Tuesday, July 05, 2005


If you haven't resubscribed this is your last chance. I will not be updating this site anymore.

Please check out my new post at:


I hope you've enjoyed what you've read so far and will subscribe to "Fugetaboutit."



Friday, July 01, 2005

Two Quickies!

Fugetaboutit! has moved.

Please click the link below to be directed to the latest post on my new

For you subscribers I will continue to post on this site for a few weeks but will direct you to my new site.

Please resubscribe when you get to my new site "Fugetaboutit!"

All of my old posts are listed on my new site as "Laugh Track Archives."

Thanks again.


Monday, June 27, 2005

I can save the world. Or at least 30 minutes of my time.

How U Doin?

Please click the link below to be directed to the latest post on my new site.


For you subscribers I will continue to post on this site for a few weeks but will direct you to my new site.

Please resubscribe when you get to my new site "Fugetaboutit!"

All of my old posts are listed on my new site as "Laugh Track Archives."

Thanks again.Tony

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Whole lotta shakin goin on!!!

How U Doin?

Please click the link below to be directed to the latest post on my new site.


For you subscribers I will continue to post on this site for a few weeks but will direct you to my new site.

Please resubscribe when you get to my new site "Fugetaboutit!"

All of my old posts are listed on my new site as "Laugh Track Archives."

Thanks again.


Sunday, June 19, 2005

Fathers Day Post

How U Doin?

Please click the link below to be directed to my Father's Day post on my new site.


For you subscribers I will continue to post on this site but will direct you to my new site. Please resubscribe when you get to my new site "Fugetaboutit!" Thanks in advance.

All of my old posts are listed on my new site as "Laugh Track Archives."

Thanks again.


Friday, June 17, 2005

Time for a change!!!

Please click the link below to be directed to my new site.


I haven't figured out how to transfer my subscribers so you'll need to resubscribe to the new page. Sorry about that.

I will save these archives for those of you who have shared them with your friends or just like to re read them for a laugh.

Monday, June 13, 2005

If You Can't Run...........

I’m in trouble.


I don’t know how my wife has managed to put up with me for 27 years.

I’m sure as hell not going to ask,

because the answer is going to take a really long time,

and I’ll be expected,

to remember it.

I think she likes living with an idiot, and I try to help her out as often as I can.

Apparently it’s not okay to teach your two and a half-year-old grandson to sound Italian. Oh the “How U Doin?” coming out of that little guy was very cute. But when she told him to pick up his toys and he said, “Fugetaboutit”, I knew I was dead.

I wanted to run.

But I don't do that.

I didn't have the right shoes.

So I did the one thing that any married man with experience did. I dropped into my “zone” defense.

Let me explain.

The “zone” is a place a man goes in his brain that is impervious to everything a woman says to him while giving him the ability to look like he’s listening. The stare, the nodding in acknowledgement, the affirmative grunting is all on automatic pilot and used at precisely the correct moment.

The goal is to give the appearance of listening, communicating and being sensitive without looking confused.

Make no mistake, the “zone” will NOT get you out of trouble but it will keep you from opening your mouth and getting yourself in deeper...Usually.

The “zone” is based on the following six principles.

Number one, never ask a question.


What you do is give them the answers.

For example, do not say, “Do “we” have to “do” something Saturday night?
Instead you say, “So “I” guess “you’re” going to your moms on Saturday.”

This throws them off. You are telling her that she’s going without you but phrasing it so she thinks it’s her choice.

It has a 7% success rate if done quickly. You have to be quick. In an instant she will have processed this. Her mind is already saying, “You’re not getting out of this you fat bastard.”

Into the zone….

Number two.

Never argue.

When challenged by a woman immediately agree with her, compliment her on her appearance, and then retreat to the zone. The worse thing that will happen at this point is that you will be accused of not communicating when in fact, that’s the point.

For example, “Yes Dear, you’re right, I’m an idiot. You have nice hair.”

Now nod a lot.

Number three and this is a long one.

Once a month ask her the following. “Hey babe how was your day?”

I know, I know, you’re worried that this will open the flood gates for a conversation about things you can't possibly understand, and yes, yes it will.

That’s why you have to be in the “zone” BEFORE you ask the question. This takes lots of practice. Trying to speak in intelligible sentences is very difficult while in the “zone”. Start out simple with phrases like, “Uh huh”, then work your way up one word at a time, until you get to six words. NOTE: NEVER GO OVER SIX WORDS!!!!

A question over six words may require reciprocal conversation. Remember, the key is to stay in the “zone”. The whole point is to appear like you’re listening and are actually part of the conversation without talking.

If you talk too much inevitably you will say something stupid that will piss her off.

That’s what we call a “given.”

If a woman is telling you about her day and how so and so did this, and so and so did that, she is “NOT LOOKING FOR YOUR ADVICE OR OPINION.” So keep your trap shut and just keep nodding.

Some people have asked me, “Tony how can you not respond when a woman is saying something that is so obviously wrong that it needs comment?”

He has just made my point. He was not in the “zone”. If you’re in the “zone” you don’t know what she said because you’re not listening. If he heard it, he isn’t in the “zone”.

Number four.

Always assume that there is something that you have to do on the weekends. It doesn’t matter if she told you about it three weeks ago while you were watching Cambodian midget porn.

(Trust me; the only time they will tell us that we have to do something is when we’re already focused on doing something else important, like watching TV or eating Cheetohs.)

Number Five.

Never teach your grandson fun stuff when grandma, his mom or any other women is around. If you do then make sure you remove all of the coasters from your house. They fit perfectly into a woman’s hand and can be thrown as an effective and painful tool for getting your attention.

That brings us to Number six.

Any woman you have been married to for more than one week already knows about the previous five principles and just lets you think you have the protection of the “zone” when in fact, she is in complete control.

Wives have proven their control over husbands for generations by hiding stuff from us. Usually our keys or wallet in some place we would never think to look, like the shelf that we put up specifically to hold our keys and our wallet.

A big part of that is that as married men we don’t really mind getting yelled at as long as we get the remote, an occasional five minutes of silence and someone to care for us when we think we’re dying from a common cold.

So I guess when you sum it all up, I live my married life on just one principle.

I’m always wrong.

And you know what? I’m okay with that. It gives me a deep sense of peace and serenity. There’s no stress. It’s a Zen like feeling of acceptance.

I am one with my couch.

Thursday, June 09, 2005


Friday is my 27th wedding anniversary. 27 years…. In a row.

What kind of gift do you get the woman you have been married to for 27 years?

I’d run out of ideas. So I did what any married man would do. I’ve already told my wife I’m giving her a card that entitled her to one free outfit.

She loved it and followed with, “This is wonderful, the Nordstrom Half Yearly Sale started this week, why don’t we go together on Friday and you can help me pick it out?”

I haven’t been inside a shopping mall in two years.

I don’t want to be caught with her out in the open in a shopping mall. I’ll get sucked in. She’ll see something in a window of a woman’s shop and then I’ll get…”THE CHAIR.”

Every woman’s store has one. That lone chair that husbands sit in and wait, and wait, and wait, and wait, and wait, and wait, and wait, …………………

We’re supposed to sit there and not touch anything while we give “positive” running commentary on the impromptu fashion show we’re about to get.

Why do you women think that if you try on an outfit that you are going to get an honest answer from us when you come out to show us?

Do we look like someone who should be giving fashion advice?

You have to know we just want to get the hell out of there.

After I’ve been sitting there for an hour and see 18 trillion dresses she has to know that she could come out with nothing on but a Hefty bag and Cheetohs taped to her forehead and I’m going to love it!!!

That’s why I haven’t been back to the mall since my last time in the “chair.”

I fell asleep.

Deep sleep.

The kind of sleep that follows with snoring and inevitably, drooling.

When my wife came out to show me “the dress” she finally decided she was going to buy she startled me. I woke up, yelled “Fumble!” banged my head against the wall behind me, knocked the painting off the wall and sat there with a foot long line of drool going from the corner of my mouth to my left breast pocket. I also had a cowlick of hair sticking up from my head hitting the wall.

God I wish I was making that up.

I looked like a deranged version of Alfalfa.

Yes…I’m a keeper.

Normally my wife just shakes her head and walks away pretending she doesn’t know me.

Not this time.

She had this look on her face like I was a puppy she wanted to drop off at the pound. Like she wanted to keep me but I was getting to be way too much work and she couldn’t potty train me.

She mumbled something about my mother and went back into her changing cell. Yes “cell” because I feel like I’m a prison guard sitting out there.

I’m sitting there with a huge wet spot on my shirt, messed up hair, and a knot on my head the size of a golf ball. So I try to look…cool.

My wife comes out and now I’m getting the silent treatment, which seems like a blessing at this point compared to the alternative.

We get to the checkout counter and the 19-year-old tattooed waif behind the counter is nonverbally communicating with my wife. I could sense it. She had this look like, “Oh my Gawd, I can’t believe you’re with this.”

I’m trying to look nonchalant at this point. Like I meant to have a wet spot on my shirt over my left breast and that my hair was a statement.

While my wife is spending an eternity with the punk version of Karen Carpenter trying to pay for her stuff I start playing with these odd-looking gel balls they have in a “50% off” sale bin next to the counter.

I bounce em, squeeze um, juggle them, and then I think to myself. “Why would they be selling kids stuff in a woman’s clothing store?”

It was at this moment I caught the pained look of horror in my wife’s face a fraction before she smacked me in the back of the head.

“Idiot! Put down the “Nearly Me’s” and go wait outside.

What the hell was a “Nearly Me?”

Do you know what it’s like to have to stand outside a woman’s clothing store in a crowded mall with messed up hair and a wet spot on your shirt over your left breast?

Let me put it this way, at that moment all I was thinking was, “how can I fake my death?”

My wife comes out and pretends she doesn’t know me. So I now look like some kind of perverted stalker following a woman through the mall.

“Sorry babe, honey, sorry. Want me to carry those for you? You wanna stop at the Starbucks and get a decaf frappo latto macho macho man Vente for $49. Huh? What about a Cinnabon? Anything you want babe. Really, I’m sorry. I said I was sorry. Are we good? We’re good right? I just want to go home. Can we please go home? I’m safe at home.”

