Even I Can Appreciate This.

Watts You Talkin' 'Bout, Friendly's.

The other day, my friend* told me how thrilled she was that her mom had recently dropped off her favorite summer-seasonal dessert, an ice cream roll made by New England-y favorite, Friendly's.

The roll is composed of three different types of sherbet (watermelon, lemon, and lime) and is shaped to look like a slice of watermelon. For those of you who can't visualize even the most obvious, the lemon-lime sherbet makes up the rind, and the watermelon sherbet is even dotted with chocolate chips which function as delicious little seeds.

Sounds like a perfectly innocent summertime treat, yes? Sure, if you don't like black people.

You see, this sherbet roll is actually called a Wattamelon Roll.

Wattamelon? Wow, maybe they should just offer a piece of fried chicken and an afro pick with every purchase of a Wattamelon Roll. Seems blatantly racist to me, but maybe Friendly's has some kind of explanation?

I decided to go straight to the source and wrote a letter to Friendly's management via their website. Below is my actual letter:

"Dear Friendly's:

Ever since E.T. shoved those Reese's Pieces in his mouth, I've been a fan of your Reese's Pieces Sundae. However, for the sake of full disclosure, I'm not sure if my love of the sundae has less to do with your ice cream than it does with E.T.'s memorable fingers. You see, they look eerily similar to my own, and I'm a big fan of myself.

As much as you'd like to hear more about me, I'll move on. A friend recently told me about her own favorite Friendly's summer-seasonal dessert, the Wattamelon Roll. Frankly it doesn't appeal to me because until "sherbet" is spelled "sherbert", I refuse to touch the stuff on principle alone.

But, I'm interested in hearing the origins of Wattamelon, this not-so-terribly clever name, because it seems to me that Friendly's may not be so friendly to certain people.

So I ask you: Watt you talkin' 'bout, Friendly's?

Wattamelon? You couldn't have come up with something a little less racist? Look, I'm no scholar, but off the top of my head, I'm thinking Watermelon Roll or Wantamelon Roll might fit the bill. But again, that's just me taking a few seconds. Who knows what your marketing department could come up with? Probably not something as clever as Wantamelon, but I'm sure they're mildly capable people.

So please, at your convenience, provide some information on this Wattamelon name. If I were you, I'd change it, but that's because I care about black people.

Thanks, Friendly's.

Best regards,

Prongs Ofla

p.s. I like your Fribbles."

So, I'll let you know when I hear back. In the meantime, take the poll in the sidebar and tell me if you think "Wattamelon" is racist.

Don't worry, I'll judge you either way.

*My friend is simultaneously confused and disturbed every time she takes a bite of this summertime treat because while she doesn't wish to support racist products, such product is decidedly delicious.

Appropriate Coverage.

Sure, California may be $24B in debt, and the state is sending I.O.U.'s to taxpayers, but I think it's perfectly appropriate that the freeways were shut down so Michael Jackson's entourage could travel undisturbed by those who use the freeways for far sillier adventures like trying to get to work. Besides, since the unemployment rate is hovering around 12%, how many people were really all that inconvenienced anyway?

Still, some think the media coverage is excessive. Please. When your MeeMaw died, didn't you invite 17,000 people to attend her memorial? And if I remember correctly, Brian Williams spent a good part of a Tuesday talking about the time she made the best batch of oatmeal cookies ever.

And your MeeMaw couldn't even Moonwalk.

Prongs Of L.A. Reviews A Restaurant: Cafe Firenze.

"This is Top Chef, not Top Scallop!"

And with that one line, I was smitten. For those of you who don't watch Top Chef–and you should, if not for balding hotty Tom Colicchio alone–that line was uttered by one adorably handsome, terribly likable chef-contestant, Fabio Viviani.

Buon giorno, tutto! Please, eat my greens and love me!

With his Italian accent and rugged good looks, Fabio charmed the pants off of anyone within range of hearing his delightfully precious broken English. For instance, his "I'm fresh out of 'da boat!" made baldy Colicchio buckle and giggle like a Tickle-Me-Elmo. (Yet not nearly as furry.)

May I buff your head with some olive oil and marrow?

