are being spied on in Florida, I should at least be getting a mysterious phone call or two. If five-year-old children are being stopped and forced to show three forms of identification, then I should be asked for at least five. And then I should be strip-searched and sent to prison without being charged.

What am I? Chopped Liver?

I hate the whole Bush regime as much as the next guy -- given that the next guy isn’t a drug-addled, right-wing talk radio host who believes that saying something loudly makes it factual and that fact and opinion are interchangeable. I say mean stuff about Bush and his ilk. I quote 1984 every chance I get, and refuse to shop anywhere that keeps prices low at the expense of the worker.

Not to mention the fact that I ran against Bush in 2000 and received a vote that held up the election results for the state of Minnesota for at least three hours. If that’s not a threat to national security, I don’t know what is!

But I’m still not on the list.

I guess I’ll just have to try harder. So here goes nothing:

George Bush and his entire Republican pack of jokers are a bunch of dinks! Take that to the bank! Dinks, I say! If I had a chance, I’d kick each and every one of them in the beanbag! Because they’re dinks! And guess what? I vote every chance I get, and I try to get my friends to do the same!

There.

That ought to get me on some sort of list.

I’ll expect my phone to be tapped as soon as possible, thank you.

Steam Room Etiquette: Stop, Or My Mom Will Shoot!

2006-01-16T13:18:00.000-06:00

Over the past few years, I have spent quite a bit of time trying to relax in steam rooms. I simply won’t join a club unless there is a steam room somewhere inside because, let’s face it, sitting in steam is a great excuse to skip your workout. It feels good, and it almost feels like exercise.

Steam room use comes with rules. Most of these are simple and easy to remember. Shaving, eating, urinating on the radiator -- all are expressly forbidden. I have seen these rules broken in the past, but usually those scofflaws are dealt with immediately and life goes on.

Shaving is a real problem. Men, especially middle-aged men who feel that the world owes them something because they are still alive and voting Republican, feel that shaving in the steam room is a right and refuse to follow the posted rules. I’ve found that a long, icy stare will usually chase them out to the sink.

As we all know, nothing hurts a Republican more than public scrutiny. Throw nudity into the mix, and steam room shaving is fairly easy to correct.

But there are some unspoken rules of steam room etiquette that are being constantly broken, and I feel it’s time to make them public. These rules are seldom discussed because, quite frankly, very few people need to be reminded that certain behaviors are frowned upon in a public place -- especially in a public place where men are naked.

I ask men around the world who use steam rooms to please read the following and take it to heart. The life you save may be your own.

1. Sit on a towel -- I don’t care if you took a thorough shower before entering the steam room. Sweat is coming out of you and running down your crack and onto the bench. No one else in the room wants to stew in your gravy, dude.

2. Stop playing with yourself -- I know that what you are doing is not for sexual gratification, but your absentminded fiddling and adjusting isn’t winning you any points with the rest of us.

3. Choose your seat wisely -- If you walk into the steam room and there is only one other person inside, don’t sit right next to him. Apply the urinal rule here: Always a space between, and never the twain shall meet. If I wanted to sit next to a naked stranger, I would... wait! I DON’T want to sit next to a naked stranger.

4. No one wants to see your junk -- If you are sitting on the bench and have an urge to put one foot up and rest your chin on your knee while the other foot remains planted firmly on the bench below, spreading your legs and letting everything hang out as far as possible, DON’T. If I wanted to see a stranger’s twig and berries in full view I would... wait! I DON’T want to... you get the idea.

5. If you wouldn’t do it around your mother, don’t do it in the steam room -- Those of us with mothers know what this means. My guess is that the guy I saw blow his nose in his hand and wipe it on the steam room wall does not have a mother.

6. Don’t look now -- If you must stare, stare at the floor, the wall, or the palm of your hand, not at the guy next to you. Again, urinal rules apply here.

7. Be a good conversationalist -- First off, most people are not in the steam room to chat. So keep your opinions and observations to yourself. If you must talk, however, at least try to be clever. If I hear one more bullethead say, “Jeepers, it’s hot in here, eh?” I’m going to kill someone. Yes, it’s hot. It’s a steam room, you moron.

8. Never splash something on the radiator without asking -- This is a big one. Some guys like to put various oils and things on the radiator to open their sinuses and refresh the air a bit. Most times, everyone is fine with that. Some people aren’t very bright, though, and right after they say that it’s hot in the steam room, they ruin it for everyone by throwing inappropriate liquids on the steamer. I once had a guy throw half a bottle of Aqua Velva on the steam, forming some sort of do-it-yourself tear gas. They had to close the steam room for a week and order a whole new fixture.

9. Never refer to your own body parts -- Again, urinal rules apply. Nothing clears a steam room out faster than some numbskull saying, “Hey man, check out my scrotum.” If you wouldn’t say it at the urinal, don’t say it in the steam room. And if you WOULD say it at the urinal, find a steam room that swings that way.

10. Say no to noises -- While some deep breathing and occasional throat clearing is acceptable, there should be no extended moaning, singing, belching or farting, or any sort of sound that might make others uncomfortable. Also, certain words should never be uttered in the steam room. Among the most important of these is WHEE!

With Wrestling Comes Hope

2006-01-03T20:33:00.000-06:00

With all of the news coming out of Washington being bad at best, I sat down this afternoon and thought long and hard about the bright side. Oddly enough, it didn’t take me long to find one.

If there is one industry in the world that seems to have the minds and hearts of the American everyman, it is professional wrestling. While I may have stopped watching many years ago, I will always hold a place in my heart for those musclebound acrobats. I love the writing, the theater, the spectacle of the whole thing.

And I love the idea of good versus evil.

When I was a kid, the evil came under the guise of the almost finished Cold War and the American hostages in Iran. American flag wavers like Hulk Hogan and Hacksaw Jim Duggan spent their time stomping on guys named Nikolai and Ivan and Iron Sheik and various other villains. America was the “good guy” and the heels were Russian and... well... whatever the Iron Sheik was.

Sure, there were other baddies to fight, but the international evils were the real draw. The crowd loved those fights. Right or wrong, they knew who to cheer for.

Later, in the 90s, fans cheered Stone Cold Steve Austin as he took on his boss and the owner of the the company in, and out, of the ring. The writers knew that their audience, primarily blue-collar men out for a good time, wanted to see one of their own beat the snot out of his boss and humiliate “the suit” that called the shots. There, but for the need of a weekly paycheck... It was a vicarious dream come true.

A couple of years ago, wrestling tried to make heels out of Middle-Eastern characters, but it never really stuck. The crowd was bored. Even I stopped watching, because the drama was gone.

Here comes the bright spot.

I turned wrestling on last week, and I felt some hope. Who have the fans latched onto as the face of evil? What character has tapped into the hatred of today’s wrestling fan?

The new heel in wrestling, the one who fans tune in to hate, is a character called JBL. He’s not Russian, or Middle-Eastern. He’s not gay. He doesn’t wear strange makeup or carry animals into the arena.

He is a wealthy, American businessman -- a corporate honcho with a swollen wallet and an ego to match. He’s a three-piece suit wearing a fake smile and a cowboy hat.

Blue-collar America is happily booing corporate America, and a Texan to boot. That smells like change to me.

If that isn’t a bright spot, what is?

Bachelor Smells

2006-01-01T20:03:00.000-06:00

This week, I come to you as a defeated man. My wife (Em) has been out of town for a week, and although I promised her and myself that I would take care of everything while she was away, things went a little haywire.

Of course, I do have an excuse. I was sick most of last week, likely with a virus carried by one of the many children I work with every day. Before I left for Christmas, there were fevers, sore throats, and snot rockets flying through the office, and I probably wasn’t lucky enough to dodge them all.

Illness, especially when it lasts more than a day, is a reason to fall apart. We can all agree on that. And after I started to feel better, I fell back into some healthier ruts. I have gone to buy groceries, and I spent an afternoon reading and drinking tea at a shop we like to inhabit on weekends. Things have been more normal.

But there have been some problems that could be chalked up to bachelorhood. I’m eating a lot of cereal. The plants aren’t looking that good. And yesterday, I think I fed the dog three times.

Still, all very excusable, given the circumstances.

This afternoon, however, I ran into a problem which made me realize why I appreciate having Em around on a day to day basis. I was sitting in my chair listening to radio dramas and working on an embroidery project, minding my own business and thinking about how comfortable I am with my manhood, when I smelled a smell.

To say it was a bad smell would be selling it extremely short. It fell somewhere between a long-dead mouse and a rotten fish buried in wilted cabbage. In short, I’ve heard of people burning their homes to the ground because of smells not quite as bad as this one.

I knew that I had not made the smell, and I sniffed at the sleeping dog to see it it was hers. It wasn’t.

The search began.

I sniffed the garbage cans, the refrigerator, the garbage disposal, the bathroom sink, the freezer -- all the usual suspects. Nothing.

I walked through the house, bloodhounding as well as I could. I sniffed everything from floor to ceiling, even things that couldn’t make a smell if they tried. I sniffed books, magazines (some of those perfume ads could have mixed together, right?) and things made out of glass.

The smell sneered at my attempts, always just out of reach but strong enough to remind me that it existed. Finally, I gave up, vowing to check everything again before Em came home.

I sat down again in the chair and picked up my embroidery. As I sat, the smell became stronger, wafting up from the chair with a stench that could have gagged a maggot.

And then I realized it. That smell, that horrible smell, was coming from my very own nether regions. Somehow, during the course of the past day or two and despite showers, I smelled really, really bad.

If Em had been here, she would have told me.

She sure could have saved me a lot of work.

What Have We Become?

2005-12-19T19:27:00.000-06:00

I’m not usually one to write a short BLOG entry, but I just saw something incredible on television.

What sort of society have we become when there is an actual TV ad for a new Pepto product for children? That’s right! Now, children of all ages who suffer from heartburn, acid indigestion and sour stomach -- problems that used to belong exclusively to bank presidents and their grandfathers -- can find relief.

The kicker?

In big, bold letters on the bottle are the words KEEP ALL MEDICATIONS OUT OF THE REACH OF CHILDREN.