It’s been two years and now I have to go back.

Hopefully no one will recognize me.

I don’t wanna go to the mall.

Can’t we just spend the day at Bed Bath and Beyond?

Friday, June 03, 2005

MY FACE IS SHRINKING!!! But I can Spell Prosciutto.

There comes a time after you been dieting that people start to notice you’ve lost weight. Yesterday a friend of mine said to me, “Tony, I can tell you’ve lost weight. It really shows… in your face.”

My face?






What about my ass? Have you noticed my ass? I’m pretty sure my ass is smaller. It’s not that I’m gay or anything but for the love of God look at my ass. That’s a shrunken ass if I’ve ever seen one!

My face….

I feel like going out and buying a really big hat right now, maybe a sombrero, something to accentuate my tiny little face.

My face…

Then I’m going to put an Oakland Raiders Jersey and a pair of my old pants and walk around Wal-Mart in them. I’ll look like a middle aged white gangbanger. You know why?


My face…

Apparently that’s not the only thing that’s shrinking.

NO NO NO!!! I know what you’re thinking and you are waaaaayyyy off.

That’s the bonus of losing that much weight.

My penis looks huge.

I remember what my doctor asked me when I started out on this new diet. “Tony, How much weight do you want to lose? What’s the weight you’re shooting for? What’s your goal?

“Well Doc, I’d like smaller breasts than my wife and I’d like to see “El Guapo” again when I pee.”

Mission Accomplished!!! I wish I had a flight suit to walk around in right now, one that would show off my manly bulges and my tiny little ass.

What I meant when I said something else was shrinking…well…it’s me. I’m shrinking.

I’ve been 5-11 since the eighth grade. I had a physical Wednesday for a new life insurance policy. They said I’m now 5’9½” tall.

Maybe I lost an inch and a half of fat off the top of my head.

I’m starting to shrink?

A tiny face and now I’m shrinking?

Maybe that’s why no one has noticed my ass. I’m shrinking so much it hides the ass loss.

There’s no God.

This is what happens when you’re a white male on the road to fifty. Your life is one long embarrassing moment.

Some of you dispute me?

The other day I pulled a calf muscle. I wasn’t doing anything. It just pulled. That happens a lot as get older, you can be brushing your teeth and pull a calf muscle. I think it’s some kind of law or something.

Anyway I applied this wondrous ointment called Icy Hot. I then went to the bathroom to wash my hands.

Somewhere between the living room and the bathroom I forgot I had to wash my hands and remembered I had to pee….

All I can say is you don’t want to be caught by your wife with “El Guapo” in the sink while you’re throwing cold water on him. There is absolutely no way to look cool doing this and it is extremely difficult to explain.

What has happened to me? When did I lose my coolness factor?

I’ve even started talking to my imaginary friend again. Actually he’s not really a friend; he’s more of a drinking buddy. He pops up around the fifth shot of Patron.

He’s really the only person that listens to me anymore although even he feels the need to give me advice.

“You know Tone, I hate to say this but you’re a 5’9½” 47 year old white Italian male. I don’t think that dream about playing in the NFL is going to come true. Have you given any thought to bowling?”

When did I become such a dork?

I feel like I’m ready for the National Spelling Bee.

I have to switch gears for a second.

The National “Spelling” Bee was broadcast on ESPN.


If they are going to broadcast the National Spelling Bee on an all sports channel like ESPN then I think fat kids with A.D.D. should be allowed to tackle these kids while they are trying to spell.

Now that’s entertainment.

Stick these kids on the Discovery Channel where they belong. It’s not like these kids are ever going to play sports.

Don’t get me wrong I give this kid credit. Look at the list of words this kid had to spell to win this thing.


I just have one question. Other than ordering Prosciutto at an Italian Deli, which I doubt, “Anurag Kashyap”, will ever do, when in the hell would anyone use these words?

Sure I may use a Sphygmomanometer to measure the size of my face….

Sunday, May 29, 2005

My Chest Has a Bald Spot

Before we get started I now have a Web Store with some, shall we say, unique items. If you are Italian or have ever known and Italian check out this link http://www.cafepress.com/wopwear

Okay here we go.

Researchers at the University of Minnesota now believe that Viagra may cause blindness. Which is good news for ugly women.

I had to get that one out of my system.

I have a problem and I hope I’m not alone. I like to sing along with songs on the radio but I rarely understand the lyrics. So I sing what I “think” the lyrics are.

For years I thought, “Panama” by Van Halen was “Let it Rock”. Even though I know what the lyrics are now, I still sing it wrong. I think it sounds better my way.

Here are the actual lyrics:

Jump back, what's that sound?
Here she comes, full blast and top down.
Hot shoe, burnin' down the avenue.
Model citizen zero discipline
Don't you know she's coming home with me?
You’ll lose her in the turn.
I'll get her!
Panama, Panamaha
Panama, Panamaha

What the hell does Panama mean?
I think it makes more sense to sing, “Let it Rock, let it roh hole”.

I’m still going to sing it my way.

Admit it. You’ve all sung the wrong song lyrics before. It’s impossible to understand half the words these people sing. Most rock bands sound like Don Corleone is singing.

The worst song of all time to try to understand is “Blinded by the Light” by Manfred Mann's Earth Band. I defy anyone to figure this song out. I think they did this on purpose so people would go “Huh? What was the name of the band that sang this?”

My version is:

“Blinded by the light wrapped up like douche another roamer in the light.”


The other night we watched the finale of The Contender.
They had a guy come out into the ring and do a “Rap” song.

Rap? I think they spelled it wrong. I think they dropped the “C” off the front of it.

Umm…. Has anyone noticed these guys are just TALKING to what they call music!!!!

Have you listened to this garbage? Of course you have. We all have. We have no choice.

Is there a reason why I have to listen to this coming out of a Cadillac Escalade 16 BLOCKS FROM MY HOUSE???

Hey numb nuts your entire back seat is a SPEAKER!!!

There’s no room in the car. One asshole is driving the Escalade while his friends are following him in 1984 Ford Taurus with chrome rims and a vintage Dodge Caravan painted metallic bronze with a spoiler and tires that looks like they came off of a shopping cart at COSTCO.

Hey why not trick out a Pacer while you’re at it?

I must be turning into my father because every time I hear Rap I immediately want to blame the Communists.

I remember the first “rock” album that I brought home as a kid. It was the “The Monkees.”

My dad snapped.

“Long Haired Hippie Communists are not going to brainwash my kids. Those guys are on the marijuana and you kids are not going to listen to these drug-smoking Communists. People are starving in Vietnam and you spent your money on this crap?”

No father.

I spent YOUR money on this crap.

That’s’ what I wanted to say.

You should have seen him the first time I came home wearing a Jimi Hendrix tee shirt. I think he thought I was on the marijuana.

I’m a product of the 60’s and early 70’s. I say early 70’s because after Jimi Hendrix died music went to hell and Satan’s name was Disco.

I’ve tried to forget those years. They really traumatized me.

My girlfriend (now my wife) made me buy “Angel Flight” pants, “Quiana” shirts and platform shoes, lime green and sky blue leisure suits and Gold chains that ripped the hair out my chest.

Angel flight pants were skin tight and came with one pocket... In the front. It was big enough to hold a condom and a key and that was it. If you moved to suddenly you would crush your testicles, which pretty much explains the Bee Gees.

“Quiana” shirts were made out of some kind of space age material that melted every time someone with a cigarette walked within six feet of you. You’d get these little cigarette sized melted holes all over you when you went out to the “Disco.”

Platform shoes were designed by women as a plot to get even with us for high heels. You put these on and you looked like a gay Pilgrim.

The gold chain was the topper. It had to be strong enough to hold the two-pound Italian Horn hanging from it. After 1975 I had a permanent bald spot in the shape of that chain on my chest. OoooooH SEXY!!!

I think jail rapes started in the 70’s. You didn’t want a DUI in the 70’s.

I also had a gold wrist chain that had a plate with my name on it so when I got drunk and passed out I could wake up and know who I was. That’s because when you’ve passed out in a lime green leisure suit your first reaction when you come to is to deny your identity.

There were also a lot of Iranians in the 70’s. They never bathed but they sure loved to put on more cologne.

At least you could smell a terrorist coming in those days.

Now we have the Country Western music craze.

I don’t get it.

I think Country Western music was invented so fat chicks would have someone to dance with.

What? You think a skinny hot chick thought of “line dancing”?

I’m waiting for the crossover between Rap and Country Western so I can see a white kid dressed as a black man, sitting on a horse, on a chrome saddle, singing about how he popped a cap in his dog.

Actually the song would probably go like this:

Well you can axe the hood you never was my bitch
You can cap my cream when I am gone
Or you can axe your crew just what a foo I've been
And wak and dis me on my phone

You can axe my arms go back to da farm
Or you can axe my dawgs to hit the floor
Or you can axe my grill and tell da man to chill
They won't be reaching out for you, you ho

But don't axe my heart
My achy breaky heart
I don’t think hommie’d understand
And if you axe my heart
My achy breaky heart
He might trip out and cap da man

Where is Jimi Hendrix when you need him?

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Midget Lion Fighting And Other Boring Stuff

In the next couple of weeks I will no longer be mailing notices that My Weekly Rant is updated. My Internet provider isn’t pleased with me sending that much e-mail at one time. Please use the subscribe button on the right and you will automatically be notified when a new rant is posted. If you enjoy my rants please forward this link to your friends. I appreciate all of your comments and e-mails.

It was tough coming up with a rant this week. I would start to write about stuff going on in the world and it was just depressing. I think the whole world needs to wear a “Lighten Up Francis” tee shirt. If you haven’t seen the movie “Stripes” you won’t get that.

I think I’ll send that tee shirt to the leader of every nation on the planet. I’ll also send one to every right wing nut job religious fundamentalist and every liberal left wing environmentalist kook.

I am sure that I may offend someone with the following comment but I’m afraid it must be said.

God may be many things, but he is not a midget.

I refer to the following BBC article, “Lion Mutilates 42 Midgets in Cambodian Ring-Fight.”

If this is true, God is not Cambodian either.

It seems the Cambodian Midget Fighting League, or CMFL for short, was pitted against an African Lion. In just twelve minutes twenty-eight midgets were killed and the other fourteen badly injured.

