Rambling Rhodes

Just Call it a Guillotine

One of the somewhat unexpected aspects about my Brazillian Jiu-Jitsu training has been the surprising number of my fellow students who, like me, shave their heads.

I suppose some of them, like me, shave their heads because of a genetic propensity towards follicular depletion. Others, I suspect, shave their heads just because it's about the easiest hairstyle in the world to maintain; whereas you can occasionally have bad hair days, I have yet to experience a bad head day (*wink, wink* *nudge, nudge*).

At any rate, awhile back, while we were stretching before class, the topic of conversation centered around the preferred method of scalp blading. Now, I've always been a HUGE proponent of the Mach 3 razor, as it effortlessly glides over my phrenological landscape. There was a time, early on, pre-Mach 3, when I used a Schick Tracer, but in retrospect that was a far inferior blade to the Mach 3.

Anyway, somebody eventually asked if anyone had ever used a "HeadBlade." Now, I had never even heard of the "HeadBlade," but quite frankly the very term left me not wanting anything to do with it. I mean, seriously. . . HeadBlade? It sounds like something a medieval executioner would call his axe. "Me sharpen HeadBlade. Make clean cut! Hulk smash!"

Of course, having heard about the HeadBlade, I felt compelled to at least learn a little bit about the nasty sounding device by going to the HeadBlade Web page, where I saw a HeadBlade for the first time:

So, it's not that scary-looking, I admit but, really, all it is is a regular razor with an OptiGrab that loops around your middle finger, and Matchbox car wheels on the back. As head shaving innovations go, I'm really not all that impressed. Sure, the HeadBlade name is still impressive, but the device itself looks like a regular razor with training wheels. I've been shaving my head for well over a decade. . . I don't need no stinking training wheels.

However, it would be sort of neat, I suppose, to count myself amongst the ranks of the world's elite "HeadBladers." How tough does that sound?

RANDOM PERSON: So, what do you do?

ME: Oh, you know, I'm a HeadBlader.

RANDOM PERSON: A what?

ME: A HeadBlader. I dabble in a little HeadBlading, from time to time.

RANDOM PERSON: *swallowing hard* Um, how often do you blade a head.

ME: Usually at least once every morning.

I'm a little surprised at how many mixed martial arts practitioners are HeadBladers, although I imagine a shaved head offers some benefit whilst mixing it up in an octogon, although I'm not sure what that would be, exactly.

So, yeah, the HeadBlade. Not sure it's something I'd want to try out personally, but it has a pretty cool, Highlander-esque name, which may JUST be enough to get me to buy one, if only to say I'm a HeadBlader.

Not Sure Why I Suddenly Remembered This

As far as I'm concerned, this is THE reason why we have the Internet.

PANTS!

All right, I don't know how else to set this up, so I'll just come right out and say it: on the drive into work this morning, there was a pair of pants in the middle of one of the intersections.

Now, most of you are probably saying "so what?" Well, I'll tell you what: a pair of pants in the middle of a busy intersection encountered on the way into work is a subject of endless distraction for someone like myself.

I mean, seriously, it was a pair of pants. Jeans. In the MIDDLE of a busy intersection. How the heck did a pair of pants end up there?! There was no underwear or any other clothing that I could see, but then again I only had a few seconds to survey the scene. After that, I had about four miles of driving time to sit there and come up with all sorts of scenarios to explain how a crumpled pair of pants ended up being driven over by countless vehicles and, let me tell you, none of those scenarios left me feeling very hopeful for whoever left those pants behind.

Perhaps a sexually insatiable couple found themselves at an unacceptably long red light the night before and threw caution to the wind, giving into their coital yearnings right there in the intersection, with one of them absentmindedly tossing their pants out the window. At the very least, a man or woman had to sneak their way back into their home, trying to keep their private parts hidden from prying eyes.

