Prongs of L.A.

Earthquake Resurrection.

2010-04-04T19:04:00.000-07:00

How did this blog become all about earthquakes.

Let's get to the really pressing matter: Los Angeles felt a slight tremor this afternoon when the 7.2 hit Baja, causing several ladies-and-gays-who-lunch to spill iced non-fat lattes down their $300 bedazzled t-shirts. When is the Jennifer Lopez-sponsored telethon to help these devastated victims of the dreaded coffee stain?

"Live" Blogging Hollywood 4 Haiti: Making Fun Of The Best Of Hollywood During The Worst Of Times.

2010-01-22T20:04:00.000-08:00

Here's the thing: I find it admirable that celebrities want to help, but these telethons usually come across as just another excuse for Hollywood to pat itself on its back. For instance, don't make it out to be some amazing shit that Julia Roberts cares enough to answer a phone and talk to someone who makes less than $30M a year.

Frankly, what's even more pathetic than that is I'm investing 2 hours to blog a telethon that's already over. Still, this is way less embarrassing than what I want to be doing, which is reading "Twilight: Breaking Dawn".

10:00PM: Hey shitbags, if I donated, so can you.

9:58PM: I may not be a fan for unspecified reasons, but I have to say, way to end it right, Wyclef.

9:50PM: Dave Matthews vs. Neil Young: Battle of the Indecipherable!

9:43PM: Tom Hanks has some kind of magical power that makes you want to become a better person. (Note: So does Rita Wilson. I wonder if they travel around LA via unicorn.)

9:40PM: Brad Pitt is talking from Los Angeles. Jennifer Aniston is answering phones from Los Angeles. OMG, they are, like, sooooo back together!

9:31PM: Only in Los Angeles could your big break come from a telethon. Way to score, Matt Morris.

9:20PM: Here's the fantastic news: Madonna, "Like a Prayer". Here's the bad news: She really, really, really fucked her face up.

9:17PM: The Clintons honeymooned in Haiti 35 years ago ("The More You Know"...cue NBC music).

9:12PM: I can't tell you how much I hate myself for saying this, but Kid Rock may sound like he swallowed a fist full of pebbles, but still, not terrible.

9:10PM: Hey, Morgan Freeman! Why aren't you narrating this entire thing?

9:05PM: Why is Beyonce channeling Crystal Gayle?

9:03PM: Um, who else is desperate to rub Eastwood's seemingly Beaker-like hair?

9:02PM: Sting hopes to raise $ by having tantric sex with his guitar.

9:00PM: Hot vampire alert!

8:58PM: My bad, it gets worse. Anderson Guns proceeds to INTERVIEW the girl seconds after she's pulled from the rubble.

8:57: Anderson Guns says there's a 15 year old girl buried alive behind him. Luckily he goes to help...and brings his entire camera crew with him.

8:55PM: Julia Roberts loses perspective.

8:52PM: Good for you Christina Aguilera for finally wearing appropriate, less transvestite-y makeup. Though, you could be wearing clown makeup, because who cares when you have pipes like that.

8:50PM: Does anyone else find it hilarious that they gave botoxed kewpie doll, Nicole Kidman the line, "Don't be afraid of death"?

8:45PM: I dare you to find something unlikeable about Taylor Swift. Especially since she's no longer with that Bella-stealer, Jacob Black.

8:41PM: Why is Samuel L. Jackson wearing my MeeMaw's cardigan?

8:35PM: For some reason, Jon Stewart is the only one who makes this telethon seem less like Hollywood patting itself on its back.

8:32PM: John Legend, you are a tall drink of adorable, sir.

8:27PM: Oh dear god. They have audio of stars answering phones: "Hi, it's Reese Witherspoon!"

8:20PM: Good for you, Stevie Wonder. You sound way better than you did during the last fundraiser you participated in: The Michael Jackson Memorial Fund to Further Bankrupt California.

8:17PM: Dear Leonardo DiCaprio, you may have donated $1M, but I still haven't forgiven you for "Titanic".

8:16PM: Anderson "Guns" Cooper continues to depress the hell out of us. Minus the guns.

8:15PM Anderson Cooper, put away your guns. If that t-shirt gets any tighter, everyone will see your nipples shooting rainbows over the world.

8:14PM: Famous stars answering phones! Whoops, there's Mel Gibson! Let's hope the person he's talking to isn't a Jew!

8:11PM: It's not a proper telethon until Bruce Springsteen sings with a choir. FYI: More money would have been raised had Snooki and The Situation been singing back-up.

8:10PM: P.S., Halle, you really are very pretty.

8:09PM: Really, Halle Berry? Are leather pants appropriate for a fundraiser? Really? Why don't you just get out your bedazzler and stud those pants with diamonds.

8:03PM: Clooney, by all accounts, you're a highly likable, very nice guy. But would it kill you to sometimes get over your fucking self?

8:00PM: Alicia Keys can open her mouth wider than a carp.

Holidays.

2010-01-01T16:12:00.000-08:00

Rest easy, my redeye to Boston never crashed. And neither did I – even after two drinks. So I arrived in Boston at 5AM looking like Lindsay Lohan on a typical Tuesday.

An hour later, my sister and I were sitting on her couch. Practically comatose, I was minding my own beezwax when my 5-year-old niece approached us. She looked me up and down, and then turned to my sister and said with severe disapproval, "Your sister is no better than a juice box." It was both weird and oddly sophisticated, and yet still highly insulting.

That afternoon we made it up to Maine. Have you ever been in Maine in December? It's freaking freezing. Yet, if you walk into my parents' house, you'd think you were sitting in a tanning bed on the equator. And in the horrific event that the thermostat creeps below 80, everyone is offered a round of cashmere sweaters and sifters of brandy. Each night, while it hovered near 20 outside, I actually slept with the ceiling fan on, all my bedroom windows open, and it still felt like the Beach Boys should be singing "Kokomo" from my closet. (If only!)

Tradition is big in my family, so searing house temperature is nothing new. In fact, there are very few "new" things introduced into the Christmas festivities, and there are 5 things you can always count on:

1) At 6PM sharp, my father begins asking, "Can I get anyone anything...?" And everyone politely declines.
2) At 6:03PM, drinking becomes acceptable, and everyone asks my father to get them a drink.
3) Christmas Eve dinner is served at 8PM. (Crab cakes or lasagna.)
4) By 9PM, we are gossiping about the crazy relatives who are a perfect combination of both creepy and boring, and we still obsessively talk about the same stories every. single. year. as if it's the first time we've heard them.
5) Christmas dinner consists of beef tenderloin with Bearnaise (don't get saucy with me, Bearnaise!), mushroom souffle, Italian green beans with tomato, onion, and garlic, roasted potatoes, copious amounts of wine, and some kind of kitchen-related disaster. (Last year my Bearnaise separated, and calling 911 was seriously considered.)

Food and drink are big traditions and trump all.

The other big tradition is the Christmas tree ornaments, in that they are traditionally weird.

We take a lovely evergreen and smother it with: retainers, hospital stay bracelets, my mother's Child Psychologist ID from the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia (note: my mother is neither a psychologist nor has she worked at a hospital), the fake ID I made when I was 16, business cards from first jobs, my brother-in-law's wedding boutonniere, turkey bones, my deceased Meemaw's hair roller which includes some of her white hair (naturally), the key to my deceased Paw's safe deposit box (I'd still like to see what that has to offer), my mother's broken eye glasses she ran over in the car a week before my sister's high-stress wedding, a pack of Kool cigarettes, one of my mother's veins she had removed from a varicose vein surgery in the 80s, my father's staples from his first hip replacement surgery, a NYC subway token, and a B. Altman's credit card.

Yet surprisingly, no one in my family is a serial killer...that we know of. Although secretly, we all suspect Anson of cagey doings. Remember him?

And just a side note, I forgot many of the bizarro tree ornaments we had, so I sent an email to my mother asking her to list some. She did, and she ended her email by asking me, "Is that enough? Are you making a quilt??" Apparently the intense heat in that house is scrambling her brains, because surely she knows that when we quilt we use dried animal organs and the ears of the homeless.

Weirdness aside...just kidding...I'm about to give you more weirdness.

When we sit down to Christmas dinner, before we cheers, we each open our "Christmas Cracker". (Believe me, a name not lost on any of us.) If you're unfamiliar with this English tradition (we're not English, by the way), you pull open the cracker to reveal a surprise treat and a colored paper crown to wear. This year, the prize in many was a nail cutter. And I can tell you with 100% certainty that those nail cutters will end up on the tree next year. But more importantly, you should know that all 9 of us sit through a 2+ hour dinner wearing our crowns, each looking creepier than the Burger King.

And again, in keeping with tradition, we did suffer another kitchen-related casualty. After a very hectic plating session in which my mother realized too late that we never warmed the plates (an important but unspoken rule of the house), she really tried to get those plates into that oven. But, she was expertly thwarted by Tad, who saw her coming and correctly thought, "Fuck warm plates" and aggressively threw a slice of tenderloin on each plate seconds before my mom reached them. It was honestly a genius move on his part.

Unfortunately for Tad, this would be his last genius move of the evening.

Still wearing his apron from slicing the beef, Tad put on a couple of pot holders to bring the hot rolls to the table, setting them down next to a few votive candles. Now Tad is one of the smarter people we know, so it was surprising that he couldn't foresee what would happen when you place a wooden basket lined with a paper cloth next to an open flame.

From the kitchen I hear, "OhboyOhboyOhboy!" As I stuck my head around the corner, I see Tad tippy-toeing around the table, clutching a flaming basket of buns. The apron and comically large pot holders just added to the scene. Had he been wearing a toque, I would've thought the Swedish Chef was in the dining room.

When we finally sat down to dinner, the Bearnaise was perfectly saucy, the potatoes crispy, the beans tangy,the beef juicy, and the rolls smokey.

As always, good times.

Live Blogging From 35,000 Feet.

2009-12-22T23:31:00.000-08:00

Quick, send help, I'm trapped in a aluminum tube for the next 4 hours. On the plus side, free wifi!

My red eye thus far has been...clown-jumping-out-of-a-closet-with-a-machete terrifying. L.A. was experiencing some high wind gusts upon take-off which led to some dicey moments. As I sat there quietly gasping and whimpering and wondering if the plane rolling from side-to-side on the runway would get enough lift to make it into the air, the dickface 3 year old in front of me was screaming, "Weeeee! This is fun!" Had I not thought I was going to die, I would've wished for death.

A minute after "wheels up", a term I learned from my obsessive watching of "West Wing" on Bravo, the captain came on and said, "The tower just informed us that our climb is going to be real bumpy. Please buckle those belts tight. Flight attendants, keep your seats until further notice. Now, don't worry too much about it folks, we'll try to keep our speed right on the money to climb as fast as possible."

Holy fucking full-blown panic attack, Captain.

"Don't worry too much? We'll try to keep our speed right on the money?"

Look, in my mind, you have one job and that's to deliver the goods alive within 6 hours or less. You don't try, you do. And I don't care if you're on fire in the cockpit, Captain. You will tell the cabin that everything is fine, we should not worry at all, and the fact that you have to have skin a graft on your penis is no big deal and this is just another Tuesday.

Now, I can't be certain what I looked like or how I acted for the first 50 minutes of hell ride, but the lovely guy next to me said, "Hey, you OK?"

My internal monologue screamed "OH MY GOD WE ARE ALL GOING DOWN AND THE CAPTAIN IS ON FIRE!", but I pulled it together, kind of laughed and said I was fine but I didn't like flying.

His response? "Me too, and I'm in the Air Force."

Not the comforting answer I was looking for. Because I think I can assume he knows a lot more about flying than I do, and if he's scared, then there's going to be a freaking Prongs-shaped hole on the side of this plane soon.

To alleviate my fears, I went to MSNBC.com. What's the first thing I see? "American Airlines Flight Overshoots Runway"

Next.

Now, 2+ hours in, things have settled down. Mostly due to the fact that I'm drinking and watching a "Roseanne" marathon on tv.

Whoops, spoke too soon.

It seems we're running an obstacle course at 35,000 feet. Or perhaps trying to evade a flying octopus. This tin foil beast is all over the place. I'd ask the Air Force to send help but apparently "this is shit they've never seen." And I don't want to know the answer as to how that is even remotely possible.

By the way, ever try to write about someone who's sitting next to you? He's reading this right now. Have I mentioned he's very attractive and we're all lucky to be in his presence?

He just smiled.

The fact that he can even read this is crazy, because I have the typeface so small, that I can barely read it with my nose to the screen. Did the AF fit him with robotic eyes?

Notice how I type "AF" to throw him off the scent.

He read that too.

I think we're now all in agreement that this must end.

My Holiday Gift To You.

2009-12-16T05:08:00.000-08:00

Prongs is back!

My mother and high school English teacher are so excited!

Grasping At Straws.

2009-10-20T13:37:00.000-07:00

There's one person who may find this amusing. But that's a big maybe. In fact, don't even bother reading this post.

UPDATE: Just Guerilla Marketing For "Where The Wild Things Are".

2009-10-15T19:19:00.000-07:00

UPDATE: My mistake. They're all assholes.

Perhaps you've heard of Falcon, the Balloon Boy? That annoying, rambunctious six-year-old who made everyone believe that he was flying through the clouds in a contraption made of tin-foil and plywood and kept aloft by an invisible panting unicorn?

He had the entire world sitting on the edge of their seats, praying for his safe return to the loving arms of his famewhore-y family comprised of Mr. Wizards and Wife Swappers. The cable news channels went crazy. Bruce Springsteen started writing a ballad called "Falcon Took Flight". Everyone wondered why this six-year-old boy with a normal sense of curiosity would just jump into a conveniently located, giant silver floaty thing – an alleged safe harbor for puppies and candy –and take to the skies. It made no sense!

The National Guard acted immediately. Denver Airport was closed. The FAA immediately began tracking "The Falcon". Helicopters swarmed the area. Anderson Cooper packed his Pradas and prepared to head west. But finally, in the vein of the great Capt. "Sully" Sullenberger, that giant unicorn-powered balloon made a miraculous soft landing.

Thank God. Obama could now tuck away that hastily written eulogy and save it for another day that will surely involve the Gosselins.

But as emergency personnel raced to the site, they discovered that Falcon was nowhere to be found. Immediate horror gripped the cable networks, much to their twitchy delight. Did the 6-year-old fall out? When? Where? From how high a height? Could this magical child survive a fall from 7,000 feet? Well, he did somehow figure out how to hijack a balloon by untying a bow, so yes, anything was possible!

People searched for hours. And when there was little hope left for finding this young Emilio Earhart, he was discovered! Safe!

Hiding in the attic above his garage.

That's right, that little inconsiderate piss-ant cost the state millions and he made the world care about a not-so engaging story. But worse, he ruined a perfectly good balloon comprised of tin foil and plywood.

What an asshole.

Prongs Is Adorable.

2009-09-09T13:38:00.000-07:00

Cute Overload clearly has questionable judgment, because I've joined Not That Mike, The Other Mike, as one of their writers.

Check it out:

http://cuteoverload.com/

By, George.

2009-08-13T00:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning a contractor came to the apartment to fix a window in the bathroom, and when I answered the door, I had a sudden thought that Ponch had arrived (finally!) to whisk me away to the PCH on his CHP-issued hog. In reality, he looked more like Jon Favreau’s Hispanic twin.

His name was George and he offered me one of those sparkling smiles that dazzled to the point of bordering between attractive and outright creepy. He greeted me and inserted about 20 exclamation points after my name as if he had just run into an old friend in the aisle at Ralph’s. His black t-shirt was fitted, but not too tight that it made him look like one of those guys with cantaloupe biceps from Gold’s Gym, and he wore a small but sparkly blue stud in his ear. It seemed like an odd choice for a Hispanic contractor, but that’s George for you.

George, my new best friend.

He was immensely likeable, and that’s usually impossible to say about landlord-endorsed workmen. And George further endeared himself to me when he characterized my building’s management team as “kind of idiots, you know?” I knew. He continued, “Your landlord? Seems nice, right? But sometimes calling someone ‘nice’ don’t mean what you think you think it means, am I right?”

I nodded my head enthusiastically because, of course, George was right; I was intoxicated by his lilting accent and the fact that he had punctuated his sentence with a wink, but in all honesty, I wasn’t exactly sure what he was talking about. But that’s George for you.