Hey the BBC printed it so it must be true right?

There isn’t a lot of good or funny news in the world. But you have to admit the Cambodian Midget Fighting League being killed by a lion would be at the top in any week.

So let’s look at the world today.

Iraq is a mess with Muslim suicide bombers killing other Muslims. According to the “Koran” that’s okay as long as they take a few infidels with them.

One has to think, “Well eventually they’ll run out of people taking Zoloft or Prozac or run out of Muslims and this will all end.”

There just isn’t a whole lot of funny there. That’s because there are no good Muslim comics. Every joke is, “Two Jews walked into a bar, so I blew myself up.”

I love that joke.

There was also a report that the relationship between The United States and Syria was being strained over the issues in Iraq. Boy that’s a shame; we’d always been so close to the Syrians.

There’s a whole lot of other negative stuff as well. I think I heard a report about Laura Bush and the Egyptians, at least I think that’s the name of her new band, playing a gig in Cairo.

In Austria they are starting a Doggie Doo Doo DNA registry.

Apparently they have a different kind of terrorist threat in Austria.



Where do I start with this one?

It seems that convicted sex offenders and rapists have been allowed to receive Medicaid-reimbursed Viagra. That’s right the taxpayers are footing the bill. Personally I have no problem with them receiving free Viagra as long as it’s encased in lead on the tip of a bullet. I can cure all sex offenders for as little as .87 cents a piece.

Don’t tell me Capital Punishment doesn’t work.

It definitely works.

There is never a repeat offender.


What doesn’t work is waiting twenty years to whack em. “Whack” is an Italian term that means, “Hey…Its just bizeeness.”

Actually if they gave all sex offenders and rapists an overdose of Viagra while they were in a jail cell with nothing but other sex offenders and rapists I’d be okay with that.

Wait 24 hours. Then “whack” em.

The Atheists got together in San Francisco for an “All Atheist Weekend.” A spokesperson for the Atheists said, “We are here to counter the rise of fundamentalism in the U.S. and the blurring of lines between church and state. If people don’t like it, they can go to hell.”

I personally think people should be free to worship anyone or anything they want.

Except midgets.

Cambodian midgets.

I think there is no place for Cambodian midget worshiping in our government. There should always be a separation of midget and state. Our four fathers wrote about this in the Constellation or whatever they’re trying to teach to our youth today.

Yes I know I picked on midgets and Muslims. My apologies to the midgets. I’ll pick on Muslims, Christians, Jews, Hindus and any other intolerant religious nut jobs.

Remember, Guns don’t kill people, assholes like this do. This is why are forefathers wanted separation of church and state. This is what they were really worried about, not nipples popping out at half time shows.

In the local news here in San Diego everyone in government will eventually be convicted of everything and sentenced to community service at Dirty Dans or Pure Platinum.

Donna Frye will be our next mayor and every landlord in San Diego will move to Iraq.

In sports the NHL season is still cancelled, and still... no one cares.

There is a rumor however that the Cambodian Midget Hockey Team is willing to challenge any one NHL player.

One quick note.

I bought a pair of scissors that can cut a penny; it’s from Cutco Cutlery, one pair of scissors to rule them all.

I don’t really need a pair of scissors that can cut a penny. Penny cutting is not really a hobby of mine. But you never know when a piece of a penny will come in handy. If you don’t have a $199 pair of scissors you’ll be out of luck.

I’d like to thank my Cutco Cutlery representative, Achmed Mohammed Bin Laden, for pointing that out to me as he wanders throughout my neighborhood with a briefcase full of knives.

And you think I made that last part up…

He shows up on a bike.

I think he's spreading “his” word.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

The Santa Fe Trail

I spent the last four days in Sante Fe, New Mexico.

We flew into Albuquerque. This is a city that’s virtually impossible to spell.

The Albuqerqueans are a proud people who like to boast, “Come to Albuquerque, we have a tree.”

We then drove the one hour scenic drive to Santa Fe. It was beautiful. We saw four Indian casinos.

These Casinos are situated on what is known as Pueblos. Think Wal-Mart with gambling.

New Mexico is known as “The Land of Enchantment”, actually it’s pretty much just rust or brown.

The state motto of New Mexico is “Crescit eundo”, which means, “It grows as it goes.” Which proves that people were smoking something funny way before the hippies moved there.

I’m not making that up.

The state motto should be, “We like earth tones.”

It can’t take much to be an architect in New Mexico. Every building is a rust or brown colored box. These boxes sell for around one million dollars.

I’m not making that up either.

When we arrived in Santa Fe I realized that I had a very important question.


For the love of god there’s no air there.

Santa Fe is about 723,000 feet above sea level.

Okay, it’s only 7,000 feet above sea level, bottom line, we’re talking HIGH!!!

You bring people to a resort that starts out its travel brochure with a warning about the altitude and then the next paragraph talks about all the activities you can do there like HIKING!!!

No wonder there are no fat people there. There’s not enough air to share with fat people.


Everything at the resort involves physical activity. Unless you want to have burning hot rocks put on your back while someone chants in Hindu to you about your chakra, or dosha, or vato or Kookla, Fran and Ollie or whatever. This they call a massage.

And no matter what you sign up for at the “spa” you end up naked.


The name of the spa was the “Sha Na” spa. Sha Na is a Navajo word that means, “shower from which water trickles slowly.”

Why does every hotel have showers that just trickle water from them? I’m at a five star resort hotel and I have to do a rain dance every morning to get enough water to take a shower.

The kicker was the maid service. She would bang on the door at 7:30am, “Housekeeping, housekeeping!” 7:30 IN THE FREAKING MORNING!!!!

The skinny people had already jogged, had a hot rock treatment, made pottery, gone horseback riding, hiked five miles, shot skeet and ate breakfast by 5:30am. Which proves that their brains have been oxygen starved.

I should have signed up for the 6:00am pottery class; I could have made a club.

I tried exercising. I walked from my bed to the bathroom and got a nosebleed.

I wish I was making that up.

We saw an “authentic” Native American dance group. I can only describe it like this. Have your best friend dress up like a turkey and jump up and down. While he is doing this bang on a drum while chanting “HIYA, hiya, HIYA, hiya, HIYA, hiya” over and over again. While you are banging the drum and chanting, have another friend kick you in the nuts. For you ladies, try giving birth at this time.

I think that’s a fairly accurate description.

No wonder we took their land.

Santa Fe is a town of artists and art galleries.
Which basically means there are no Republicans there.

There is a square in the middle of Santa Fe surrounded by dozens of shops. Everything in these shops is 40% off yet has no price tag. There are no cash registers there. Maybe these proud ancient sales people are still using beads to do the math.

It’s interesting to note that the “tax” on a $40 shawl at one store is not the same as the “tax” on a $40 shawl at another store. Which goes to show that New Mexico is pretty much like Old Mexico.

To we men turquoise and silver jewelry pretty much looks the same EVERYWHERE!!!!

To a woman it’s 40% off. IT’S ON SALE!!!

I said a prayer, “God grant my Visa Card the serenity to accept the things It wouldn’t normally charge; the limit to charge the things It can; and the wisdom to know the difference BETWEEN ONE FREAKING PIECE OF SILVER TURQUOISE JEWELRY THAT’S THE SAME IN EVERY FREAKING STORE!!!!”


Santa Fe dining is very relaxing and laid back. They are so laid back that when someone in our party checked his coat, they gave to it someone else.

I’m not making that up either.

The waiters and waitresses begin every greeting with, “Red or green?”

This is in reference to how spicy hot you want your food. All food. Even dessert.

That way when people ask you how the food was you can tell them it was great. But in reality you have just had your taste buds burned out of your mouth and you want someone else to share your pain.

(Side note: I just opened a bottle of Diet Snapple Raspberry Ice Tea and on the lid it says, “Emus and kangaroos cannot walk backwards.” This is an interesting fact and proves that you learn something new everyday. However, it doesn’t prove that we care.)

In the evening we went to a restaurant called, El Farol. El Farol once had the notoriety of being one of the rowdiest bars this side of the Pecos River. Rumor has it that thirsty cowhands used to ride their horses right into the bar!

It’s no rumor. They’re still there, and they think they can dance. No not the horses, just 70-year-old white men with ponytails looking like they were having seizures on the dance floor.

It was probably a lack of oxygen thing but I think the drunken liberals in the bar thought it was performance art.

Anyway, we drove back to Albuquerque and it looked the same. We never did see their tree.

Airport security in New Mexico is very tight. I think it’s because these people are so used to having Uncle Sam steal things from them.

One quick note, every state motto with the exception of New Hampshire’s is just plain stupid. New Hampshire’s motto is, “Live free or die”, now that’s a motto.

California’s motto is “Eureka!” That’s our motto… “Eureka!” One word… That’s all we could come up with here? One Word?

How about “Sealius un Borderum” or “Electricus Interuptus”? SOMETHING!!!!


I’m done.

Monday, May 09, 2005

Results Not Typical, Individual Results May Cause Tumors

I need to catch up on a few things in the news this past week.

So Jennifer Wilbanks runs away from her wedding and pretends she was abducted by Hispanics the Minutemen didn’t catch, and people want to know why.

It was Duluth, Georgia, did anyone check to see if she and the guy she was marrying were related?

It’s just a question.

The Marine Corps is recalling more than 5,000 combat vests issued to troops in Iraq, Afghanistan and Djibouti.

It seems they don’t stop bullets.

A company spokesman for Point Blank Body Armor of Pompano Beach, Fla., which makes the vests, told NBC News, “We stand “by” our product.”

I think individual marines would feel more comfortable if they would stand “behind” their product.

As a way to combat terrorism the Department of Homeland Security is recommending that Congress consider legislation that would require people to present four different forms of identification when they apply for a driver’s license.

Well we wouldn’t want terrorist to get a fake drivers license. If they did that they probably wouldn’t buy auto insurance.

That’s the problem we have here in California.

We need to give “legal” drivers licenses to “illegal” aliens so that they will buy auto insurance.

Boy I hope that Geico Gecko is bilingual because I understand there are thousands of illegal aliens just waiting to save money on auto insurance.