In addition to being more appealing than a overstuffed cannoli, Fabio is supposedly a great chef; he lasted until the final round of Top Chef competition. So for months, I've been dying to try Cafe Firenze, Fabio's restaurant in Moorpark, CA. I've resisted for months because, well, his restaurant is in Moorpark, CA–known more for cactae and rattlers and 100+ degree temperatures, and not fine dining. But this past Saturday, we drove the hour to Moorpark to try his "ambitious" lunch menu.

I secretly had high hopes, but I tried to keep my expectations realistic. Not so secret was the Bravo TV "Top Scallop!" t-shirt I donned under my Italian flag-woven cotton sweater.

Cafe Firenze is located in a strip mall, which is not unusual for many restaurants in the LA area; Katsuya in Studio City, for example, is smooshed between a pet store and a Domino's and yet it's one of the top-rated sushi joints in Los Angeles.

The only thing missing is a coin-operated carousel.

So, the strip mall aspect didn't bother me so much. However, the three Vespas lined up outside the door, did. Why not go the extra mile and hire three old skinny dudes with slicked back hair to lean against them while smoking cigarettes and talking about bracciole.

Once inside, at first glance the large rooms seem cozy, homey, lovely. But once you really start to look around, the room starts to look more and more like some faux-Mediterranean restaurant in Epcot's Italy. Had Goofy tumbled out of the kitchen spinning pizza dough, I wouldn't have been batted an eye. Mainly because I would've been too busy asking him to sign my autograph book I keep in my Chip 'n Dale backpack.

As expected, the restaurant walls are painted in that overly used faux gold overlay which highlighted the massive dark, wooden beams crossing the ceiling. It's a look often used by people who think they have taste, but don't. I'm immediately reminded of a wine cellar that may or may not double as a whacking room in a Mediterranean villa-mcmansion plopped down in the middle of, say, Franklin Lakes, New Jersey.

But, I'm here for the food, and I keep an open mind about this restaurant that decidedly blows. I order; a glass of white for me, a bloody for SFB. Because apparently there isn't enough sodium in the V-8 juice, the bloody inexplicably comes with salt. I guess Fabio figures, "You already too bloated to see your feet, why you care if you have cankle?!" And as predicted, 8 hours later SFB would comment that his hands look like mittens.

For the first course, a Caprese salad on a bed of arugula with aged balsamic is split. Let's start with a positive: the dressing was pretty good–a near-perfect combination of tangy, tart, and fruity. But, that's about as positive as it gets. The mozzarella was ice cold, the tomatoes grainy, and the arugula was more aged than the balsamic.

The "after" picture is more appetizing than the "before".

Have I mentioned the fly and its smaller yet more persistent cousin, the fruit fly, that keep fluttering around our booth?

Next, we order the Caprese and meatball paninis. First of all, the Caprese wasn't a panini. It was two pieces of previously toasted "focaccia" that contained the same ice-cold mozzarella and grainy tomatoes as seen in our salad, and worse–the basil that was so old its edges had blackened. And I say focaccia in quotes because it was basically two pieces of toast with grill marks. The whole thing looked like it belonged on a tray table during a flight to Cleveland.

Even the food is "faux". I should've kept the theme going and paid in Monopoly money.

The meatball panini, while appropriately hot and melty, lacked flavor and...meat.

This isn't a weird angle–the chip actually dwarfed the panini.

And as if adding insult to injury, each sandwich came with exactly five potato chips. And all 10 chips were unseasoned and chewy.

Blame the flies swarming our shitty food (undoubtedly the only satisfied customers at our table), or the fact that I noticed ivy leaves stenciled on those faux walls, but we didn't even bother looking at the dessert menu. But I think it's safe to assume that tiramisu makes a prominent appearance.

Fabio was actually walking around while we were there, and it makes me wonder about his judgment. How could anyone who calls himself a chef, allow those plates to be served, I'd ask him as I snuggled in his lap in the glow of faux gold.

It pains me to say this, but Cafe Firenze is nothing more than an Olive Garden. But more expensive. And that's an astoundingly annoying combination.

In Memoriam.

He was adorable, wasn't he?

Poor Career Choice.

I totally should've gone into casket sales. This week alone would've had me set for life.

HEY OHHHH!

BREAKING: WWBD?

Tough day to be Farrah Fawcett. First, she dies. You would think that alone would make for a pretty shitty day. But, it gets worse. Michael Jackson up and dies 7 hours later.

And with one foul swoop, that famewhore-til-the-bitter-end steals Farrah's death thunder.