We spent the next thirty minutes going through the apartment, which in reality takes only about 6.5 seconds, but George was thorough and he wanted to make sure that he addressed each and every problem. There was no problem too big, “Sure, I can hang a ceiling fan from those 20 foot ceilings, but it will be messy for sure and probably look pretty stupid, you know?” and no problem too small, “You know that painting hanging there is crooked, right? Let me fix it for you!” It was the first time anyone has paid that much attention to me in months, and though I knew this man about as well as I knew steady employment, I was tempted to invite him to join me in a bowl of Boo Berries. That’s just George for you.

George finally retreated to the bathroom to repair the shower window, and when he emerged just 15 short minutes later, he was triumphant. “Come, take a look at my work!” The window was fixed, the bathroom was clean, and the tub looked curiously whiter than it had an hour before. “Oh yes, I noticed that someone did just a disastrous caulking job, so I fixed that for you too! Looks good, right?” Right. Good. Very good and right. It was the easiest – and by far the most pleasant – 45 minutes I’ve spent with anyone.

We finished up the paperwork, and just before he left, George sheepishly asked if he could use the bathroom. Of course – anything for you, George.

In the meantime, I checked email. And after a few minutes, I headed into the kitchen to get a glass of water. As I did, I stuck my head around the corner and noticed that the bathroom door was still curiously closed. Maybe George noticed another problem. Yes, that must be it. I plopped myself down on the couch and waited for George to open that door and tell me that while fixing my leaky faucet, he had discovered a cure for cancer.

But with each passing minute, I became increasingly nervous. What was taking so long? It takes – what? – thirty seconds to pee, tops? I calculated the odds that George was suffering from a urinary tract infection, and determined that this would still only warrant an acceptable two minutes in the bathroom. But George had been in there a good ten minutes already. Was he sick? Should I call out and ask if he’s OK?

Just as I decided that he must have fallen and hit his head, George emerged from the bathroom, victorious – his dazzling smile in check and looking just as triumphant as I expected. “Thank you very much! We’ll be talking soon!” he said, as he headed straight out the front door. It was kind of an odd departure considering the bond we had formed. No hug? Perhaps George had left another surprise in the bathroom in the form of a repaired cabinet? Yes, that would just be soooo George.

As I headed toward the bathroom, I realized George did leave me a surprise, and my heart sank. It seemed George emerged triumphant for an entirely different reason, and a familiar stink was quickly seeping through the apartment. It was the smell of someone trying to cover his tracks. It was the smell of someone disregarding personal boundaries. It was the smell of betrayal.

Technically, it was the smell of a smoldering match and its poor attempt at masking the stench of a freshly brewed poo.

Yes, George took a giant dump in my house. Worse, in the one toilet in my house. That’s located in my bedroom. I started thinking about what sort of circumstances would force a stranger to shit on another’s throne. Presumably, it must have been an emergency. However, the more I thought about “emergency shitting” the more nauseous I became. I imagined George rushing in and pulling up his slightly fitted tee as he sat down just before his ass exploded like water exiting an elephant’s trunk. Had I not been so repulsed by my soiled toilet, I would’ve thrown up in it.

I went into panic mode. Everything would need to be sanitized, disinfected, and scrubbed with a toothbrush – ideally George’s. No, I’d just demand a new toilet. Of course that would mean that George would be the one to install it. Fine, I’d just have to move.

I didn't understand – in ten minutes time, my whole morning had been turned upside down. I still couldn’t believe it. Who craps in a stranger’s house?

That’s George for you.

Unintentional Gag-Inducing Headline Of The Day.

2009-08-09T18:28:00.000-07:00

From the Associated Press, 8/9/09:

"Florida Inmates Make, Sell Their Own Hot Sauce"

Christmas In July.

2009-08-04T05:27:00.000-07:00

Perhaps you heard, but after 40 years, 20th Century Props–a prop house here in L.A.–went out of business. Its owner, Harvey Schwartz says he ran out of money and was forced to go out of business due to the loss of scripted television and the increasing number of movies filmed out-of-state. A sad sign of the times, indeed.

But, sorry Harvey–your loss is Prongs' gain. Thanks to 20th Century Props' inventory auction, I was finally able to secure one particular item that I've had my eye on for some time. I've never found anything like it–certainly nothing that represents my character so well:

A prong-footed tub.

Behold, my bathing vessel. My God, isn't she gorgeous? The photo doesn't do her justice, but she's titanic–but, you know, built better–and to put her size into perspective, that tag hanging on her toe? Well, it's the size of any American flag you'd see hanging at a car dealership. So yes, plenty of room for me to float around in my swimmies and snorkel.

Sure, the downside is she's the size of my living room, so right now I'm just calling her "art". Although her proper name is Bathing Ruth.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does.

2009-08-03T17:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, my own stupidity astounds me. In fact, I'm so stupid that I don't even know what the above title means, I just know that since it has the word stupid in it twice, it must apply to me. In looking up the phrase, I discovered that "stupid is as stupid does" apparently means "judge people by what they do, not by how they appear". Just as I suspected – I'm doubly screwed.

And with good reason, if recent events are any indication.

A few nights ago, around 8PM, I walked out to my car to run a quick errand. It was just beginning to grow dark, and as I approached my car, I noticed two guys laughing on the porch of a building a few up from mine. A few whistles were thrown my way, and I rolled my eyes as I thought, "I love you!" They seemed pretty drunk, perhaps odd for anywhere else, but Sunday night is a drinker's paradise in West Hollywood. Why, I don't know, but I suspect it's a way for the gays to give God the collective (expertly manicured!) finger.

I turned the ignition over in my car, and because my street's width equals that of a celery stalk, I adeptly performed a 16-point turn, and 7 short minutes later, I was ready to go. Just as I started slowly rolling down the street, I heard one of the drunk, porch guys yelling. And before I knew it, he was running in front of my car, waving for me to stop. I slowly drove by him, and I as I did, he started banging on the passenger side of my car. So I did what any normal person would do. I stopped.

(Let's take a moment and allow my mother some time to pick herself off the floor and back into her chair.)

He came running up to the passenger side window and indicated that I should roll it down.

I quickly assessed the situation: I'm alone in a car, on a quiet, dark street–yes. And I heard my mom's voice say, "Don't talk to strangers!" But how much harm could a young, good-looking, fraternity-type white guy cause? (This much.) So, I did what any normal person would do. I rolled down my window.

As I rolled down the window–only half way, but that positive is totally negated if you do this while keeping the doors unlocked–I realized this harmless serial killer wasn't drunk. He was hammered. Imagine the manic energy of a Liza Minnelli combined with the slurred speech of a Larry Flynt plus the movement of a tall ficus tree swaying in the wind, and you'll get a pretty accurate picture of this adorable rapist now leaning into my car.

As he leaned over the window, within reach of being able to successfully choke me–or hug me!– he said, "Heysh! Where'sh yush goin'?"

Was he French? "What?"

"Where you going? You going to the westside?"

"No. I'm going to Trader Joe's."

What the fuck did I just say?

Did I just tell some random drunk guy who's now practically crawling into my window that I was going to Trader Joe's like this is the most normal conversation–under the most normal circumstances–I've ever had?

See, I have a terrible habit of offering too much information when people ask me simple questions. Like, if I'm ordering take-out and the guy asks if I need extra ketchup packets, instead of saying, "No thanks," I'll say, "No, that's ok–I just bought a huge thing of ketchup, and it's in the door of my fridge." It's a mortifying habit.

But this response was extraordinary–even for me. In fact, it was so odd that it made my cute, drunk killer pause, and for one brief moment, his crazy eyes focused, and I could read what they said, "God, you're fucking weird, lady."...Thought the drunk guy asking random strangers for rides as he hangs halfway out of their car windows.

"Well, what are you getting from Trader Joe's? And can I come?"

"Just some lettuce and milk."

What the fuck!

I wondered if I was undergoing some kind of epileptic event. How else could I justify this behavior?

Finally, I told him that, sorry, he could not come with me, but to have a good night. And as I started to drive away, he tried to open the passenger side door. This was not good; admittedly, this made me nervous. Although, as history has shown, had he offered me some hard candy, I probably would've taken it. My anxiety was short lived, however, because as I sped forward and watched him still fumbling with the door handle, I realized a mitten-wearing seal would've had an easier time getting into my car.

Crisis not-so-gracefully averted, by the time I got to Trader Joe's, it sunk in just how stupid I had been. Not only had I pulled over for some stranger, but I stopped the car, rolled down the window, and then engaged in some seriously awkward conversation. I'll be honest, the awkward conversation bothered me the most. Lettuce? Milk? I vowed to make a concerted effort to not talk to anyone anymore.

I was feeling better once I pulled onto my street. I felt immediately worse when I realized the only space left was the one from which I left–the same space in front of the building with the porch where the two drunk, young, good-looking, fraternity-type white guys still sat. What, in the time I was gone, he couldn't find any other idiot to give him a ride?

I refused to park there in fear I'd end up describing–in detail–how it annoyed me that I had to pay for my lettuce and milk with my atm card since I was a dollar short in cash. So I circled my block looking for parking. By my third pass–and with that same space still blatantly available–the two drunk, young, good-looking, fraternity-type white guys were pointing at me in hysterics. I loathed that fucking bag of lettuce sitting in the back seat of my car.

I ended up finally finding a different space at the end of my block. The space was tight, but after five tries and some inadvertent honking of the horn, I squeezed myself in. And then I sat there for 10 extra minutes. I got home, put my lettuce away and promptly ordered a pizza.

"Do you want dessert with that?"

"Nah, I have a whoopie pie in my fridge."

Behold, The Hilarious Highlight Of Thursday.

2009-07-23T11:51:00.000-07:00

If it makes you sad that this snippet from a conversation is the highlight of my day, then you're going to be near suicidal when I tell you it may actually be the highlight of my week.

And please take a moment to recognize the new level of "nerd" that I've just stooped to: I'm blogging about an IM exchange regarding Facebook. And, I use Beeker as my icon.

I might as well adopt a lisp and start showing up alone to parties where I explain to a group of strangers that my tardiness was due to my concern over a mysterious rash blanketing my limbs. True story.

Meow-Mixed.

2009-07-15T22:34:00.000-07:00

Whitney Houston just released the cover for her new album. And look, I like a comeback just as much as anyone (are you listening, Flock of Seagulls?), but does a comeback mean you have to come back with a new face?

OK, but please don't make me look to you.

Listen, I expect it from someone like Courtney Love–someone who didn't have much to work with to begin with–but you, Whitney Houston? Whitney Houston, we used to look at you and actually believe that children are our future. But now? Now we look at your face from that one moment in time, and frankly, it makes us think an alien race of felines is going to take over the world.

I'm every woman. (Literally.)

And I'm allergic to cats, so I don't particularly want to treat them well and let them lead the way, if you're picking up what I'm throwing down.

But I suspect you can't even see what I've thrown down since by the looks of it, your scalpel-friendly eyes can no longer register perspective or depth. Which is interesting because you were married to Bobby Brown before any of this happened.

At any rate, I hope your new album is a good one. I want it to be an album so great that it's gonna make me wanna dance with somebody–somebody who loves me. OK, so that means I'll be dancing alone. And sure, it's not right, but it's okay. At least I won't look like a British Shorthair.

Bob-bay!

A Look Into The Future: Part 1.

2009-07-13T20:29:00.001-07:00

Did you know that some of our most famous Americans were born in Iowa? People like Herbert Hoover and Mamie Eisenhower. And John Wayne, and Ashton Kutcher, and Elijah Wood. It makes sense; all of these people were/are about as exciting as an ear of corn.

Speaking of corn, Iowa loves it. In 2007, 2.5 billion bushels were harvested from 13.9 million acres. Of course, most of Iowa's crop goes into animal feed, so you can imagine how many kernels are currently stuck in the teeth of some very frustrated cows.

Speaking of cows, Iowa's obesity rate is at 26%.

Speaking of 26, there are way more than 26 registered sex offenders living within 3 miles of Des Moines, Iowa's city limits. I wonder if Sesame Street gets huge ratings here...

And They Lived Happily Ever After.

2009-07-10T21:11:00.000-07:00

Perhaps you remember my arch-nemesis, Morgan Freeman. Well it seems he has too much time on his hands, maybe he's not doing enough acting-narrating. You see, Morgan Freeman decided he wants to marry his granddaughter. Sorry, step-granddaughter. As if that distinction makes this situation any less Woody Allen-ish.

Try to follow along: Apparently Morgan Freeman, who is in the midst of divorcing his current wife, Myrna Colley-Lee, has been romantically linked to his 27-year-old granddaughter for over a decade. However, the girlfriend-granddaughter is actually the granddaughter of Morgan Freeman's first wife, Jeanette Adair Bradshaw. And during that marriage, Morgan Freeman adopted the girlfriend-granddaughter's mother, Jeanette Adair Bradshaw's biological daughter, thus making Morgan Freeman's current girlfriend/soon-to-be fiance his step-granddaughter.

Go ahead, try to narrate that, Morgan Freeman. Even you can't talk yourself out of this debacle-of-a-creepy story.

"That'll do, pig. That'll do."

Why did I not see that coming.

"She did, and she was secretly delighted."

Listen Morgan Freeman, despite your annoying habit of narrating everything under the sun –

"Even as she typed it, she immediately knew that choosing such an overused idiom was a mistake. As a writer, she thought even typing such a thing was beneath her. It was not."

Goddamn it, Morgan Freeman.

"She'd never admit it, but each night she went to bed dreaming that one day she'd become the next David Sedaris. Of course, by the next morning, she realized she'd always just be the Odie in a world of Garfields."

Wait, what?

"She began thinking about Garfield. She loved that crazy cat ever since she was five years old. She spent hours, her pudgy fingers turning page after page, giggling over their shared love of lasagna. That day when she finally realized that Garfield couldn't actually speak, well something shifted, and some say –"

Some?

"...that's the day her childhood ended. She was twenty-two."

Oh Christ, here we go again.

"Despite the fact that yes, she did think I narrated too often, she still liked me. There was something about me, something she found comforting. She hated to admit it, but I reminded her of her grandfather–in the best way possible."

True. My sister and I actually call you "Black Paw".

"She panicked a moment and wondered if that was racist. Or better, just racist enough to be funny...? It was neither."

I hate you, Morgan Freeman.

"As she said it, even she was unconvinced. She had missed me. Her blog hadn't been the same. She needed me."

What, like your granddaughter needs you as her husband? You've known her since she was seven, for Christ's sake. It's creepy.

"But, she's not seven anymore, she thought. She hated herself for thinking it, but she suspected people have better things to do with their time than spend it thinking about me. She, of course, was not one of them."

Jesus Christ.

"Besides, the mere mention of creepy instantly reminded her of the crush she had on her high school English teacher..."

Please don't do this.

"He looked like Magnum P.I., only more attainable. Not for her, of course, but for his wife, who he was unfortunately happily married to. "

She didn't deserve him. And besides, that was just a high school crush. It's not like I started dating my grandmother's new husband –

"Tried as she might to not think about it, she couldn't help wondering what kind of man her grandmother could bag. Someone like Olivier Martinez, certainly. But less French. Yes, her MeeMaw would never go for someone who wasn't Italian."

Do you do this to anyone else?

"She mentally crossed her fingers and mouthed 'please say no.'

I don't care what you say, and I think there's something wrong about dating your own granddaughter.

"She did care, and was there? Who was she to judge, she thought. Besides Garfield, the only person she ever loved was Superman, and even she could concede that loving fictional felines and aliens named Kal-El was way weirder than anything I could ever attempt to do."

You boned your granddaughter when she was only 17. That's statutory rape, brothah!

"As much as she wished she could, she could not pull off saying neither 'boned' nor 'brothah', and she knew it. She was embarrassed, and she could only hope it would go unnoticed even though she knew it would not. Her humiliating moments rarely did, which was cruel considering 95% of the time, she was invisible to the world."

What the hell are you talking about, Morgan Freeman? Look, let's say you do marry your girlfriend-granddaughter. That would make your adopted daughter your mother-in-law; and if you should have children with your girlfriend-granddaughter, your ex-wife will become your children's great-grandmother. Talk about awkward family reunions.

"Oh, how she loved hearing about awkward family reunions. They made her feel uncharacteristically warm and fuzzy, and she only hoped she'd be able to hear about mine. But thinking about my re-configured family tree left her feeling frustrated more than anything else. By the time she finished typing the sentence, she was so confused that she found herself no longer caring about my situation; and she had already started to look around for something to eat. Lasagna sounded good."

I still hate you, Morgan Freeman.

"She still loved me..."