Apparently congressmen have never been to the DMV.

DMV is Latin for “where government employees go to die.”

Have you ever noticed that people in line at the DMV look like they are being punished?

And you’re standing in line looking at the people standing in line and you realize that you are standing in line and you wonder what you look like.

“Do I look guilty? Do I smell?”

I think waiting in line at the DMV should be the penalty for doing drugs.

Smoke a joint go to the DMV.

That’s a lot more convincing than, “Say no to drugs.”

I watched the ABC Primetime expose on "American Idol”, did you know that former contestant Corey Clark, said Paula Abdul who was 18 years his senior, gave him money, bought him clothes, and had sex with him?

So he’s basically my idol now.

Here’s a great story, a woman from Boulder City won her second $1 million jackpot in a span of less than a year playing the penny slots.

I think we should elect her to our city council.

Her job is to do nothing but play the penny slots and half her winnings go to the city pension fund.

I saw the following disclaimer after an ad on MSN.com for weight loss.

“Results Not Typical.”

Whenever I see an ad that ends with that phrase I have to pause for a moment.

You see this phrase on ads for everything.

“Jane used to weigh 343 pounds and lived her life wedged into a chair in her 400 square foot studio. Jane used our Megocitroburnoplex complex while eating nothing but meat and cheese and she’s now a supermodel on the cover of Vogue.”

“Results not typical.”

Ragmeesh was $500k in debt and had just lost his house and his job at SBC Customer Service before he bought our no money down real estate investment program. “I was able to buy six houses and a 7-11 worth over $4 million dollars and all I used for a down payment was a bike.”

“Results not typical.”


“I bought the Carleton Sheets “No Down Payment Real Estate System” because I live in a trailer in Santee and I’m too stupid to go on living. I have no job, no education and spent my last unemployment check on crack. I’m now out four easy payments of $59.95 plus $69.95 shipping and handling because I don’t know how to read.”

“Results Typical”

“I’ve been taking Megocitroburnoplex for eight weeks, I smell funny, my heart has exploded, I now have a third testicle…and I’m a woman.”

“Results Typical.”

Some of these ads throw in the following line, “Individual results may vary.”

What does that mean? If we buy them as a group our results are the same?

Why can’t we use this disclaimer for everything?

“Yes dear, I vacuumed the house, washed the dishes, cooked dinner, gave the kids a bath and paid the bills. Now I’m ready to sit down and just talk without any thoughts about food, sex, the remote or sports.”

“Results not typical. Individual husband results may vary.”

I invaded a country to search for weapons of mass destruction that didn’t exist and then didn’t have the common sense to plant them there.

“Results not typical. Individual president results may vary.”

“Our 14 year old son Timmy used the Billy Ray Bob Reading Dynamics Course for six weeks and now he’s up to a second grade reading level.”

“Results not typical. Individual moron results may vary.”

I actually saw this disclaimer following an ad on “TELEVSION” for a penis enlargement pill called “Enzyte.”

What kind of an idiot would buy this pill? Especially with a disclaimer that read, “Results not typical.”

If you take a pill that causes your penis to grow it’s because there’s a tumor on the end of it!!! Are people really this stupid?

Are there 400-pound men who are rapidly slimming down with huge expanding penises buying real estate for no money down walking around San Diego?

WELL? These are the things that I think we all need to know.

The sad part is if they weren’t selling this garbage they wouldn’t be advertising it.

I’m pretty sure a couple of members of our city council here in San Diego have overdosed on Enzyte.

Let’s face it they’re all big………..

Monday, May 02, 2005

Good Cheese Comes From Happy Fish

Have you ever had one of those moments where you thought you heard someone say something but they couldn’t possibly have said what you heard?

I turn on the local morning news and before I really focus in on what the topic is I hear a woman say, “We’re here to help people get over their fear of cheese.”

“Fear of cheese?”

I turned up the sound.

Here was the Asian female co-anchor lady and a woman with a German accent talking about CHEESE!

The look on the face of the Asian female co-anchor lady was, “I went to the University of Phoenix to get my degree in journalism and now I’m reporting on cheese?”

Apparently we have a store in San Diego that sells 127 varieties of cheese. Who knew? Well it is California and good cheese comes from happy cows. That’s what they tell us.

The German woman made the Asian female co-anchor lady taste the cheese. Not one cheese but many cheeses. She was getting many cheeses cheese breath on the local morning news.

The Asian female co-anchor lady gives a painful grimace and says, “This is wonderful, back to you Bill.”

Token white male co-anchor Bill has this, “Don’t make me share the microphone with her look on his face.”

He is standing with a chef. Apparently the news is light this morning.

The chef is sautéing some type of fish. When it’s done it looks pretty. These foo foo chefs always make their dishes look pretty. That’s because there is hardly any food on the plate.

So they have a cheesy fishy smell in the studio.

At this point the “has been news anchor turned weatherman” walks up and takes a bite of fish. In the other hand he’s holding cheese. He mumbles something about San Diego weather.

Let me guess? …..sunny.

Back to the Asian female co-anchor lady who is now sitting at the anchor desk and has this shocked look on her face as she reads the next news story.

It seems a scuba diver used a spear gun to kill a giant black sea bass, a protected species, in a marine preserve off the coast of San Diego.

(You have to be felony stupid to kill a black sea bass in a marine preserve and then drag the carcass on to your boat while you are still “in” the marine preserve. What you should do is lure the giant black sea bass out of the marine preserve and then spear him.)

The Asian female co-anchor lady then goes, “live” to the scene or to whatever beach they sent the Hispanic wanna be anchor boy.

He’s interviewing a guy dressed in a wet suit.

"He makes us look like a bunch of idiots," said Gus Zanini, who scuba dives and free dives without oxygen tanks.

(Ummm… Yeah… No oxygen tanks…. Uh huh… Yeah I can see where the looking like idiots thing might come in. The same guys that are out there spearing “White Sea Bass” have a problem with spearing “Black Sea Bass.” Sounds like reverse discrimination to me.)

Hispanic wanna be anchor boy follows with, “Omid Adhami, who authorities say killed the giant black sea bass, was arrested after city lifeguards watched him and two male companions pull the 171-pound fish into their boat.”

(We had three Arabs in scuba gear swimming around off the coast of San Diego, the largest Navy Base on the west coast, and our crack news team is worried about a fish?)

Back to Hispanic wanna be anchor boy, “Adhami may be cited for poaching and fishing in an underwater preserve, the minimum fine for each violation is $680; and a year in jail.”

(So basically he’s paying $3.97 a pound for sea bass. I think that’s wrong. I pay $7.99 a pound for Sea Bass at Point Loma Sea Foods. Why should he be fined wholesale prices?)

Token white male co-anchor Bill chimes in, “Do they have any idea why he speared the fish?”

Hispanic wanna be anchor boy says, “The Game Warden said Adhami contends that he saw a dark figure coming toward him menacingly and that he fired his spear gun in self defense.”

(Who did he think was down there? O.J. Simpson?)

The wet suit guy says, “Experienced divers know that giant sea bass are neither aggressive nor afraid of humans. Nobody could ever get the impression that this gentle creature is the least bit threatening, I've petted 600-pounders."

(“You petted a fish? A fish? I don’t pet your bean sprouts. Keep your hands off of my dinner.”)

Asian female co-anchor lady has to give her two cents worth, "I would imagine that hunting a giant black sea bass would be as challenging as shooting a dairy cow.”

(How would she know? Has she ever stalked a California dairy cow in the middle of the night? They can be quite aggressive. They’re all not the happy cows they advertise on TV you know. Maybe some cheese comes from cows that are depressed or suicidal. Have you ever smelled Limburger cheese? That cow had issues.

”Having a giant sea bass swim up to you underwater is a bit like having a Volkswagen Beetle pull up to you. They're big, and they're immensely gentle, slow and curious," said wetsuit guy.

(A big, gentle, slow and curious Volkswagen Beetle? It’s a FISH not Herbie the Love Bug!!!)

Hispanic wanna be anchor boy finishes his report with, “After nearly vanishing by the 1970s due to overfishing, more and more giant black sea bass are now being spotted by divers.”

(How do they know that more and more divers are spotting them? Is there a giant black sea bass hot line? So it’s okay to kill and eat them 30 years ago but now it’s just wrong. NO! It’s still just DINNER!!!

“Back to you Bill and Asian female co-anchor lady.”

When they cut back to the studio all of the seafood dishes had been removed from the table. The chef is gone. In their place….cheese.

This speared black sea bass turned into a huge deal this last week. Personally I think there is a fine line between fish and food. It’s actually 80lb test monofilament with a baited treble hook on the end.

They say this black sea bass was only fifty years old, which means this fish was way tenderer than a fish that was say, sixty years old.

One person complained in a “Letter to the Editor”, that “black sea bass can live to be one hundred years old”, you wouldn’t spear your grandfather would you?”

I would if he was wearing a Speedo.

There was another “Letter to the Editor” this week that said and I quote, “I first met “Blackie” in the summer of 1957. He seemed attracted to me, curious about me, and accompanied me whenever I swam there, looking me in the eyes, nuzzling me, etc.”

Helloooooo??? Knock Knock???

What gay animal nightclub was this guy scuba diving in?

They said they were taking “Blackies” body to the Scripps Ocean Institute for research. Maybe he’s a fish organ donor. That’s the kind of black sea bass that “Blackie” was, always thinking of the other fish.

My hunch is they’re circulating a flyer for the big cook out up at Scripps.

I honestly hope and pray that “Blackie” has gone to a better place…marinated in Italian dressing and served hot, right off the grill.

Maybe if we had the Minutemen guarding the marine preserve we wouldn’t have this problem, but then again we wouldn’t have fish tacos.

Monday, April 25, 2005

The Colon Chronicles, Pretty Colors and the Pope

I want to thank all of you who read My Weekly Rant each week and forward it on to your friends. Thanks to you there are now millions of people around the world who read this regularly and My Weekly Rant is now translated into seven languages.

Okay maybe not millions , and so far the only other country is Canada. But if you all forward this to ten people, and they forward it to ten people, and they forward it to ten people, etc. etc. etc. then all of you will experience world peace and low gas prices.