Let the media circus begin! Seriously, Michael Jackson is dead, his funeral is surely to be an actual circus. Elephants, Liz Taylors, capybaras, Rip Torns...plus, you'll be able to view the Elephant Man's bones right after you view the Peter Pan-dressed casket. Gee, it is a small world after all.

Don't get me wrong, I do genuinely feel bad that Michael Jackson's kids lost their dad. That would suck for anyone. But on the bright side, they probably don't have to wear those freaky masks in public anymore. And maybe now Blanket can change his name to something a little less creepy. So, good for them.

But I don't worry about his kids so much. Kids are amazingly resilient; they'll pull through. I am, however, extremely worried about one little guy. With the death of Michael, I ask you:

What will Bubbles do?

Bubbles has already had a tough life. A constant companion to Michael Jackson in the 80s and 90s, Bubbles grew jealous and angry once Michael had kids. And in 2003, poor little Bubbles had had enough; he attempted suicide. (I'm not making this up.) After his cry for help, Bubbles was transferred to an animal sanctuary to live out the rest of his days.

Who knew that Bubbles would win that contest. (Uh, everyone.)

Newscasters everywhere are saying that Michael Jackson's death is "shocking", "distressing", "stunning". Really? Where has everyone been the last 15 years? To be fair, we don't really know what he was like behind the scenes, but if Michael Jackson was anything like the person being interviewed by Martin Bashir in 2003, then I think we can all safely conclude that he was freaky-deaky. In the worst kind of freaky-deaky way.

You know what I'm talking about, right? I mean, I'm not saying he was a kid-fucker...

No, I am. I am saying that. He was a kid-fucker.

He was a weird kid-fucker who collected tchotchkes, and he also wrote some amazing songs. In that order. Kid-fucker, tchotchkes collector, song writer.

Am I shocked that he died? No. Am I distressed? I'm more distressed about paying bills. Am I stunned? Yes.

Oh, sorry. I meant no.

But I'm not totally heartless. For instance, I just typed this entire post while wearing one rubber yellow dish washing glove on my right hand.

HEH-HEE! Woo!

Not Prongs.

It's the half-empty bag of carrots that always gets you in the end. Rookie mistake.

Click here to read the full article.

Reflections On Fluffy Hair, Double Chins.

That Tom, what a jokester!

Remember that day last June when Brokaw told that totally crappy joke about The Big Guy?

Yeah, I didn't find it funny then, and I don't find it funny now.

However...it does seem odd that The Big Guy would still be in the bathroom after an entire year.

Maybe it's time to accept the fact that The Big Guy is gone. Besides, even if he did come back, there's no way we could pry that giant redwood David Gregory out that moderator chair.

Oh well.

Listen Russert, maybe it's time that you go on with your bad self and enjoy one of Mother Teresa's famous kosher burgers, throw back some sake with Truman, and then maybe play some tennis with FDR. (Advice: hit it long and hard.) Or, if you're feeling especially zippy, go clank some chains around Chris Matthews bedroom and whisper tauntingly about how he'll never become your replacement. (That will kill him!)

Here's to you, Big Guy.

Elaine Hates Coop.

Oh, Bradley Cooper. Don't you know first impressions count? You can't walk out for your first Conan Tonight Show interview wearing what looks like to be the remnants of some 17-year-old slut's refashioned silver taffeta prom dress, and think you're going to get away with it. Sitting next to Julia Louis-Dreyfus, you looked like a giant coked up Christmas tree ornament from the home of a Real Housewife, Jersey-style.

Coop and his taffeta camel toe.

Listen, I liked you in Wedding Crashers because you were the consummate douche. As it turns out, you may not have been acting. And if that's the case, good for you, because playing your part in The Hangover must have been a breeze. Last night you were smarmy. Worse, you were trying too hard to be smarmy. Anyone who will admit that, since the age of 5, he's been trying in vain to get people to call him "Coop" is sad. Sad in a way that you kind of remind me of this guy who clearly just wants to be part of the cool crowd:

Everyone knows beloved nicknames can't be forced. They have to happen naturally, and come from a place that evokes a person's inherent character. And referring to yourself in the third person in hopes that your nickname catches on just comes off as annoying and pathetic. I can't tell you how much Prongs abhors people like this.