But, maybe it was more sinister than that. What if the pants in the road were all that remained of a hold-up the previous night? A gunman perhaps bided his time until a likely vehicle rolled to a stop, at which point he rushed the vehicle and instructed the driver to remove their pants, and then cleaned the pants of any valuables, ditched the pants, and made a run for it.

Or, maybe, most confusing of all, someone just decided to get rid of their pants, right there in the middle of a busy intersection. This possibility is perhaps the most concerning to me, because it leaves more questions than answers. From my own personal experience with sudden bowel movements, I can see some scenarios that may warrant an emergency ejection of monumentally soiled pants, but the pants I saw this morning didn't look like they were the victim of such a sudden soilage. In fact, aside from probably being driven over for several hours, the pants in the intersection looked fairly intact and clean, which just made me think about them all the more.

It wasn't like I was looking at a crime scene, or anything like that, as far as I knew. But, still, those pants could have been a CLUE to something. Certainly, at the very least, there was a REASON they were all crumpled up in the intersection like that. Those pants had a story to tell. Those pants were reaching out to me, so to speak.

And the moral of this story is: don't throw your pants into a busy intersection, because they're more distracting than trying to drive and talk into three cell phones at once.

For some people.

And I Thought My Hooded Sweatshirt Was Bad

I don't care who you are, stuffing your head through a cat bed does not equal fashion.

I repeat, a cat bed around the neck is NOT a fashion statement.

Okay, seriously, even the model looks like she can't believe what she's wearing.

The Grim

Is anyone else both tired of AND curious about those ubiquitous ads asking "When will you die?"

It's a curious question; and I'm not sure I really even want to know the answer. What if I took the quiz and the answer came up "3:45 p.m. today?" Oh, CRAP!

On the one hand, I'd be dreading the clock ticking away to quarter to four, but on the other hand, if I didn't die at the calculated time, I'd forever lose my faith in online longevity calculators. It's an avoidance/avoidance conflict, really.

Let it Linger

Okay, the last stubborn remnants of this cold can leave my body any day now, lest I have to perform an exorcism using DayQuil as my holy water of choice.

Comical

When I was still very young, my cousin presented me and my brother with two garbage bags full of comic books. Having outgrown them, himself, he thought the two of us might enjoy them. The bags were chock full of diferent comic book titles, but it was the "Richie Rich" comics that plucked my heart strings ever so pliantly. Each issue was dripping with the kind of largess and impossible displays of wealth that can only be conveyed through a comic book. For some reason, I found myself thinking back to some of those "Richie Rich" comics, and I wondered if I could Google zing some of the old covers I used to read with a near religious fervor.

Ah, yes, I remember this cover well. The precursor to the air conditioned doghouse of Jim and Tammy Faye, this is. You'd think you'd stop and pause at some point if you're a kid and you have to don protective eyewear to save your orbs from the gleam coming off Fido's digs. Hell, Fido himself has to wear Elton John shades to protect himself from his own house. Talk about impractical. But, this was Richie Rich! This was nothing compared to what else that "Rich" family could afford to throw money away on. Incidentally, Richie's actual dog was a "Dollarmation" named. . . Dollar, which was an exceedingly rare breed that had dollar signs instead of spot, so I'm not sure who this mutt interloper is.

Also, as a kid, the tagline "The Poor Little Rich Boy" pretty much confused me until I was 13 or so.

Richie's best friend in the whole wide world was his wretchedly poor friend, Freckles Friendly and his little brother, Pee-Wee. Richie always seemed to give lip service to somehow assisting Freckles and his brother so they could lift themselves out of their poverty-stricken existence. I can't remember if the status quo remained the same because of Freckles' insistence on not taking charity, or because Richie was a just a dick, or what. Whatever the case, Freckles routinely showed up at the Rich estate to smile happily and enjoy vicariously the next big gratuitous display of wealth procured by the Riches. Sure, Freckles has to go home to an empty plate and an abusive father, but at least he doesn't have to wear an oversize bowtie, for crying out loud.