Cures For the Common Cold

2005-12-18T15:34:00.000-06:00

There is no cure for the common cold, yet not since the invention of the hiccough (pronounced HICK-UP) has anything transformed so many unqualified people into medical experts. Everyone and their dog has a cure for the cold, and there isn’t a person in the world who isn’t willing to share their cure, even if I’m not willing to listen.

Seeing as the cold season is upon us, this seems like a good opportunity to share some of the cold remedies I have discovered over the years. While very few of them are based in any sort of science, I think you will find that each and every one will help a cold sufferer to either feel better, or wish they had never gotten sick in the first place.

And let me just say that I, nor any member of my immediate or extended family, take any responsibility for pain or suffering caused by actually trying these remedies. Besides, those who follow the advice of a BLOG deserve what they get.

1. Wrap your head in dirty diapers and submerge your entire body in orange juice at least seven times per day. Between each juice soaking, watch Highway to Heaven reruns in order to take advantage of the combined healing powers of Michael Landon and Victor French.

2. Drink as much wax as you can.

3. Folk wisdom (if such a thing actually exists) says you should feed a cold and starve a fever. Actually, I think it’s the other way around. You should cold a feed and fever a starve.

4. Punch a mother grizzly bear in the face. It’s not going to cure you, but you’ll have bigger things than a runny nose to worry about. As a bonus, the mauling could get your story printed in Reader’s Digest.

5. Four frosty glasses of hyena juice can shorten the duration of a cold.

6. Drool.

7. Ingesting only raw foods (eggs, pork, pancake batter, raccoon) has been linked to the relief of certain cold symptoms. On the down side, it tends to cause a whole new set of symptoms that will make you pine for the days of a light cough and nasal congestion.

8. While many people believe that book burning is a political tactic used by Fascist regimes to destroy the will of the thinking classes, a good old-fashioned book burning can also cure the common cold. Better yet, the more thought-provoking the book, the quicker your recovery. Simply pile books in a public square, douse them with gasoline, and set them on fire. Plunge your head into the flames and deeply inhale the smoke. Your cold will disappear like magic.

9. Speaking Pig-Latin can help ease a cold. Singing Pig-Latin should never be attempted and is punishable by death in 49 of the 50 states.

10. Really, really hope that you get better.

Holiday Advice

2005-12-11T16:09:00.000-06:00

Well, it’s the holiday season again, and as always, I am being bombarded with cards and letters pleading for advice on everything from meal planning and gift ideas to decorating tips and drink recipes. Never one to withhold valuable information, I offer the following sampler of letters and advice as an early holiday gift.

***

Dear Adam,
I am a two year old child with a troublesome conundrum. As a favor to my mother, who had turned the thermostat in our home a few degrees lower than the norm in order to sock away some funds for the Christmas season, I entered her bedroom closet to fetch her a jumper. Unfortunately, I inadvertently unearthed the cache of gifts she had hidden there. Many of the gifts, which were as yet unwrapped, appeared to be for me. I hate to think of my mother’s sad face should I tell her of my discovery, yet I am not much of an actor and fear I will not be able to fein surprise upon opening the gifts on Christmas morning. What, pray tell, should I do, wise and powerful sir?
Waldo K. Franchsaxon, ESQ.

Waldo (if that is your real name),
You expect me to believe that a two year old wrote that letter? Someone with a vocabulary like that should know better than to snoop around in a closet this close to Christmas. Way to ruin everything, you little snot! And by the way, call me Mr. Moe. Only my friends call me Adam.

***

Mr. Moe,
According to our records, your home payments are currently three months in arrears. Please contact us at your earliest convenience. This is your final warning.
First Bank Mortgage

Dear Mr. Mortgage,
What a strange name you have. Is that German?

***

Dear Madd Mann,
What the heck is Kwanzaa anyway?
Love,
Snoop Dogg(izzle)

Yo Snoop,
Your guess is as good as mine, my man. I don’t know any more about Kwanzaa than I do about myrrh or that dreidel game or Boxing Day. Or Gin and Juice, for that matter. By the way, did you know that God Poons is you name spelled backwards. The more I learn about you, the cooler you get, yo.

***

Dear Adam,
This is your mother. Why were you so mean to that young boy in the first letter? There was no call for that kind of treatment. He asked you a simple question. You should be ashamed of yourself. I’m not angry with you; I’m just disappointed. But I’m not surprised.
Please show a little more respect,
Your Mother

Dear Mom,
Why don’t you mind your own business for once? Go have another eggnog.
Merry freakin’ Christmas,

***

Adam,
Don’t write about your mother like that! She gave you the best years of her life, and this is what she gets? I’d smack you within an inch of your life if you were here.
Love,
Your Father

Dad,
Merry Christmas to you, too.

***

Adam,
As your therapist, I suggest you apologize for those letters to your parents. You and I both know they raised you well, and that using them in this way is a cheap way to get an uncomfortable laugh. We’ve talked about your fear of intimacy, and the wall of cynical humor you use to protect yourself from getting too close to the ones you love. Besides, all of the letters in this column are fake. Except for mine.
Best Wishes,
Dr. I.M. Peejammer

Dear Doctor Peejammer,
You’re fired.
Merry Christmas.

Holiday Genius

2005-11-28T18:22:00.000-06:00

Regular readers of this column know that the Christmas season started early for me this year -- before Halloween actually. I heard my first public carol over the loudspeakers at Jamba Juice on the day before Halloween, the earliest I have seen a Christmas decoration or heard a Christmas song since I started being annoyed at how early those things were appearing.

So, for all practical purposes, Christmas and Halloween are getting closer and closer together -- at least by the standards of the calendar.

Tonight as I was driving home from work, I had a thought. What if some genius could meld Christmas and Halloween into one seasonal decoration? Think of the time it would save Americans if each household only had to put out one gaudy, inflatable decoration on their lawn! Instead of spending endless hours inflating and deflating various holiday archetypes, we could spend our time doing something useful, like feeding the poor or learning macramé.

Then, like a burning beacon on the horizon, I saw the solution. As I was driving by, I saw a man walk out of his garage carrying a realistic Santa head. The severed head of the jolly old elf banged rhythmically against the man’s leg as he walked. His fingers were wrapped tightly in Santa’s curly, white hair.

The man approached his front yard where he had built a full-sized Christmas sleigh. Inside the sleigh sat the coup-de-gras (French for “coolest bi-holiday decoration”). Leaning slightly to the right, legs akimbo, was a headless Santa.

As he gently placed the head on the red and white torso, even the driver in the next car was probably able to hear my heart breaking. The poor fellow didn’t realize his genius, and probably never will, mostly because the light changed.

So next year, when you are planning your Halloween decorations, consider saving some time by combining Halloween and Christmas. With a little planning and a few gallons of stage blood (zesty mint flavor) you could combine the beloved stories of Santa and the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

Joyous and horrific all at the same time -- the true meaning of Christmas.

Holiday Choices

2005-11-27T14:50:00.000-06:00

For me, Thanksgiving weekend is always filled with options. What to eat, how much to eat, how late to sleep, whether or not I should eat while sleeping -- there are just so many things to think about.

Five minutes ago, for example, I had to make a huge decision: Should I write a column, or take out the trash.

Honestly, both options are pretty unsatisfying right now. Granted, the garbage would gag a maggot right now, filled with five-day-old giblets and rotting vegetables that may or may not have been part of Thanksgiving dinner. The bag is sitting on the floor about fifteen feet away from me, and I swear that if I listen really, really hard, I can hear it stinking.

That’s some epic stench, my friend.

But the column was also calling me, despite the fact that I have very little (if anything) to say this week. I must show diligence, though, and do the writing I promised myself I would do. Funny be damned! This is personal.

There’s that white bag in the kitchen, though, wallowing around in its own filth and calling my name.

“Adam, you really ought to take me out. I’m smelling up the whole condo, dude. Something’s dead in here, and I should really be dealt with.”

It’s raining, though. And I just took a shower. And I’m sleepy.

I stayed up really late last night watching Svengoolie on the tube and finishing some embroidery work on a necktie that I needed for a bluegrass gig this morning. It’s a long story, but the tie was quite cool, if I do say so myself. It’s green, and I embroidered “FEAR ME” in big old letters down the front.

It was definitely the right choice, but the late hours I kept in order to finish it were... well... late. As a result, I’m in a daze this afternoon.

So I’m putting off writing my column by putting off taking out the garbage.

And I think the dog needs a walk.

Choices, choices, choices..........

I’m going in to take a nap.

One More Human Drama

2005-11-20T12:35:00.000-06:00

Yesterday morning I experienced a fantastic little Chicago moment. No matter where you live, you’ve probably had moments like the one I had yesterday -- a singular vision that solidifies the notion that you, the viewer, are correct in thinking that human beings are really, really strange.

Here’s the situation. I was sitting at a little cafe reading a collection of early Italo Calvino fables and short stories (and yes, my pinky was pointing straight out from the cup as I lifted it to my lips to drink). I always choose a table with a window facing the street because in reality I spend much more time watching the little human dramas passing by that I do with my nose in the book.

Anyway, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the first player enter the scene. Dressed head to toe in a skintight, spandex suit, arms pumping with extreme vigor, the red-faced race walker came blasting down the sidewalk. His suit was a swirling, vomitous concoction of colors - red, yellow, and blue in the forefront, followed by various horrid colors that had probably been turned down by the more tasteful manufacturers of spandex race walking suits.

To top off the picture, the huffpuffer was sporting a race walking helmet. If you have never seen a race walking helmet, picture a bright blue bicycle helmet that actually stretches past the back of the head by about three feet and curves back in toward the body until it nearly touches the wearer in the lower back.

Supposedly, these helmets are designed to decrease air resistance and protect the walker in case of a “high-speed” fall or collision. I say that if you get injured while walking, Darwin was right.

I also say that they were actually designed for racing bicycles, not walking, and that anyone who wears them while walking deserves to be hit by a car.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Oblivious to the other pedestrians, the flailing idiot walked right out into traffic and was nearly run down by a car. The car, which had hit the gas about three-hundred yards before the stoplight in an effort to make it through the yellow light, swerved dramatically.