Thankfully, I had the liberty of changing the channel at anytime to switch over to something more appealing like...Mrs. Doubtfire. By the way, have I mentioned that Prongs' favorite movie genre is men dressed in drag? I dare you to find funnier movies than Tootsie, The Birdcage, and Mrs. Doubtfire. Hey Bradley Cooper, just a thought, but maybe if you dressed in drag I'd like you more. (Silver taffeta doesn't count!) Anyway, I can't imagine what it must have been like to have to sit next to you while you spouted off about being the world's greatest ladies man. And luckily, I didn't have to because Julia Louis-Dreyfus was not shy in showing her complete disdain for you and your tin foil suit.

Actually, that's doing it a disservice: Julia Louis-Dreyfus just flat out fucking hates you. Elaine was having none of it. You were gettin' no love from that lady, Bradley Cooper. And while that may be the most annoying sentence written since any line from Sex and the City, it speaks the truth. The fact that she seemed visibly disgusted by you delighted me to no end. (Although not as much as Eugenia Doubtfire.)

After 17 Years, An Upgrade.

I hate Jay Leno. Like, I hate him an almost inappropriate amount. And for the last 17 years, we've put up with his Tonight Show brand (bland?) that some dub "gentle comedy". Big mistake. Grouping Leno under the gentle comedy umbrella is like a slap in the face to the way funnier, and more adorable likes of Ziggy.

But your comedy's not!

Please, nobody messes with Ziggy. Come on, put Leno and Ziggy in the same room– who would you rather spend the day picking daisies with? (Why isn't Prongs option 'C'?) Even saying "Ziggy" is way funnier. And I defy you to say his name without adding an exclamation point.

Jesus Christ, I love Ziggy(!).

Anyway, I was happy to see Leno go; his last monologue could not come soon enough. And just as I predicted, even that sucked. You would think that he'd want to do it up. Go out with a bang. Instead, he decided to thank those who gave him so much material over the years–Michael Jackson, Bill Clinton, and Monica Lewinsky. Way to date yourself, Leno. Even in 1998, Clinton/Lewinsky jokes weren't funny.

My god, I hate Leno.

And then last night, after five ridiculous years in the making, Conan began his Tonight Show reign. Now, I'm a big fan of Conan, but I didn't have high expectations. Good thing, too. The monologue was painful; even Conan knew it was painful. And Andy Richter and Conan need some time getting reacquainted again, because their banter was forced and awkward. What was up with all the shots of Andy giving us the thumbs up and saying nonsensical things? If Richter is going to be that all up in my mug, then he better bring the funny.

First guest, Will Ferrell, was fine.* I say "fine," because I really can't bring myself to criticize Will Ferrell–ever. However, that does not stop me from criticizing his sure-to-be fucking debacle of a movie, Land of the Lost. Just watching the 30 second clip made me pine for 30 seconds of whiny Leno.

I won't even comment on Pearl Jam. Except to say that unlike Leno, they should go back to the early 90s, listen to their first album, and then get back to me when they have some decent music to play. Until then, Eddie Vedder should stick to imitating Neil Young, dancing like a potted plant, and singing in his own shower. (Would you like an audience?)

The show wasn't all negative though. I did like the taped bit involving Conan leading the tour on the Universal tram. I'm embarrassed to admit that watching a tram chase itself in a circle, while Conan incites all 175 tourists to chant, "Circle! Circle! Circle!" made me laugh out loud. (Note to Leno: That's how you make stupid funny.)




In any event, it was a so-so debut. Big deal. Had Conan sat silently at his desk, counting his millions of dollars for an hour, it still would have been an upgrade.

*I'm going to go ahead and assume The Chuck was busy.

N-E-R-D-A-L-E-R-T.

What's better than winning the National Spelling Bee? (Having sex before you're 40?) If you ask the winner, Kavya Shivashankar, nothing; this is undoubtedly the greatest thing to happen to her in her short 13 years. Especially since she lives in Kansas.

Kavya rarely paused and never stumbled over a word. Obviously, she's been groomed from day 1 to win a national spelling championship–frankly, with a name like Kavya Shivashankar , how could you not be? The 200 points you gain for spelling your name correctly on the SAT are in her case, for once, actually earned.

And good for her.

Watching those kids spell is nothing short of astonishing. The man with that monotonous voice, who sounds dignified and professional during a competition, but off stage probably sounds like a creepy pedophile on a playground, pronounces each word like he's part of a SNL skit; and sitting at home, I think I've nailed each word. (Look, I've taken 4+ years of Latin, I know my etemollogees and oarigins.) I mentally spell the word in my head and wait for it to appear on the bottom of the screen.