This was, quite possibly, one of the creepiest Richie Rich covers I remember. I actually ended up tearing the cover off, because it was just so entirely UNNATURAL. You have the aforementioned Dollar, sitting cross-legged, a la "Basic Instinct," just waiting for the right time to show off his neutered glory. I can understand why Richie was surprised by the unnecessarily expensive and shiny dental work, but you have to wonder why the dentist looks so nonplussed. I mean, he did the work, didn't he? He had to have SOME idea what to expect, right?

Yes, one of Richie's dad's little guilty pleasures in life was to sequester himself in one of his many vaults with a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 and laugh about all the poverty in the world. Of course, it was only a matter of time before the devil booze turned him into a constipated version of the father from "Eight is Enough." I didn't actually own this issue, but I encountered it while Google search and just COULDN'T let it pass without comment.

More later. Maybe.

My Morning LOL!

Recovering

Apologies for the light posting as of late. I was out for the entire three day weekend with a cold to end all colds, and then I left work early yesterday thanks to a persistent remaining cough that got so bad at times, I was gagging.

On the plus side, I'm about 10 pounds lighter than normal, thanks to incessant sweating and rapturously powerful diarrhea.

On To Other Things

People I actually know and interact with in real life, sometimes referred to as "friends" and "family," who also happen to read my ThunderJournal, occasionally ask me why my site has become so much more focused on the silly nonsense rather than the somewhat deeper stuff I used to write about in the early years.

And I have to be honest: I just got bored with it. I'm at my happiest when I'm writing about topical stuff, news of the weird, mocking Nick Coleman, and generally sharing anecdotes from my life when something I deem interesting occurs.

And, really, after about four years of mixing it up in my comment threads as well as others, yammering about everything ranging from politics to, well, politics, I just stepped back one day and thought "what's the fucking point?" I found myself establishing and defending positions that, at the end of the day, were basically ridiculous exercises in futility, although some great insults were written back in those halcyon days that I'll always cherish, Jesus Fuck Dog.

Besides that, come about the 2006 timeframe, the Internet opened up even more, with the emergence and dominance of MySpace and FaceBook and MyFace and SpaceBook, not to mention YouTube and the bazillian forums that can be found all over the Web. In other words, the "conversation" went viral. Many newspapers have finally clued into the need for comment threads on their news articles and opinion pieces (the Strib being a notable exception, because they remain largely clueless about all things Internet--Buzz.mn being their exception), so the debate can begin at the source, rather than bringing the articles over here for a virgin fisking. *growl*

There are, literally, millions and millions of newcomers to the Internet conversation coming to the medium almost on a daily basis, and the thought of leaping into that pool of newbs and outlining, for the millionth time, my thoughts and positions and covering all that same old, tired ground, just makes my mind grind to a halt. New people to the Web discussion are often immediately tiresome (think YouTube comments), about five years behind the conversation, passionate without focus, overly excited about having a place to say something, and frankly just not worth the effort.

So, my ThunderJournal, which started as a little corner of Web where I could hopefully sharpen my writing skills by penning a lighthearted journal, morphed into a semi-serious conversation, and is now back where I want it to be: mostly silly nonsense.

Besides, with house projects, an eventual wedding to think about, jiu-jitsu training, and other actual things of personal importance going on, arguing on the Internet just seems kind of silly right now.

I still fully intend to keep this ThunderJournal going; just don't expect anything too serious.

Poop. Fart. Wiener poopy.

Zippo Tricks

My jiu-jitsu instructor mentioned before class last night that he'd been filling his empty hours by watching YouTube videos of people doing Zippo tricks. Because I'm a curious person who also has an empty hour to fill while sitting on a conference call from hell, I thought I'd share some of these Zippo tricks:

Notice that the arms on most of the people in that video look like they spend most of their days cooking up spoons of smack, judging by their thinness. The Japanese music is a nice touch, though.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=ZOHwjDzUDnE&feature=related

In this video, the background items of note are the Macintosh computer and that frickin' irritating bracelet on his right hand. Nothing against either of those items, per se, but taken together I just want to punch the guy in the throat for some reason.