Angry, the “walker” stopped to shake his wee fist at the driver, but the driver would have none of it. Upon getting a good look at the “guy” he nearly hit, and realizing that he might have a good chance should the argument turn into a fist fight, the driver slammed his car into park and stepped out into the street.

There followed an angry exchange between a spandex-clad power walker and a fat dude wearing an “I Like Beer” t-shirt and a pair of orange flip-flops. One called the other a moron. The other yelled something about bad driving. Soon, the finger was given. Then two fingers.

But I was torn. Usually, when this sort of thing happens, I can easily choose sides. This time, I couldn’t decide which side was right -- the oblivious, multicolored walker or the white trash driver who was speeding through an intersection. It was like trying to decide where on your body you wanted to have a weeping sore.

After a few minutes, I decided to return to my book. That seemed like the best option, all things considered.

White Christmas Dance Mix Extreme!!!

2005-11-06T17:28:00.000-06:00

Prepare for a shock.

Last Tuesday, November 1 to be exact, I heard my first Christmas song of 2005. I was waiting in line at Jamba Juice for my lunch (a regular Berry-Lime Sublime with a Fiber Boost) when it came on over the loudspeaker -- the first holiday song of the year, on the day after Halloween. It was shockingly early in the season for Christmas music, and the song itself was enough to make me with I were Jewish -- a full-scale dance remix of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas.

I know what you’re saying. I can hear you screaming at your computer screen:

“Juice for lunch!? What are you, some kind of liberal-hippie-freak? Chicago has really changed you, man.”

“I remember the days you’d polish of seven or eight half-pound cheeseburgers at a shot and wash ‘em down with a gallon of Jolt. Remember that one time you ate 19 frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts in one sitting? You chased those badboys home with a sixer of Red Dog and didn’t even blink an eye. You were the stuff of legend, man. How can you leave all of that behind?”

“You’re the only guy I knew who would eat his fill of doughnuts and Salt n’ Vinegar potato chips -- for breakfast! BREAKFAST!”

“And you never lost a bet, my man. No matter what it was, you’d eat it for cash. Worms, stuff off the floor of the bus, roadkill, that puppy -- you were in-freakin’-CREDIBLE! Like a machine! CHOMP-CHOMP-CHOMP! That was you, man!”

“Now you’re drinking juice? JUICE! How can that be? Juice used to put you in a coma unless there was booze in it, and even then you’d strain it through your teeth and spit out the pulp. Now you drink it for lunch. This is a shock, man. I don’t know...”

“I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed.”

“And what the hell is a Fiber Boost, and why is it capitalized? Is it that freakin’ important? Jeez, man. That’s what old people drink to keep regular. Are you trying to tell me you’re having some kind of old-man problem with your super-dooper-pooper system?”

“You were the most regular of all of us, you know. I never really told you that, but it was true. We were all standing around with aches in our guts, and you were clean as a whistle. What’s happened to you, dude? Who are you?”

“Because you aren’t the Adam I used to know. Or thought I knew.”

“I have to take some time to think this over. Seriously, man! What else are you hiding?”

“No. No, don’t call me! I really need some time on this.”

“JUICE! God!”

Bush's Loyalty Oath

2005-10-25T19:13:00.000-05:00

I’m not one to spend precious blogging time covering hard news, but I recently came into possession of an official document that is too good to pass up. It speaks volumes about who is in charge of our country, and gives us some valuable clues concerning all of the scandals that are plaguing the Republican party this year.

As you may have heard, the sitting President is a big fan of loyalty. As far as Bush is concerned, if you are loyal to him and willing to sacrifice yourself in his name, you’re as good as gold. All you have to do is buy him a drink and you’re a shoe-in for a nice, tasty government position -- Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, head of FEMA, corpselike work-wife / personal lawyer. Kiss his rump, and you’re set.

As you might guess, however, the line leading to Jr.’s butt is really, really long. Lots of folks are willing to sell their souls for a cushy government job, and not everyone is able to actually pledge their loyalty to the President with the old nose-burrow.

So George has decided that all government employees must take an Oath of Loyalty in order to work for the U.S. Last week, news broke that even the employees of the National Park Service were forced to make that pledge of loyalty.

And I have a copy of the oath.

As a service to my readers (and you know who you are) I will now present it in full. The oath itself, authored by the President two weeks ago and without any help from staff or his dad, was read aloud last week by each and every member of the National Park Service.

As the oath was read, Park Service employees were asked to put their right hands on a picture of the President shaking hands with Elvis that he and Laura had Photoshopped the night before. It was also asked that it be recited “in a really, really high voice -- like a girl voice.” That, according to the President, would be, “totally funny, right?”

The oath reads, and I quote:

“I am a guy who works in one of them big park we have, and I think George Bush is gooder than good. Webster’s Dictionary defines loyalty as... well, I don’t know cause I couldn’t find the right page, but I got it in spades for the President.”

“When he comes to be at the park I work in, he can do whatever he want and I won’t hassle him none. Like, say, if he wants to pet a bear or a sheep or me, he can go on ahead and stuff. Also, he can climb or eat or chop whatever he wants and he can look for oil anywheres he wants cause oil would be pretty sweet to find. TAKE THAT, MIDDLE EAST! Also, if he wants to try on my ranger costume, that’s cool with me.”

“In conclusion, George Bush is my hero and he’s great and I’d kiss him if I’m a woman. If I’m a man I wouldn’t kiss him cause that would be totally gay. And I wouldn’t marry him either.”

“I’d do anything for George Bush, like take a bullet in the face or kick that Sheehan woman in the junk or give him a dollar if he asks. Alls I gotta say is BRING IT ON!”

“P.S. I’m also not gonna make fun of him when he says a word wrong either. That’s not nice, and it hurts my feelings.”

I Have A Problem

2005-10-13T16:44:00.000-05:00

I finally want to go on record and admit something that very few people know about me. Doctors and psychologists all agree that the first step toward fixing anything in your life is to admit you have a problem, and it’s definitely time for me to come clean and accept the consequences. I have been suffering for a year now, and I think I have truly hit rock bottom. It’s time for a change.

No, I am not an alcoholic. I do not take illegal drugs, and I have never really stolen anything of great importance -- unless you count the hearts of my readers, which I don’t. I suffer from no “ism” or “mania” that I know of.

(Well, there is onanism, but this is not the time or the place for that discussion.)

So what, you ask, could be troubling me? What is it that seems to be draining the very life out of me? What has turned me into the pale, crumbled husk of a man that you imagine I am?

For the past year, I have been... PLAYING THE UKULELE.

I once read that there are only two types of people in the world. Those who, once they first strum a ukulele, either hate it or become consumed by it. Unfortunately, I have become obsessed by the thing. It seems like every waking moment of my life, I am distracted with thoughts of my ukulele.

I troll the internet looking for like-minded uke players. I have joined news groups and Yahoo ukulele groups. I am constantly wondering what the songs I hear on the radio would sound like on the uke. Always, I am learning and strumming and memorizing chords and lyrics.

I played the ukulele at my sister’s wedding, for the love of God!

But today, two things happened that made me realize I might be going too far. This addiction has hurt both my mind and my body.

I have been having knee problems for a couple of weeks -- the kind of poppings and pains that knees usually reserve for old men or high school football players. When I walk, I limp. When I sit, those last few inches to the chair turn into a fall and I have to trust that the chair will hold because my knees won’t. When I bend them, they sound like Snap, Crackle, and Pop are having a family reunion or a fight. Or both.

Today I realized why.

When I play the uke at night (all night, every night), I sit sideways in a stuffed chair with one leg or the other bent under my body. I tried it when I got home, and the pain was pretty bad. I think I have injured my knee tendons by playing the ukulele.

The second realization from today, and probably the more upsetting one, happened during the drive to work. I actually caught myself wondering how AC/DC’s “I Got Big Balls” would sound as arranged for uke.

Yes, it might be time for me to seek some help.

On a different note, I am always looking for new instruments to add to my collection. If anyone out there has an old ukulele or banjo ukulele they’d like to part with, drop me a line.

Just don’t tell my wife.

William Bennett Speaks!

2005-10-05T22:08:00.000-05:00

As most people know, William J. Bennett caused quite a stir last week with his statement that the crime rate would go down if we were to abort all black babies in America. He followed his statement by saying that such a thing would be morally reprehensible, and then expected the statement to trot off into the red, red sunset.

But it didn’t.

In fact, his statement about forced abortions on African Americans actually angered some people, despite the fact that he explained everything by saying he was making a hypothetical point, and that the whole thing was taken out of context.

I can believe that, and I recently e-mailed Dr. Bennett to offer him a chance to explain himself in my weekly column. To my surprise, he sent me the following letter (on his own personal stationary, I might add) which I now print in its entirety.

Mr. Moe:

I, Dr. William J. Bennett, spokesmodel for the moral majority of the United States and self-annointed morality czar, would like to thank you for this opportunity to address the brouhaha caused by my comments on Wednesday last.

I would like to take this opportunity to say that when I said that aborting all black babies would lower the crime rate, I was very, very drunk. And high.

I have the greatest respect for the American Negroid. Many of my favorite entertainers are coloreds. There is nothing funnier than a big-eyed spade dancing on a cracker box or running away all willy-nilly from a gorilla. And what about their music? I think, when all is said and done, everyone can agree that Charlie Pride isn’t too shabby.

On a related, but much more depressing note, I am deep in mourning over the recent death of Nipsy Russell. That darkie sure could rhyme.

In truth, I am a lover of all people, not just the coons. I love the Japs, the Kikes, the Wet Backs. I even keep a warm place in my heart for Wops and Queers.

I ask you this: If I am a racist, why do I love that Lesbo Chink comic Margaret Cho so much? Her little yellow face and slanty eyes just tickle my funny bone, if you know what I mean.

But I digress.

The fact remains that my comments of Wednesday last were made under the influence of hard liquor and narcotics, and I had just lost about $30,000 playing Keno. I was, as they say in the business, driving with one wheel planted firmly in the sand, and for that I am truly sorry.