To make things easier I have added a “subscribe” feature to this site underneath my picture where it says “Sign Me Up.” Just enter your e-mail address and you will be e-mailed automatically every time “My Weekly Rant” is updated.

So let’s get started.

The Minneapolis Star Tribune reported that two girls were suspended from their high school this week for wearing shirts that said, “I Love My Vagina”. (You can’t make this stuff up)

Apparently they purchased the shirts after they had seen the play “The Vagina Monologues”.

I don’t think wearing these shirts was that big of a deal. Now if the boys were wearing shirts that said, “I love Your Vagina Too” then there would be issues.

Now I can honestly say that I have never heard or seen a talking vagina. Call me a doubting Thomas but quite frankly I find the whole thing difficult to believe.

If there really is a talking vagina then I’m in trouble because I have a hard enough time understanding what’s coming out of my wife’s mouth.

I'm trying to imagine what my wife's vagina would say to me. It would probably be yelling at me for not listening. Then it would hide my keys.

I think it’s probably some kind of trick to drive men nuts. It’s tough enough just living with women now we have to put up with ventriloquism?

I have no intention of seeing this play. And it’s not because I’m some male Chauvinist pig who has no interest in the trials and tribulations of the vagina.

Okay that’s partly it.

But the main reason I don’t want to see this play is it will be boring and I will be expected to pay attention, remember it, and to be prepared to discuss it in depth with my wife.

I don’t think so. I don’t want to get in trouble.

You see there are certain things that a man should never have to talk to his wife about. On this list would be her weight, what she is wearing, how her hair looks, any comments whatsoever about any other women, how her day went and yes… her vagina.

I just think back to my mother and father. There is no way they are having this conversation. You do not want to have a conversation about talking vaginas with Italian accents.

That’s just so wrong on so many levels.

No wonder the Muslim terrorists are trying to kill us.

“Achmed the Americans have talking vaginas.”


“They have a play called The Vagina Monologues.”

“Monologues? You mean like Leno and Letterman?”

“What do they say?”

“I’m not sure I think it’s in code. Something about bringing back Disco.”

“Allah be praised!”

I’m going to write my own play called “The Colon Chronicles”.

The Colon Chronicles would discuss the trials and tribulations of the annual physical.

I have to switch gears here or I’m really going to get in trouble.

The United States Department of Agriculture has come out with a new food pyramid. If you’ve seen it you know it breaks down what you are supposed to eat into pretty colors.

Our government likes pretty colors.

The problem is that these are the same as the Department of Homeland Security threat advisory colors.

“Oh no it’s orange today. Should I hide under my desk or eat a banana?”

Do they actually pay someone to come up with this stuff?

I think I should have threat advisory colors at home.

“She’s got the red banner out, time to get a cheeseburger.”

We have a new pope.

A German.

Maybe it‘s just me, but when he’s standing on the balcony, and he finishes giving his blessing, I think we need to make sure that his right arm ends up down at his side.

I’m just not comfortable with the new Pope Mobile being a Panzer.

This pope doesn’t have the best sense of humor when he addresses a crowd. Someone please tell him that those references to Michael the Archangel being head of the Luftwaffe just isn’t funny.

I’m very concerned about the new batch of nuns in Catholic Schools.

“Now pound zose erasers! Pound Zem I say! Vhat? You do not want to pound zose erasers? Vell Timmy, you need to zee Fader Gunter, he haz veys of making you confess.”

Last but not least I don’t think it’s proper for him to greet heads of state with, “Do you want to touch my monkey?”

Yeah…I know…I’m going to hell. I just had to get it out of my system.

By the way a friend of mine who is extremely warped and needs to be kept medicated at all times has a web site called:

“You Had Me At Idiot – Deep thoughts from a shallow mind”

His site address is http://www.paulstoecklein.blogs.com/

His web site isn’t as politically correct as mine.

Sunday, April 17, 2005

Exercise or Exorcise?

“You know you’re out of shape when you pull a muscle taking off a sock.”

No, Winston Churchill didn’t say or do that… I did.

There is no miracle for losing weight and getting in shape. No magic pill or potion. Voodoo doesn’t work. Sacrificing Twinkies on an altar made of chopsticks doesn’t help.

There’s no secret. It’s very simple. Eat less, exercise more (or at all).


But I’ve stuck to my diet religiously (I’m a Zen Foodist) and have lost about 30 pounds in the last six weeks. It’s time to really ramp up the weight loss by exercising. In other words, I own a gym so I might as well use it.

Yes I own a boxing gym. It was my wife’s idea. I wanted to open a buffet.

I still have my 24 Hour Fitness Card. I like to accidentally drop it at 31 Flavors when I’m paying for my three-scoop sundae.

“I’m the before picture.”

I’ve never understood 24 Hour Fitness. Who wakes up in the middle of the night and says, “Wow, it’s three A.M., I could sure use some mega butt blasters right about now.”

I’ve been a member for seven years and I’ve only been there twice. Once to sign up, and once for my orientation. They’re still holding my checking account hostage for $15 a month because I’m too embarrassed to go back and quit.

Let me explain in detail my second visit. They have these exercise Nazi’s that break you on the day you show up for your “orientation.” Let’s call my orientation guy, Thor the Thunder Trainer. It’s called an “orientation” but in reality it’s designed to weed out the fatties by temporarily crippling you.

You get no warning, the only thing they tell you is bring a towel and plenty of water. When you think about it isn’t that the same thing they tell people to bring when someone is having a baby?

I should have known what I was in for when, prior to my appointment with Thor, I noticed the names of the companies that made the equipment:

Maximus Fitness - Used by people who want to kill tigers with swords.
Gazelle Elite – Elliptical for use while watching Animal Planet.
New Balance – What you’ll have after your leg muscles reject you.
Maxicam – Gynecologists elliptical trainer.
SpinoFLEX – The Marquis de Gym’s finest rack.
Stackhouse – Weight equipment for strippers.

Have you ever been somewhere and had that feeling that you just don’t belong?

Like you’re the only one listening to country western music at a million man march?

You know, completely out of place, and your fat senses are tingling like you’re in danger?

When you’re a guy (and sometimes when you’re not) part of the problem is the male ego.

The male ego makes us stupid, very very very stupid.

This usually happens when women half our age are around. The brain says “whoa Kemosabe,” but the male ego sounds like Barry White and soothes the brain into thinking, “there’s not a problem here.”

So, Thor showed up and took me to an isometric exercise machine. Isometric exercise is designed for you to work against your own body weight. This isn’t a problem if you’re Karen Carpenter but if you’re a 40 something, 275 pound male, who hasn’t been in a gym since the homecoming dance of 1975, this not the best first choice.

Thor gave me a brief training session on how to use the machine but my mind was wandering. Everywhere I turned there was a smoking hot babe. They were running and jumping and climbing and gliding and lifting and and and and and………..

My male ego was telling me, “Yeah baby, they want me.” My brain was babbling about something but it wasn’t that important.

I don’t know how to properly describe the first muscle cramp. I’d never had one before so the experience was foreign to me. But something attached to my rib cage was trying to get out… of my body.


That’s what my brain was telling me to yell.

But the male ego took over. “Be cool man, be cool. Remember what your coaches used to tell you, shake it off.”

Shake it off. SHAKE IT OFF?

“Shake it off” was every high school coach’s answer to any injury. You could have your femur poking through your skin, “shake it off.”

I could hear my brain trying to butt in to no avail. He sounded a little sarcastic.

I rolled off the machine and tried to stand up straight but apparently my body had disabled that feature already.

I was leaning on a Lifecycle, hunched over, when Thor spotted me. “Oh God go away, please make him go away.” I heard my brain that time.

My male ego jumped right back in. “Just get on the Lifecycle, it’s a bicycle for Christ’s sake how tough can it be? When you were a kid you used to love riding your bike. C’mon be man.”

Here’s the thing about Lifecycles, they have stirrups for you to put your feet into… I wear a size 12 EEE.

I wedged my shoes in the stirrups just as Thor came up. He wanted to know how I knew this was the next piece of equipment I was supposed to use.

Whoohoo… I’m exercise clairvoyant.

The Nazi bastard then proceeded to program the Lifecycle. I didn’t realize that I bore a striking resemblance to Lance Armstrong but apparently Thor did. Thor mumbled something about making sure I was drinking water and walked away.

The bike ride started out okay, since the position for riding the Lifecycle is naturally hunched over it was kind of an easy.

I don’t know who the sick son of a bitch who designed the Lifecycle was but he needs to die a painful death. Who the hell programs hills into a bicycle ride? A bicycle ride that really isn’t going anywhere.

When the first hill came, my legs went, “Um…. what was that?” Then they locked and, all of a sudden, I lurched into a hunched over, standing position on the Lifecycle. My calves felt like someone had set them on fire. The cramp in my chest was now in my right thigh and my left thigh was twitching uncontrollably.

I tried to get off the Lifecycle but my feet were stuck in the stirrups. I managed to get my left foot free and threw it backwards in an attempt to get off of the Lifecycle but my right foot wouldn’t budge.

There are certain aerodynamic principles that take place when a 275-pound man tries to dismount a Lifecycle with his right foot still stuck in the stirrups. Apparently the Lifecycle wasn’t properly secured to the floor because when I fell, “back and to the right”, the Lifecycle went with me.

For you “Laugh-In” fans picture Arte Johnson falling over while riding his tricycle, on a jumbo scale.

“Shake it off Tony, shake it off…” Thank you Mr. Ego.

While I was lying there I noticed this beautiful blond in a yellow Danskin outfit pedaling away on the Lifecycle across from me. Her hair was actually flowing back like she was really outside riding a bike. She looked at me, smiled, and kept on pedaling. Like when you die, everything was in slow motion.

My right foot was still stuck, underneath the Lifecycle now, and twisted at an odd angle.

“Check to see if you’re bleeding.” My brain was back again.

Thor saw what had happened and rushed over to use the expert medical training he was taught at 24 Hour Fitness to help me.

“Shake it off,” he said.

I think he used the “jaws of life” to pry me from the Lifecycle wreckage but I can’t be sure since I was fading in and out of consciousness. Probably because I hadn’t been drinking enough water.

I was trying to be cool. Like I had meant for that to happen.

“So what’s next upper body?”