Jesus Christ.

"...but what really annoyed her is she realized that somehow I had managed to expertly dance around every pressing question she wanted answered."

Goddamn it, no, it can't be.

"Yes, it can indeed, be –"

Who talks like this.

"...and just like that, she realized that I could, in fact, narrate my way out of this."

Even I Can Appreciate This.

2009-07-08T21:55:00.000-07:00

I hope there aren't any kids in the crowd.

Watts You Talkin' 'Bout, Friendly's.

2009-07-07T19:16:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-07T10:29:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-01T16:38:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-06-25T17:53:00.000-07:00

He was adorable, wasn't he?

Poor Career Choice.

2009-06-25T17:37:00.001-07:00

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

HEY OHHHH!

BREAKING: WWBD?

2009-06-25T15:14:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-17T17:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-13T13:42:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-04T09:08:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-02T19:08:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-05-29T08:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-05-07T21:46:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-05-05T19:32:00.001-07:00

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

It Was Nice Knowing You, Louis Caldera.

2009-04-27T20:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-26T19:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-25T13:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-23T20:58:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-22T20:52:00.001-07:00

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.

2009-04-12T09:41:00.000-07:00

Jesus Christ, shown here during his lesser-known "Gay Rodent" phase.

You Just Moved Up A Few Notches, Saddam.

2009-04-10T12:28:00.000-07:00

Saddam Hussein, I kind of like you. Here I thought you were just a heartless dictator who enjoyed killing millions of innocent people. But as it turns out, you were also a fan of South Park. (Or the US troops just made you watch the movie over and over again in order to humiliate you...it's all very unclear. I, however, will choose to believe that you enjoyed watching yourself make out with Satan.) Regardless, if your love of the cartoon doesn't erase that small genocide-y mark from your resume, I don't know what will.

Saddam Hussein, I swear to Allah, if you weren't dead, I'd ask you to eat some hummus with me.

Prongs Is...Eating Froot Loops And Blogging.

2009-03-28T14:46:00.000-07:00

Actually that's not true, I would never eat Froot Loops. In part due to the fact that toucans are total assholes. But the title is an accurate depiction of the boring status updates people write on Facebook. For some reason, people think that I need to hear about how they're making meatballs, or enjoying the weather, or making meatballs while enjoying the weather. LOL. Exclamation point.

The most amazing thing about status updates is not how intolerably lame they are, but the staggering amount of comments they elicit: "OMG, I love meatballs!", "Yay meatballs!", "Yay weather!" Personally, I hope your meatballs give you the shit sweats, and you get stuck in a tornado.

Look, if you're going to update me on every second of your day, you can at least make it interesting. Like the other day, for instance, I updated my Facebook status with the following: "Prongs is...eating a Ben & Jerry's ice cream cone on the way to her abortion appointment."

First, allow me to answer your inevitable questions immediately: Vanilla and eight. (In your face, OctoMom!) But see? My status update is way better. It's certainly not as boring; although after eight abortions, I guess you could argue that it's pretty routine. But I keep it interesting by changing up the ice cream flavors. I've found that certain Ben & Jerry's flavors just scream abortion: Berried Treasure, Chubby Hubby, Chunky Monkey, Half Baked..."Yay, abortion!"

All I'm saying is I wish people would stop boring me with their lives. (Blogs are different, assholes!) And if for some reason you feel compelled to update your status hourly, then whatever it is you're doing better be able to compete with ice cream and abortions.

Jesus, This Guy's A Talker.

2009-03-24T19:12:00.000-07:00

Oh look, it's Tuesday. You know what that means: another Obama press conference. What is with this guy? There he is, Mr. Talky-Talky, yap yap yapping away about something else. Jesus, does he love to explain stuff or what? Then he takes questions, and answers questions, and then answers more questions...What the hell is this crap?

This is all very confusing. I was used to Frank Drebin running our country, so I've been under the impression that our president is required, every 8 months or so and only after he's had some graham crackers, to release a pre-recorded soundbite containing a couple of lines that accomplish three goals:

1. Scare the absolute crap out of us: "America must not ignore the threat gathering against us. Facing clear evidence of peril, we cannot wait for the final proof, the smoking gun that could come in the form of a mushroom cloud."

2. Confuse us: "I have opinions of my own, strong opinions, but I don't always agree with them."

3. Confuse us further: "Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we."

Well what the hell happened to that guy? That guy never made Dancing With the Stars or Biggest Loser go away. And I ask you, right now, at this very moment, what is more important than watching Woz wiggle? (Fat people jiggle?)

Hey, Obama, your predecessor had it right: ignorance is bliss. Do you think any of us really care about a recession that frankly isn't affecting all that many of us? Just this afternoon, for instance, I passed a fellow named Charlie who lives in an IKEA box on the corner of Santa Monica and Doheny, and I asked him if he'd be tuning in to your press conference about the recession, and you know what he said? He said, "Who's Obama and what's a recession?"

See? Charlie gets it!

So, President Blabbie, take a cue from Charlie: Less talk, more walk. You know, because you talk a lot, and well, Charlie walks a lot. That IKEA box don't fill itself with aluminum cans!

Oh, Like You've Never Opened A Line Of Credit Under A Fake Name In Order To Get Some New Ta-Tas and Lipo And Then Skipped Town.

2009-03-24T16:59:00.000-07:00

Who thought it would make news? For Christ's sake, there's a recession going on people; you don't have more important things to discuss? Why does everyone care that I splurged and treated myself to a "spa day". Sure, I may have "borrowed" $12,000 for a couple minor "procedures", but what did you expect? We're in a recession!

So I say get off your high horse, Judgy. For all you know, I stole the 12 grand from an AIG exec. (I didn't, but would it kill you to play along?) Or are you outraged because I chose to better myself using the delightful technology that only saline-filled funbags can bring?

Are you one of those people who say, "You're setting a bad example for young girls!" Well, I bet you're the same person who brings her 11-year-old to Fred Segal to buy $350 jeans. And while you're bending over to pick up said pair of $350 jeans, your 48-year-old ass falls out of your age-inappropriate $550 pair of jeans. When you stand up and hand the $350 jeans to your 11-year-old who looks like a cross between Miley Cyrus and a hooker (so, Miley Cyrus), you deftly rearrange your thong with one hand and use the other to select a lovely pink tube top and say through your bloated duck lips, "this will look hot with your new $350 jeans, sweetie. Plus, what a great incentive for you to lose those love handles!"

And you're right: your kid could stand to lose a few LBs. I can recommend a good doctor, if you'd like.

Listen, I couldn't help myself. I had to do get the tatas. For as long as I can remember, I always wanted one nipple to face northeast; the other southwest. Can you blame me? It's like having my very own Cookie Monster!

Anyway, since I skipped out on the doctor's bill, I obviously haven't been able to return for any of my follow-up appointments. Turns out, those follow-up appointments are pretty important. Pret-tay, pret-tay important. As you can imagine, the ladies, or as I like to call them "Laverne & Shirley", are pretty infected right now. Let's just say that I'll now check before I dip my cracker into what I think is hummus.

Once bitten, twice shy.

Trig Is Not Going To Be Happy About This.

2009-03-20T12:04:00.000-07:00

Last night on The Tonight Show, Obama told Leno that he recently bowled a 129 and then compared his score to the Special Olympics.

I smell a cripple fight!

As soon as he uttered it, you can just imagine his aides backstage muttering, "Holy fuck, he did not just say that! Is he retarded or something?" as they quickly begin crafting his apology. True, it's a rare gaffe on Obama's part, but a pretty bad gaffe nonetheless. Can you imagine if Bush had made a comment like that? The media would've taken that retard to town! So justifiably, I'm sure Obama is taking a lot of heat for his insensitive attempt at a joke.

For instance, currently the most emailed story on The New York Times is "Obamas to Plant White House Vegetable Garden". And to really hit the point home, that story is also listed as their third most emailed story of the day.

Ouch. That's gotta sting! You go on with your bad selves, New York Times.

You can bet the coverage will just get worse. If you head over to Fox News and scroll down to the middle of the page, in the second column under latest news, in very small print, sandwiched in between "Google Mail Introduces 'Unsend Feature'" and "Police Seize 42-Piece Dinner Set Made of Cocaine" you'll find the incredibly harsh "Obama Sorry for Mistake".

Oh, snap! Obama just got his ass handed to him.

And there's more – if you can believe that. Over at CNN, you won't even find the story anywhere on the site. And you know what they say, when a major network completely ignores a story, that's the worst beat down they can give.

Tough day for the president. Don't ever let it be said that this country has a love affair with Obama. He'll be talking to the hand for some time.

The Unfunny Chin Interviews That Black Guy.

2009-03-19T17:51:00.000-07:00

Unless you're Bernie Madoff's roommate ("You wanna see my ponzi scheme?"), by now you've heard that Obama appears tonight on The Tonight Show. In doing so, he'll become the first sitting president to appear on a late night talk show. (Hello, history-making whore!)

Many republicans have spoken out about Obama's audacity to go on a talk show when our country is in such economic strife that 80% of our population will probably eat cardboard for dinner. (Does cardboard go with hummus?)

Today, senate Minority Whip, Jon Kyl (R-Arizona), criticized Obama for flying "out to Los Angeles tonight to be on the Jay Leno show. My suggestion is he come back, since he's taken the full responsibility [for the AIG controversy] to get his people together and say, 'Alright, I want to know exactly what happened and who did what and when and how are we going to prevent this from ever happening in the future.'"

Senator Lamar Alexander (R-Tennessee) said, "The AIG bonuses make the president subject to the charge that he's living above the store but he's not minding it."

As much as I hate to agree with someone named Lamar, he has a point. Unemployment is at an all-time high, 651,000 jobs were lost in February, and a lot of AIG employees will probably end up bludgeoned to death. Rich, but dead nonetheless. (That is going to be one over-the-top funeral!) So how appropriate is it that a president with a staggering agenda take the time to talk to Jay Leno? (Frankly, I'd feel way better about the situation if Obama had shown up on Letterman.)

The republicans are right to jump all over it. They're right in saying that it seems beneath a president to take the time to do a show like that right now. It's all just a little too distasteful. It's ludicrous. I mean, what kind of president, who is fighting two wars – neither of which seems likely to end well, and a recession think it's OK to step away from Washington to participate in inane banter?

This kind:

Apples and oranges. Apples and oranges.

Prongs Limbaugh.

2009-03-15T20:49:00.000-07:00

With this booming economy and my job going so terrifically well, I just haven't had time to keep up with the blog. But that changes today. That's right, I am going to make change. (And in order to do that, may I borrow some change?)

Actually, one of the main reasons I've been away for so long is because I've been totally doing it with Rush Limbaugh. Try not to be jealous. (I said try!). And just between you and me, the name 'Rush' is a misnomer, if you know what I mean. You do know what I mean, right? Because we didn't leave his fetus-shaped bed for like, hours. Sure that may because he weighs 500 pounds, but still. That's right, there was 900 pounds of gun-toting love between us. Those earthquakes you felt weren't geological, if you know what I mean. (In your face, Goldblum!)

The second I saw him at CPAC as the crowd began chanting "Rush! Rush! Rush!", and he started bouncing up and down, jiggling like an evil Santa, or a fat Nazi, I knew I had to have him. Who can blame me? As it turns out, this new relationship has some serious benefits. In a week, I'll be guest hosting his radio show.

Seriously.

Finally. A reason to bring back my favorite Paula Abdul song.

Mink Makes Tofu Taste Better.

2009-03-01T18:58:00.000-08:00

Tonight I wrapped myself in my favorite mink coat and went out for dinner at a vegan restaurant.

Oscars Edition: Round Up.

2009-02-22T18:03:00.000-08:00

News Flash: Hollywood totally wants to make out with itself.

The Oscars were different, yet just as lame as they always were. Funnier, yes. But not funny enough, and often funny during inappropriate places. Also, one too many musical numbers. The opening, fine. And Anne Hathaway – nice pipes. And she has a lovely singing voice as well. (Hey look, everyone can write obvious jokes for the Oscars!) But the second musical debacle with that Beyonce? Unacceptable. If people really thought the musical was back, it would've been nominated.

I did like, however, the five previous winners who gave out the Oscars to actors. Let's face it, the majority of the public hasn't seen these films anyway, so why show clips. It's nice to see the Academy embrace what this night is really about: Hollywood blowing itself.

Speaking of Hollywood blowing itself, I think the true stand out of the evening didn't even happen during the show. It was actually a certain promotion for a film called The Soloist. Had it not been for its prime, expensive placement, I would have assumed that this was some kind of joke in the vain of Tropic Thunder's "Simple Jack". Now, whoever edited together this honestly embarrassing trailer should be fired, because if you go to the film's actual website, the extended trailer actually doesn't make Jamie Foxx look nearly as desperate or as lumpy. But let's be honest, he's pretty desperate because you can only sing Ray Charles songs or Kanye West songs for so long, so you may as well play a homeless musician.

But what I really wanted to see during the show was something that I knew would never happen: I was really hoping Aniston would rip the weave out from that Smug Cunt's head while John Mayer simultaneously blogged and sang a song about it, all while Brad Pitt's vagina grew bigger and bigger.

Well, we all know that didn't happen. Although, I think it's safe to assume that John Mayer will probably write a gay song about going to the Oscars, and more certainly, I think we can definitely assume that Brad Pitt's vagina is now about the size of Laos. (Note to orphans of Laos: If you can fit in Brad Pitt's giant vagina, you too can become privileged, travel the world, and not make friends your own age!)

So my final verdict?

"Eh."

Just like this post.

Oscars Edition: Good News, Bad News.

2009-02-22T17:57:00.000-08:00

Good news: Steve Martin, Tina Fey...and Steve Martin.

Bad news: Wall•E gets screwed by Milk. Really Dustin Lance Black (or is it Lance Dustin Black?)? I dare you to write an Oscar worthy screenplay that uses zero to little words.

Oscars Edition: Impressive Feat.

2009-02-22T17:52:00.000-08:00

Hugh Jackman, you Australian sheep dog, you. You just charmed the pants right off Prongs. A task that's incredibly difficult to do considering there was no hummus involved.

Oscars Edition: Corpse On The Carpet Alert.

2009-02-22T17:17:00.000-08:00

Someone fetch her an orphan to eat.

Oscars Edition: Ryan Seacrest Is Sensitive.

2009-02-22T16:41:00.000-08:00

E (I'm boycotting your gay '!' E, but I will allow it here!) allowed that pint-sized chipmunk Ryan Seacrest on the red carpet, and as usual, he didn't disappoint when interviewing the kids from Slumdog Millionaire. Now it should be noted that many of these kids actually live in the slums in the slums of Mumbai and were flown in for the special occasion. But is this information lost on professinonal interviewer Ryan Seacrest?

Yes.

As the kids, who are dressed in their finest, gather around Seacrest, he announces to the world, "Now we're short on time, and since I can't even pronounce any of your names, what I'll do is just show this card with their names printed on it to the camera, so you at home can read their names." Why don't you toss a Twinkie into the gutter Ryan and tell them to chase it for consumption-loving America's entertainment, Seacrest?

Perhaps seeing the error of his ways, Ryan then turns to the still brightly smiling kids and says, "OK, everyone at the same time, shout your names on the count of three. Ready? One...two...three...!"

Clearly sensing that the man standing before them is in fact a douche bag, the kids remained silent.

Thinking on his feet (that brain is only 3 feet from the ground!), Ryan switches gears and turns to one of the littlest kids and says, "What's your name?" (I'm about as sensitive as Seacrest and don't remember the kid's name, so let's just call him "Raj"."

"Tell me, "Raj", what was it like working on such a fun movie like this?"

Silence. An older kid steps in and explains that "Raj" doesn't speak English. Seacrest asks another question and asks someone to translate, and the same kid pokes his head in again and says emphatically, "I said, 'he doesn't speak English'". (For those of you who don't speak slumdog, I took his tone to mean, "Listen you white jackass, stop being a prick. I told you once that the little 7-year-old kid standing before you doesn't speak English, so if you continue to be an asshole, I will sick that Indian George Michael on your ass."

None of this deters Ryan who then turns to a little girl. After she answers his innane question, Ryan turns to the camera and exclaims, "Oh, she speaks perfect English!"

He then wishes the group well, tells the 7 and 8-year-old slumdog non-millionaires to stay away from the champagne, a beverage to them as foreign as say, clean drinking water, and sends them on their way.

Oh yes, the red carpet is off to a "delicious"*** start.