What I actually meant to say, and I think my producer and my lawyers will agree, is that the crime rate would be lower in America if every THIRD black baby was aborted.

I am sorry about the confusion, and I thank you for this opportunity to clear my name.

I am now off to a bunker located somewhere in Utah where I will wait out this storm. I apologize to the Young Republicans at the University of Cincinnati for being forced to cancel my speech there this week. I heard that there might be a few coloreds picketing, and though I talk tough, deep inside I’m actually quite a wuss.

Sincerely,

Dr. William J. Bennett
Moral Superman

Editor’s Note: All celebrity letters featured on Yep... are impersonated. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

The Mother of Invention

2005-10-02T16:52:00.000-05:00

It happens to me all the time. I come up with some great idea, and in a month or two, I see the same product advertised on the side of a bus or on television or tattooed on some lonely fellow’s forehead. It happened with the Pocket Fisherman, that thingy that scrambles eggs inside of their shells, and the murder of that smug guy down the street that always sets up his sprinkler in a way that makes the sidewalk impassible.

I always get beaten to the punch

But not this time, darn it! I’m going public with this one!

Emily had an idea last night that could easily be the greatest advance in reading in bed since the bed lamp. There she was, holding her book on her naked chest and shivering with cold.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Why are you shivering? Is your book scary?”

“I’m cold,” she answered.

I believe that if one isn’t part of the solution, one is part of the problem. Sadly, my solutions usually end up being more problematic than the original problems themselves. Once I actually drove 300 miles to buy a pound of green beans, a solution that cost me a job, two of the fingers on my left hand, and more than a little gas money.

And don’t even mention the time I cut of my nose to spite my face. My face was just being such a jerk, you know? I don’t want to get into it.

So, despite my poor problem-solving skills and my lack of sense, I offered a solution to my poor, shivering wife.

“Why don’t you put some clothes on?”

“Because,” she said, “I like to sleep naked, and I don’t want to get up after I’m done reading so I can take off my clothes. I just want to turn off the light and roll over.”

“How about just putting on a sweater?” I asked.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Emily. It was then that I saw it in her eyes -- the glint of necessity that inevitably leads to invention.

Em has spent her life collecting sweaters. Big ones, small ones, sweaters she wears and sweaters she doesn’t even know she owns -- they fill our condo and overflow from our storage area -- a cornucopia of fluffy torso tarpaulins.

Recently, she has been converting some of her lesser sweaters into hats using a complex recipe of cutting, sewing, electricity, and (oddly enough) bacon. A cut here, some bacon fat there, and PRESTO -- Em’s got a new hat.

Sadly, once the hat is made, the rest of the sweater just lays there or gets thrown away.

Until now, that is.

“What I need is a sweater that I wouldn’t have to sit up to remove, and that keeps my arms warm while I‘m reading my book” Em said, staring intently at a spot on the wall that seemed to be giving her the idea. “I need a sweater that just covers my arms!”

Aunty Em’s Bed-Reading Sweater Arms were born.

Using just the arms of the leftover sweater bodies, Em has created a new product. She slips the sweater arms over her naked arms and is free to read to her heart’s content without the debilitating stress and discomfort of getting slightly chilled. Now, no matter the temperature in the bedroom, she can read in comfort.

It’s a fantastic product, and I’ve already come up with a spin-off. I think it would be great to have the same sort of protection for her shoulders, and I’m working on a prototype that will be designed to work in tandem with Aunty Em’s Bed-Reading Sweater Arms and that will keep the reader’s shoulders as warm and toasty as the rest of her body.

I think it could change the world.

As all married men know, there’s nothing worse than coming to bed and getting the cold shoulder.

How To Save Gas

2005-09-25T14:05:00.000-05:00

A lot of people have been coming up to me on the street and asking, “Adam, do people really come up to you on the street and ask you questions?”

The answer, of course, is no. People, especially here in Chicago, rarely walk up to random strangers on the street and ask them questions. But I do keep my ears open. I watch and listen, always aware of what people are saying and doing.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen -- I have my elbow placed firmly on the pulse of the nation. And by nation, I mean the four-block area in which I live and the one-block area in which I work.

The topic that has been on the tip of every brain for the past few weeks has been the price of gas. For a few days, it looked like things were going to fall back into a more acceptable range, but in the past week, prices again took a hike. At this point, in downtown Chicago, a gallon of regular costs $73,000, more or less.

But there are ways to save gasoline and beat the crunch. As a public service, and because I tend to know this sort of thing, I offer the readers of Yep... the following energy-saving tips.

Please save your applause until the end.

First, and most important, always remember that you can considerably reduce your gasoline consumption by keeping your speed low. The slower you drive, the better your milage, so you should always allow for extra driving time any time you step into your car. A good rule of thumb is to plan for approximately one city block per hour.

Also, you should always plan your driving routes so that you are going downhill at all times. Nothing saves more gas than turning off your engine and gently coasting to your destination. Of course, it may seem difficult at first. Coasting one direction would seem to imply that the return trip would be uphill.

The solution is simple. All of us have parents that used to walk to school every morning on routes that were uphill both ways. Simply find these routes and drive them backwards.

A carpool is another simple way to reduce your consumption of gasoline. The less we drive, the less gas we burn, and I’m sure that we can all agree that there would be fewer cars on the road if they were all on the bottoms of swimming pools.

With gas prices being so high, I have also tried some new, more creative ways of saving money. The best solution I have found to date is to hire neighborhood children to push my car to and from work and the grocery store. As long as the children you hire are young enough that they don’t understand the true value of money, you can really save yourself some dough.

I, for example, hired 100 four-year-olds to push my car to and from work every day for a total of three dollars a week. They split the money evenly among themselves, and everyone is happy. That way, I save about $25 every week, and each child gets to add three shiny, new pennies to their piggy banks.

Finally, the best way to save money on gasoline is to make your own. I have developed a safe and effective way to distill high-grade gasoline out of some common household items. It’s so cheap and easy, even a child can do it.

For the recipe, and full instructions, send $500 to Adam Moe, care of this blog, Chicago, IL, 60625.

Little Spots of Sunshine in a Dark, Dark World

2005-09-18T18:28:00.000-05:00

It’s been very tempting in the past few weeks to dwell on the negative, and the negative just isn’t very funny. Take the following joke, for example:

Q: Do you know how many Finnish sailors it takes to screw in a light bulb?
A: No.

See? Negativity just isn’t very funny. (Of course, neither is the actual punch-line, as it has been scientifically proven that Finns are some of the most negative people in the world, but that’s neither here nor there.)

The war in Iraq, the inept governmental response to the destruction in the Gulf Coast states caused by Hurricane Katrina (or Hurricane Corrina, as Laura Bush called it), and the generally backwards way everything seems to be moving these days for the good old United States of America make it tough to be funny. We have classism, racism, and, for lack of a better term, dumbism running rampant these days, and it’s enough to turn my brown eyes blue. Or vice-versa, depending on the color of my shirt.

So I’ve been making a concerted effort to look for those little things that make me laugh or that raise my spirits in some way, no matter how insignificant. As I drive around Chicago, work out at the gym, walk to get lunch -- I’m keeping an eye out for those things that make me smile, laugh, or stop and think.

For example, I love it when people misspeak on the television news, and there has been a lot of that since the hurricane. It delighted me to no end when Wolf Blitzer, daring to show his true colors on live television, said that the victims were, “So poor and... so... black.”

Sure, it’s horrible that his mind made his mouth say that. It’s completely hideous when that sort of thing is said. But when a stuffed-shirt, holier-than-thou CNN news reporter makes that kind of Freudian blunder, you can’t help but laugh.

It’s just so ugly and... so... white.

Right here in Chicago, two or three days after the worst of the flooding had passed, a FOX reporter made another odd slip. Discussing the victims, the woman on the scene said, “These people are just really, really tired. Everyone here needs to sit back and take some time to decompose.”

And nothing has made me feel better than the live camera capturing that now-famous audio of a New Orleans resident passing behind a press conference with Richard “The Dick” Cheney. As Cheney answered some softball question lobbed from the flaccid lips of a FOX microphone caddy, some angry resident respectfully suggested that the Vice-President... well... um... how can I put this in PG-13 language?

He told Cheney to... knock boots with himself. You know, carnally explore himself. Know himself. Biblically. He told the Vice-President to, um, do it. Violently. With himself.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you haven’t seen the footage or had it sent to you via e-mail, look it up. If that short clip doesn’t help you keep your chin up, nothing will.

There have been some great moments of humor this week, that’s for sure. But nothing beats what I saw today as I was driving home from the grocery store. I was driving past a city park, and there, in broad daylight, was a midget shooting hoops. I pulled my car over and watched for a few minutes as the little fellow practiced his lay-ups and hook shots -- each and every one bouncing off the bottom of the rim and into his stubby little arms.

If that doesn’t at least make you smirk a bit, then I’m afraid you’re dead from the belly button both ways.

Editor’s Note: While this week’s column might make Mr. Moe seem like an insensitive jerk who likes to wallow in the pain of others, nothing could be further from the truth. Mr. Moe has several friends who are television reporters, Vice-Presidents, and midgets. None of them are any good at basketball.

NEWS FLASH!

2005-09-11T15:47:00.000-05:00

You may have seen the recent story concerning the flock of trained firemen and EMT folks who volunteered to help out in New Orleans. If you haven’t, here’s the good part. None of them got to go there to save people and put out fires because FEMA sent them to be trained as information kiosk workers. Apparently there was quite an uproar when the guys found out that their job would be to hand out flyers and shake hands with refugees who had already found their way out of the roof-deep sewage.

And now, the rest of the story...

While the firefighters were in training, they needed to be replaced in their home towns in case serious fires would happen to break out there. Thankfully, the thoughtful people at FEMA offered a golf cart full of circus clowns and three undergraduate theater majors to fill in the gaps.