I came very close to getting the correct spelling – once. Yet, those 12 and 13-year-old kids get up there, ask for the definition and then spit that spelling out with such authority that you'd think they were spelling their own names. (Again, bonus points for Kavya Shivashankar.)

I am simultaneously impressed and jealous (I also suspect that with each growing year, I'm becoming borderline mentally retarded), because I had my own run-in with a spelling bee. In 3rd grade, Mrs. Sweeney created a class bee. Depending on your level of spelling expertise, you were grouped into three distinct categories: Top Elite, Elite, or...Frankly, I don't remember the third category; I meandered only between Top Elite and Elite. (In your face, remedial spellers!) That's just how I rolled. (Nerdy and chubby!)

In all honesty, I vacationed in Top Elite for half the year, but I truly resided in Elite. I could blame my almost permanent Elite-status on my insufficient spelling, but I choose to blame Mrs. Sweeney's aqua colored pantsuits. They were mesmerizing; that one giant piece of bright fabric made Mrs. Sweeney look like she was about to board The Love Boat to celebrate Mrs. Roper's birthday with a night cap. Plus, Mrs. Sweeney's scent of choice was Coppertone suntan lotion. A comforting smell, yes. But when you're 8 and stuck in a classroom in the middle of June surrounded by the smell of suntan lotion? Borderline cruel. I mean really, under those circumstances how could anyone be expected to correctly spell "onomatopoeia"? ("Is that one of the fancy drinks Isaac made on the Lido Deck? No?")

Clearly, Scripps would not be calling me anytime soon. However, there was one student who showed great promise. She was the greatest speller to ever pass through Coleman School. (With the exception of that one kid who actually made it to finals of the National Spelling Bee, but he wasn't my friend and therefore doesn't count.) I bet she watches the National Spelling Bee and wonders what could have been.

Still to this day, those people in Mrs. Sweeney's 3rd grade class can't say the name "Connie Yim" without marrying it with "Top Elite Speller". Connie was the master; the undisputed champ. She was unbeatable.

Until that fateful day.

I don't remember which word tripped her up, but I remember the reaction. It was a tense moment. Connie was about to spell in order to keep her standing as top of Top Elite. Mrs. Sweeney gave Connie the word, and Connie paused. And during that time, Andy farted and then blamed it on Helen. (She, apparently, had smelt it.) Andy's farting and blaming it on others was not unusual–it was rumored his mom fed him prunes at dinner– but Connie's long and uncertain pause certainly was. After the fits of giggles over poor Helen's cries of denial,"I didn't 'dealt it'!," the class fell silent. It was Connie vs. Whatever-The-Word-Was.

Connie began to slowly spell. Almost immediately the class knew she missed a letter; it was devastating. Mrs. Sweeney made it official by informing Connie and the class that she was no longer in Top Elite.

My God, the horror. A third grader who was now merely a way-above average speller.

There were no tears, but Mrs. Sweeney suggested that Connie go out into the hall to perhaps collect her thoughts. (Good luck spelling them!) As Connie sat in the hallway doing God knows what (planning revenge against all those who wear pantsuits?), Mrs. Sweeney walked back into our room looking forlorn. She explained that this was going to be a very difficult time for Connie and that she would need our support. And more importantly, nobody should mention the words "Top Elite" to her.

This was as serious as it gets for 8-year-old kids, and Andy marked the devastation by hurling a spitball towards Helen's head.

A few minutes later, Connie walked back into the classroom, and you could hear crickets chirping. Seriously. We had a terrarium full of pet crickets on the windowsill. (Please, like you've never wanted to snuggle with a pet cricket!) I can't express how serious a situation we thought this was; we were frozen in our chairs, unable to think of anything to say. Connie sat down at her desk, and nobody mentioned Top Elite for the rest of the year.

In fact, Mrs. Sweeney had us so convinced that even uttering the words "Top Elite" would send Connie into such a never ending pit of despair, that nobody mentioned those words for the next four years.

We were in 7th grade, sitting around our lunch table in the cafeteria, probably talking about who we decided to hate that day, when Connie made a snide comment to no one in particular. And all of a sudden, without provocation, Nupur pipes up and says with perfect 7th-grade-bitchery delivery, "Whatever, Top Elite."