Ah, yes, for those of you just now embarking on your lucrative Zippo trick career, here's a video that outlines some of your most basic Zippo tricks. Don't start by foolishly dipping your finger in alcohol for the grand poobah of all Zippo tricks--the lit finger. No, start out simple, and work your way through intermediate, speed lighting, IDENTITY CONCEALMENT, and of course, the crowd pleasing MESS UPS, complete with Zippo-spiking outrage. Background items of note: the particularly filthy looking room with dresser drawers akimbo, the backpack against the wall, and the dog tags around the guy's neck (strangely, I have my doubts about his military service).

For those curious enough to learn more Zippo tricks, there are PLENTY more YouTube videos out there for your perusal. For an added mental exercise, be sure to read the comment threads, which are always packed to the gills with thought provoking commentary and impeccable grammar and spelling.

My credit's Good

I've been thinking about signing up for a Capitol One Carbon credit Card. The interest rates seem reasonable, and the exchange rate between U.S. dollars and Carbon credits is at least as good as the exchange rate between unicorns and leprechauns, to shamelessly borrow a phrase from Stanley on "The Office."

Bring out yer dead!

Ryan says: Whoa, my farts are PURE garlic.

Caroline says: I would've been surprised if they weren't.

Ryan says: You can bottle this stuff and sell it as a tonic.

Caroline says: Puke tonic.

Ryan says: Sounds nuclear.

Caroline says: Nucular

Ryan says: The puketonic plague that decimated Europe.

YES!

My ThunderJournaling colleague, LearnedFoot, steered me to the greatest Web site ever conceived by Al Gore:

KnickerPicker!

I like the red thong. No, maybe not. Turn around. Come closer. Cup your breasts. On second thought, try the black thong. Turn around.

. . .

. . .

Wait. What?

Numbing Cold

I honestly believe cold weather in general, and prolonged cold snaps specifically, sap my creativity, inspiration and ambition. Throughout January and into February, I've struggled to write anything I've been happy with. The very act of typing feels detached and machinelike. It doesn't help, I'm sure, that my office is basically a flourescent cell with nary a window to be had, so it's a mind-numbing sameness for eight straight hours with only the promise of biting cold awaiting me upon my 5 p.m. freedom. This winter has been the coldest and snowiest in recent memory, and my writing, both professional and recreational, is suffering because of it.

Watch Out

My watch band broke Saturday night, which means I've been without a watch adorning my wrist since that time, which in turn means I haven't been able to just check my wrist on a whim to ascertain the chronology of a given day, which in turn means I'M GOING FREAKIN' INSANE!

Yes, I'm a clock-watcher. Why do you ask?

This Post Most Relevant to Friends and Family

People who orbit my existence, also known as my friends and family, have asked me to explain what goes into Brazillian Jiu-Jitsu, and I always fall a bit short. Then it occurred to me my Jiu-Jitsu instructor has a few videos out on YouTube. So, I'll post them here for those of you who are interested:

Economic Indicator

I'm not an economist, but I have a theory about the state of the 2008 economy, based entirely off the latest Pepsi bottle cap promotion.

Last year, Pepsi/Mountain Dew held no less than three, THREE, promotional bottle cap code entry thingamabobs. They were: The "Free Ride" sweepstakes, the "Transformers" sweepstakes and the "Call Your Play" sweepstakes. Between those sweepstakes, I took in $175 and a Vikings stocking cap.

Now, in 2008, Pepsi has introduced a "Pepsi Stuff" promotional program, which is good through NOVEMBER, which means this is it, people. ONE, and only ONE promotional campaign slated for 2008.

Therefore, I project an economic downturn that will see 1/3 of the economic power of 2007. Lean times are a loomin'.