Technical Difficulty

2005-09-11T15:46:00.000-05:00

In the words of one of America’s greatest leaders and statesmen, Abraham Lincoln, “Man, it’s been a while since I rapped with y’all.” I’ve been having some trouble with time and technology in the form of travel, company, and forgetting my password.

I tried to get on Yep... when I got home from my sister’s wedding last weekend (Yes, it was very nice, and thank you for asking.) only to find that I had blindly passed some unwritten time limit and was no longer recognized by the fine people at Blogspot. I immediately sent them an e-mail asking for my password and codes and whatnot, and they said it would arrive shortly.

SHORTLY, as it turns out, is computer code for NEVER.

Then I began playing the waiting game, which is less of a game for me and more of an exercise in angry twitching and barbaric yawps. After a week with no reply, I e-mailed again. This time, I was immediately rewarded with an automated reply saying that I should look at the information on the Blogspot home page. I did, and learned that I should send an e-mail to the same address I had been contacting.

So I sent off another note. This one was a bit more terse and direct -- something like, “For the love of PETE, send me my damned information before I freak the heck out!”

I may have even used more than one exclamation point. I don’t recall, but I know that I really wanted to get my message across.

Anyway, to make a long story just a little bit longer, nothing has arrived since Friday. I’m not entirely sure that I’ll ber able to post this column when I’m done writing it.

So, from your point of view, I suppose there is a silver lining in every dark cloud.

LATER:

I’m a fool. All this time, the reply with the information I needed was sitting in my e-mail folder, and I just didn’t see it. My wife pointed it out to me, and to her credit, said nothing about what an idiot I am.

She didn’t have to say anything, because her eyes and the smirk on her lips were enough.

Unfortunately, you are now subjected to reading this less than interesting ramble about my idiocy.

Que sera, sera, as they say in the business. Que sera, sera indeed.

Next week will be better, I can promise you that much.

Education: Myths I Have Known

2005-08-14T15:43:00.000-05:00

I found out this morning that several of the schools in our neighborhood are opening for business in less than two weeks. It what can only be called a cry for help, one of them is starting next Monday.

As any of us that ever attended school know, the road can be rough and rocky. The way of the elementary, middle and high school student is difficult and fraught with painful life choices and immeasurable embarrassments.

As an adult, would you ever poop in a stall with no door? Case closed.

So once a year I like to offer some advice to students. As an adult who has not forgotten how difficult it is to be the awkward dorkwad drowning in a sea of beautiful people, I feel I am qualified to dispel five of the biggest myths concerning the years between first grade and high school graduation. Here’s hoping that my efforts help you, gentle children, through the horrors of education.

MYTH #1: AN ESSENTIAL PART OF YOUR SCHOOL SUPPLIES IS A COMPASS.

The truth is, I was forced to buy a compass every year for twelve years, and I never once used one in school.

The first one I ever bought was of the sort one uses to read maps and orienteer -- a mistake that forever put me behind the other kids in geometry and circle-drawing. But who got the last laugh when Mr. Brakensash’s fourth grade math class was lost in the forest and was forced to eat the foreign exchange student? That’s right! I did!

Frankly, the only reason I ever saw for owning a compass was self-defense. That mean, scabby boy with the squinty eyes that sits in the second row will certainly think twice about stabbing you with his compass if he knows you are able to retaliate. Let’s face it, the only sane way to avoid conflict is to strike preemptively.

MYTH #2: ONE SHOULD NEVER EAT PASTE OR CRAYONS.

This could not be more false. It has been scientifically proven by the doctors at Burning Monkey Enterprises that paste and crayons have the vitamins and nutrients children need to grow up strong and wise. Try some at breakfast with milk and juice to make it complete, or add them to hamburger and cream of mushroom soup for a surprising and filling casserole.

And not only are paste and crayons nutritious and healthy, but they are a real turn-on for the ladies. You single fathers out there might want to stock up for the next time you hit the clubs. Nothing says “stud” to the hotties like a mouthful of paste and crayons.

It worked for me, and it can work for you, too.

MYTH #3: TEACHERS LIKE APPLES.

As a former teacher, I cannot stress enough that teachers DO NOT like apples as gifts. They prefer booze.

MYTH #4: THAT CUTE GIRL IN CIVICS CLASS WANTS YOU TO ASK HER OUT. YOU KNOW, FRANCES BLACKENROOT? SHE SITS BEHIND BRANDON? THE ONE WITH THE BLONDE HAIR AND THE CUTE LITTLE LISP? SHE TOTALLY LIKES YOU!

Nope.

MYTH #5: YOU MUST BE ABLE TO READ AND DO MATH IN ORDER TO FUNCTION IN SOCIETY.

This could very well be the biggest myth of all. As it turns out, reading and math are not at all important in the world of today. Maybe in the past, when we didn’t have things like video games and birth control, it was important to know how to read, add, subtract, and those other things. But it is getting easier and easier to get by on pure charm.

Take me, for instance. I don’t know how to read or write, yet here I am with my very own blog.

With the right clothes and attitude, anyone can be a success in this world of technological wonders. Why, with enough blank smiles and lies, you might even become President of the United States!

(As an aside, I made up a joke the other day in the car. --- What do George Bush’s daughters and the ongoing war in Iraq have in common? They both happened because George refuses to pull out. --- OK, so it’s more sad than funny. But you must admit, it isn’t bad.)

So, there you have it. Here’s hoping for a fantastic school year for everyone! Get out there and learn, people! And don’t forget to wear clean underwear.

A Classic Yep...

2005-08-06T18:54:00.000-05:00

I recently found a pile of old columns that I wrote a few years ago when I was actually being paid to write them. As I was looking though them, I ran across some that I would consider to be my favorites, and decided that they should be entered here on the Yep... BLOG for posterity.

The following column appeared on April 29, 2002 on the week that Robert Blake was arrested for the murder of his wife. I should note that this piece received more hate mail than any other thing I ever wrote for the newspaper, and was the cause of at least one dropped subscription.

We printed the letters to the editor with great joy, and had many good laughs at the expense of those I had offended.

----------------------------------------

The recent arrest of Robert Blake for the murder of his wife is interesting for a number of reasons. Not only is it a shocking story, but it also serves to extend the Curse of the Little Rascals.

You may have heard about this curse. So many of the children that starred in the Our Gang Comedies grew up to die early, or tragically, or to have sad lives. Robert Blake, who played Mickey Gubitosi in numerous Little Rascals shorts, has now extended that curse.

Blake is the newest link in the curse’s chain. Here, exclusively for the News-Herald, is a blow by blow account of the Little Rascals Curse. Due to copyright restrictions, only a few of the lesser-known Rascals will be discussed. In fact, none of the following ever existed at all.

• Big Fatty (LeRoi LeBunkport III), known for his severe weight problem and mush-mouthed delivery, was forced to gnaw off his left leg after being caught in a bear trap in Wyoming during a 1943 camping trip. When he was found, he had just started eating his right leg, despite the fact that he had already freed himself.

• Eddie Epus (Brinker “Bouncy” McBounce) clawed out his eyes after finding out he had slept with his own mother.

• Pinkeye (Brett Blasto) was the hypochondriac of the gang, always coming down with one horrible disease after another in an effort to miss school so he could head down to the fishing hole. Perhaps you remember him from the famous film “Playing Hooky with the Black Death”. M r. Blasto was eaten alive by rats in 1964.

• Pete the Dog (Ed Asner) had to be put down after attacking the cast of the 1938 short film “Let’s Put On Another Show In the Old Barn”.

• Barley (Harlan Prawn) predated both Stymie and Buckwheat as the African American member of the gang. Known for his world-famous Hot Potato gag and his always hilarious hook hand, Prawn’s time with the Rascals ended abruptly in 1928 when it was found that he was 47 years old. Prawn died the following year from wounds suffered in a terrible juggling accident. Why the one-armed Prawn was juggling flaming knives and a running chainsaw remains a mystery to this day.

• Rice Cake (Propecia Brute), Buckwheat’s sister, appeared in only one Our Gang comedy short -- “The Trouble with Rice Cake” (1931). Following the success of the film, she was offered a long-term studio contract. Sadly, she was forced to turn it down due to her untimely death in a blimp accident.

• Oat (Freddie Sales-Johnson) was originally cast as Alfalfa’s older brother. He appeared in numerous shorts, including the classics “I’ll Never Skip School Again” and “Ms. Crabtree Is Pretty Good Looking in the Right Light”. After his stint with the Rascals, Sales-Johnson turned to a life of crime, eventually becoming the most successful bank robber in the United States. It was during a bank robbery that Sales-Johnson fell in love with bank teller Lorraine Camel, and the two were wed. Unfortunately, Camel accidentally poisoned Sales-Johnson during their honeymoon by feeding him uncooked pokeweed. He was 18.

• Portly (Grant “Grunt” Grumble) often called “Snack Bar” on the set due to his ability to eat his weight in pickled eggs, died of a heart attack at the age of 12. He starred in the famous Little Rascal shorts “Shut Your Yapper or I’ll Squash You Flat” and “Portly Eats an Entire Cow”.

• Lars (Ole Skotchgaard), the feisty Swedish student, froze to death during the making of the 1933 classic “Let’s All Bury Lars in a Snowdrift Because He Can Take It”.

• Lil’ Muffin (Betty Frappé) turned to the burlesque industry after her stint with the Rascals, dancing up and down the East Coast under the name June Busty. After a short affair with future President Richard Nixon, she was stabbed by a jealous lover in New Jersey in 1962. Her last words were, “These are my last words.”

A Letter from the President

2005-07-31T15:38:00.000-05:00

Those of you who immediately thumb past the front page of the newspaper in search of stories about the economy and the war on terror (“the global struggle against violent extremists”) and various losses of civil liberties that most media outlets have decided to bury in the depths of the second or third section may not have noticed that our galactic neighborhood expanded by one member this week. That’s right -- scientists have discovered a tenth planet, and once again made all textbooks obsolete.

I never thought I would see it happen. Ever since grade school, where knowing the names of the planets in order from the sun to Pluto and back was an important skill for some reason, I was confident that there would forever be only nine.