*** So far, the term "delicious" has been uttered 5 times since the beginning of the telecast, and none of these times was the term used to describe a type of food or beverage.

Gray Lady Makes "Gray Lady" 85% Less Credible.

2009-02-19T13:00:00.000-08:00

The New York Times 1859-2009

For The Sake Of Full Disclosure.

2009-02-15T22:12:00.000-08:00

It's been made clear to me that I should give credit where credit is due. Fine, but let's be honest, you don't see me making a big stink about creating the coffee cup sleeve (I hate you, inexplicably lucrative piece of cardboard!), or plucking that silly-named black man out of obscurity to become our next president (in your self-absorbed face, Oprah!).

The credit-where-credit-is-due term in question is "lumpy baby", generally defined as:

1. a baby with special needs.
2. a baby with special needs because his/her mother is retarded. (Definition applies to Nadya Suleman only.)

The term has often been used here to describe, say, a lovable lump-of-a-fellow with a certainly retarded mother, and perhaps a certain member of crap-bag Jolie's brood:

At any rate, the term did not originate in my non-lumpy brain. Instead, it is actually the work of this person:

She is also someone who is more often than not, mistakenly presumed (by presumably lumpy people!) to be at least five years younger than Prongs. Whatever, like that matters. She doesn't even like hummus!

Listen, you've invested at least 20 seconds in reading this. (21 seconds and higher, please proceed to the "lumpy" line!). So, you're waiting for the pay off; a clever Seinfeldian wrap up; something that doesn't make you wish for the last 20 seconds of your life back. (Again, 21 seconds and higher, none of this is really my fault; I'd look more to your boozing-while-pregnant mother).

But sorry, I have nothing else. Here's assuming that this post made you lumpier than before.

Prongs Of L.A. Presents This Week's Most Annoying Kids On The Planet; Please, Don't Enjoy.

2009-02-15T21:03:00.000-08:00

I can't tell you how many emails I received about these two annoying assholes. The first one annoys me so much that I would willingly punch him in the face just to make him stop talking.

And as for the second, way to ruin perfectly good pictures of kittens, asshole. What's worse is I know her parent is out there saying, "My God, my child is so creative!" If creative means retarded, we're in complete agreement because I've never seen such a creative child.

Excuse Me While I Vomit In My Lap.

2009-02-12T19:05:00.000-08:00

The Curious Case Of That Crackjob Who Has A Case Of The Jolies.

2009-02-12T19:00:00.000-08:00

Not Benjamin Button.

I was waiting for the full interview with that insipid Ann Curry to conclude before making any rash decisions.

And I'm now officially calling on PETA to investigate your overly welcoming womb, Nadya Suleman.

Let me tell you, unless you have at least 6 other nipples we can't see (or want to!), you have no business breeding. You had the option of selective abortion, but you chose to keep all 8 hamsters, I mean lumpy babies. Why? Did you think your remaining premature spawn would have survivor's guilt? Or did you just want all 8 to experience the pleasure of living with birth defects and living off food stamps? (Licking the stamp adds .000002 % iron!)

And now I'm learning that the smarter, less prolific residents of California will probably have to pay for your wear and tear vagina because with 14 children, no job, no income, and $50,000 in student loans you can't afford your lumpy babies. You're already receiving $490 in monthly food stamps, and because three of your other lumpy kids are disabled, you may be receiving an addition $2500 a month in federal supplemental security income. And that doesn't even take into account your 8 new lumps-of-a-fellows.

But I'm sure you have a plan to make ends meet. What say you, Nadya Suleman?

"I'm not living off any taxpayer money. If I am, if it's food stamps, it's a temporary resource. And I was so reluctant. I very much so look forward to the day when I am not getting any kind of help with food stamps, which I believe will end when I graduate in about a year or year and a half."

Yes, that master's degree you're hoping to earn in counseling should come in handy.

Until then, I guess you can just stay in your two bedroom home you share with your 14 children and your parents. Oh, and nice job bankrupting them, by the way. I'm sure they didn't mind from living a normal life to eating SPAM three times a day.

Pretty awesome.

Stump.

2009-02-10T21:19:00.000-08:00

Tonight Westminster bestowed its crown upon best dog, Sussex spaniel, Champion Clussexx Three D Grinchy Glee – a.k.a...Stump.

"Stump"?

Why do show dog owners insist on nicknaming their dogs after fraternity brothers they knew in college? What do they do, look at a puppy and say, "My God, Muffy! This puppy looks like 'Stumpy' from AD! Remember him? He once drank a bottle of Everclear from the well-heeled loafer of that Fritz fellow. Given there was that little mess Stumpy ran into, but in the end, he was cleared of those pesky date rape charges, so I see no reason not to name our terrifically expensive dog after him. Hear hear!"

Asshole.

Names aside, while he's no Uno, I say good for Stump. At 10-years-old, Stump is the oldest dog to win best in show. He even almost died a few years ago after a lengthy illness.

Wait a minute. "Oldest"? "Lengthy illness?" I smell a pity vote. That's basically the equivalent of Judd Nelson winning an Oscar after making an amazing comeback for playing a gay retarded Nazi conjoined twin, who wants to adopt a black baby from Zimbabwe.

Whatever, I'm just glad that ugly Scottish deerhound or even uglier poodle didn't win. Nobody likes an ugly winner. And speaking of ugly, would it kill the handlers to be more attractive? Ladies – if I can call you that – this really applies to you. Look, I know you're running around so you have to wear those terribly unflattering flats, but would it kill you to wear a chic suit? Why must you all insist on looking like my 5th grade teacher, circa 1987. I'm also curious as to why, after trotting around so many rings, your calves still resemble, well, stumps.

And men, don't think you're off the hook. Every single one of you looks like a serial killer – white, slim, wire frame glasses, receding hair line, impecably groomed dog...I'm just saying. (Marry me, convicted serial killer/dog handler!)

So congratulations, Stump. You are about to embark on a year of red carpets, talk shows, parades, and various openings. In short, you are about to become the Paris Hilton of dogs. Of course, you'll handle yourself way better, I'm sure.

Duck Saves World, Eats Banana.

2009-01-25T14:52:00.000-08:00

"As stupid as it sounds, maybe if more people had a duck in their life, we all wouldn't be so mad at each other."

Good point, Joe. And might I suggest you may also need a special someone in your life who doesn't crap green piles of mush?

Say, do you like hummus?

Congratulations, America.

2009-01-24T22:39:00.000-08:00

In the classiest of our many traditions, tonight America crowned a new Miss America. In honor of her royal highness, let's play one of my favorite games: Miss America Contestant or Porn Star? Perhaps the two aren't mutually exclusive (I'm looking at you, Miss New Jersey!).

Porn for fundamentalist Mormons?

New Jersey breeds such beautiful thoroughbreds.

You know what they say, the best place to tan is in North Dakota.

Prongs is hurt; SFB never mentioned he was participating.

Proof that Miss America Pageant is no longer about looks.

R.I.P., Flamingo.

Does everyone who lives in Alaska look like Bristol Palin?

Sad News To Report.

2009-01-23T15:40:00.000-08:00

Please be aware that there's no sarcasm, no irreverence involved here.

I received some sad news earlier today. I've been through some seriously rough times before, but for the first time in a long time, this is testing my limits; and I feel like I'm losing. It's been a tough day, and unfortunately, I know that this will be the first in a series of very rough days to come.

What may be the only – and this is strange to say – upside, I'm not the only one affected by this. And I don't mean to undercut its significance, and I'm certainly not trying to exploit the situation by sharing it on a blog, but I'm just merely functioning right now. (I'm almost certain I'll regret this later.) Frankly, with the news so new, I'm still barely able to say it out loud, so I'm hoping that writing it will help make it seem more real:

This year, there will be fewer Girl Scout cookies packaged into each box.

I know. I'm so sorry.

Listen, there's an upside. Like I said, you're not the only one affected – take solace in your fellow cookie-eaters. But more importantly, this new change in production doesn't apply to all types of Girl Scout cookies.

But here's the really bad news: It does apply to Tagalongs, Do-si-does, and –I'm so sorry – Thin Mints.

Keep it together, people.

Yes, each box of the above stated cookies will now have 4 to 5 cookies less than they did in previous years. (While you minimize these delicious cookies yet keep the disgusting Shortbreads is beyond me.) Allegedly, the economy is to blame. Instead of using cheaper ingredients or raising the price of each box, the Girl Scouts of America decided to screw the nation by not giving us our due amount of delicious cookies.

Fuck you, Girl Scouts. You don't even bake or package the delectable cookies. You just take the credit and sell them in order to get some lame badge. So by that logic, every single 11-year-old Girl Scout out there is to blame for this problem.

Do you think I care about how many badges you get to put on your lame sash, which if I recall correctly, feels like it's made out of a combination of fiber glass and burlap? No, I don't. Why? Because I know you better than you think I do.

I never made it to your "elite" Girl Scouts. Sure, I was a politically incorrectly-named "Indian Princess", and then I graduated to another possibly politically incorrectly-named "Brownie", but I never achieved the coveted Scout status. Why? Because I was on to your tricks.

As you're well aware, Brownies sell Girl Scout cookies too. Upon receiving my form, sure, I walked the streets of my 'hood for a day or two. I got Aunt Claire and Uncle Dick to buy a box. The Kauffmans bought a few. The Olcotts bought some mainly because Mr. Olcott always awkwardly seemed to show up at family events and always when the house was most crowded.

I didn't really care how many boxes I sold. That stupid badge made no difference to me. In my mind, my job was done when I sold 6 boxes to my mom. Which is to say, 6 boxes to me, which I would eat as I sat and watched He-Man. (I had a crush on Man-at-Arms. In my defense, I was blissfully oblivious to his gayness, but in retrospect, his mustache should have clued me in.)

But then something interesting happened. At our next weekly meeting, a fellow Brownie came in and proclaimed that she had sold 100 boxes. How does a 9-year-old know that many people? Since I could count only a handful of friends, and none of them human, I was impressed. Especially since I thought she was kind of lame. But as it turned out, the reason she sold so many boxes was because she gave her list to her father who then brought it to work.

I quickly labeled her a cheater. And a capitalist whore.

And that's why I quit. I didn't want to surround myself with people who were unwilling to do the work themselves. Besides, I had already given my dad the cookie form and demanded that he force his 200 employees to buy them, but I came up short.

So I'm on to your tricks, Girl Scouts. You're all cheaters. Sure, that doesn't stop me from buying your tasty cookies, but it's not because I like or have any respect for you. It's because I'm hungry and I love how the coconut, caramel, and chocolate simultaneously dissolve seconds after you bite into that buttery wafer that make up the heavenly Caramel Delite. It's also because I stockpile Thin Mints in my freezer in case of catastrophic events. (Oh like you don't!)

And now with your fewer-cookies-in-a-box rule, I see I'm getting screwed all over again by yet another Girl Scout. You're all the same, and you disgust me. You're just lucky your cookies don't.

May God have mercy on your cheating, whoring souls.

In-awe-guration.

2009-01-21T20:29:00.000-08:00

Did you hear? Apparently we have a new president. I know, I had no idea either! Maybe I would've watched the entire inauguration had the media done a better job covering the day's events.

I kid, I kid. But you can imagine my shock when around 8:30AM, I switched on Fox News and discovered that our president is no longer white (or retarded!). But frankly, I couldn't take my eyes off Cheney in his sad little wheelchair. Poor guy. What the hell did that teddy bear ever do to deserve that? You just know that that Rahm Emanuel dabbled in a little Tonya Harding action and did him in. The reason I know this is because he has a real terrorist-y sounding name.

But this was Obama's day of sweeping political change. Did you catch that inaugural speech? Just "eh", right? I mean, it was fine, I guess. But I miss the pandering punctuated by mispronounced words and stuttering. That's what really makes a speech shine (like a freshly washed short bus!). And no inappropriate laughter? No condescension? Without it, the historical significance of the day was really lost on me. However, here's what really offended me: in describing the citizens of America, he included "Muslims" and "non-believers".

'Allah at your boy, Obama. Don't you know that this has been the most exclusive country for the last eight all-too-short years? (Does 'short' mean 'long'?) How dare you go and be all inclusive. Look, I can get past the Muslim thing, but non-believers? For the love of Christ, what the hell is that about? How can you not believe in Him? No heaven? No hell? What, when you die you just disappear and don't take any floaty trips? That's ridiculous! You have balls though, Obama. No other president in history has included those two words in an inaugural address. Hey, if you get re-elected in four years, you should get really edgy and give a shout out to "pro-abortionists" and "Santa-haters".

Did you check out our new First Lady? She wore gold to the inauguration. Gold! I'll give you the benefit of the doubt since it's your first day on the job, Mrs. Obama, and assume you didn't get the memo stating first ladies wear only blue or red to the inauguration. And you best make it more dowdy than classy. But gold! My god, Nancy Reagan must be rolling over in her grave.

What?

Oh. Rolling over in her bed then.

And it gets worse: Mrs. Obama's inaugural suit was designed by Isabel Toledo, a Cuban-American. (I hope that material for that sheath dress didn't come from Cuba, Toledo!) How dare you look so stunning in a chic suit designed by a Cuban, Mrs. Obama! I totally resent the beacon of hope emanating from your dress. I bet you were secretly sending a message to more Cubans telling them to cross into our now sadly inclusive borders.

Speaking of sending secret messages in code, I don't know about you, but I seriously distrust those Obama girls. Clearly they're using their powers of adorable in order to wrap the mainstream liberal media around their perfectly formed fingers. You know when Brian Williams describes you as "cute-as-a-bug" on national television all while sitting next to the original cute-as-a-bug Brokaw, something fishy is going on. I'm keeping an eye on you, Malia and Sasha. Of course I'll be wearing sunglasses while doing it in order to shield my eyes from your despicably lovable charm.

President Obama, was it really necessary to attend 10 inaugural balls? Do you really think that that many people want to see you in person? You can't possibly believe that your incredibly handsome face and your whole Charm Offensive are really that appealing? This whole "cool dude", "nerd-in-chief" act isn't fooling me.

It did, however, fool the approximately 2 million people (40% Muslim, 60% Non-Believers!) who descended on the capital to witness the day. Many said they never thought they'd ever witness such a beautiful day. Others described the day as "amazing" or "brilliant".

Finally, something I can agree with!

Clearly, they're talking about the weather. Bright and sunny. It was a stunning day.

Hey Look, It's Me, Prongs.

2009-01-19T16:59:00.000-08:00

So. What I miss?

If my cramped inbox is any indication, a lot of you have been wondering about absence. Which is to say, 96% of you chose not to ask about me, but instead questioned whether I killed off those ungrateful furballs completely. I did not. You can still find those unlovable, big-eared, sniffle noses here. But not here. (You want to be featured on Prongs of L.A., you learn to walk without a hop, bunnies!)

But back to me. I apologize for leaving you hanging (hanging, not hopping!) for so long, but I decided to start my new year's resolution ("blog less")on December 16th. While I'm back to blogging, I'm still sticking to another resolution – "quit Bakula". How hard could that be? (I still kind of have lukewarm, ambivalent feelings toward you, Bakula!)

Anyway, Prongs is back up and running.

You're welcome.

Just Do It.

2008-12-16T17:00:00.000-08:00

"Sir, the media is still talking about it."

"No sir, I don't mean they're talking about your holiday video, as um, retarded as it may be. Not too mention that Snoopy is having a shit-fit right now over that blatant Schroeder-music hijacking. But I do agree – Barney is uncharacteristically well behaved. As is Jenna. But as P.O.T.U.S., don't you think you could've secured better effects?"

"Anyway sir, what I mean is, everyone is still talking about what's now known as "The Shoe Incident". "

"Yes sir, when that man threw his shoes at you. But sir, please don't refer to him as "that funny, little AmerIraquian". Your approval rating is already in the shitter and 48% of the public believe you to be one of the worse presidents ever – let's not make it worse."

"I was out of line, sir. I apologize for my language, Mr. President...but really, who are we kidding."

"Your apology is accepted as well, sir."

"Anyway, the media is all over this story. The majority of Iraqis want justice for the reporter who threw the shoe – "

"Yes sir, he's a reporter."

"No, he's not a "shoe cobbler", sir – "

"No, he's not one of those "Keebler Elves" either, sir – although that Kucunich call is hilarious. But again, I'm only thinking of you when I ask you not to repeat that ever again. Please."

"Well sir, the Iraqis are angry because tens of thousands of their citizens are dead, and they respect the fact that this journalist, who lost family members and was just recently kidnapped and tortured, stood up to you and called you a dog."