Stayin' Alive

Caroline says: No further text needed after this headline: "Tornado survivor grabbed pants, whiskey"

Ryan says: Two items critical in survival situations.

Caroline says: Would've made a great "Survivorman" episode.

Ryan says: "I'm being dropped in the middle of the Himalayas, with nothing to keep me alive but a pair of pants and a jug of whiskey."

Caroline says: Canadians.

If This ThunderJournal Did Broadcast News

Every report would go something like this:

UPDATE: The same ransom note, as narrated by Bobo the Chimp

WTF?

Over the years, Nick Coleman has treated us to some of the most head-scratching nonsense ever penned, and yet he continually manages to outdo himself time and time again, coming up with column ideas that would confuse even the most dedicated schizophrenic.

But this one is so bizarre, it's almost frightening:

During the final minutes of Super Bowl XLII, New York Giants quarterback Eli Manning ran in circles like a chicken trying to escape the ax while somehow managing to stay standing and evade the brutes trying to pulverize him as he threw footballs that fluttered (just barely) into the arms of his frantic teammates.

That's a pretty retarded synopsis of the Super Bowl. Sure, it kind of, sort of, captures that one play--the Manning to Tyree connection--but generally speaking Manning's last winning drive was one of poise and control. But, this being a Coleman column, we're treated to the insight of a man who sees gloom and doom around every corner and who can't enjoy a Super Bowl without trying to glom onto the "BIGGER PICTURE," even when one doesn't exist.

It was a thrilling and exhausting performance that may have seemed familiar to millions of workers. Except for the new Cadillac and the MVP award Manning picked up, it looked a whole lot like just another a day at the office.

I'm sorry, but Super Bowl XLII didn't look ANYTHING like another day at the office. ANY office. To even make this kind of leap in logic is ridiculous right out of the gates, and yet here we are. It can only be a Nick Coleman column.

In fact, one of the best Super Bowl commercials was an ad called "Queen of Hearts" from careerbuilder.com. The spot featured an office worker's beating heart literally leaping from her chest and landing on her keyboard with a splat.

I'm sorry, where were we again? Scrambling chickens? Super Bowl?

In an environment where many workers fear they will leave their jobs carrying a pink slip or being carried on a gurney, a heart exploding from a chest is the visceral sum of all fears.

Times must be tough at the Strib, methinks. . .

But in the ad, the heart gets up on little feet (as its startled owner watches) and marches into the office of the lobster-eating, TV-watching, feet-on-his-desk slob of a boss.

My God, it's almost as if Coleman is TRYING to get canned.

Then the heart pulls out a sign: "I quit." The ad ends with a message steering viewers to careerbuilder.com and a more basic message:

It's good advice, too.

How far are we into this column, and we have yet to encounter any sort of point whatsoever? You know what would make this column relevant, particularly to Minnesota readership? A reference to a British study!

According to a new study that surveyed 10,000 British white-collar workers for 12 years, workers are 68 percent more likely to die of heart disease or suffer heart attacks if they experience long-term job stress.

Or, hey, how about just LONG TERM STRESS? Did you know stress can lead to health problems? Even heart disease? It's true. It's even been reported for, oh, I don't know, several decades or so. But, this being a Nick Coleman column, it's apparently groundbreaking news.

And it isn't the older workers who are most affected. It is the younger ones, who have to put up with the stress for longer periods of time, while older workers retired.

Won't somebody think of the children?!

Job stress has become such a worrisome problem in the United Kingdom that Friday was designated Stress Down Day in Scotland, where a quarter of the workers are so stressed out at work that they dream of leaving the U.K. and moving abroad.

Uh, who doesn't dream of moving abroad? And why are we still talking about the U.K. here? Wasn't this originally about the Super Bowl? What the fuck is going on here? Editors! We need editors, STAT!

When even workers who live overseas dream of moving overseas, you know the workplace is a health danger zone.