But all that has changed. Now we have Mercury, Venus, Earth, Saturn, Uranus, Grumpy, Sleepy, Dopey, Blitzen, and another planet to be named.

As a former card-carrying member of the press with friends in high places, I often get asked for my opinion regarding various current events. I received the following letter yesterday from the best President money can buy, George Bush.

(Editor’s Note: I have taken the liberty of correcting the spelling in Mr. Bush’s letter in order to facilitate reading. I have left the grammar intact, because it’s good for a laugh.)

Dear Adam,

Me have Carl read me column of you every week. Sometimes me laugh so hard me pee pants. Always play safe and sit on towel now. Me know you busy with things, but me have question. Me have lots power in country, and me want to name new planet telescope guys find this week. Me wonder if you have ideas for new planet name for me to give new planet. Me wait for reply.

Georgie Bush

First off, I’d like to thank President Bush for taking the time to sit down and write me a letter, and I hope that you get well soon. There’s nothing worse than getting your tongue caught in the crayon sharpener, and I wish you a speedy recovery.

As for naming the new planet, I haven’t really given it much thought. There are so many options that the head practically reels. I can’t even imagine what yours is doing.

I would suggest that you avoid naming it after another Greek or Roman god. There just aren’t any cool ones left because all of the big, meaty gods have been taken. Naming a planet after the Greek goddess of linoleum floors (Waxia) or the Roman god of matching belts and shoes (Accessoro) doesn’t lend much power to something as big as a planet.

And as any scholar of Greek and Roman myth knows, those are the only two gods left that haven’t had something named after them already.

We could name the new planet after a person who has accomplished important and amazing acts here on Earth. Perhaps it’s time to finally give an appropriate honor to American Idol runner-up Clay Aiken.

You might also consider naming the planet after something retro and kitschy. Americans get a real kick out of pop culture references. Perhaps Scooby, Na-Nu Na-Nu, Puffenstuff, or Sleestak would be good. And with the recent release of the Dukes of Hazzard film, naming the planet Enis would definitely please unshaven college students who think it’s funny to talk about television programs they’ve never actually seen but have heard were pretty cool.

Plus, a planet names Enis would take some of the pressure off Uranus, the most giggle-inducing planet in the solar system. Think of all the new jokes...

Really, though, one can’t go wrong with the name Brian. Whether it’s slapped on a newspaper editor or a pizza delivery man, Brian is a no-holds-barred name -- a powerful name meant for powerful things.

And without sounding too full of myself, might I suggest Adam Moe?

Uncomfortable Moments

2005-07-24T15:20:00.000-05:00

I have recently been noticing a troubling trend in my life, and I’m not at all sure how to handle it. You see, I have tried all my life to be direct and honest -- that “standup guy” you hear about in the movies or on television. I am always there to tell someone when they have spinach or parsley in their teeth, or when a rogue booger is peeking out of the cave, and most folks I meet seem to appreciate it.

On the other side of the coin, I expect the same treatment from others. If a part of my body is unsightly or smells bad in any way (and it usually is does) I want to know about it as soon as possible, and I will do my best to rectify the situation.

Well-meaning criticism and a helping hand here and there can’t really do any harm, right?

But I have found a place where these rules don’t seem to apply -- the Bally’s locker room. I don’t know what it is, but I’m not able to be the helpful chap I’d like to be in a room packed with naked men.

(Editor’s Note: The following paragraphs include language that may make readers picture Mr. Moe and others in various states of undress. Read at your own risk, as the thought of Mr. Moe without clothes is not only disturbing, but illegal in 27 states.)

Case in point: I was getting ready for a Wednesday lunch workout. I had just removed my socks and was in the process of brushing the black fuzz from the soles of my feet when a gentleman approached the locker directly to my right and began to take off his clothes. In close quarters, it is difficult to use a locker without catching the occasional glimpse of other naked people no matter how you try, and this was no exception.

As we undressed, with constant “pardons” and “excuse mes” and “would you mind moving over a bits” I noticed something. When the man turned away to stow something in his bag, I saw that there was a two-foot long piece of toilet paper hanging from between his cheeks.

I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, but this was something new for me. The paper rippled and waved in the breeze like a piece of kelp or a delicate tail, and the fellow didn’t have the slightest idea. At one point he even reached behind himself, but he only scratched and the paper held on.

At that point, I noticed I wasn’t the only shocked spectator. The locker room, normally boisterous and echoing with the sounds of dirty jokes and flatulence, was silent. Had there been a cricket somewhere in the building, his chirping would have been the only sound. All eyes were following the paper tail without ever actually looking at it -- glancing every once in a while, or taking peeks in the mirror as he passed behind.

He was totally unaware of the problem. In fact, he went on as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He was lightly humming to himself as he pulled his workout clothes out of his bag. He whistled a bit as he slipped into some flip-flops and headed, naked and with butt flag flying, to the urinals. He was even singing a bit as he used the electric hand driers, which blew the paper straight out from his body, making him look like a terrier on point

He was the elephant in the middle of the room that no one wanted to acknowledge.

And tell me, just how do you deal with such a thing? I couldn’t tell the guy, even though he was right next to me. It’s sort of a locker room rule that you just don’t notice people when they are naked, and you don’t talk with anyone unless it’s about the weather or the time.

I couldn’t very well have said, “Pardon me sir, but as you were undressing I was looking at your rump roast and I noticed that there seems to be a problem between your buttocks.”

Nor could I have quickly reached in and plucked the offending tissue from its stronghold. Not only would the rest of the locker room have seen me do it, and thus judged me a little too interested for comfort, but the fellow might have felt the pluck and gotten the wrong idea. He was a really big guy, and I didn’t relish him getting the wrong idea about me on way or the other.

I, the straightforward, honest guy, was forced to watch as the fellow slipped on his workout clothes and headed into the gym with toilet paper hanging from the leg of his shorts.

This happens a lot at the gym. Do I tell that guy that he just wiped off with a towel that had been recently spit on by a sweaty Russian with medicine balls under his arms? Does that woman need to know how much I can see when she stretches? Do I help that old man find his wooden leg, even though we’re both naked and I still have shampoo in my hair?

No matter what, however, I’ve learned that you should always check your own butt before taking off your clothes in public. You have to watch your back at the gym, because you never know what might be going on back there.

You can’t afford not to.

Free Wisdom

2005-07-17T00:26:00.000-05:00

My mailbox was filled to the brim with angry cards and letters last week. It seems that in my haste to prepare for this weekend’s various Harry Potter parties (my Professor Snape costume was definitely the talk of the town, thank you) I forgot to write a column. It was an honest mistake, and while nothing in this life is guaranteed, it is not likely to happen again.

I have, without a doubt, learned my lesson.

I’ve learned a lot of hard lessons in my life. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say that the world is really nothing more than a very large classroom. Every day we make thousands of decisions -- what to wear, what to eat, when to speak, when to listen. While most of the decisions we make are not the sort of life and death choices we see in the movies, each is a small cause and effect experiment, and each has something to teach us.

I have compiled a few of the lessons I have learned during my life into the following column, which I call “A Few of the Lessons I have Learned During My Life.”

1. It may seem like an excellent idea at the time, but nothing good can come from a Just Married tattoo.

2. No matter how cool you think it makes you look, men should never wear coconut brassieres.

3. You can always put on a sweater if you’re cold, but when it’s hot, you can’t shop naked.

4. The peer pressure is tough in high school, but it’s no reason to eat raw chicken.

5. He who smelt it, dealt it.

6. If you are driving through a corn field in Iowa at night in the rain and you get a flat tire and there’s no one to help you for miles around and suddenly a bunch of children with glowing, red eyes surround the car and start chanting and stabbing at you with pitchforks and scythes, it doesn’t matter what’s on the radio.

7. No matter how well you prepare and how much you practice, it still hurts to get kicked in the crotch.

8. Never confuse indigestion with superpowers.

9. Worst cocktail ever? Bleach-tini.

10. In any column consisting of a list, make the tenth one self-referential and a little less funny than the rest.

11. That way, the eleventh item is always a little bit funnier.

12. They may be cute and look cuddly, but never kiss a bobcat. The same goes for Finnish girls.

13. Don’t eat those berries!

14. When in Rome, it’s not always appropriate to do as the Romans do, especially when it comes to robbing liquor stores.

15. Save your funniest stuff for last.

There you have it, gentle reader -- words to live by. Here’s hoping you don’t make the same mistakes I’ve made.

Especially the one about the Finnish girl.

A very special Yep...

2005-07-03T18:50:00.000-05:00

Editor’s Note: Mr. Moe is absent this week -- something to do with an injury he suffered while repotting a particularly nasty-looking cactus in the dark -- so his column will not be presented this week. Instead, we are marginally proud to present a new feature columnist making his writing debut. I now present the rambling, meaningless prose of my wife’s oldest nephew, Barsley Z. Probe.
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I, Barsley Z. Probe, am humbled to have been given this opportunity. I think I speak for all well-bred citizens when I express what an honor it is that Adam Moe allows us to read his weekly column. I know I missed his sparkling wit and professional-looking spelling and grammar while he was away, and to be given the chance to take over his column this week is (dare I utter the words) a dream fulfilled.

I recall the telephone call vividly -- as if it were yesterday, which it was. The telephone rang, and mother called down to the basement where I was hard at work.

“Barsley!” she called. “There’s some editor on the phone for you! Does this mean you have a job? When will you be moving out? You’re 44 years old, Barsley! If this guy is offering you a job, I think you should take it!”

I was deep in thought at the time, and needed a few precious moments to tuck away my collection of precious Victoria’s Secret catalogs, so I asked Mother to take a name and number, and I’d call back within moments.

“Are you looking at those filthy magazines again, Barsley?” she yelled down the stairs. “That’s no way for a man to act!”

A mere two hours later, upon finishing my work, I picked up the telephone.

“This is your uncle,” crackled the voice on the other end of the line. It was Adam Moe’s editor, and he offered me this chance of a lifetime -- the chance to finally live my dream and write a fill-in column for the hilarious and extremely attractive Mr. Moe.