Thor’s pea sized brain couldn’t comprehend my medical condition and my ego wouldn’t let me quit. I heard my brain weeping in the background.

I limped over to the free weights with Thor. At this point I looked like the “Hunch Back of Jack Lalane.”

Thor proceeded to put me through a variety of arm and chest exercises. We used weights, many many many weights. We used machines, many many many machines. I was in pain, but I was looking cool.

I had now been at the gym for fifteen minutes.

At this point, my hands and forearms started to spasm and cramp. This happened just as I was attempting to take a sip of my Evian.

I was now a certified member of the Special Olympic team because I couldn’t lift my arms and hands to my face to take a drink. I was actually trying to jerk the water up out of the bottle and catch it with my mouth.

You can hurt yourself in many ways and still look cool but you cannot sit hunched over on a weight bench trying to jerk water into your mouth and feel like a man.

There was nothing my ego could do, Thor had won.

I half limped, half crawled out of the gym, “the bells… the bells”, and was faced with another humiliating challenge. I couldn’t lift my arms to turn my car’s steering wheel, and I could only use my left foot to work the gas pedal and the brake. I put my arms in my lap and used my fingertips to steer the car.

It took me two and half hours to get home… and then I couldn’t get out of the car.

I hit the horn with my head and my wife came out. She had this puzzled look on her face. “So how’d it go?”

“BLDSNTMETSMKE!” I heard my mouth say.


“help….. me”

Then I passed out.

When I came to. I could only move my eyelids. I was like that for three days.

My wife commented that I probably didn’t drink enough water.

So, seven years have gone by and I can honestly say I have never pulled a muscle at Home Town Buffet.

I’m ready. I can do this. Thor doesn’t work for us.

One last note.

Now that a couple of weeks have gone by and people are a little calmer I need to make this quick comment.

While the tragic Terry Schiavo case points out the importance of having a living will, I think it also indicates a need for something else... each of us should have on file a really decent head shot.

Sunday, April 10, 2005

Did the Pope shop at COSTCO?

Warning. This is a long one.

I want to take a second to thank those of you that actually read my drivel each week for your comments and e-mails. Now if I could just figure out a way to make money from this without having to include E-Bay or pornography I’d have it made.

For the person that e-mailed me to let me know that I don’t use my punctuation correctly I want to say thank you. If you’ve read my rants and the only thing you can think of is that I don’t put my periods, commas or apostrophe’s in the right place well you can go ;*/”$)?! (Ooooh, look, punctuation!)

Shall we begin?

“I have seen the stupid and it is us.”

I’m having a tee shirt made with that quote because I have seen and heard some serious stupid this week.

My week started with me seeing a motorcycle gang. At least I think it was a gang. There were ten or twelve very old fat guys all on “Honda” motorcycles wearing black helmets in the parking lot at Burger King. I don’t know how tough they were because only one of them was wearing the required replica 1942 German Heer Helmet. He must have been the leader.

When I say fat, I mean rotund fat, not just large fat. If you’re old and rotund fat you shouldn’t be wearing black leather chaps and a helmet. And for the love of God why Honda’s? At least a Harley could support the weight. I swear it looked like Santa Claus wanted to kick some ass but couldn’t afford to buy American.

I was actually mesmerized by the sight of this. Didn’t these guys look in the mirror before they left the rest home? If they did, what the hell were they thinking? Has Depends come out with an Easy Rider model?

Please tell me there’s not a rival gang. There’s always a rival gang. These guys just can’t have a rival gang. What do they do? Form up in fast food restaurant parking lots and have a “mumble”? It would look like a scene from Westside Hospital Story, The Swollen Prostates versus The Bad Hips.

Part of me wanted to roll down the window and sing YMCA to them but this is one group you don’t want following you home.

Have you ever seen something so over the top stupid that you can’t stop looking at it? Ta da! This was it.

I have to get those guys one of my new tee shirts.

Stupid thing number two. I’m listening to satellite radio in my car, XM150, the comedy channel. You can only hear XM150 if you have satellite radio. So someone please tell me, why are they ADVERTISING SATELLITE RADIO ON SATELLITE RADIO?
The best part is they advertise satellite radio as radio, “with no crap.” Helloooooo!!!!!

Stupid thing number three. Every so often I get an e-mail from COSTCO letting me know of store specials. Um……COSTCO sells caskets and urns. CASKETS AND URNS!!! WHO BUYS A CASKET FROM COSTCO??? Grandpa’s dead kids let’s go to COSTCO. It’s Saturday, you know how Grandpa loved the free samples.

HOW BIG IS THIS CASKET??? WHAT ARE THEY BURYING IN THERE, MOTORCYCLE GANGS??? Has the obesity problem in America gotten so bad we need to buy caskets and urns from COSTCO?

What section of COSTCO has the caskets and urns? My guess is they are near the frozen food section, but I could be wrong.

Please make a note of this. When I die I want to be buried in a casket from COSTCO. Just me and 400 pounds of COSTCO chocolate chip cookies.

We also found out this week that a 43-year-old man wielding a samurai sword (he probably bought it from the home shopping network for $3.00) attacked a group of people in a protestant church because “God” told him too.

How come God never tells anyone to buy a pony? Better yet why doesn’t God tell these nut jobs to kill themselves first?

Here’s my favorite. I overheard a group of women talking about the death of the pope and one of them made the following comment, “ I really could relate to this pope, the way he reached out to the youth and brought people together. Especially with all the pressure he had as head of the United Nations.”

The Secretary General of the United Nations is the POPE???

Picture me banging my head against the wall at this point. I don’t even know how to respond to that. What do you say?

I couldn’t figure out what was worse, that someone would say that, or that the other women just kept listening and nodding in agreement.

One of them saw the look on my face and asked me what I thought about the pope.

“He looked good in hats.”

"Did you know he was in a motorcycle gang?"

"I wonder if the Pope shopped at COSTCO?"

That's all I had.

I wished I had a samurai sword at that point because I would have fallen on it. But not before I took a few of them with me.

So this week’s rant is dedicated to the San Diego City Council, the Mayor, the City Manager, the District Attorney’s Office and the City Attorney and stupid people in general. For those of you not living in San Diego let me describe our city officials like this. Have you ever seen people with children who have turned them loose at Wal-Mart?

That pretty much sums up every level of government here in San Diego. You just want to yell ENOUGH, spank them, and send them to their rooms with no dinner and no TV.

They all need to put their hands behind their backs and not touch anything. That’s what my “father” used to tell us, “Put your hands behind your backs! Don’t touch anything!” and when we didn’t listen, my “mom” spanked us with a wooden spoon. She used to yell at us in Italian while she was spanked us so I got to learn two lessons for the pain of one.

We need a very large wooden spoon here and a very tough Italian mom.

And I don’t want to hear from the whiny liberals that don’t believe in spanking their kids. “We wouldn’t want to hurt Timmy’s self esteem. We would rather calmly reason with Timmy and explain to him why plugging the extension cord in and then putting the other end in his mouth is wrong. Here Timmy have some more Ritalin.”

These are the same people that have their kids walking around with bicycle helmets, elbow and knee pads on and they don’t even own a bike. On the back of the kids helmet will be a little rainbow flag or a PETA sticker.

Spanking your kids is medicinal. Look at me I’m well adjusted.

Spanking cures A.D.D. and prevents electrical shock.

I swear we’re raising a generation of children who are going to end up getting their head flushed down the toilet in the locker room. Come to think of it we're raising an entire generation of children that will flush their own heads down the toilet.

WHOA TONY!!!! Veering off into another direction with this one already. I’m trying to stay focused I really am. Maybe I should have worn a helmet for no reason when I was a kid.

Okay back on track. The fact is we could pretty much go to the border and find the replacement staff for every level of our city government trying to sneak in from Mexico.

The sad part is… we really could.

There is absolutely no excuse for the ineptitude of the people running this city.

I’m going to type a few sentences and words and then after reading these I want you to think of the first city that comes to you mind?

The Mafia, bribes, strippers, FBI investigations, subpoenas, pension fraud, councilman’s untimely sudden death, wiretaps, labor union pressure, Enron by the Sea, bankruptcy, accounting irregularities, the cross can stay, the cross must go, the cross can stay, the cross must go, a write in candidate that looks like a crack whore, no money for pot holes, or is that no money for pot?, public fees raised, out dated fire equipment, library hours cut, lets build a library, massive traffic jams, let’s expand the trolley, lesbian DA riles City Attorney.

So how many of you picked San Diego?

If those words are being used to describe anything that is going on in your city, or about your city, or your city government, someone needs to go to prison or to be tarred and feathered and thrown out of office.

We are a national joke. And that is saying something.

I want to give just a taste of one of the more intellectual comments that came out of our mayor’s mouth this past year: "I myself was a Cub Scout for three years. I myself was a Boy Scout for three years. I was a senior patrol leader. I was a member of the Order of the Arrow. I was a Star Scout ... and I was a champion snipe hunter in my youth.

There are some good reasons to be mayor. “Snipe Hunter?” Maybe that explains why they can’t find the accounting irregularities.

That’s okay it gets better. Here is a brief blurb from one of our city councilmen who is under investigation for taking bribes to allow strippers to…. hell I don’t know, to do whatever strippers do. (Okay I admit it. I know.)

“I take a very unique approach to my religious faith in that my wife and I do it quietly. We go to St. Joseph's Cathedral here in downtown, 5:15 or 6:30 Mass every Sunday, and we do it quietly, we do it privately, and we try not to impose our religious beliefs on others. I think that is the American way."

And you are telling us all this quietly, the same way you take bribes from strippers quietly.

You do it quietly? You do it privately? Is that why you’re telling us in a “press conference” exactly where and when you go to church? Moron. How do you get there? The little yellow bus?

“We try not to impose our religious beliefs on others. I think that is the American way."

Which America are you looking at? Is it the one with or without right wing fundamentalist Christian fanatics?

I’d feel more comfortable if we had the strippers in office.