"Sir, in Arab culture the most offensive symbol is showing the sole of your shoe. Not too mention then picking it up and throwing it at you. Twice. With alarming speed and aim."

"Actually, in all seriousness everyone has commented on your amazing reflexes, sir. Honestly, very impressive moving on your part – especially since you haven't been able to solve a Rubix Cube for 8 years. "

"Sure sir, life is like a "Rubix shoe". And yes, I'm completely certain Tom Hanks won't mind you using that line as long as you don't mention his name in the same sentence. And yes, you can have your Rubix Cube back in a minute. And guess what – you can have it all day long in just 34 short days."

"Yes, I believe a lot of people are counting down those days, sir."

"Yes sir, President Elect Obama will have his hands full. But sir, we've been through this before – you can't nickname the President Elect "Barackinto Omama". Honestly, I'm begging you."

"Sir? Back to the shoe incident...? It's not just Iraqis who have an issue with it. Americans do as well."

"It was your reaction, sir. You seemed to write it off to simply. Yes, you get points for saying that the journalist's reaction was a sign of growing democrazy –"

"I did? My apologies, sir – of course I meant democracy. Listen, let's be real – you made it so it hardly matters anymore, so anyway – when a reporter asked about your reaction to the shoe throwing, you said it was "amusing". "

"No sir, I've never had two shoes hurled at me so I can't speak to how amusing it may be, but many people felt that was a culturally insensitive thing to say. To put it into perspective, what's the most insulting thing that would offend you or a typical American?"

"Sir. Please. Just stop. Sir, please put your penis away and stop peeing on the american flag embroidered in the carpet. Mr. President, no – nobody wants to see how your penis does a great hamburger impression. No sir, especially not Valerie Plane. Jesus Christ, where the hell is anyone when you need them. My god, why is Secret Service only here to protect you – Sir. Please. Here – take your Rubix."

"Anyway, Mr. President, the Iraqi journalist's fate is still unknown. He may be tried and sent to prision, he may walk – "

"Yes sir, perhaps on those very same shoes."

"No sir, I doubt that."

"I don't think even Nike wants that kind of attention."

Credibility, Finally.

2008-12-12T13:24:00.000-08:00

Demi Moore, Illinois attorney general

Robots 1, Humans 0.

2008-12-11T17:15:00.000-08:00

The L.A. Film Critics just crowned WALL•E the best film of 2008. Not best animated film, best film, period. (In your face, movies that feature humans!)

Now I haven't seen any other films this year, but I completely agree with the L.A. Film Critics. And no doubt my early review of WALL•E secured its place at top, because everyone who's anyone (no one!) knows the powerful influence Prongs has over the world. How could any critic dismiss a film that makes a 42-year-old man weep as if he just discovered that photos of ungrateful bunnies were unexpectedly taken away from him – again?

That sad, little robot melted hearts everywhere. I admit that even I fell for those ridiculously large binocular-shaped eyes. They looked so powerful, like they could see for miles and miles. And they were so innocently adorkable (thanks, Slippy!) – nobody would ever suspect that those eyes could see over, say – oh, I don't know – privacy hedges in the west Los Angeles area.

I wonder if WALL•E is available to rent. I mean the robot, not the movie. I have a little "project" that he may really be able to help me with...

Thank You, Love-Sick Hacker For Bestowing Such An Honor Upon Me.

2008-12-11T13:47:00.000-08:00

Today officially goes down as the very best day in Prongs' life, and that includes the first time I discovered the delicious joys of hummus.

This morning, someone (I love you, Someone!) hacked into my email account.

I know.

Imagine, a hacker choosing me! He had millions of lesser (more protected!) people to choose from, but he picked me. Me! I've never felt so special in my life, and that includes the time Jeff Goldblum perceived me to be such a threat he issued that pesky restraining order against me. (Time's a tickin', restraining order!)

Even better, because the hacker sent this email to everyone in my address book, I've been receiving replies all day. I've never received so much mail in my life. Sure, many (all!) of these replies simply say "You suck" or "You're an asshole", but mail is mail! For that same reason, I always hang those very kind CVS flyers on my refrigerator and I have an entire wall dedicated to my framed Bed Bath & Beyond 20% off coupons.

Obviously this hacker is in love with me. Why else would he choose me? He's obviously obsessed with me. Clearly he's been tracking my movements for months, and fortunately for him those movements are confined to moving from the couch to refrigerator only.

My god, just what I always wanted: My very own stalker who's not named Bakula. (Or isn't he?)

Palinoscopy: Teaching Others To Bite The Hand That Feeds.

2008-12-09T22:53:00.000-08:00

We all felt bad when John McCain lost the love of his life, Bill Ayres, and the delightfully dangerous perks he brought to their relationship (twirl, frisky trouser snake!). And let's not mince words – a difficult time followed their break-up.

For weeks, McCain refused to listen to anything other than George Michael's "Careless Whisper" (guilty feet got no rhythm, Ayres!). Worse, he refused to put down that ridiculous umbrella and wouldn't let anyone on the bus watch anything on TV other than building implosions.

But always the Maverick, always that underdog, McCain recovered and found solace in the manly unlicensed arms of Joe the Plumber. Joe's Joe-Six-Pack abs were far from average, and with Cindy away, and McCain in his nightcap, he settled down next to him, for his daily 4 hour nap.

Everyone thought this was the real thing. We could all see it in McCain's eyes – he hadn't looked at anyone in that way, a way that portrayed his honest feelings, since 2000, when he looked (glared!) at Bush (less love, more hate!). There was no denying it – McCain and Joe the Lovable Plumber were the new "It" couple. (They adopted Asian skunks?)

They weren't perfect – they had some rocky times. Frankly, we all had suspicions about The Plumber when he didn't show at a rally and left McCain looking bewildered and hurt on stage. But still, nobody thought The Plumber would stoop so low. Nobody saw this coming.

Today conservative radio host Glenn Beck interviewed The Plumber and asked about his time on the campaign trail. When asked specifically about John McCain, The Plumber replied he "appalled me". Joe the Unlicensed Plumber went on to say that he felt "dirty" after "being on the campaign trail and seeing some of the things that take place". And then Joe the Unlicensed Plumber Who Would Still Be Just An Unlicensed Plumber Who's Also Bald And A Bit Doughy Around The Middle And Certainly Not At All Intelligent And Probably Should Be Institutionalized If It Weren't For A Very Bad Idea Concocted By A Desperate Candidate said, "I wanted to get off the bus after I talked to [McCain]".

So why did Penis Head stay on the bus, giving McCain warm tongue kisses in between campaign stops?

"Honestly, because the thought of Barack Obama as president scares me even more," replied Cuntface.

Poor John McCain jilted again. Why can't he keep a man? We understand why he lost Bill Ayers – Barack Obama doesn't need to sleep 16 hours a day – but losing some Douche Bag of a Non-Plumber? Who could possibly sway a man away from McCain? What kind of person has the nerve? The tenacity? The balls?

You know who. The very someone who can't spell "tenacity" and her "balls" come in the form of two lumps hidden under her $3,000 shirt (Todd and Trig sold separately!).

That's right, when The Non-Plumber spoke about The Huntress, he had only the kindest words, calling her "absolutely the real deal". We're not sure how she lured him away, but we suspect the citizens of Alaska will be billed for several studies examining it over the next, say, four years. Personally, we think her blink holds some kind of magical power (you betcha!).

Sure, McCain lost his fella, but he's better off. The Non-Plumber will end up on some kind of "celebrity" reality show, and if he doesn't end up being eaten alive by a crocodile (fingers crossed!), he'll return home under the misguided pretenses that he's an actual celebrity who has actual money. He'll spend like any Unintelligent Non-Plumber would, buying things like banana-yellow Hummers while living in a studio apartment (with presumably crappy plumbing!). He'll eventually file for bankruptcy, which will be the only thing about him that ever makes headline news, and when the Palin 2012 campaign denies ever having known him, he'll fade into obscurity.

Poor John McCain, he was used and abused for other people's gains during the campaign (guilty as charged, John McCain!). He'll be fine though– he'll head back to the senate. Maybe he'll even return to Being John McCain.

Anyone Want To Hear A Bad Joke.

2008-12-09T17:52:00.000-08:00

Enough said.

Here goes:

Leno is moving to primetime in 2009.

Actually, that's not a joke (it's a rhyme!). But you will hear lots of them if you tune into NBC this fall to catch Leno at his new 10PM time slot.

That's right, NBC screwed me again. I had been looking forward to May 29, 2009 for years. That's the day when finally – finally – Jay Leno would leave the Tonight Show and vacate his throne; a throne he made less funny (but more annoying!) with each passing year. In fact, since 1993, the only time I ever tuned into Leno over Letterman was if he included a segment with an animal trainer and her lots of wily, fuzzy furballs (no, not you, ungrateful bunnies!). But even then I had to watch with the volume down, so Leno's cooing-while-whining didn't ruin the adorableness that belonged to a certain snow leopard who I may or may not have ironically named "Seal" who went on to become my #1 friend for a certain period of time (those were the best 2 minutes of my life, Seal!).

It's impossible that anyone finds Leno funny – not even Jesus, who I hear has a wicked sense of humor. So then, who, exactly, is watching Leno? Because I'm not sure you're aware, but he's not funny. (Say, have you heard Leno's not funny?)

I'll make a deal with you (whatever you do, don't take whatever is behind curtain #2!):

If anyone can tell me who is watching Leno and who will continue to watch Leno (a lovable lump-of-a-fellow?) in his new 10PM time slot, Prongs will invite you over for hummus and Bakula.

What?

Oh, silly me. Of course that's a mistake. Not Bakula – I mean baklava. Why would I imply that we'd be dining on Bakula? That's crazy – why would I ever even think of that? It's not like Bakula is as tasty as baklava, that delicious cookie, lovingly rolled and sprinkled with sugar. No, Bakula is probably more of a savory treat – one that goes with sage, maybe. And wafers.

Prongs Of L.A. Begrudgingly Presents Stupid Bunnies Who May Or May Not Look Like People. Whatever.

2008-12-09T11:16:00.000-08:00

Oh look. You can also see these cold, unlovable – and, oh yes – ungrateful furballs here.

Lessons In Denial: The Little Guy Arrives.

2008-12-07T10:25:00.001-08:00

NBC finally confirmed what's long been rumored: David Gregory is the new moderator of Meet the Press.

Personally, I think it's rude to name a new moderator just because The Big Guy won't come out of the bathroom. Why punish a guy for having some stomach issues? They never punished Brokaw for trying pass off a slur as gravitas (that's because it's sexy!). Why NBC never thought of shooting the show from The Big Guy's bathroom is beyond me. If you ask me, he'd still carry the same clout (if not more!) when questioning Secretary of State Hillary Clinton (pant suits next big thing in Zimbabwe!) while moderating from his throne.

But per usual, NBC ignored my idea. However, Prongs' fingers (prongs?) are still crossed for Tom Brokaw & Brian Williams Present: Holidays in Washington. I know, it sounds lovely, right? And the fact that they'd each be donning a Santa's hat and yarmulke while wearing speedos adorned with the American flag makes it even better.

At any rate, apparently my letter has once again been tossed aside. (I wonder if my ever-growing pile of letters has somehow trapped The Big Guy in the bathroom?) I had secretly hoped (vocally demanded!) that Brokaw continue on as moderator, but when I watched him moderate the second debate, I noted he looked exhausted. But let's be honest, watching McCain wonder aimlessly around a stage for 90 minutes, mumbling about Mavericks, and then blocking the view of the teleprompter so you can't finally end the mumbling would leave anyone exhausted.

However, it was on election night that I knew he was done. How did I know? He told Prongs, via broadcasting to millions, that he was ready to return to Montana. (What's rent like in Montana these days?)

So, David Gregory it is. He's qualified enough: He earned his BA in international studies from American University (patriot alert!); served as NBC's White House correspondent through the Bush years; covered the 2000, 2004, 2008 elections; contributed to The Today Show, and anchored his own show, Road to the White House (now 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue) on MSNBC.

But none of these reasons actually got him the job. Yes, some "anonymous insiders" (an angry Chris Matthews!) voiced that because Gregory is the assumed replacement for Matt Lauer once he vacates the Today Show, NBC had to give him something in order to keep him at the network until then.

Not true. The real reason?

His hair.

Of course nobody can compete with The Big Guy's fluffy-as-a-chick coif, but NBC obviously had to find someone whose hair is at least in the realm of downy-as-a-duckling.

The Little Guy's hair looks more like a baby swan, but you can't really cuddle up to "downy-as-a-cygnet".

As for the lesser candidates, they didn't stand a chance. Chris Matthew's hair is fuzzy-as-a-kitten, but a kitten who suffers from alopecia – and he was only in the running in his own-running-mind. And as for the real candidates, Andrea Mitchell's silky-as-a-shih tzu is perfectly qualified, but points must be deducted for galavanting with a tortoise-for-a-husband. Gwen Ifil's fleecy-as-a-lamb is also more than worthy, but because I can't think of a negative thing to say about her just means she's not-interesting-enough.

Finally, there was Chuck Todd, the only one, I suspect, who gave Gregory any competition. Personally, I thought Todd had it in the bag: fuzzy-as-a-bunny hair and furry-as-a-kitten Fu Manchu! But in the end, his deadly bunny-kitten combo apparently couldn't survive next to Gregory's downy-as-a-duckling locks. (Those locks better be real-fucking-downy, NBC!)

So, congratulations, Little Guy. I have only one piece of advice for you (get The Big Guy out of the bathroom?):

Conditioner.

Well This Is Confusing.

2008-12-05T18:20:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought they couldn't become creepier or even more unlikable, Scientologists have once again proved me wrong (DC-10s were around thousands of years ago!).

The metamorphosis is officially complete: Katie (I mean "Kate" – sorry Xenu!) Holmes has officially become Tom Cruise.

They look alike, they sound alike, they have the same mannerisms. I'm just waiting for Goose to jump out holding a volleyball and whisper to Katom, "I feel the need...the need for speed!" (Hello, obvious reference!) This interview genuinely disturbs me –mainly because I can't figure out if I find her pretty or handsome.

Please enjoy. By the way, playing them at the same time produces uncomfortable horror.

Oh, Christ.

2008-12-05T17:24:00.000-08:00

First of all, let me thank all of you for calling and wishing Prongs a Happy Thanksgiving. It meant the world to hear from none of you.

Presumably you were all too busy lamenting the loss of the bunnies. I have almost come to terms with the fact that people find fuzzy, floppy-eared rodents way cuter than 450-pound recluses. But let's remember who gave the bunnies fame in the first place (suck it, furballs!).

Anyway, I could've used the support on our most important holiday (smallpox was a gift, ungrateful Indians!) because just that morning I unexpectedly lost my pet chicken, Lord Beakerson.

The most dignified HRH Beaksy.

Well, it was "unexpected" in the sense that my rifle fired too soon. And by the way, how was I supposed to know that a rifle would completely obliterate a 4-pound bird? The butcher told me I was supposed to behead it, but that just sounded too terrorist-y. So I blindfolded the little guy, gave him a Merit Light and fired away; I mean I'm not a heathen for Christ's fucking sake.

Once the cloud of feathers dissipated, there was very little left of Lord Beakerson other than his cape, which I've already added as a patch on my "Love" quilt. (Caped Bakula to the rescue!) I also found that his beak comes in quite handy as a thimble. And his feathers are plumping up my favorite pillow; as you can imagine, I've been sleeping quite soundly, dreaming of of the once ambulatory Lord Beakerson.

And before you get all "how could you kill your pet chicken!" on me, you should know, and I can say this without hesitation, that Lord Beakerson was an asshole. (Bok you!)

He never, ever wanted to wear that adorable cape I lovingly adorned with dried chick peas. And what, I ask you, is the point of having a chicken named Lord Beakerson if he refuses to wear his cape. It's nonsense!

Anyway, Lord Beakerson was delicious. And as succulent as he was (gun powder provides moisture?), it was terribly sad to lose such a good friend. Luckily, I did receive one email later in the day that lifted my spirits (don't drift to high – Beaksy is gunning for you!).

Following is the actual email:

"Dear Beloved in Christ,

It is by the grace of God that I received Christ, having known the truth; I had no choice than to do what is lawful and just in the sight of God for eternal life and in the sight of man for witness of God & His Mercies and glory upon my life.