“Yeah, my wife says to give you a chance,” he said. “Now I want you to understand that this is a one-shot deal, so don’t be calling me or sending me weepy letters every day asking for more. You get what you get. Are you still living in Bev’s basement?”

So here I am, on the BLOG and sending my words out to the entire world.

Hmmm.....

I had such grand plans for this moment. So many humorous things to say and hilarious observations to make. Now it seems I’ve run out of ideas.

This is quite a bit more difficult than it seems -- making nothing into something on paper. I certainly thought I’d have more to offer.

This is quite embarrassing, if I do say so myself.

Ah, I know! Did anyone experience the glory and glitz of the Live 8 concert yesterday? Sure was a lot of music, eh?

Hold on a second, and let me read what I’ve written so far.

No. that wasn’t very funny at all, was it. I rather liked the characterization of my mother, but I certainly wouldn’t call it humorous in any way, shape, or form. In fact, I’m not coming off very well here at all.

Perhaps the following joke will break the laughter dam:

Well, you see, this middle-aged man walked into a bar and... I should mention that the rabbit he was carrying was... he was carrying a rabbit... and the bartender asked him if he needed something to drink, because, of course, that’s what bartenders do even if there happens to be a rabbit involved. So the man (the one with the rabbit, not the bartender) asked the fellow without the rabbit... the bartender... if he could hold his rabbit for a few minutes while he waited for a bus. So the bartender, of course, being an amicable enough fellow......

Forget it! I can’t even tell a joke! Why did I ever agree to do this?

Where are my catalogs...

Editor’s Note: Honey, I hate to say I told you so.

The Tin Anniversary

2005-06-26T14:51:00.000-05:00

Well, the Adam and Emily Moe household has reached another milestone. Despite all contrary beliefs and all of those attempts to break us apart (Angie Jolie and Martina Navratilova, I’m looking at you) we have officially reached our tenth wedding anniversary. It’s quite a feat in this day and age, especially in Chicago, where my personal favorite math problem is:

Hot weather + hot women = hot women in less clothing standing around on the street causing traffic accidents (HW+HW2=HW2 / LessCSAOnTheSC-TrafAcc).

Yes, I officially proclaim that this summer I will have my first major traffic accident and that it will be caused by me rubbernecking some sweet young thing in a pair of hot pants and a tight halter top. The recent rash of hot, dry weather in the Midwest, while having an extremely bad effect on our nation’s farmers, has had an extremely awesome effect on the women of Chicago.

Just yesterday, while returning home from Lowe’s with a trunkful of ceiling fans and a passenger seat full of Emily, I drove past one of the city’s biggest motorcycle showrooms. Outside, in the parking lot, was one of nature’s greatest and most awe-inspiring sights -- the bikini car wash.

I had only seen that sort of thing in the movies and never expected that women would actually strip down and wash your car, giggling and splashing water on one another like... well... like they do in the movies. But there it was, in all it’s majestic, jiggly glory. And these were no ordinary women. Let’s just say that if there is a God, he used his magic airbrush on those girls and then had to smoke a cigarette.

Long story short, I hyperventilated and ran a red light. Fortunately, all of the guys who had the green light facing the other direction had ground to a lusty stop and no one was injured -- physically, anyway. But I have a feeling that sometime this summer, I won’t be so lucky.

Anyway, back to our anniversary.

A lot of people come up to me on the street and say, “Adam, you’re a smart guy, and I trust you to give me marital advice. What makes a long, happy marriage possible in a period of our history when bikini car washes actually exist?”

The answer, my friends, is easy.

Yes, I ran a red light because I was gawking at other women. And yes, my wife of ten years was in the car at the time. But she didn’t yell or frown or hand me the keys to the doghouse. She laughed, and asked if I wanted to turn around and go back.

That, combined with the fact that she wired and hung two ceiling fans this weekend while I sat around on my rump and played my ukulele (NOT a euphemism, by the way) makes her a perfect wife.

So what’s the secret to a long, successful marriage? Bikini car washes and ceiling fans, my friends. Bikini car washes and ceiling fans.

Oh, and having a great wife who, when it’s all said and done, is way better than you deserve.

Seriously.

I have no idea why she sticks around.

Quality time with Spoof

2005-06-19T13:41:00.000-05:00

Before I get started on my column this week, I want to give a quick shout-out to those of you who are taking the time to read this blog every week. I’d also like to point out that my use of the term “shout-out” increases my street credentials exponentially. Sadly, using the word “exponentially” actually decreases my coolness to a level slightly above the guy in your seventh grade class who pooped his pants in gym.

But the show must go on, eh?

A lot of important things happened in the world this week. There’s war to worry about. New diseases are popping up all the time. People are starving and killing each other all over the place.

But none of what has happened in the world this week can hold a candle to what I had to do last Wednesday night after work. I was forced, at wife-point, to collect my dog’s pee in a small Tupperware container.

You see, Spoof, our intrepid terrier, has been having a bit of a urination problem. Without going into too much detail, let’s just say that whenever she feels like it, she leaves a lake of whiz wherever she happens to be standing in the house. We’ve found large yellow puddles fairly often in the past month or so, and since Spoof’s pushing ten years of age (that’s 5,003 to you and me, if my math is right), we figured we had better take her to the vet and have her checked out.

I never would have agreed had I known the embarrassment and pain I would soon suffer.

Picture this: Tired, mumbling, and sporting a headache that feels something like a mechanic shoving a dipstick in my ear to check the fluid levels in my brain pan, I take the dog outside. In one hand I hold a small, flat plastic container, as Spoof is rather low to the ground.

Before I go on, you should know that letting the dog out is a daily trial for me, due to some bad planning when she was a puppy. Without realizing I had done it, I accidentally trained Spoof to hold it unless she is told she can go. The signal? In a small, high-pitched voice, I need to say, “Go pee-pee.” Then, and only then, will she let fly.

As I’m sure you can guess, that can be pretty embarrassing for a guy my size, especially if the hotty in the shorts and pink tube-top downstairs is letting her dog out at the same time. It’s hard to suck in my gut and act casual when I sound like a smurf telling someone to, “Go pee-pee.”

I hope she doesn’t think I’m talking to her.

Anyway, I spent quite a bit of time that night holding Spoof’s tail up with one hand and trying to keep her centered on the Tupperware with the other while I told her to go pee-pee in my teeny-tiny voice. Fortunately, not many people saw me at work. Even in a place like Chicago, that’s a hard tableau to live down.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of coercion, pee-wet fingers, and guffawing from my “loving” wife, I had enough dog pee to take to the vet. We hopped into the car and drove off, fresh whiz in (and on) hand, and sped to the doctor.

As an aside, it’s hard enough to get a dog to pee in a cup, but the vet says it needs to be less than an hour old when it gets to the lab. Insult and injury all wrapped up in a package with a pretty, urine-colored bow.

To make a long story a bit shorter, the vet took the pee and ran her tests. We’re still waiting for the results, but I’ve already made one decision.

If we need another urine sample to know what’s going on with Spoof, I’m afraid we’re going to have to put her down. Either that, or my lovely wife gets to go on collection duty.

Only one person gets to take a leak all over my hands, and that’s me.

Minuet in G with a side order of stupid

2005-06-09T21:23:00.000-05:00

Last Saturday afternoon, my wife held her tenth piano student recital. Nearly all of her kiddies took part in the performance, and all are to be congratulated. Don’t tell anyone I said this (it adds too much warmth to the cold, difficult personality I have spent so much time and effort cultivating) but I have a lot of fun watching those kids play every year.

I do not, however, enjoy the audience.

Actually, I shouldn’t be too harsh. Most of the audience members were fantastic last weekend -- supportive and respectful and well-behaved. But there always seems to be one that trips my trigger.

This year it was a student’s grandfather who chapped my swimsuit area. Imagine, if you will, a heavily tanned old man wearing a pink polo shirt and tan Sans-A-Belts, hair slicked back in a gray DA (that’s duck’s ass, not District Attorney). Now imagine this same fellow, a man who certainly should either know better or be dead by now, having the gall to clip his thick, yellow, old man fingernails during the recital.

That’s right. The vacuous bugger was loudly clipping his fingernails while cute, nervous children did their best to play in front of an audience -- some for the very first time.

Welcome to show business, Little Billy.

The recital was being held in an area church, not for the religious experience but for the quality of the piano and the reasonable rental. I can tell you now, from experience, that fingernail clipping echoes endlessly through the perfect acoustic design of a church.

At first I thought there was an electrical short in the organ or that some renegade preacher had built a Tesla coil in the rectory. It was that loud -- an electric SNAP every three to ten seconds.

I watched mothers frown and stare at the guy as he obliviously groomed himself. I saw one angry father cross himself and look to a stained glass Jesus, obviously praying for lightning or locusts or rats or reality television to put an end to it. I even watched the man’s embarrassed and infinitely wiser wife nudge him and shake her head.

Nothing.

Finally, I got up from my seat in the back, worked my way down the center aisle, and poked the boob in the shoulder. He looked up, surprised.

“Cut it out,” I whispered between clinched teeth.

“Cut what out?” he asked, loudly enough that some of the families in the front turned to see what all the fingernail clipping was about.

It was time for me to pull out the big guns. Most of the time, when I know that the rest of the room is behind me, I just tell the truth. It tends to get the job done quickly and easily, with a minimum of mess.

“You must be the biggest ass in the known universe,” I said, casting an eye at the clipper he held in his palsied right hand.

His jaw dropped. His eyes sent flames into my chest. He moved to get up and let me have it, but his wife reached over to hold him down in his pew.

“He’s right,” she said.

And that seemed to calm him down pretty fast. Apparently, even gigantic dinks know when they’ve been licked.

We all have our moments. I’ve gotten the giggles at a funeral. You’ve probably asked the wrong woman at the wrong time if she was pregnant. And don’t even mention that co-ed sauna incident.

Everyone screws up once in a while.

But I guarantee that you will never, EVER, see me clipping my nails while a five-year-old is playing a one-fingered song about a dinosaur that lives in his closet.

Peace, out.

Postscript: As it turns out, the dingus in question did not belong to any of Emily's students. Who he was remains a mystery.