Stunned silence. Was Connie going to go all Hulk on Nupur? How could we acknowledge Nupur's simple yet brilliant retort while avoiding the wrath of Con? And then, laughter. Hysterical laughter.

It was a classic line. So classic, that we still use it today. And unfortunately for Connie, who makes so many snide and sarcastic remarks to not only friends but also strangers that it's amazing she hasn't been beaten, she hears the words Top Elite often.

I suspect Kavya Shivashankar will never have this problem.

Good for her.

My Mistake.

California is on fire. Again. And there's really nothing funny about that. (Why you take away use of comical parenthetical, fire?) The fire in Santa Barbara has been burning for days due to high winds and pretty toasty temperatures. And since it felt like I spent today in an Easy Bake Oven, I suspect the fire will burn for at least the next few days.

Like I said, nothing funny about that. This, on the other hand...

The fire is named the Jesusita Fire. Since each fire is named for the area in which it burns, I thought, "Didn't anyone think of maybe renaming the fire and calling it something a little less offensive and unintentionally hilarious?"

You see, I'd been reading "Jesusita Fire" as Jesusitsa Fire. As in: "The Jesus-its-a Fire! is still raging in Santa Barbara. While no injuries or deaths have been reported, the Jesus-its-a Fire! has destroyed more than 24 homes."

Look, Prongs never claimed to be the creamiest chick pea in the can, so my mistake.

Embrace Your Inner Sloth, Alda.

Anyone else starting to actually think that this can't be a coincidence?

It Was Nice Knowing You, Louis Caldera.

In his defense, who among us hasn't authorized a confidential staged photo-op using Air Force One tailed by a F-16 fighter jet flying ridiculously over lower Manhattan? Come on, name one person who wouldn't want a photo of that majestic 747 buzzing Lady Liberty? (The people visiting the Statue of Liberty this morning?) Slap that image on a Franklin Mint commemorative plate, and this recession will disappear faster than, well, Louis Caldera.

In Caldera's defense, I'm sure it seemed like a great idea at the time:

"Director Caldera, the air force would like a snap shot of AF1 flying past the Statue of Liberty. We'll alert the FAA, but otherwise we'd like to keep it a confidential mission. Can we make this happen?"

"What's the harm? Besides, who's gonna notice a 970,000 pound plane flying around lower Manhattan anyway? Oh, and I want a copy of the photo for my wallet."

Say, does your resume fit in that wallet?

Not only were Schumer and Bloomberg furious – during the news conference Bloomberg actually turned a shade of red that typically only people having massive heart attacks or tomatoes can pull off – but worse, it was also said that Obama is irate. And if there's anything more terrifying than clowns and creepy children in horror movies, it's insanely calm people when they're angry.

And I know what you're going to say, but photoshop is way too lame a solution for the government. Saying, "Remember that day I authorized Stan to photoshop Air Force 1 in front of Lady Liberty?" just doesn't have the same panache as, "Remember that day I authorized the U-S-of fucking A airforce to pilot that motherfucking badass plane and buzz the shit out of the Statue of Liberty?" Come on, that's a no-brainer. (Also Caldera's new nickname!)

I don't know what will happen to Caldera, but everyone makes mistakes. Like that time last week when I went to Mexico and made out with that pig.

Oh, Big Surprise.

Beware of quiet, white men who can't pull off a black leather jacket.

Unless you're his fiance, by now you've determined that Craigslist killer and Boston's finest, Philip Markoff, is guilty.

Sorry, sorry – my mistake. I mean guilty until proven innocent. (In your face, legal maxim!)

After trolling for sex and women to rob on Craigslist, Philip Markoff is accused of killing a prostitute at the Copley Marriott, attempted robbery of another woman at the Westin, and while he has yet to be officially charged, he's allegedly been tied to similar crimes in Providence, Rhode Island. (Welcome to the big time, Providence!)

This is the type of story that makes news directors drool and allows for the kind of headlines that cable news networks love to splash all over the screen: "BREAKING NEWS: CRAIGSLIST KILLER ON THE LOOSE; MAY ALSO TRY TO SELL YOU CRAP FROM IKEA". Needless to say, the Craigslist Killer story went national faster than Susan Boyle shaved her mustache.