And last but not least here’s a quote from a city councilman that stepped down and then ran again after another city councilman, who was 38 years old and under investigation by the FBI for bribery and alleged dealings with people connected to the Mafia, dropped dead for no apparent reason. Um…that happens a lot when you deal with anyone connected to the Mafia. (If the mafia actually exists)

"It's two different frequencies on the same radio. One is AM and one is FM. You've got one line going down the dial and one knob that turns that line. And as long as that radio's on FM, you can turn it back and forth, but you will only get FM; you will not get AM on that station. Those are the frequencies that we're on in America and you need to stop trying to get us on the same frequency because it has two frequencies.”

And this guys vote counts just as much as yours and mine.

Abraham Lincoln said in the last line of the Gettysburg Address, “that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

I guess that depends on who the people are.

Because it sure has perished from San Diego.

Government of the people?

By the people?

For the people?


These are not my people.

I wouldn’t let my kids play with them.

I wouldn’t invite these people to my house.

I don’t want my phone tapped.

I’m Italian.

We have a thing about that.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

Intelligence? Immigration? How about a new song?

This past week the Bush Commission on “Intelligence” (there is soooo much more I could say about that) found that America’s spy agencies were “dead wrong” in most of their judgments about Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction capabilities.

It said, and I quote, “Analysts must be pushed to explain what they don’t know.”

So let me get this straight. You want them to tell us why they don’t know what they don’t know?

Uh huh…

So if you don’t know what you don’t know, and someone is “pushing” you to come up with what you don’t know, isn’t there going to be a tendency to, oh I don’t know, MAKE SOMETHING UP???


So the original conversation must have gone something like this:

“Find out where the Iraqis are hiding their weapons of mass destruction.”

“But we don’t know if Iraq even has weapons of mass destruction.”

“Oh they have them.” (Yeah and they have Made in the USA stamped on them)

“How do we know they have them?

“Because we know that we need to know what we don’t know. Now you need to know what we don’t know so we can prove to the world that we know what they don’t know.”

Where is Dr. Strangelove when we need him?

This is insane, but not unusual. After all I live in a state that has a border checkpoint 45 MILES FROM THE FLIPPING BORDER!!!!!!!

Oh if you haven’t been there it’s a real treat. Close your eyes and picture this in your mind. Umm… you might want to read this first and then close your eyes. (The Democrats have already closed their eyes and have no idea what to do now.)

The “border patrol” agent stands in the middle of the freeway with his arms above his head like a football referee signaling for a touchdown and waves cars through. He wears his cool cowboy hat and reflector sunglasses whether it is day or night. With their x-ray vision they are able to spot illegal aliens hidden in the trunks of vehicles.

Well that has to be it. We know they don’t racially profile anyone. That would be wrong. The ACLU would not allow that to happen.

Wait there’s more.

It’s not operating all the time. At certain times of the day you can drive right through and no one is there.

Not a soul.


No tengo immagracion. (whatever)

The reason they do this is to throw off the illegal alien that’s trying to sneak by. You see he would never understand that when the traffic is backed up for miles the checkpoint is operating.

Pretty crafty huh?

Wait there’s even more.

Just after the checkpoint is a NUCLEAR POWER PLANT!!!!!! A NUCLEAR POWER PLANT!!!!! They have a checkpoint that isn’t operating all the time next to a NUCLEAR POWER PLANT!!!!


What is the point of this? Maybe it’s just me but shouldn’t we be stopping illegal aliens at the BORDER?

Maybe we should but another article in the paper said that the tightening of homeland security since 2001 hasn't stemmed undocumented immigration into the United States, with a “report” released showing the number of illegal immigrants growing by about 485,000 people a year.

An analysis of government data by the Pew Hispanic Center, (Pew…Jose Pew?) a private research group in Washington, showed an estimated 10.3 million undocumented immigrants living in the United States last year, an increase of about 23 percent from 8.4 million in 2000.

The Pew Hispanic Center knows that there are10.3 million undocumented aliens living in the United States but the border patrol can’t find them. Uh huh…..

I love that word, “undocumented”, that’s the politically correct term for illegal. They are here ILLEGALLY. They are ILLEGAL aliens.

Maybe that’s why the liberals want them to have a driver’s license then they could be “documented” aliens or, as I like to call them “documented illegal aliens”.

The liberals say we need to give them driver’s licenses so that the illegal aliens can get car insurance. We wouldn’t want an “uninsured undocumented illegal alien”, or “UUIA’s” for short..

I’ve actually written a song about them.

“A UaU I A whoa baby me gotta go, ya ya ya ya ya ya, A UaU I A whoa baby me gotta go. A fine little job it waits for me. I drive the car with no ID. I drove the car all alone. I never think I'll make it home. A UaU I A whoa baby me gotta go, ya ya ya ya ya ya……..

One more tune to stick in your heads for the rest of the day.

10.3 million People that can’t be found? One out of every 30 people in this country is here illegally? And we can’t find them. 10.3 million……

That doesn’t even count the Canadians that sneak across the border every day to buy more expensive drugs.


If you've "documented" the fact that there are 10.3 million illegal aliens, doesn't that make them "documented"? What the hell does "documented" mean -- that they have a Costco Card?

I rather give them a Costco Card than a driver’s license. Hell, they’re in Costco every Saturday with their entire families eating free samples for dinner anyway.

C’mon we’ve all done it.

Someone counted 10.3 million illegal aliens. Well, why the hell didn't they grab them when they were counting them? "Jose, you're number eight million and three. Now get in the van. If you don't have a Costco Card, you gotta get in the van."

Who counted these people? I never saw anyone out there counting them. Did you?

Hmmm….How do they know that there are 485,000 more illegal immigrants coming to the U.S. each year?



Because someone in the government is either paying them or pushing them to explain what they don’t know!!!!!

Here's how you know there are too many illegal aliens coming here, when the ones who are already here are complaining about it.

I’m not making this up.

In another article in the paper they quote an illegal alien (apparently the San Diego Union can find them as well) who is upset that there are too many illegal aliens coming over and it’s forcing the low paying jobs even lower. “When I got here there were maybe 10 of us trying to get the same job now there are a 100”.

100 illegal aliens all together fighting for one job and no one sees them?

I have the solution to this problem.

Have the Border Patrol hire documented illegal aliens to find undocumented illegal aliens.

They could start at Costco.

If you’re still looking for something funny, or if you’re an ultra right wing fundamentalist, or an ultra left wing liberal, you might want to stop reading now.

The argument over illegal immigration never addresses the real problem or tells the real truth.

Don’t get me wrong I have no problem with the following statement because the strong have been conquering the weak since time began. The fact remains that unless your name ends in “Running Feather” you’re an immigrant or a descendant of immigrants that came here “illegally.”

Our forefathers came here and people still come here for one reason, hope.

You cannot create a terrorist if a man has food to eat, someone to love, a job or sense of purpose and the freedom to make the choices to help him attain those things. It’s when the hope of a better life is taken away that death becomes the better alternative.

The last time I checked there were no Latin Americans strapping on explosives and blowing themselves or anyone else up. Instead you have people that risk death crossing rivers and deserts in the hope of finding a better life.

In case we forget they come here “illegally” to find “work”.

The ultra right wing would have us build a wall across our borders because they believe that the majority are criminals.

10.3 million? Please.

The Ultra left would ”give” them drivers licenses, free medical care, free housing, free education and food stamps.

Do not give away America because then it has no value. Look to our own failed welfare program to see what hope that has created.

When will those of us in the middle, the party of Common Sense, step up and find a way to use this valuable resource. When do we step up and remind all of our countrymen and women that this country was built by illegal immigrants who “worked” hard to survive and prosper.

What should we do? Start by protecting our borders from the real terrorists. In case you haven’t noticed at this time that would be Muslim fundamentalist fanatics.

Instead of wasting billions of dollars on fighting to stop their undocumented immigrants, work with Mexico and other Latin American countries to create projects and programs that put these people to work. I’m only half joking when I say hire them as border patrol agents.

I don't have the answer but there are people way smarter than me that could.

I remember something my father once said, “I never hire a man who asks for a job. But I always find a place for someone who wants to work.”

I leave you with these words and apologize for the political nature of this rant this week. Some of you know where they come from. The rest of you should.

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Monday, March 28, 2005

Easter, Politics, The FINGER and the Indians.

I have way too many things in my head this week so this rant is kind of all over the place.

Easter has come and gone. Easter, the religious holiday where Christians around the world celebrate the death and resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ by eating marshmallow “Peeps” and hollow chocolate rabbits. Of course in certain parts of “red” states here in America they roast their “Peeps” over a burning book fire.

Now the Halloween and Christmas displays can go up.

This diet is making me a tad edgy.

It was brought to my attention that I talk a lot about food in my weekly rants. That’s because I’m on a diet and I love reminiscing. There are only two things that make me cry, the movie The Godfather and thinking back on all the wonderful food I’ve eaten, especially the veal, oh God the veal, those tender fillets sautéed in butter and wine… I think I’m going to weep. Maybe if they grew diet food in a cage so it couldn't move it would taste better.

Thinking about food helps me forget. It’s like that song, “I simply remember my favorite things and then I don’t feeeeeeeel sooooo bad.” (Half of you will have that song running through your heads for the rest of the day. The other half needs to go out now and rent the Sound of Music.)

Why do I have this image of George Bush and Dick Cheney singing that song with Condaleeza Rice and Donald Rumsfeld leading John Kerry and Ted Kennedy in the backup vocals?

Don’t worry I won’t get political. I’m just convinced that all governments are either led by religious fanatics or space aliens. Don’t get me wrong our religious fanatics and space aliens seem to be a lot better than everyone else's.

My favorite news item this past week was about the woman who found a finger in her chili at Wendy’s. I should mention that this finger wasn’t attached to anyone. It was just a lone well-manicured and well-cooked finger.

I love the fact that the employees at the Wendy’s store were asked to show investigators “their” fingers.

Wendy's official spokesman Joe Desmond said the company was cooperating with the investigation and that all employees’ digits were accounted for. "It's important not to jump to conclusions," he said. "Here at Wendy's we plan to do right by our customers."

Umm…there was a finger…in your chili…. Just what kind of conclusions did you think we were going to jump to? Does Wendy’s think that we think that they think that they can get away with serving fingers in their chili?

Movie moment, “WENDY’S CHILI IS MADE FROM PEOPLE!” Let me know if any of you know can guess the movie I was thinking of.

