Thursday, December 23, 2010

Who-Ville Medical Team Generates New Heart Tissue Using Stem Cells – Grows Grinch’s Heart Three Full Sizes

An Emotional Grinch claims he now loves Christmas

Calvin Humpernickle, Town Drunk, Blacksmith and Science Correspondent

Published December 24, 2010

Who-Ville - Every Who down in Who-Ville likes Christmas a whole lot, and now after years of experimental treatments using donor stem cells we can also say that the lone resident of North Who-Ville likes Christmas a whole lot too.

A Who-Ville team led by the world’s leading yodeler, who works part time as a heart surgeon, were able to regenerate and grow heart tissue for the very first time. Known mostly for his sensational hits: Ain’t Nothing But a Yodel Thang, ”Yodel Style, ” and “Ain’t No Fun (If My Yodelers Can’t Have None), ” Hans Slaperdoodle has worked over twenty minutes per day for the past seven days attempting to tackle what medical journals, had they actually returned the stalker-esque number of phone calls, or opened the door to see some kook standing outside with a notepad and a pocket tape recorder, would have called a modern science miracle.

"Since we really didn’t know what species The Grinch is, it made it tough to know who or what to get the stem cells from," Slaperdoodle responded when asked where he found the donated cells. “"The Grinch is not human, nor is he animal. After asking him many times for his medical history and getting only incoherent gibberish about his head not screwed on right, or his shoes being too tight, we eventually agreed this is what we were to expect from someone who didn’t even realize he wasn’t wearing any pants.”

Growing replacement tissue from stem cells is one of the principal goals of biology. So far, scientists have grown tendons, cartilage and an ear coming off the head of a mouse which served no medical purpose whatsoever , but forced that mouse into a life of despair, ridicule, and solitude… until he was eventually seen suspiciously wandering near some local mouse traps, high on cat nip.

"First we tried using stem cells from a rooster, an ocelot and even a rubber chicken, but then Larry Shantzamuffin (fellow researcher and shower curtain ring salesman) accidentally dropped part of his turkey sandwich into the Petri dish, and then all this fizzing and such started happening," Slaperdoodle added, when describing how this miraculous discovery happened.

This is not the first time Grinch has been in the news. Born with a heart two sizes too small, and with a hatred for Christmas his entire life, The Grinch had finally had enough. In 1991, after gluing antlers onto his dog Max, ignoring threats from PETA advising against it, The Grinch made his way down the treacherous mountainside and ransacked the town of Who-Ville, stealing everything from pop guns, bicycles, checkerboards, and The Hills, Season 4”DVD’s.

"All I know is that morning I woke up, went downstairs; you know the usual routine, and that son of a bitch took all our gifts including my ‘89 swimsuit edition I keep hidden behind the cupboard," an obviously agitated Slaperdoodle exclaimed.

The Grinch was eventually cleared on all charges when he returned all the gifts he stole, carvedthe roast beast at Christmas dinner and agreed to watch three seasons of MTV’s “Jersey Shore, all in one sitting, as his punishment. Since then, despite beliefs that he would finally lead a jovial and compassionate life, he regressed and has spent the last several years brewing with hatred until his magical elixir was discovered; Stem cells donated from a turkey sandwich.

Word spread like wildfire all the way to the North Pole, and once the news hit, it was the gregarious Prancer that spilled the Christmas cookies regarding developments there. We already have the science to give every Reindeer a red nose but selfishly Rudolph has fought us tooth and hoof,”” said Prancer. "In my opinion, if it wasn’t for that foggy Christmas Eve, that egocentric future wall mount still wouldn’t be playing any Reindeer games."

So what’s next for The Grinch and his new heart?

"I’m going to do a little traveling. Maybe West Who-Ville, Who-Ville Depot, Who-Ville & Beyond if there’s enough time, who knows?"” responded The Grinch, “"I’m starting to see life in a whole different way… seeing things I’ve never noticed be… Holy shit! I’m not wearing any freakin’’ pants!"

Email Calvin at

Sunday, November 7, 2010

"Volume XVI"

Welcome to another long awaited, but not very anticipated version of the blog. For those who have forgotten what this blog is about, don’t fret. I have no clue either. If anyone out there reading can figure it out please email me and let me know. I have heard it is a better read right after something else incredibly boring like the back of the vomit bag on an airplane for example. In addition, if you just recently learned the English language and don’t realize that this is incongruous, drool-inducing, nonsense, then that is a good time as well.

On that note, on to the write up …

Are toilet technology experts (not a real profession, sorry aspiring youngsters) getting any closer to mastering these auto-flush toilets? They’re either auto flushing too much, or not at all. If Apple can come out with a music player the size of a stick of gum, can’t toilet makers come out with a toilet that doesn’t give me three surprise enemas every time I move a centimeter to the right or left on the seat?