Great. First they banned smoking in the workplace; now Nick Coleman is apparently advocating banning working in the workplace. Or something. It's so hard to figure out the point in many of his columns. Finding a point is like locating Waldo most times.

And according to the Associated Press, many businesses are reporting that "employees' stress levels are rising" as worries about a recession, the stock market and a collapse in housing values spread through the workplace. In that context, maybe it's no surprise that vital organs were hitting the floor during the Super Bowl.

That was, perhaps, the most nonsensical paragraph ever written.

In previous years, Super Bowl ads for careerbuilder.com featured the frustrations of working alongside annoying monkeys. But the ante has been upped: The American workplace is in do-or-die mode. And studies seem to back it up: Job stress is on the rise, and job satisfaction is on the decline.

Look, Nick, job stress is ALWAYS reportedly on the rise, and job satisfaction is ALWAYS reportedly on the decline, thanks largely to monkeys such as yourself, who are determined to spread the gospel of despair. You can ask practically any working Joe, myself included, if they'd like a different job, and until you reach the door of Bill Gates, chances are 80 percent or higher you'll get results that indicate people would like more job satisfaction. In an ideal work world, my job description would include Silly String wars in the hallway and roller coaster rides every half hour. Unfortunately, it's called WORK for a reason.

Over the past five years, the average workweek has grown by five hours -- an hour a day -- for both men (who work an average of 45 hours a week) and women (who average 40). It means less time with the family, fewer family meals, more junk food, less exercise and higher blood pressure for workers suffering stress on the job.

Oh, horrors! A 40 hour work week! Whatever shall we do? As for less exercise, I don't know what's stopping the rest of the working drones of the world, but I manage to take a time-out each hour or so and press out between 30 and 50 push-ups, and I don't really care who sees me. Junk food? Aside from my reliable Diet Pepsi, I leave the vending machines pretty much alone. It's about personal responsibility. Perhaps Nick's heard of it.

Various studies in recent years have shown:

I love when a journalist cites "various studies" without getting specific; it just engenders such trust.

• Forty percent of workers say their job is very or extremely stressful.

I'll say that, too, if I think I can wiggle a raise out of it.

• A quarter of the workforce feels burned out on the job.

Only a quarter?

• A quarter has felt like screaming while on the job.

Sounds like a pretty scientific study Nick was reading there.

• One worker even threw a telephone at a wall. OK, that was me, about 15 years ago. But I had a good reason.

Probably because he couldn't make the switch from radial to touch-pad dialing.

Today, the workplace is under pressure from a stumbling economy and corporate cost-cutting: Many companies have fewer employees to do the work. And workers, hoping for promotions, fearing for their job security or needing to earn overtime to make ends meet, are working longer and longer days.

Yeah, it's called a job, not play time. And it's not a right.

Longer days mean shorter nights. And sleepless ones.

According to Nick Coleman, who knows stuff.

And while workers toss and turn, they can fret about the rest of the economic picture:

Annnnnd, cue the pabulum you've been hearing for pretty much your entire lives:

Home prices are down, gas prices and the cost-of-living are soaring, the stock market is wobbly and the dollar is weakening. But relax, workers!

The government is going to give you a tax rebate to help jump start the economy. Why, a family with three kids could get as much as $2,100 back - just about 20 percent of the long-term bill for the war in Iraq that they will pay later.

And there it is! An Iraq war reference! From Eli Manning and the Super Bowl and scrambling chickens and eight gazillian other unrelated tangents, all the way back to the Iraq war! It's like trying to read "The Da Vinci Code" backwards, in Pig Latin.

Oh, well.

Breathe deeply. Eat healthful meals, exercise and enjoy life.

Thanks! I will! I do! Perhaps you should do the same, you moping, fear mongering grouse. What was your point again? Oh, that's right, you didn't have one.

Before your heart shows you out the door.

My heart's just fine, thanks.