Oooooops!

2005-06-05T20:00:00.000-05:00

As with all mediocre writers who don’t get paid for what they write, I didn’t meet my personal goal. I wasn’t able to get a column written or downloaded by tonight, as I had promised. I’ve just been too busy with entertaining visitors and tending to my crippling depression.

I’ll have to get back to you in a couple of days.

I promise that the wait will be worth the wait. If you like stories about an old man clipping his fingernails during a piano recital, then you’re in for a treat.

Also, I’d be more apt to keep my promises if I were being paid.

Seriously.

That was a hint.

Anyone? Anyone at all?

By the way...

2005-05-28T19:16:00.000-05:00

To avoid the heartbreak of going through the trouble to log on and check Yep... only to be disappointed that there are no new posts, here is my posting schedule.

Until further notice, I will be posting a new column every week on Sunday evening. As time passes, and it almost certainly will, I may begin to post more than once a week. But for now, let's agree on Sunday evenings.

Shall we say, around 7:00?

The Bice Vice

2005-05-28T19:14:00.000-05:00

Before I get started this week, something has been bothering me, and I need to get it off my chest. A lot of people come up to me on the street and say, “Adam, how can we tell you apart from Antonio Banderas?”

Once and for all, people, I am the one without the accent.

I hope that clears up some of the confusion.

Anyway, this week I was going to write about an incident that happened to me on Monday afternoon at the gym when someone took my towel and left me naked and wet with nowhere to turn. I was going to write about how, after checking my locker to see if another towel was hiding somewhere inside, I snuck back into the shower area and stole someone else’s towel, creating what was probably an entire evening of panic and guilt as one after another, naked men were forced to steal the towels of other naked men.

But the more I thought about it, the less funny it became. It was just sad, really. I could have simply asked a member of the staff if he could grab me a towel, and instead I perpetuated a nearly endless chain of embarrassment and linen larceny.

I needed to be taught a lesson, I thought. And that very evening, I got my comeuppance.

Let me be perfectly clear. I do not watch American Idol. I did one season, when Ruben “Round Mound of Sound” Studdard beat Clay “I Am Extremely Feminine” Aikin. But the second that season was over, I realized that my soul felt dirty and I decided never to get hooked on Idol again.

That said, I caught some snippets of this season. My wife, Emily, however, got slightly caught up in the Bo Bice vice, actually (get ready to snicker and feel superior) voting as the season lumbered to an end.

Here’s where it gets good.

It was the final show, and the blonde girl (I think her name was Buffy or Daffy or Biffy or something) was tugging America’s heart strings with some country song about angels and freedom and dropping bombs on brown people. Bo Bice had finished his songs for the evening, hoping to prove that Idol could be won by a hippie with a one-octave range.

Emily was hysterical. She had made a big sign on a piece of white poster board that had Bo’s name inside a glittering heart. She was waving it at the television and chanting his name, proud to be a part of the Bice Squad.

In a fit of what can only be called passion, she jumped to her feet and headed over to my new desk when the phone numbers flashed across the screen. She grabbed a marker and, with a flourish, wrote Bo’s voting information on my brand new dry erase board.

Unfortunately, the marker she used was a black, permanent Sharpie. And for those who don’t know, Sharpie ink does not erase, elbow grease or no elbow grease.

So there it was, in big old black and bloody letters -- Bo Bice!!!! 1-866-IDOLS-01 written in permanent ink across the back of my workspace. It was quite possibly the most embarrassing thing that could have been written on my new desk, and it was going to be there for quite some time.

I immediately thought back to earlier that afternoon. Out of desperation, I had stolen a towel, and added a link to a chain of sorrow at the gym. I had caused desperation and pain in others, and I was sorry. I was angry about the Sharpie incident, but deep down I knew I deserved it. Karma. The circle of life. Like sands through the hourglass.

I learned something that night, and while I can’t really put it into words, I felt that it was probably pretty valuable.

I’ll never forget it.

POSTSCRIPT: It should be noted that we were able to remove Bo Bice’s phone number from my board with a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser -- easily the most fantastic cleaning tool since the topless maid. Upon seeing the clean white board, I immediately forgot whatever lesson it was I had learned.

It should also be made clear that Emily never made a sign for Bo Bice, although when she’s asleep, I sometimes hear her whisper his name under her breath and her diary is filled with sketches of him holding hands with someone named Emily Bice.

I didn’t even know he was married.

I don't usually break the law, but...

2005-05-20T15:58:00.000-05:00

(Editor’s note: The following column contains quite a lot of smug, self-important anger. Rest assured that, like any columnist worth his salt, Mr. Moe has relied purely on that impotent rage in the writing of this piece. No research was done, no phone calls were made, and nothing has been checked for accuracy. The event described, however, is factual.)

It’s almost summer in Chicago -- warm weather, more visible skin on much better looking people than me, street vendors selling all manner of shaved ice. It’s a time to grab a book and curl up under a tree. Maybe fly a kite or toss a frisbee back and forth for a while.

A time to play.

Unless, of course, you decide to play in Chicago’s newest (and most metallic) attraction -- Millennium Park. Millions of dollars and man hours after ground was first broken, the new park is quite a place. It’s like Disney World down there, except that instead of rides and colorful characters, we have cops on Segways and the occasional urine-soaked wino.

You all know what a Segway is, right? They are those little personal transportation carts that were supposed to become all the rage a few years ago but have really only been embraced by people who are either too stupid to walk or so rich they can afford to be very, very lazy.

Anyway, my wife was walking quietly through the new park one day last week and saw what can only be described as a reasonable (and possibly legal) excuse to punch a policeman right in the yap.

(Editor’s note: Mr. Moe’s views on Chicago’s police force, while often true, are not necessarily those of this BLOG, or even Mr. Moe. In addition this column has no actual editor, so stop pretending.)

Two adults (let’s call them Tabitha and Franklin) were spending time in Millennium Park having a bit of lunch and soaking up a few rays of sun -- a valuable commodity in Chicago. When my wife (let’s call her Emily, as it’s her name and will be easy for me to remember) was about 30 yards away from the lovely couple, Franklin stood up, took a Koosh ball from out of the picnic basket, and gently tossed it to Tabitha. The couple moved apart from one another and began to play a spirited, laugh-filled game of catch.

Emily smiled as she approached the couple. Two adults playing like children tends to have that effect on most people -- a healing sort of effect.

Then from behind the large, bean-shaped sculpture that apparently passes for art these days, scooted a cop on a Segway. He smiled, almost as if he had been waiting around all afternoon to get to ride his scooter, and sped up to (...what the heck were their names again? Oh, yeah...) Tabitha and Franklin.

Actually, sped might not be the right word. A Segway can speed about the same way I can eat just one Pop Tart. Let’s say he buzzed... no! He mechanically meandered up to Tab and Frank and ordered them to “cease and desist” their flagrant “ball tossing” and to turn the offending toy over to his custody.

Emily was close enough now to overhear the conversation, and she swears that the policeman actually said, “I’m afraid there is no playing of any kind in the park.”

With a straight face, no less. And while standing on a Segway. And wearing a goofy-looking helmet.

Apparently, “playing” in Millennium Park is illegal. There is no room for fun in that multimillion dollar, outdoor facility. I can understand getting punished for picking the flowers or taking a leak in one of the many fabulous fountains. I should be ticketed for spitting on people or kicking stuff or smuggling heroin.

But PLAYING? In a PARK?

I’m not a rabble-rouser by any stretch of the imagination. And I don’t break the law unless it’s absolutely necessary or I really feel like it. But here is my suggestion: This weekend, take a group of people down to the park, whip out a frisbee or a whiffle ball or some other harmless toy, and PLAY WITH SOMEONE!

Burn the motor out on that stupid little scooter cop! Make him tell you why you can’t play in the park! Make him write out the ticket! Give him the worst writing cramp he’s ever had!

I’ll see you there. Maybe we can play some kickball.

America, if we can’t get arrested for playing kickball in the park, then the terrorists have already won.

(Editor’s note: Seriously, man. I’m not real. Stop it.)

Honey, I'm Home

2005-05-11T16:19:00.000-05:00

Those of you who already know me can feel free to skip the following background information, unless, of course, you feel compelled or obligated to review who I am and why I have started this BLOG. Say, for example, you are writing your thesis on the life and times of an overweight, mostly coherant former newspaper columnist who, in a desperate attempt to once again find an audience, has begun to self-publish on the internet -- then you might want to keep reading. And take some notes. You might even want to give me a call if you have questions. Wednesdays are good for me.

My name is Adam Moe, and before I moved to Chicago about three years ago, I was a writer for a newspaper in Northern Minnesota. While there was never much news, there was a glut of paper, and that paper had to be filled every week. Part of that filler was a weekly (or weakly) humor column written by me. Mysteriously titled YEP..., the darn thing caught on with a lot of folks, and somehow found a strong and vocal audience among readers of the paper and their friends. Thanks to the column, I received a vote in the Gore/Bush election and appeared on Twin Cities television with retired professional wrestler Mad Dog Vachon.

It was a glorious time. Glorious, and slightly embarrassing.

That was three years ago, and since, I have done very little writing. While a large number of people all over the world certainly celebrate this fact on the anniversary of my "being let go" from the newspaper, I must admit that I miss the column deadline that kept me writing.

That deadline, while at times forcing me to publish some very bad writing of the kind one would never bring home to Mama, was good for me. It forced me to produce, whether I or my readers liked it or not.

That is the purpose for my work here in BLOGland. I have placed a weekly deadline on myself and will produce a column every week in order to get my juices flowing again. My writing juices.

(Those of you who stopped reading after the first paragraph can feel free to start reading again. The rest of you can ignore this reminder, unless you've already read it in which case, no harm done.)

So, those of you who are new to Yep... -- welcome. You will be missed when you leave.

Those of you who have come back to this pointless meandering garbage after my three-year hiatus, I welcome you with open arms and the raised eyebrows of incredulity.

Tell your friends Yep... is back in business. Shoot, tell everyone you know.

Advertising is just too darn expensive these days.