It’s probably a bad sign that my bottle opener key chain has completely worn down to the point where it no longer functions properly. This thing is made from the strongest metal money can buy, impervious to a military tank driving over it, yet I’ve managed to open so many beers it has met its inauspicious demise.

Ever notice when you go to cook something, it always gives you two options for instructions: Oven and microwave? For a second you always think, wow, I should really cook this in the oven, I know that is how it is meant to be cooked, but then you read the different time estimations and it is something like this:

Oven: 45 -50 minutes
Microwave: 4 minutes

Even Rachel Ray, or the top cooking go-getters out there can’t be buying what this oven method is selling are they?
This is basically what should be written on my Pizza Rolls, because this is generally how it goes…

Oven Instructions:
1) Pre-heat oven to 425 (15 minutes)
2) Come back 15 minutes later to realize you only turned on the temperature knob and not set on “Bake” (15 more minutes)
3) Look for baking sheet (10 minutes)
4) Realize you don’t own a baking sheet, so you have to knock on your neighbor’s door who comes out wearing only a sock over his penis and smoking a cigar. (7 awkward minutes)
5) Take baking sheet back to your apartment (2 minutes)
6) Place call to your therapist to attempt to recover from what you’ve just seen (20 minutes)
7) Place on cooking sheet (1 min)
8) Cook for 16 minutes or until golden brown
Look, Sara Lee, this is your recipe, if you don’t have one-hundred percent confidence in your 16 minute estimate, then how should I? I live next to a guy wearing a penis sock. I’m looking to you for help here. Tell you what, how about you go back to your little lab and perfect this estimate until you are fully confident. I don’t want to be sticking my hand into a piping hot oven to see if these freakin’ Pizza rolls are brown. And golden brown? How do I tell if they’re golden brown as opposed to brown, considering they were brown when they went in, in the first place?

9) Take out of oven using oven mitt – look for oven mitt (5 minutes)
10) Realize you don’t own any oven mitts – 2 minutes
11) Go back to your neighbors and ask for oven mitt – 3 minutes
12) He doesn’t have any either, but he offers his sock – 3 minutes
13) Vomit profusely in his petunias – 13 minutes
14) He says he’s kidding and hands you an oven mitt
15) Go back and remove your pizza rolls
16) Let cool for 15 minutes (just so you can sit there and smell the pizza rolls as you keel over in hunger)
17) You are so hungry and delusional staring at the rolls, you start eating the oven mitt – 3 minutes
18) You realize where the oven mitt came from and come to the sobering conclusion that you have no idea what your neighbor has been doing with his oven mitts
19) Vomit in your own petunias – 6 minutes
20) Eat one of the pizza rolls unwilling to wait the entire 15 minute cooling process to end
21) Burn off a portion of your uvula
22) Scream like a little girl at a Jonas Brothers concert – 30 seconds

23) Use large spatula and loosen one by one – 10 minutes
24) Enjoy! (Go F yourself Betty Crocker)

Total cooking/preparation time: 2 hours 41 minutes

Microwave Instructions:
1) Place in Microwave (5 seconds)
2) Turn on Microwave (2 minutes)
3)Remove from Microwave (1 second)

Enjoy! (How do you like them apples Betty Crocker?)

Total cooking/preparation time: 3 minutes

Like what you’re reading? (you’re 1 of 3 worldwide)
Read all of my blogs or even subscribe at
(all the hip kids are doing it…)

Thanks for nothing Betty

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Two Worlds, One Cup - Volume III

Thanks again for reading. Welcome to the final Volume of the World Cup writings. In case you missed Volume I & II, you can read that as well as all my blogs at (all the hip kids are doing it)

-- (Continued from July 9th)--

Yellow Card # 6 – Strategy ?
I’ve heard several soccer experts talk about the strategy that played into a 1-1 tie. What strategy are we referring to here? Do your best to not kick the ball into the net? It’s like herding cats out there… you’re going to sit there and tell me there is one iota of strategy out on that field? I could put an Emu and an Ocelot out on the field and let them run wild and it would look more organized. Can’t we all get in agreement that strategy in soccer is a lot like a youngster at an Easter Egg hunt – a lot of running around and hoping for the best?

Yellow Card # 7 - Penalty Kicks
So I’ve already gone over the amazing difficulties when it comes to scoring goals, but then a penalty kick is rewarded to a Nancy Boy who gets lightly tapped and knocked down close to the goal, thus completely cheapening the goal. For those who haven’t witnessed this ridiculous freebie, the ball is placed mere yards away from the goalie who has a blink of an eyelash to determine which way the kicker is shooting. This is like starting Viking’s Running Back Adrian Petersen on the five yard line and asking him to get across the goal-line with Pete, the captain of his 3rd grade chess club in his way. I could make 99 out of a 100 penalty kicks and the last time I played soccer was 1986. You basically have a better chance of catching a bullet with your butt cheeks than to stop one of these penalty shots, yet somehow professional players still find a way to kick the ball over the goal and miss completely.