In the wake of his arrest, many of Markoff's friends and acquaintances have spoken out about this unassuming, second year med-student, who comes from an average town where his father is a well-liked and successful dentist. People are shocked – shocked – that this kind of upstanding young man could commit such a crime. They've described Markoff as:

"Clean-cut boy."
"He was completely average."
"Dorky."
"Nice, easy-going."
"Smart."
"Pompous."
"High-achieving."
"He carried himself well."
"Like the type who could have it all."
"One of the most polite students."
"That type that you'd like to mother."
"Wouldn't hurt a fly."

Um, hello? Earth to people who will most likely be bludgeoned to death by a murderer: Do you idiots know that you just described the M.O. for every serial killer – ever? If you're keeping one eye open for this guy because he's the meanest psycho on the street, then you're in for a rude awakening. (Why are you clubbing me to death, Mr. Good Looking Normal Guy?)

The one you least suspect is always the lead suspect. Let's take a look back at some of our most notorious and brutal killers:

Is that an ax in your pocket, or you just glad to see me?
What do you mean 'both'?

Say, aren't you on "Taxi"?

Ooh, I could just run my fingers through your completely average hair for hours. Keep my fingers as souvenirs? Oh, you're hilarious!

Climb into your freezer and stay awhile? Well, here I thought I'd heard every pick-up line in the book!

Well sure, I like Versace as much as the next guy, but no, I don't know where he lives or anything.

The exception to the rule. This guy even looks bat-shit crazy.

I do love hummus, yes. Well, no, I'm not a huge fan of Chuck Todd but –

With the exception of Charles Manson – who shares the crazy eyes with Ramoner from Real Housewives NYC (keep an eye out, Jill Zarin!) – serial killers are typically average looking, quiet white guys who you'd never expect would keep your ear as a souvenir after graciously paying for dinner at Babbo. (Legal disclaimer: Mario Batali is not a serial killer, he just looks like one.) The creepiest killers are always your reserved next door neighbor you rarely see, and that's usually because he's busy working in his basement dungeon. (Ears make lovely Christmas tree ornaments!)

So wake up, Philip Markoff supporters. I may be going out on a limb here (are ears limbs?), but anyone who keeps a semi-automatic gun stashed in a hollowed out copy of Gray's Anatomy along with duct tape and plastic restraints, has some serious issues.

You want to "play doctor"? I thought you wanted to sell me your Grevbäck bookcase?

With Sympathies to Rose Nylund, Blanche Devereaux, and Brooke Green Perry.

R.I.P, shoulder-padded sass.

In what can only be described as a devastating blow to Brooke Green Perry, it was announced early this morning that Dorothy Petrillo Zbnorak passed away in the arms of her loving ex-husband, Stan Zbornack.

Prongs tends to wear bedazzled caftans with shoulder pads anyway, but now they will be worn in memoriam. With a side of cheesecake.

Crap Bag Is, Not Surprisingly, Full Of Crap.

Oh, Crap Bag. Some people would argue that I carry around a strange amount of rage for someone I've never met. But those people are retards and clearly don't know what they're talking about – on any number of subjects.

I'll give you this: you look pretty good for a person stewing in her own holy shit. Your trout pout is always appropriately glossed – even when you're trying for that "oh, this old thing?" look. (And by the way, can you give us a small fucking break.) You hair is perfectly coiffed, albeit boring. And by the looks of your body, I suspect you're racing Lohan to the meth line. (First one to die wins!)

Here's what really chaps my ass (survey says...The Chuck!): you make a big deal about droning on and on about how you're going to take at least a couple years off from acting in order to focus on your family. And we all know what that means. Every time you "focus on your family" some 4-year-old third world orphan has his name changed to something that ends in the letter 'x' and then is shipped all over the world while you smile smugly for the press. How exotic. And wow, it must be killing you right now that you're stuck filming Wanted: Mrs. Smith, Tomb Raider while that Slumdog kid is up for sale. Bummer. You could've renamed her Mumbaix.

So while I feel bad for those poor orphans who will inevitable end up in your veiny clutches during this self-imposed time off, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't ecstatic to see your smug mug go; a year without Crap Bag would be quite a year.

But, I knew it was too good to be true. I knew you couldn't stay under the radar longer than it takes me to say, "Everyone knows your worldly good deeds are self-serving, and no, I haven't forgotten about that time you crammed your tongue down your brother's throat, you giant freak show."