Dickhead.

Super Tuesday Debate!

It's almost plain ridiculous how easy it's become for this ThunderJournal to land some of the most sought after interviews on the planet. Here at Internet Groin Kick--or whatever else I may decide to name this site on a given whim--we've spoken with Mel Gibson, Hurricane Katrina and Global Warming. So, it should come as no surprise that our tireless staff has managed, on this most auspicious Super Tuesday, to land a group interview with some of the leading presidential candidates from both parties. Shall we begin? Oh, I daresay we shall!

ME: Welcome candidates. I just want to say, right off, how much I appreciate you coming here to speak with me today.

BARACK OBAMA: No problem. Your ThunderJournal provides a perfect place for things to change, and I like change. Change is better than things that don't change.

JOHN MCCAIN: Is there an oxygen canister around here somewhere? I could sure use a nice pull off some sweet, sweet O2. This campaign is EEEVIL!

HILLARY CLINTON: *cries*

MITT ROMNEY: I'm very happy to be here, Mr. Groin Kick. In fact, I'd like to present you with A BRAND NEW CAR!

ME: Er, thanks, all of you. Now, if we could start by talking about some of the issues. . .

HILLARY CLINTON: Did you say "tissues?" I could sure use a tissue.

ME: No, I said "issues."

HILLARY CLINTON: *cries*

JOHN MCCAIN: Back in my day, we used hankies. A good hanky in the back pocket was your key to success. We used to share hankies, in fact. Nothing says trust like a mutually ensoggened hanky passed between friends for a little nose dabblin'. This campaign is EEEVIL!

BARACK OBAMA: See, this is where I disagree with Mr. McCain. I think it's time we changed our hankies. At the very least, we need to wash them. Just so they look adequately changed.

MITT ROMNEY: Tissues? Hankies? Which costs more? If you can guess correctly, you'll win this FABULOUS NEW DINING SET!

ME: Look, people, I really want to focus on the issues, here.

BARACK OBAMA: I agree; we need to change the issues.

ME: No, I said FOCUS on the issues.

BARACK OBAMA: That's what I said. Change the issues.

JOHN MCCAIN: Right! It's time to change the focus! This campaign is evil. EEEVIL!

ME: Senator, you've been saying this campaign is evil all day.

JOHN MCCAIN: I just want attention. . .

MITT ROMNEY: Today on "Change the Focus," contestants will compete to see who will be the winner of this DREAM VACATION TO HAWAII!

ME: Gentlemen! Er, and Hillary. . .

HILLARY CLINTON: *cries*

BILL CLINTON: . . . And that's why I think our foreign policy should be about. . .

ME: Mr. Clinton, you're not running for president.

BILL CLINTON: I'm not?

ME: No. In fact, how did you even get in here?

BARACK OBAMA: Does he have any spare change? Could any of you spare any change?

JOHN MCCAIN: As if any of us would give you any change. How could you think we'd even consider giving you change?

BARACK OBAMA: Hey, a man can hope, can't he? Is that so audacious?

MITT ROMNEY: Today, on "Audacious Hope," contestants will try to defy the odds for their chance to win a 55 INCH PLASMA TV!

ME: ARGH! This roundtable interview is OVER!

I Can Has Gold Star?

I'm honored. Really, I am!

My Only Super Bowl Commentary

Holy crap! That Manning to Tyree scramble/throw/catch was. . . well. . . it was like having intercourse with Salma Hayek on a pile of diamonds! But, don't take my word for it:

WHOOPS: I guess the YouTube police have been busy taking down any clips of the Manning/Tyree connection, so that video is down for the count.

Sweet mother of pearl that was awesome.

THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID UPDATE: This MSNBC.com article has an unintentional howler:

Not even a supermodel girlfriend could ease the pain of this one.

“I’m sure it will be tough to swallow over the coming months,” Brady said.

What? No follow-up question for Gisele? Can she at least confirm or deny?