I am Mrs. Rachael Davidson,the wife of Mr.Robert Davidson,both of us are citizens of the united state of America. my husband worked with the Chevron/Texaco in Hong Kong for twenty years before he died in the year 2003.We were married for ten years without a child. My Husband died after a brief illness that lasted for only four days. Before his death we both got born- again as dedicated Christians. Since his death I decided not to re-marry or get a child outside my matrimonial home which the Bible is strongly against.When my late husband was alive he deposited the sum of 7.5 Million Pounds (Seven Million Five Hundred Thousand Pounds) with a Bank in Europe.

Presently, this money is still with the Bank and the management just wrote me as the beneficiary that our account has been DORMANT and if I, as the beneficiary of the funds, do not re-activate the account; the funds will be CONFISCATED or I rather issue a letter of authorization to somebody to receive it on my behalf (note that you need to activate this account) as I can not come over. Presently, I'm in a hospital in Hong Kong where I have been undergoing treatment for throat cancer. I have since lost my ability to talk and my doctors have told me that I have only a few weeks to live. It is my last wish to see this money distributed to charity organizations and NGO anywhere in the World in helping human race.

Because relatives and friends have plundered so much of my wealth since my illness, I cannot live with the agony of entrusting this huge responsibility to any of them. Please, I beg you in the name of God to help me Stand-in as the beneficiary and collect the Funds from the Bank.I want a person that is God-fearing who will use this money to fund churches,orphanages and widows propagating the word of God and to ensure that the house of God is maintained.

The Bible made us to understand that blessed is the hand that giveth. I took this decision because I don't have any child that will inherit this money and my husband's relatives are not Christians and I don't want my husband's hard earned money to be misused by unbelievers.

I don't want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly manner.Hence the reason for taking this bold decision. I am not afraid of death since I know where I am going to. I know that I am going to be in the bossom of the Lord. Exodus 14 VS 14: says that the Lord will fight my case and I shall hold my peace. I don't need any telephone communication in this regard because of my soundless voice and presence of my husband's relatives around me always. I don't want them to know about this development.

I await your quick response to this mail as this is my last wish to see this funds transferred before my Death.Please my beloved for further communication on how we are going to conclude this.

Remain Blessed.

Your Sister in Christ,

Mrs. Rachael Davidson."

Since I make it a point of always answering fan mail...:

"Hey, Sister in Christ!

Great 2 hear from U! Given I don't have a clue as to who you are, but as you were the only person to write to me today, you've already catapulted yourself to my #5 friend.

Perhaps you sensed my conflicting emotions over the devastating death of my delicious pet chicken? Yes, that must be it. We're more than just "sisters in Christ" (how porny!), because you know just how I feel. And please allow me to offer my condolences – bummer about your husband! You must really miss him if he died 5 years ago and you're just getting around to sending this email to random people now.

But here's what's confusing – you say you were both "born-again". So....Doesn't that just mean he's not dead? (Or perhaps he's already met Beaksy?) No matter, I'll take your word for it. I mean, why not? You did have the courtesy to send me an email asking me to watch over your fortune! How could I deny you your own last wish? Oh, that reminds me – bummer that you're dying too! I mean, Jesus fucking Christ, what are the chances! Wow, you two must have really pissed someone off. It was probably Jesus, that joker.

You can have faith in me, SIC, because I'm all about fearing God (Black Lady-Lesbian, have mercy on my soul!). You don't want the money used for "ungodly" purposes, and believe you me, I'm no unbeliever, so I know just what you mean. Believe me.

Here's what I'm thinking – and I'm sure you'll agree – how do you feel about using the money to buy a giant cross. Say, 15x10, maybe larger depending. Depending on what, you say? It's no matter to you – you'll be too busy suckling at the teet of Black Lady-Lesbian's bosom! You let me take care of the details...but let's just say a certain someone may finally be mine.

Plus, I'll have plenty of money leftover to purchase a yellow corvette (God would want me to have it!) and a condo in Rio (you can't spell "Speedo thong" without "God"!). Listen, I know what you're thinking, and don't worry, I won' t let any of my Jew-y friends use it.

Well thanks, Sister in Christ, for all this money! You remain blessed too, and I'll see you soon. Oops! I guess I won't, but it was sure nice getting such a lovely email on the day Beaksy went to hell.

Anyway, I'll be sure to think of you as I'm blasting Motley Crue's "Shout at the Devil" from my corvette.

Black Lady-Lesbian be with you,

xoxo
Prongs"

I haven't heard back yet, but I'm sure it's just a matter of time. She doesn't have much left.

I'll let you know.

Bunny Backlash.

2008-11-25T11:05:00.000-08:00

Well.

You have some nerve. Just who do you people think you are.

I've mocked blogs, naked neighbors, celebrities' kids who are four, kids who look like birds, David Blaine, presidents, a presidential candidate and socks, their running mates, hurricanes, hurricane evacuees, fire evacuees, turkeys, mountain lions, sharks, bears, people attacked by bears, random people who make stupid comments, God, the Pope, Pam, Oprah, Olympics, and all of Alaska, California, Indiana, Texas, and Florida.

And yet, I hear nary a comment. (That's right, I said "nary"!) ( Wait, does "nary" mean "a few"?) Apparently calling Sarah Palin's son a "lump-of-a-fellow" is A-OK, as is calling Angelina Jolie's son, "some kind of Asian skunk". And presumably nobody had an issue with this debacle.

Oh, but when it comes to the topic of bunnies – stand. the. fuck. back.

Here I thought I was doing a kind thing by sending the bunnies to their own blog. There they would have space! Space to run free and enjoy being bunnies, who happen to look like people, without the burden of following a post about a pile of human feces Prongs found on a sidewalk (coming soon! And, not mine!).

And yes, the bunnies' adorably snuffly noses and hoppy haunches may have been stealing Prongs' thunder, but Prongs never saw them as a threat – (Have you seen their teeth??) – I swear on Scott Bakula's life! You may have heard that I sort of-kind of have tepid emotions toward Bakula, so you know that I'm telling the truth and would never, ever put Scott Bakula's life in any kind of jeopardy. (You don't own a lie detector, do you?)

When I conceived the new blog, I thought I'd get this kind of response: "Wow, Prongs! This is almost as awesome as when I found you eating wafers dipped in hummus while staring at me through my bedroom window!" (Response applies to Jeff Goldblum only; all other fake responses not worth conceiving, typing.)

But what were the actual responses?

"Exile the bunnies? How could you?"

"I'm sad to see them go. They were cute."

"I can't believe you killed the bunnies, what did they ever do to you?"

"Let me get this straight: not only do you expect me to keep up with one crappy blog, but now you expect me to read TWO crappy blogs?"

"I only read your blog on Fridays. Now, what's the point."

"They were the only thing that made you seem somewhat human."

Listen, Prongzis (replace that 'g' and suddenly you're all real assholes!), this isn't a democracy. I'm not going to abandon my core beliefs just because the majority of people backing me wants me to appeal to a certain base – I mean, I'm not Santa. (You didn't see that one coming!)

Like it or not, the bunnies have been given the heave ho. Deal with it. And let me just add that it's not like I eliminated a thousand adorable bunnies. This wasn't the Trail of Tears (bunnies far luckier thanks to their feet!). You're treating me like I'm some kind of exterminator – or Sarah Palin (thank you!) – ticking off defenseless bunnies whose only crime is to look like Wilford Brimley (see also: walrus!).

Look, they were cute. The whiskers, the ears, the hopping as their only propulsion...all very adorable and good. Great. Look, I love them too (bunny ears + Goldblum = restraining order!). And how about those fluffy little cheeks? Very soft. And the tails? Don't get me started on those fuzzy marshmallows!

Fine. The bunnies are adorable.

They can stay.

Just kidding. You can see them here.

Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ.

Fine. You can see still see them here.

Take A Hike, Bunnies.

2008-11-23T23:01:00.000-08:00

Due to popular demand (from me!), a Prongs companion blog called Rabbits Who Look Like People can be found here. Frankly, those adorable bunnies were cramping my cold, dark-hearted style, so I had to corral their cuteness to a more appropriate place.

All the archived rabbits who look like people are already up, and new ones will follow at the new site.

How terrifically exciting for you.

It's Friday: Rabbits Who Look Like People.

2008-11-21T18:29:00.001-08:00

That is one squinty bunny!

Dream Come True.

2008-11-21T12:01:00.000-08:00

Does he come with hummus?

With Apologies To "Pam".

2008-11-19T21:45:00.000-08:00

Dear "Pam",

First off, let's lose those obnoxious quotes around your name because they imply Pam's not your real name, even though it is. (Anonymity is overrated, just ask "Prongs"!)

I hear you love Prongs (who doesn't!), but hate the new political turn it's taken. I bet you were relieved when the election finally ended and Sarah Palin was shuttled back to Alaska and away from the constant media coverage. I'm sure you were looking forward to more posts on my nemesis Jeff Goldblum (I love you, Jeff Goldblum!), Crap Bag, Scott Bakula or The Big Guy (is he still in the bathroom...?).

Well, Pam, I hope you're sitting down because I have devastating news for you:

Palin's back. (Like the Terminator but with a far more irritating accent!).

You betcha, Pam. Gosh darnit, Sarah Palin is here to stay and she's gonna continue to haunt you in the sense that she's gonna show up in a lot more of these great blog postings we have goin' on here. Also.

First she chatted up Matt Lauer in Wasila and stole the thunder from far less-sexy republican governors in Miami. And then we caught glimpses of her lounging around the Mandarin looking like Alaska's version of Ashley Dupree.

But Sarah Palin saved her most important piece of business for today when she pardoned a turkey and then gave an interview as only The Huntress knows how:

My god, she is magnificent. I dare you to name another elected official has the balls to pardon a turkey while standing in front of a turkey slaughtering machine. In your face, turkeys!

"Palinoscopy" is the new "Palintology".

Sorry, Pam.

PRONGLESS.

2008-11-19T12:49:00.000-08:00

Sad news to report: Prongs is retiring.

I kid, I kid. I couldn't do that to you (not yet!). And if the amount of panicked emails you sent wondering about my whereabouts is any indication, your lives without prongs would not be worth living (just ask Goldblum!).

But I guess I should explain my absence. Funny story, really...

Continuing my "I Am A Good Person" trend, I decided to spend my week volunteering my time and helping the firemen fight the L.A. fires by sending them good thoughts from the comfort of my Barcalounger. Least I could do, really. I mean, how was I supposed to know that a little magnifying glass could do so much damage? Trust me, if you had seen the beetle that I saw, you'd want a closer look too!

Unfortunately, I didn't get to see too much of that beetle because that poor guy was just singed silly. Happened fast, too. And then before I knew it, the grass caught fire. Believe me, had I known the vegetation was so dry, I would've brought a bigger bottle of water, but how was I supposed to know that L.A. is a freaking timber box? You wouldn't have known it either!

So, I did the next best thing: I started a "control burn" in order to put the first fire out. I'd seen firefighters do it on TV, and TV never lies, so how could this go wrong?. And you would've done the same thing had you been in my shoes (size 14!), you know it!

Well, I don't know what I did wrong, but instead of the one fire extinguishing the other, the two fires double-crossed me and joined forces. Turns out fires are way harder to put out than they are to start. So, I did the responsible thing and fled on my Rascal 655. I mean, I'm not stupid – I saw what happened to that beetle. And you would've done the same thing!

While I was driving away, I dialed 911 – after placing a few leftover slices of ham over the receiver to muffle my voice, naturally. The operator sure was surprised to hear "Scott Bakula" reporting a wild fire, but she was appreciative nonetheless. You would've done the same thing!

So, I spent the remainder of the week watching the fire on TV. Big fire, too. Frankly, I blame the beetle.

But you can breathe easy (if you don't live in L.A.!), because unlike that beetle, I'm still around.

Great Headline Of The Day.

2008-11-08T13:38:00.000-08:00

Headline from MSNBC.com:

Unaware Police Officers Carry Guns, Mountain Lion Charges At Officer

In Arcadia, CA, police officers killed a 140-pound mountain lion after the lion killed a pet dog and then charged at the officers.

The deceased dog was an Australian shepherd, killed presumably because of its annoyingly accented bark ("crikey!").

I Am A Good Person.

2008-11-06T09:44:00.000-08:00

By this time, everyone is aware of the powerful influence Prongs has over its (not a typo!) adoring public. How do you think I finally secured North Carolina for Obama? I could tell you, but then I'd have to sit on you. And as my pet ferret Tweedles would tell you, that ain't fun. (It was an accident – R.I.P., Tweedles!)

Tweedles, celebrating his last Easter.

So after single-handedly winning the election for Obama, I decided to continue dispensing out my magical patriotism to those in need (like Mother Teresa, only less wrinkly!). And who is first to be swaddled in the American flag and spoon-fed hummus? (Nice try, Bakula!)

The gays.

Last night my presence graced the No on 8 rally in West Hollywood. And as suspected, despite the large crowd of 50,000, it was a highly-coordinated, very neat rally. The rally was set to begin at 7:00PM, but thousands showed up hours before, lining Santa Monica Blvd, holding signs while cars passed honking their horns ("Honk If You Like Signs!"). Then at 6:45, the crowd suddenly surged into the middle of the street (after waiting for the crosslight light to flash, I kid you not!), and effectively shut down Santa Monica traffic in both directions. I assume this new round of honking had quite a different meaning.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

But this wouldn't be a good story if it wasn't a story about me (which it is!). It turns out, Prongs almost made the local evening news and MSNBC. I was approached by several news crews, all begging for interviews from the clear star of the rally. It's true; Ricci Lake was standing next to me, and she was all sorts of jealous.

"Like, oh my Gah, Prongs is totally stealing my thunder."

Once the interview began, the camera man stopped and said he wasn't getting a good shot (don't think I didn't see your eyebrows raise when I told you to get my good side, Camera Guy!). Unfortunately, as it turns out, even the wide angle lens failed to capture my patriotic glory.

At any rate, there's no doubt that this was a massive civil rights rally whose clear and concise message was not lost on me:

Gays hate Mormons and chickens.

LIVE BLOGGING ELECTION ERECTION 2008.

2008-11-04T14:21:00.000-08:00

11:45AM EST – Prop 8 passes in California, election erection officially shrinks.

11:40AM EST – Just woke up from a nap on my keyboard, and I have the letters 'P' and 'R' imprinted on my face. America got its Tonka truck.

5:11 AM EST – Listen, California, if the majority of the vote on Prop 8 makes you look like a a retarded state, I swear, I'm leaving. I hear there may be new jobs opening in D.C. In fact, I've already stalked out my path. Say, does this Obama like hummus?

4:15AM EST – Holy. Fucking. Shit, California. You care this much about who can legally marry? When most of you divorce anyway? Caifornia, "Trying to Save You from Divorce"!

4:01AM EST – In further holy mother of shit news, Missouri and North Carolina still can't be called in the general election.

3:55AM EST – Holy mother of shit. Prop 8 is still too close to call. It's offical – Goldblum's off the hook. I now have my sights set on the Osmonds. And I know they don't eat hummus. (Euphemism alert!)

3:37AM EST – Transcript of Bush congratulatory phone call to Obama released. In part:

"What an awesome night for you, your great bride, your family, and your supporters." Fucking weirdo.

Bush also reserved the term "awesome" for this guy.

3:25AM EST – Prongs (that's right, tonight I'm so patriotically important that we – that's the royal 'we' – are using 3rd person!) is going out on a limb and predicting that Newark, NJ Mayor, Cory A. Booker, is the up-and-coming next big thing.

3:16AM EST – Oh, I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere until Prop 8 is called. In the meantime, I've already married 7 gay couples. In your discriminatory face, California voters!

2:51AM EST – UNPRECEDENTED GLOBAL ERECTION! Modelizing President Sarkozy of France issued statement professing love for Obama, Masked Avengers.

2:23AM EST – "We're confident voters did go to the polls to vote 'yes' to protect traditional marriage," said Chip White, a spokesman for the Prop. 8 campaign.

"Chip White"? Not too fucking typical. (Special shout-out to Nobes for use of "Not too...")

2:12AM EST – If I had a nickel for every time I heard "in my lifetime" tonight, I'd be taxed under Obama's plan.

2:05AM EST – INDIANA IS CALLED FOR BARACK OBAMA. Welcome to the party, Indiana! And might I add, lovely erection! You've been flaccid for 44 years!