I’m going to go out on a “limb” here and say there’s an illegal alien working at a food processing plant in Chowchilla they now call “Senorita Izquierda”. (look it up)

How do you get the job of “official” spokesman for Wendy’s? I’m thinking that Joe Desmond is someone who got dragged out of the mailroom because no one else wanted to talk to the press.

Wouldn’t is be nice to have an official spokesman to field all the grief your life?

“As Bob’s official spokesman I’d like to inform you that he is unable to come to work today. Why? I’m afraid we have no comment at this time.”

Wouldn’t an official spokesman come in handy in relationships?

“As your husbands official spokesman I have been authorized to tell you that yes, those jeans do make your ass look fat.”

“As your boyfriends official spokesman I would like to inform you that he is going out with his buddies Saturday night, he will get drunk, go to a strip club and come home at 4:00am with a hooker from Tijuana. Do we have any questions?”

You couldn’t pay that guy enough money.

Speaking of money my wife and I went to an Indian Casino. We went with a group of people on a bus, which is kind of like going out west in a covered wagon only instead of finding gold you end up panning through an all you can eat seafood buffet. (Yeah, I know, food again.)

I find it amusing that people drive out to the boonies, (weren’t there any Indian tribes that had their land in Mission Valley?) down some long winding road of death, to get to an Indian casino so they can be surrounded by Asians, white trash, the elderly, and cigarette smoke.

Apparently the slot machines come with oxygen tanks because all the old people are plugged into them with plastic cords. I guess that’s so they can smoke and breathe at the same time.

They have slot machines you can play for as little as one cent or as much as one hundred dollars. ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS!!!!!!

You have to be a special kind of stupid to be throwing one hundred dollars a pop down a slot machine at an Indian casino. Why not just throw the money in your fireplace and save yourself the drive? Hell at one hundred dollars a pop it would be cheaper to just burn down your house.

I was watching this elderly gentleman play that one hundred dollar machine and he had this look in his eyes like he just wanted to piss off his kids by losing their inheritance. He was plugged into the machine so at least he could breathe.

Tell me why you would drive out to an Indian casino to play a one-cent slot machine? Are you hoping for that big twenty-dollar payout?

It took me a while to decide on which slot machine to play and then I thought to myself, "What would Jesus play?"

I chose the "Wheel of Fortune" dollar slot machines. Fortune was smiling on me and at one point I was actually up seven hundred dollars.

Apparently "fortune" is also very loud because my wife heard me and took all my winnings.

My wife doesn't play the slots.

My wife only bets on a sure thing.

She plays the outlet mall.

Sunday, March 20, 2005

Cadillacs and Catholics

I had to rent a car this week. I ended up with a Cadillac DeVille which is a car that is just a little bit larger than, oh I don’t know…. a BUS!!!

This is the type of car that you only see old people drive so when they plow into the farmers market there’s plenty of room in the trunk for fruit.

So…. You’re probably asking, why would he rent a Cadillac in the first place? I think there’s a law that says when you get to a certain age all Italian men need to buy a Cadillac. My Grandfather, my father, my uncles all drove a Cadillac. Think of it as an extension of an Italian man’s wallet.

I drive a Cadillac CTS because I only buy American. Cadillac is a good American name isn’t it? What the hell does it mean? It sounds like how a Chinese person would pronounce cardiac, which is how most of the old farts that drive them die. Anyway, when it goes in for service I get to rent another Cadillac.

All the rentals are these big “boats” called DeVille’s. I think that’s why they refer to them as their “fleet” of rental vehicles. I’m guessing the reason they rent these is because there aren’t enough old Italian men to sell them to. I think De Ville is Italian for The Boat.

I would never own one because it sounds French.

Don’t get me wrong it’s a nice car. A family of four could vacation in there. It’s just an odd feeling driving a car that Captain Stubbing should be commanding (for you young people that’s a reference to an old TV show call the Love Boat that all the old has-been actors with a tan did) Think of it like “Survivor” if your parents were starring in it.

I finally figured out why they have that Cadillac Emblem that sticks out in the front of the car in the middle of the hood. It gives old Italian men something to aim with.

It has heated seats, which are… well…kind of fun for some odd reason and the stereo has been fine tuned to listen to opera. It has, get this, A HEATED STEERING WHEEL!!!!! Maybe that’s why we Italian men always have warm hands.

It should have a heated gas peddle so that their foot is comfortable when they reach ramming speed. It would be better if it came with automatic pilot so those old bastards could pick just one lane to drive in or cruise control so they could go the freaking speed limit.

Something did dawn on me while I was at the Cadillac dealership. Everyone there was old. The salesmen, the mechanics, the customers… all old.

Then it hit me.

I’M GETTING OLD!!!!!!!!!!

I’m feeling this sudden urge to wake up at 5:00am no reason.

I feel compelled to start every sentence with, “When I was your age….”

I can only vote Republican.

I want to start all my meetings at work at 7:00am just to piss everyone else off.

I feel the need to date young women but I don’t like their music and I have a bad knee.

I think I need one of those squeezy plastic things that old men have to keep change in. Where do they get those anyway? Does it come with your first Social Security Check?

I’m going to go out and by an old green chair for my living room that no one is allowed to sit in except me and then I’m going sit in it and watch Perry Mason reruns while I drink red wine and eat cheddar cheese.



I’m not going to panic. I’m only 47. I’ve got three semi good years left.

The clock is ticking, ticking, ticking.

This sucks.

You know you’re getting older when you hurt yourself in your sleep. I’m serious. Sometimes I wake up and I’ve got pain in parts of my body, I have no clue what they are.

“Why does this part of my side hurt? Is it a tumor? Did I break something? Did I rupture my liver? Oh please God don’t make the doctor put the glove on to check this!”

And I’ll notice myself making these noises when I get up, grunting… panting… wincing… noises!!! I feel like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz. Maybe I should keep an oilcan by the side of my bed.

I've thought about buying "Geritol", I remember when I was a kid that old people used to drink this to feel better, but when I read the ingredients on the label I realized it was just scotch and water.

Another sign I’m growing old is that I’m starting to talk to my food. Okay I admit it. I have always talked to my food but I never expected it to answer back. It was more of a “come to poppa, who’s your daddy?” kind of thing.

Let me explain. Nothing makes me crazier than old people at a buffet. You cannot give old people that many choices, really, you can’t. They go through a buffet like it’s an art gallery. “Oh look at this, look at that.”

Please just pick something, anything, and get out of my way.

Old people don’t want to eat they just want to ask questions about the food…even when there’s no one there to answer. Lets face it they have no one else to listen to them, their kids have caller ID.

“Are you chicken or fish? Hmmm…did they put mayonnaise in you? Aren’t you pretty? How many calories are you? Are you fresh?”

I’m starting to do that.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never asked the calorie question…ever!

I will never understand how anyone can go to a restaurant not knowing what they want to eat. I plan my attack before I leave the house.

If you go to Black Angus you go there for… let me guess… MEAT!!!!

If you go to Point Loma Seafood you go there for… FISH!!!

If you go to a buffet you want EVERYTHING!!!!!! So pick a little of EVERYTHING and move your ass down the line!!!

If I ever own a buffet I will have it broken down into sections.

One section walled off behind soundproof glass for people with children. That’s right I don’t think the rest of us should have to listen to little Timmy scream that he wants more chocolate pudding. Guess what? You’re little brat doesn’t have A.D.D. Maybe he’s just and asshole. We’ve all met or worked for assholes in our lives; I’m guessing they started out like little Timmy.

One section for old people, staffed by old people. If there going to take that long to go through the line then they’re going to have to wait to get a seat while grandpa clears the tables. Then they can stay in line all day and complain to each other.

One section for vegetarians because watching them go through a buffet is just plain sad. They really want the good stuff but they have to pretend they like that salad that just looks like weeds.

One section for people that don’t speak or read English. It isn’t “Pollo” it’s “CHICKEN”!!!! “Pollo” is a game that rich people play on horseback.

Last but not least, one section for the pros. Those of us that take a little of everything and sort it out when we sit down. We’re buffet pros. We don’t ask questions, we don’t talk. We’re in the zone. It’s a Zen thing with us. This is our temple and we have come to worship. Make ready the sacrifice.

Hmmm… It’s almost dawn…. I’m cold… I feel the need to go for a drive. I feel the need, the need for a Grand Slam Denny’s breakfast.

How old to I have to be to get the senior discount?

I’m sorry, I know this is a long rant but I just can’t let this go. If you’re going to be offended by me picking on the Catholic Church don’t read this.

The Catholic Bishop here in San Diego, Bishop Brom, refused to allow a man to have his “funeral” in a Catholic Church because his business was "inconsistent with Catholic moral teaching". He owned a gay nightclub. According to the Bishop this was a nightclub frequented by gay porn stars. In fact he said they even filmed a gay porn film in this nightclub.

I have a question. How did the Bishop know? If a quote unquote “concerned” parishioner informed the Bishop, how did he know?

I’m just asking that’s all. Think about it. God knows there hasn’t been any issue with homosexuality among priests. What’s that old saying? People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.

I have another question for his holiness. Let’s assume that being gay is a sin and let’s also assume that everything said about this man was true. He was gay, promoted the gay lifestyle, had gay parties, made gay porno films, he even had a parade, whatever. How does the Bishop know, that with this man’s last dying breath, he didn’t ask God for forgiveness?

It seems to me that being a pedophile is inconsistent with Catholic moral teaching. Could there still be priests giving funeral rites that were once pedophiles but according to the church have since "repented"?

Hypocrite. I should say a prayer for you but instead I’m going to go buy a lottery ticket. I figure I’ve got the same odds it will do any good.

I don’t want to let the gay people off without a little jab because sometimes you have to shake your head at some of the drivel they say as well. The following was said by gay man interviewed on the news today, “We all are a little gay. Each of us has a little bit of homosexuality inside of us. We need to embrace this and love one another.”


I’m 47 years old…

I have had seven complete physicals…in a row.

If there is one thing I know.

I’m not gay.

Not even a little.

Not even a smidge.

If I am gay and don’t know it I can tell you this… I DON'T LIKE IT!!!!

Not even a little.

Not even a smidge.

Now I’m done.