It was just announced that you'll sign on to play Dr. Kay Scarpetta, the lead heroine (heroin?) from Patricia Cornwell's highly successful series of books in a yet unnamed movie.

Goddammit, Jolie. I love the Kay Scarpetta books. And now, every time I read one, I'm going to see your face as Dr. Kay Scarpetta. And you know what? Before yesterday, Dr. Kay Scarpetta looked nothing like you. (She can lift a limb without having it shatter into a million pieces!) Clearly, I'll now stop reading her books.

This is such bullshit, Crap Bag.

Name This Animal. And Then Exterminate It.

I have no idea what this thing is, but it's taken to sitting outside my apartment. It's disturbing beyond hell; it's small like a rat but has skin like an elephant. I'm warning you, if you're eating, stop before you continue.

Are you a lemur?

I told you.

I know what you're going to say. You're going to say it's a cat. Well excuse me, but I've never seen a cat that looks like this. And if it is a cat, I hope it's blind because it would be a real shame if this asshole caught a glimpse of itself in a mirror. Actually, I'd feel sorry for the mirror.

Are you a maimed fur seal?

What's even worse is this bastard holds court like it owns the entire sidewalk. Each time I try to open my door – my door – it gives me that stink eye, I momentarily turn to stone and gag involuntarily, and then he slowly – sahlowly –gets up like I'm putting it out. Oh excuuuuuuse me, elephant rat. I wouldn't want you to make you move out of your sun spot so I can bring in all my back-breaking grocery bags filled with hummus.

What is this thing? Are you a spider monkey? Are you a mongoose? Are you a sloth? No. Even a sloth is better looking than this thing. Just ask Alan Alda.

I didn't want to get too close for fear of throwing up everywhere, but I was able to capture this beautiful shot.

Are you a praying mantis?

My God, the horror. I suspect this thing may be an aye-aye, but even those things look more cuddly. I don't know, but whatever it is, I can't have this kind of ugly riff-raff around my home. I have an image to protect for Christ's sake.

A Fascinating Turn Of Events.

I should preface this by saying that I still haven't recovered from that fateful day when The Big Guy decided to go to the bathroom and not come out. I won't presume to know what the hell kind of stomach issues he's having, but it must be Olive Garden-style issues because he's been in there almost a goddamn year already. (Light a torch, Russert!)

I tried to move on, but let's be honest, that's hard to do when you're forced to move on to Scott Bakula. I mean, come on, Scott Bakula wouldn't want to move on to Scott Bakula. That's like getting excited to watch a wet noodle slowly slide down a wall only to land in a mound of fuzz bunnies. (Not you, you giant eared egomaniacs!) Of course, I am still fond of Jeff Goldblum but I am not fond of his incessant need to legally restrain my incessant need. So, with my options limited to hairy noodles and giving air hugs from 70 feet, I wasn't expecting to find anyone like The Big Guy ever again.

Now, I'll never admit that I was wrong, so I'll just say that I was ill-informed, because Prongs has found someone. And that someone knocks Prongs' hummus-filled socks off. (In your face, pedicures!) He was already on my radar, of course. How could he not be, with that hair so eerily similar to The Big Guy's fluffy-as-a-chick coif. At first it was nothing more than a flirtation – he'd bat those long lashes at me while I stared back at that fluffy-as-a-kitten goatee. But in the months since The Big Guy moved into the bathroom, he's become more popular and a permanent fixture on TV, and I've found myself hanging on to his every word. (And adding "with hummus" to it!)

Chuck Todd, you are the one. (Congratulations! Call your lawyer!) Every time you appear on MSNBC, I find myself gasping and then whispering, "Chuck Todd!" (True story!) Oh, The Chuck can do no wrong in my book, The Book of The Chuck, that's for sure. I have some serious competition too, because there are a lot of people out there who love you. They call themselves Chuckolytes, a gay name indeed, but also one that implies they're light on Chuck. Well, Prongs would never be light on Chuck. (Say, can The Chuck bench press 450 pounds?)

I guess I have a thing for white, somewhat pasty political analysts who work for NBC. (Except you, Chris Matthews! HA!) Oh, did I mention that it's a confirmed fact that The Chuck loves hummus? Unfortunately for The Chuck, this is only the beginning a long and beautiful friendship. OK, maybe not beautiful, but definitely obsessive.