2:00AM EST – Tonight's biggest loser? Joe the Plumber. No more momentum, no plumber's license, and Sarah Palin's gonna drop you like a hot potata right there in Ohio, and she's changin' her number, also...so where does he go? I suggest porn. Joe the Fluffer has a nice ring to it.

1:51AM EST – Tom Brokaw raises a mug of Rolling Rock to The Big Guy and Big Russ. The Big Guy sure has been in the bathroom a long time...

1:37AM EST – Michelle Bachmann retains congressional seat in Minnesota. Minnesota pro-America, rest of country sane.

1:24AM EST – It's not looking good on Prop 8. I'm continuing today's work of being America's greatest patriot, and I was just ordained a minister over the internet. Gays, come quick!

12:40AM EST – California's Prop 8 still too close to call. 54% yes, 45% no. California, don't you dare fuck up my night.

12:20AM EST – Is that Biden's mother? I'm going to pick her up and stick her in my pocket.

12:12AM EST – Thanks to Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire", Obama gives stirring speech about 106-year-old Anne Nixon Cooper.

12:02AM EST – NEW PUPPY FOR WHITE HOUSE!

12:00AM EST – HI, PRESIDENT ELECT OBAMA!

11:41PM EST – I hate to interrupt this election erection, but in California, the vote on Prop 8 is still too early call.

11:28PM EST – Very sad and beaten McCain UNABLE TO DEFLATE AMERICA'S GIANT ERECTION!!!

11:26PM EST – Chins up, McCain. At least you won your home state. By a slight margin.

11:23PM EST – And Sarah Palin.

11:22PM EST – Technically, the failure should be squarely placed on his campaign managers' shoulders.

11:21PM EST – "The failure is mine, not yours?" Wait, let me get my violin...

11:16PM EST – McCAIN SPEAKS! Oh, bold caps not really appropriate here.

11:15PM EST – OBAMA CONTINUES TO THRUST AWAY, RAISING ELECTORAL COUNT TO 306-145! SARAH PALIN TO HEAD BACK TO ALASKA IN COACH ON ALASKAN AIRLINES!

11:05PM EST – AMERICA GIVES RESOUNDING MIDDLE FINGER TO PAST, PLUMBERS, WINKERS!

11:01PM EST – AMERICA'S GIANT ERECTION NEARLY OVERSHADOWS HISTORIC IMPORTANCE OF ELECTION!

11:00PM EST – CHRIS MATTHEWS ACHIEVES BIGGEST ERECTION OF LIFE! KEITH OLBERMANN CLOSE SECOND!

10:58PM EST – PRONGS OF L.A. CALLS RACE FOR OBAMA; STEALS ELECTION THUNDER FROM MSNBC, FOX, CNN, ABC, NBC! (Yes, election all about me!)

10:49PM EST – Brian Williams, when talking about the giant crowds gathered below 30 Rock, said, "We've been saying this all night that people shouldn't take their gays away from this building..." Gays? Is Brian Williams drunk?

Oh. My mistake. He said, "...people shouldn't take their gaze away..."

Jesus Christ, Williams, learn to annunciate. Who do you think you are, Brokaw?

10:42PM EST – McCain wins South Dakota, jokes to Sarah Palin, "Maybe Bristol should move there for a bit!" Palin makes mental note to shoot McCain from helicopter.

10:31PM EST – Brian Williams just said, "South Dakota goes to President John McCain." Is he reporting from Michigan?

10:29PM EST – Marijuana decriminalization passes in Massachusetts, use of medical marijuana passes in Michigan, America becomes stinky, underarm hair-loving European nation.

10:19PM EST – Democrat Representative, John Murtha, retains seat in Pennsylvania. Rednecks just can't quit you, Murtha. Me neither, you sexy beast.

10:10PM EST – Colorado rejects defining fertilization as start of human life. Does that mean if a Colorado woman has an abortion in South Dakota then she was never pregnant? Hooray, clean slate!

10:07PM EST – South Dakota abortion ban defeated! Abortions for everyone! Get one free with any purchase from Dominos!

10:02PM EST – Obama wins Iowa, McCain takes Utah. Move over Cindy, you're about to meet wife #2, 3, 4, and 5. Also, you may want to invest in dowdier clothes.

10:00PM EST – McCain takes Texas, Stewart and Colbert go live, I start to steal material.

9:38PM EST – McCain wins West Virginia, pushing his electoral count to 90. Will McCain pull an upset and deflate Chris Matthew's election erection?

9:30PM EST – Obama wins toss-up New Mexico, tipping the electoral count 200-85. Sarah Palin, now would be the time to perform that folksy magic of yours, as well as throw a few winks in here and there, and re-excite the base also.

9:24PM EST – Big win alert: Obama wins Ohio.

9:04PM EST – On the other hand, Arizona is too close to call. Your home state is too close to call? Wow, you may be the Gore of 2008, McCain. (Fingers crossed you sidestep his weight gain!)

9:03PM EST – McCain wins toss-up North Dakota. See?

8:59PM EST – Don't count McCain out yet. He still has a path to victory. Plus, I think Sarah Palin can perform magic. Obviously not that evil wiccan kind.

8:36PM EST – McCain wins Georgia. (You're dead to me, peaches!)

8:33PM EST – Just because.

8:31PM EST – It's Official: Vagina-face Elizabeth Dole unseated by Godless wonder Kay Hagen.

8:28PM EST – Brian Williams explaining what it means when a state is "too early to call". Apparently it means that there's not enough data in. Well that's a load off my mind. There's no way I'd figure out that complex equation on my own. Thanks, NBC!

8:21PM EST – This "redneck" (MSNBC's words, Prongs would never use such language!), Bobbi Hamilton of Nashville, voted for Obama. MSNBC seems to think it's the sign of the times that someone like Bobbi would vote for someone like Obama. Said Redneck, "Ten or 15 years ago the state wouldn’t vote for a woman or a black.” Touché, MSNBC.

8:15PM EST – Just like its residents, Florida is taking an awful long time to return results. I suspect results will arrive in a Cadillac, left-turn signal blinking for the last 3 miles, while chewing NECCO Wafers.

8:08PM EST – Big win for Jeanne Shaheen as she takes senate seat in New Hampshire. I'll miss saying Senator Sununu.

8:06PM EST – Tom Brokaw and Brian Williams are talking about The Big Guy. I miss that fluffy-as-a-chick hair.

8:04PM EST – McCain's path to victory is slimmer than Bristol Palin was 6 months ago.

8:02PM EST – Obama sweeps New England, New York, and my motherland, New Jersey. Let the Aqua Net flow! Shoppers at Garden State Plaza, rejoice!

8:01PM EST – Old-school episode of Bev-9er is on right now. Oh, and Obama just won Pennsylvania.

7:56PM EST – Live blogging is the dumbest thing I've ever done. And that includes the time I approached Tyson Beckford and asked, "I don't mean to bother you, but does it bother when you all these random people come up to you?" True story.

7:44PM EST – John McCain wins South Carolina. Did you know that South Carolina's senator has a girl's name?

7:35PM EST – Regardless of election outcome, it's been reported that the rest of the world hopes for a "less arrogant America."

"Dream on, losers!" responded America. (Excluding you, China!)

7:28PM EST – Georgia, Ohio, North Carolina too early to call. So why are we talking about it.

7:25PM EST – You have some mighty fancy supporters, John McCain. Is that Levi on the right?

7:20PM EST – Does it help if I told you I sound exactly like Tom Brokaw with a hint more Chewbacca?

7:10PM EST – This has become the most annoying blog ever, you say? Well what do you expect when The Big Guy just ups and leaves us before election day.

7:07PM EST – Indiana still too close to call. You work that publicity for all it's worth, Indiana!

7:05PM EST – Just realized I'm competing with my own Election Erection Map to the right that's also live blogging the election. Way to steal my thunder, map.

7:01PM EST – Democrat Mark Warner wins senate race in Virgina. Republican Lindsay Graham wins senate race in South Carolina. Lindsay Graham has a girl's name.

6:58PM PST – Kentucky goes to McCain, Vermont goes to Obama. In other news, nobody cares about neither Kentucky nor Vermont.

6:52PM EST – An anonymous senior Republican strategist reports out of North Carolina that vagina-faced Elizabeth Dole will most likely lose to democrat challenger Kay Hagen.

6:47PM EST – 79% of the country thinks America is on the wrong track. The remaining 21% love Sarah Palin.

6:44PM EST – Talking heads on MSNBC, Fox, and CNN have all turned into the ladies of The View. By the way, have I mentioned that Barbara Walters is a condescending famewhore? Just ask Seth Meyers.

6:32PM EST – 1% returns in in the all-important, suddenly interesting Indiana. Bask in your celebrity while you can, Indiana. Tomorrow you're back to being a boring state with a bunch of cows.

6:13PM EST – Bored. Did someone win yet?

5:36PM EST – Exit polls reveal that 62% said economy is their biggest concern. The remaining 38% said the other 62% are poor losers.

5:19PM EST – Exit polls are out! And in more important news, I just ate a meatball hero. I'm only consuming patriotic foods today.

Putting Country First.

2008-11-04T13:26:00.000-08:00

Not Prongs.

Say, have you heard there's an election today?

Oh, you have? I'm surprised, because there's not a shred of election coverage anywhere. Impossible to find. I just turned on MSNBC only to find Chuck Todd reading the paper and wondering out loud, "'Barack Obama'? What is that, some kind of board game?"

And so, I'm stepping in to help out America. I'll be live blogging the election results.

That's just what Patriots do.

You're welcome, America.

Rabbits Who Look Like People: Special First Wives Election Erection Addition.

2008-11-04T13:24:00.000-08:00

That is one previously pill-poppin' bunny!

Eh.

Election Erection.

2008-11-04T07:50:00.000-08:00

Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy

Palintology: Viva La Palin.

2008-11-03T22:37:00.000-08:00

What a bittersweet day. Today is the day I celebrate #10 of 10 in my series on Palintology.

It's hard to believe that just 67 short (long!) days ago, God introduced us to the Great White Hope. (You betcha you heard me correctly!)

And what a great introduction hers was, there on that great stage, in front of millions of people, who just like her, were hopin' beyond hope for a Maverick to come on in there, and really change things up also, because that's what this great country of ours, and yours needs, just a couple Mavericks to clean up Washington and stand for the real America.

My hand to Trig, I'm gonna tell Sarah that that would make such a super-neat , kind of flash-back introduction at the 2012 convention. Oops! I mean 2016.

I know. You're wondering why I think Sarah Palin would ever listen to someone like me. Delusions of grandeur, you're claiming. Well, I don't know what that means, but I heard Katie Couric say it about Sarah Palin, so I'm takin' it as a real positive.

You may be interested in hearing that Sarah Palin has tapped me to be her Communications Director for her presidential bid. (Vetting still overrated!) Oops! I mean Communications Director In Charge of the Office of Vice President and Then Also President If That Scenario Should Somehow Arise. (Also known as "CDICOTOOVPATAPITSSSA" among those in the know!)

To be clearly honest with ya, I have no idea what a Communications Director does, or if that title should even be capitalized, but I'm going to capitalize on my new Capitalized Position. (That right there is why the moose will always end up on the mantle!) But from what I can gather from Sarah's explanation, it seems I will be overseeing the day-to-day of communicating, and directing also, while deciding her day-to-day events.

And first up, I'm going to make sure Sarah has another interview with that President Sarkozy, because I think they just have a real great and nice rapport there.

After that, who the heck knows? And that's due to Sarah bein' a real Maverick.

But first things first. We've got a real special time goin' on there in this great country of ours tomorrow. And bein' a real Maverick-supporter means doin' your part and showin' up at the polls in Pennsylvania and Ohio and Florida and Virginia and North Carolina. And that also means Sarah will be dispensing Todd at those there polls. And Todd's gonna ride up there on his ATV and just, ya know, beat the livin' shit out of ya if you don't vote for Palin-McCain 2008. Oops! McCain-Palin 2008...but really, who are we kidding.

What a fun time it's been. I think we can all admit that this election would have been a whole heckuva lot less interesting had John McCain nominated someone like Tom Ridge or Joe Lieberman as a running mate. Maybe not according to McCain, but, you know, Mavericks will always be all Mavericky. Besides, John McCain still has his "Joe".

And talk about livin' the American Dream! Plumber asked a politician a question, then was plucked from obscurity and used as a pawn during a national debate (Joe's the new Trig!) , he became a national celebrity – or at least somewhat well known by those whose toilets he unclogged without a plumbing license – he talked about the state of Israel, he hired a publicist, and now he's on his way to securing a country record deal!

Workin' for nothin' and the chicks are free! If that's not the American dream, I don't know what is.

Next to Sarah Palin's rise, that is. (Look at Me, all Directing the Communications!)

Listen, we've all seen those pesky polls. But what do Mavericks do best? They defy expectations. And since Sarah Palin has yet to defy anyone's expectations, I'm certain she'll be around for years to come, learning to defy those low expectations, also.

"Vote Great White Hope 2012"

Wait, wait a minute.

There's something disturbing about that slogan. And as Sarah's Communications Director – and I'm just thinkin' out loud here – I'm wondering if some people will think that maybe we're endorsing a shark? And you know that's only going to attract those PITA people, and God help us with that. Let's just think about this a bit, so we do something that makes sense and doesn't imply that cartilage is the new Maverick.

What about a play on words? Are there any potential running mates out there who have "Shovel" as a last name? Or is that too Jewish...?

Listen, you think through the problems. That's how you win elections.

COUNTDOWN TO ELECTION ERECTION 2008.

2008-11-03T17:22:00.000-08:00

Will John McCain have a thank-you threesome with Joe the Plumber and Bill Ayres in the Lincoln bedroom? Will Sarah Palin and her two lovable lumps-of-a-fellows and the rest of her brood (named after trees!) move to Washington?

Or will Barack Obama permanently place the Halo of The Chosen One above his head, while Joe Biden's gummy-pearly-whites smile blinds 80,000 revelers at Chicago's Grant Park?

Keith Olberman and Chris Matthews are practically peeing their pants in giddy anticipation. (They pee blue!)

Regardless, I'm Going To Need A Lot Of Eggnog.

2008-11-02T14:48:00.000-08:00

Tuesday is going to feel like Christmas morning when you were a kid. You're either going to get that shiny, brand-spanking-new Tonka truck with all the bells and whistles...or you're going to end up with an argyle sock. (Joe the Plumber not included!)

And even though you always hoped for that Tonka truck, and sometimes even had a pretty good feeling you just might get it, you're still not completely certain you won't find that sock sitting there (lifelessly!) under the tree. (Parents and pollsters both misread the hints!)

So, with just two days before the big day, it's time to mentally prepare yourself for a possible depressing let-down of gargantuan proportions that only a lame sock can inevitably bring.

Look, it's a sock. It doesn't do anything fun, it gets old pretty quickly, and guaranteed, it will get lost when it moves into your cavernous drawer as it blends in among all the other lame socks. But hey, at least it's utilitarian. (Does 'utilitarian' mean old?) It serves a function, and you never know, maybe that sock will come in handy at some point (as an argyle noose!). And if that sock proves to be as big a letdown as you expect it will be, just attach some googly eyes, white yarn for hair and turn it into an ineffective joke. (The last 8 years for the next 4 – for real!)

In addition to finding the equivalent of a steaming bag of reindeer poo under the tree, don't forget about that little something else located in your stocking. (Why not just put it in the sock, giving the sock its first – and only – practical purpose?) In your stocking you discover a bright and shiny, long-locked, beautiful Barbie that winks and speaks. (Special-needs Skipper included!)

Hey, a brand new Barbie! She's so pretty and new! Maybe this won't be such a crappy day, after all! Great news, right?

Wrong. (Even more so than that Skipper joke!)

Turns out, your beautiful Barbie is made of lead. (Like licking a delicious, innocuous lollipop only to discover its gooey mercury-filled center!) Well, whatever, fatal lead poisoning or not, Barbie can still wink and say stuff, so that's pretty neat! And on the box, the manufacturer claims that "Every time Barbie winks, an angel gets his wings"!

Just kidding.

Actually, every time Barbie winks, a secret code will be transmitted through a complex maze of satellite signals to a man named Ken, who upon receiving his orders, goes out and kills a polar bear, State Trooper Wooten, Levi Johnston, Katie Couric, and feminism. Simultaneously, each wink will also trigger your involuntary gag reflex, forcing you to vomit the life out of you until you're completely dead inside. (See also: "John McCain"!)

And every time Barbie speaks, she says, "And oh sure, you betcha I'll be the best toy that there is out there, and I'll become your favorite friend also, as well as bring you hours of joy, because that's what I do, here for you, in your home, just wanting to help you fight that boredom, and bring you that happiness that you, and everyone like you, in your great home, deserves, also."

After listening to this incomprehensible jibberish, you will reach for your argyle noose. (If the lead doesn't get you first!)

Let's be honest, finding an upside to receiving a lame sock you never wanted, and a toxic Barbie that's hazardous to your health (more mental than physical!), is like finding a black person in Wasilla. (Whites in black-face not included!) And if we do end up with this pair, it's going to be a tough pill to swallow (not for Cindy!).

Listen, some people will be perfectly happy to get an aging sock and vomit-inducing doll, because not all people like Tonka trucks. ("Tonka" is Arabic for terrorist!) They believe the sock (it is a white sock, right?) will make their lives better (by eradicating arthritis and creating a surplus of plumbers!) And the doll is kind of exciting (so is forcibly carrying an unwanted child to term!).

Personally, I'm really hoping for the truck. Besides, I hear it comes with a loose canon.

Debacle.

2008-10-30T10:26:00.001-07:00

What the fuck is that, you ask? That is the pumpkin my neighbors asked me to keep indoors during daylight hours because it was deemed too "disturbing".

I don't care what they say. I still plan on pursuing my online degree in plastic surgery.

Special.

2008-10-30T08:30:00.000-07:00

Before I delve into something you inevitably won't read, let's first take a look at the title of tonight's post.

I admit, as a stand-alone title, it makes me giggle as if I were some self-involved blogger (Hey!...Sorry!...I forgive you!) But the title amuses me mainly because I know that 12% of you are cracking a wry smile, wondering what's to come. And the other 5% of you are shifting uncomfortably in your chair, wondering what's to come. (The remaining 83% stumbled upon this post while googling "faux-hawk Maddox" and "Barney Frank, Menino speech impediments".)

But as all blog postings inevitably go, 100% of you will be disappointed.

Turns out, I'm talking about the beloved Holiday Special (no, not you, 30-minute Obamercial!).

While Halloween can't hold a candle to Christmas (too much Pagan, not enough Christ!) in terms of holiday specials, each year the last week of October trots out one of the greatest holiday specials ever created: It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!

The mere fact that there's an exclamation point in the title gives this holiday special special cred. That exclamation point makes everyone recite the title as if the entire Peanuts Gang is screaming it at the tops of their lungs, noses skyward, mouths shaped in giant half-moons. Although, I will admit that the ghost costumes always kind of creeped me out.

Linus, and his love of that giant orb, is clearly the star, but anyone who will risk life and limb (Woodstock!) to engage in a dogfight (get it?) with the nefarious Red Baron is my favorite. But Snoopy's most telling moment is when he sits down to listen to that damn fine pianist, Schroeder, and that poor little dog starts bawling. That is one astute beagle.

What is wrong with Schroeder? Why didn't that part-time psychiatrist Lucy ever give him any Prozac? She only charged 5 cents, so why didn't Schneider ever go to see her? And was Snoopy the only character to ever pick up on Schroeder's super-depressing music?

Poor Snoopy. If he thought Schroeder's music was sad at Halloween, just wait until he hears what he plays during Christmas. That one hits everyone hard. More on that in December.

That is all.

I told you you'd be disappointed.

Milky Way MeeMaw.

2008-10-29T22:00:00.000-07:00

The only thing better than trick-or-treating was going home and searching through your loot.

I separated my haul into three specific piles. One included your popcorn, pretzels, peanuts, and pennies. That pile had no business in my home and was obviously discarded immediately. Another pile, "The Fruits" included your Mike & Ikes, Starbursts, and Skittles. This pile was then subdivided into a separate pile where the cherry and strawberry Starbursts were given top billing. Both "Fruit" piles were saved and picked through until January.

And then, there was the star of the piles. This pile contained the most coveted Halloween candies, your Twix, KitKats, Three Musketeers, Snickers, and the holy grail of chocolatey goodness, the Milky Ways. Each chocolate bar was immediately counted and then catalogued. This was an important step, because on the mean streets of Coleman School, the more Milky Ways you acquired, the more power you gained during the inevitable lunch recess swap-off. And I wanted to be the Manuel Noriega of the 2nd grade.

Their mind-boggling power aside, Milky Ways were actually my favorites. They were tooth-achingly tasty. However, that year, Halloween was overshadowed by a truly devastating discovery. On November 1st, after finishing a, dare I say, delicious bologna sandwich, I reached into my pillowcase to pull out an already counted and catalogued Milky Way. But instead, I pulled out a Three Musketeers. I reached in again, and that time I found a KitKat in my hand. I reached in again, and pulled out a mysterious and lone NECCO Wafer.

I started to panic. I didn't want to look into that pillowcase because on some level, I just knew.

But I was a brave 8-year-old, so I asked Superman to give me strength, and I slowly peered into the case. Sitting among the lesser chocolates in the bottom of the sack were 37 Milky Way wrappers.

Who could eat 37 Milky Ways??? And who would steal candy from a child, and worse, have the nerve to leave all 37 wrappers behind as if to taunt me? And how did that disgusting NECCO Wafer get in there?

I immediately ran to MeeMaw and told on my sister.

MeeMaw, who was watching us while our parents were away, was clearly disturbed by this turn of events. That was understandable. After all, it must be devastating to learn that your own granddaughter was nothing but a common thief.

When my sister came home that afternoon, MeeMaw calmly questioned her about the missing Milky Ways while I repeatedly wailed, "How could you?!" in the background. But my sister denied it, and her denials were actually convincing. If my sister didn't betray me, what could have eaten all of my prized candy?

Because I was still upset, my sister agreed to give me a couple of her Milky Ways she had stashed from her trick-or-treating take. While she was upstairs, I kept muttering to MeeMaw about how none of this made any sense, and wondered what Velma would do in this situation. MeeMaw was clearly alarmed as well, because she kept pacing nervously around our kitchen.

When my sister came downstairs, she was carrying her pillowcase. She stared at us and simply stated, "My Milky Ways are gone too."

My god, the horror.

What on earth was going on here? Did we have raccoons? Or worse, did the Durkin twins break into my house and steal all of our candy, just like they said they would?

My sister turned to MeeMaw and said, "MeeMaw...?"

I looked back and forth between the two of them. They looked at each other like they were communicating in some sort of silent secret language.

And then, MeeMaw sheepishly smiled, shrugged and said, "Well, darn it, those Milky Ways are really good..."

Slowly, I began to understand.

My MeeMaw stole candy from her own grandchildren. And then she tried to pin the crime on my sister.

Jesus Christ, I was related to someone who was no better than the Hamburgler.

A Milky Way-less Halloween is as traumatic a Halloween as they come. And that includes the year it was rumored there were razor blades hidden in the candy. But after a tear-filled phone call to my parents in Rome, and several days of giving MeeMaw my best stink eye, I ultimately forgave her. She was our grandmother after all, and she was right. Milky Ways were really good.

But because we didn't want to relive that kind of horror ever again, my sister and I quickly began feeding MeeMaw our lesser chocolates in hopes of "retraining" her.

Unfortunately, MeeMaw's fix grew beyond our control. It was a few days after "The Incident", when Linnae was over and generously sharing her own loot, that we made the grim discovery. Somehow, MeeMaw had tapped into Linnae's stash as well. It was mystifying. And again, MeeMaw left her calling card: the lone NECCO Wafer.

Had I been smarter at the start, I would've picked up on that NECCO Wafer, the favored candy of the elderly. And then I would've noticed the bizarre trail of NECCO Wafer crumbs leading from the scene of the crime to MeeMaw's whiskey sour sitting on the counter in the kitchen.

The following year, MeeMaw again visited for Halloween. And in order to thwart any future problems, my mom bought MeeMaw her very own personal bag of Milky Ways.

It worked. On November 1st, our pillow cases were full of Milky Ways, but mysteriously there wasn't a Snickers in sight.

Get The Effigy Right.

2008-10-28T16:47:00.000-07:00

Chad Michael Morrisette, a wickedly clever West Hollywood resident, decided to decorate his home for Halloween in a truly outrageous fashion. Frankly, this is going just too far (for real!), and I find it incredibly offensive (actually, I do!).

That lady-doll looks nothing like Sarah Palin.

I mean really, that doll looks more like my 6th grade teacher (I still have blisters from writing "I will not eat Now&Laters during Social Studies" 25 times, Graziano!), than Sarah Palin. Come to think of it, it also looks a heckuva lot like Meredith Vierra, minus that shitty, condescending attitude.

But Sarah Palin? No. Where are the sexy glasses? The favored MAC lipstick? The lovable lump-of-a-fellow? (He's in the chimney!)

More importantly, for the love of Trig, what is that muumuu-looking, housewife-housecoat frock you dressed her in, Morrisette? You're (presumably!) a gay man and should know how to do at least three things – dance, style hair, and dress a woman, so how dare you go against the narrow stereotype in which I so firmly judge you by. Sarah Palin would never dress in anything that doesn't come from Barneys or an Anchorage consignment shop (Hey, look, that joke's a week late!), so unless that Queen Mum coat is actually an overpriced rag from Fred Segal, you've got some explaining to do.

And don't even get me started on the McCain in the chimney. That is just creepy. It looks exactly like McCain.

For the sake of full disclosure, I decided to go over to Chad Michael Morrisette's house to ask these effigy-related questions in person and size-up this man full of inappropriate ideas, but I didn't want to interrupt the interview he was giving to CNN. Or Fox. Or MSNBC.

Congratulations, Chad Michael the Decorator! You're the new Joe the Plumber! (Do you have a license to decorate?) I hear you're going to be on the Today show tomorrow morning. Good luck defending your bad taste in Palin-Effigy-Related Wardrobe Malfunctions (and don't forget your poor choices in general as well as an ability to carry out terrible ideas, also!).

Oh, and you better hope Matt Lauer is interviewing you, otherwise it's going to get really awkward.

McCain And Ayres Sittin' In A Tree.

2008-10-23T18:27:00.001-07:00

John McCain is in love with Bill Ayres.

Head-over-heels, want-to-suck-his-face-with-big-sloppy-tongue-kisses,
and send-him-millions-of-valentines-showcasing-himself-
wearing-only-a-rain-coat-while-holding-a-
strategically-placed-umbrella in love with him.

It's the only logical explanation for McCain's continued ramblings about Ayres. For the longest time, I couldn't figure out why McCain continued to talk about Ayres and question his ties to Obama. It wasn't giving him any traction in the polls – just the opposite. But, McCain accusing Obama of not being forthcoming regarding that relationship, McCain's increasingly erratic behavior, and his bizarre co-dependent relationship with Joe the Plumber...well, now it all makes sense.

John McCain wants to get into Bill Ayre's pants and visit with his trouser snake.

He's clearly just insanely jealous that Obama had the opportunity to serve on an education board with Ayres. Just the mere thought (hot, sexy thoughts!) of Obama sitting next to Ayres, stealing glances, finishing each other's sentences, and maybe even inadvertently caressing hands, has thrown McCain into a jealous rage.

Take McCain's quote from tonight's joint interview with Sarah Palin on NBC News, "The full extent of the relationship with Senator Obama is unknown."

Mind-blowingly unknown!

And for months that unknown has been eating away at McCain. "When they were at their board meetings, did Ayres ask about me? Did he talk about me? Did he say he likes Obama? Did he say he likes me? Wait, did he say he likes me, or he like-likes me? Because there's an important difference: I like Cindy, but I like-like Bill Ayres."

I can't believe I missed all the signs.

Labeling Bill Ayres a domestic terrorist is simply John McCain's way of flirting. Unfortunately for McCain, he does flirting just about as well as he does running for president. Clearly, his plan on winning Bill Ayre's heart by instigating him like he's a 3rd grader on the playground has backfired (duck!). He's like an awkward, lost 11-year-old girl pining after that dangerously unattainable class hunk, if that awkward, lost 11-year-old girl was an awkward, lost 72-year-old presidential candidate and that dangerously unattainable hunk was a...dangerously unattainable hunk.

Poor John McCain. I almost feel bad for him. He's lost Bill Ayres, the love of his life and whose trousers he desperately wishes to unzip, and it seems he'll lose his bid to live in the only white house he's ever wished to live. And, just to add insult to injury, for the next four years, he'll be forced to watch the very monster he created right up to the day when she declares her candidacy for 2012.

I have one piece of advice for you, McCain: You've made your bed, now lie in it.

I said I almost feel bad for him.

The New Super Star.

2008-10-15T19:04:00.000-07:00

Move over Normal Joe Six-Pack American, there's a new sheriff in town, and his name is Joe The Plumber.

Who is this Joe The Plumber? And does anyone have his number? (If this isn't you, this site is about to get a whole lot more traffic!)

He was mentioned so many times during the debate, that I now think he's qualified to be My New Guy. (Bummer, Bakula!) I mean, why not? Joe The Plumber sounds like a real catch!

He's apparently trying to build his own business, he's educated enough to be asking Barack Obama about taxes, and he's obviously a very important person (B.M.O.C.!) if John McCain continues to ignore 99% of the country and only address him. But what really sealed the deal was when John McCain suddenly proclaimed that Joe The Plumber is now rich! And then congratulated him! On live television!

Jackpot.

Listen, your new celebrity is going to be bring a lot of people out of the woodwork. (Back off, McCain!) But I think we both know there's only one person who can obsess over you and stalk you from a safe distance. (I can see your plumber's crack from 500 feet away!)

Joe The Plumber, you are dreamy, sir. Say, do you like hummus?

The United States of Arabarack.

2008-10-10T23:02:00.000-07:00

Well, well, well.

You're in a bit of a pickle, aren't ya? (You betcha!)

I tried to tell you, and quite frankly, I can't believe you ignored me. (Have you not learned from Goldblum?) And now, look where you are.

It's really disheartening, to be honest. I, along with many other people who aren't 450 pounds, thought you were an honest, stand-up guy who was electable in 2000. (For the sake of full disclosure, I voted for my write-in Right Said Fred. At a shapely 410, I truly thought I was too sexy for that election. ) And then in 2004, you were the Lieberman of 2008 (but in a good way!).

And yet, over the last two weeks, you've willingly participated in rhetoric that frankly, leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Admittedly, although delicious, the two moose beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun, don't help. At any rate, your campaign has spent the majority of your time – and your running mate's time (digital only!) – talking about Bill Ayers, domestic terrorism, questionable character, dishonesty, and radicalism. Not to mention that people refer to your opponent as Hussein ("but that's his name!") while they're introducing you.

Frankly, I didn't think it would get traction in the polls (it hasn't!...so far!), especially since 95% of us have charcoal, stick, red bandana, and a freight train schedule standing by, all while brushing up on our Mandarin (傑夫goldblum是否擁有瓷的一個房子？). But you and the other one (son! special needs! advocate! energy! also!) still refuse to talk about the economy. Instead, you ask "Just who is this guy?".

Well, starting about two days ago, your crowd began to answer you.

"Radical!"

"Socialist!"

"Traitor!"

"Terrorist!"

"Off with his head!" (Helllooooo, Secret Service!)

And then it got bad.

During a town hall-type forum on Friday, a man took the mic and explained that he's about to have a baby, and he's "scared" of bringing his child into a world where that one is president. You replied: “I want to be president of the United States and obviously I do not want [him] to be, but I have to tell you — I have to tell you — he is a decent person and a person that you do not have to be scared of as president of the United States.”

And then, a woman stood up and said, "I don't trust [him]. I have read about him. He's an Arab!"

You quickly removed the mic from her presumably 7-fingered claw and tersely said, "No ma'm. He's not. He's not. He's a decent family man and citizen that I just happen to have disagreements with on fundamental issues and that's what this campaign is all about." (Staaaaarting.....now!)

Your crowds' response when hearing that he's not an Arab (you mean he's actually American?) but actually a decent family man (the two are mutually exclusive!)?

They booed you.

And that's your pickle. (It's lost it's crunch!)

After your campaign spent two weeks inciting hate and planting the seeds of racism with the subtly of say, a pitbull wearing lipstick (and too much blush!), you attacked and then defended the very sketchy man (Arab?) you questioned in the first place (Radical vs. Eratical!). And since then, at least two republicans have publicly stated they don't agree with the negative tone of your campaign. Oh, there's also that embarrassing business of a certain report that says your running mate abused her power and hasn't been completely honest (but her son is still special-needs, right?).

So now what?

I don't know, but we can't count you out just yet, that's Ensure.