Yellow Card #8 – Injuries
If you wanted to see a comparison to the amount of whining that takes place during a soccer match, you could probably head down to your local daycare where about twenty youngsters are playing, tauntingly parade the largest lollipop you can find in front of their faces and, when they least expect it, turn and sprint out the door. This is what it’s like to watch a soccer match. Does the coach of the team go out and find as many sissies in the neighborhood as possible then teach them the sport? Be a grown man for Christ’s sake. I’m sorry did that bad man kick you? You’re wearing shin guards! Get over it. If, in the very rare circumstance, there is in fact a real injury (for these guys like a hangnail for example), what is the signal to the trainer that says, “hey bozo, I did actually split my ulna in two. Can someone get out here?” These guys cry wolf so frequently, how do they know when someone is actually hurt? Is it a hand signal or something to sidelines, or do they just look for a waterfall of blood, a dangling ligament or a decapitation so they know for sure? If we took the same approach as they do in horse racing we wouldn’t have that problem the next time a player goes down holding his ankle. “You think you’re leg is broke Pele? Off to the glue factory for you.” Trust me, he'd get up right away when the trainer rushes out with a semi-automatic weapon and a bottle of Elmers…

With all this said, believe it or not, I do really enjoy watching these World Cup games. There are some positives to the sport, like for example headers. It is unfathomable how these guys had head the ball accurately. Have you ever taken a soccer ball to the head? It is not comfortable to say the least. I think the last time I did, I saw stars for about five minutes and I'm pretty sure it rendered me unconscious. And the endurance of these players is really amazing too. Watching TV on the couch for 90 minutes can sometimes be exhausting, yet these guys are in full sprint for that time. Ok, so the game isn’t as bad as it seems. With that said…

Go Orange! Enjoy the finals, and thanks for reading…


Friday, July 9, 2010

Two Worlds, One Cup - Volume II

Thanks again for reading. In case you missed Volume I, you can read that as well as all my blogs at (all the hip kids are doing it)

-- (Continued from July 8th)--

Yellow Card # 3 – Offside
I figure offsides is just another attempt by the sport to prevent the one thing that would make the game watchable… Goals. This asinine rule requires a defender to be in between the ball dribbler and the opposing net, even though some eccentric rebel-outcast, wearing an ostentatious neon-yellow shirt, who responds to the handle “Goal-Keeper,” is standing in the center of the goal - right between the ball dribbler and the net. If this rule was instituted in football, Larry Fitzgerald would have to stop running as soon as he accelerated past the strong safety en route to the End zone, giving a defender absolutely no reason to stop a player who gets by him. I mean, why stop at just offsides? How about if a player is able to dribble the soccer ball for at least five yards, Godzilla comes out of the crowd and swallows the player whole? I’m all about 110% or not at all. Let’s just make it absolutely impossible for anyone to score. Why don’t we adjust the size of the goal to the size of an acorn while we’re at it.

Yellow Card # 4 – The Zebra
There are leaders of small countries with less power and control than a referee in a soccer game. Referees are mere mortals, not Egyptian Gods with absolute rule of the land, so why are they given the authority to significantly affect the outcome of the game? The head referee covers a field that is roughly 120 yards by 80 yards. This provides enough space for the entire population of Uruguay to fit inside comfortably, so I do revel in the fact that these guys are in tremendous shape, however a Cheetah could cover just as much ground with the same officiating results. This aspect makes soccer the only sport that could be officiated more effectively from my parent’s basement while in my underwear than from the field itself. With no instant replay, official game clock, or accountability for anything, a novice in his or her undergarments 9,000 miles away can do a better job calling a game. This could work for other sports too, but I certainly wouldn’t want John McEnroe yelling at me even through a Skype connection…

Yellow Card #4A – Extra Time?
Just when we think the referee controls all that they can in the game, we’ve given them power to add extra time or “injury time,” as they call it, onto the end of the game. Lest we not forget no player actually gets injured in soccer (see tomorrow’s blog, card #8, 2nd verse, line 11), they only whine about it, so why do we need to add time onto the end? Or, even more importantly, we have something called electricity now, which can effectively start and stop the game clock if there are actual injuries. (Thanks Thomas Edison!) I know it puts the official scorekeeper in quite the tizzy to have to press a button to stop the clock, and then perform yet another daunting task when play resumes having to press that button again. Can we maybe try it just once, instead of the incongruous estimates kept mostly by the head ref on his Casio?

Instead a country’s fate relies on about the same ballpark guess as to how long one should cook their chicken quesadilla. “Johnson how much injury time?” “Er, let’s see, carry the one, add the beans…give it another few minutes, make sure its brown on the bottom…” “Johnson, I meant the game…” “Oh…yeah a few minutes sounds about right for that too, why not?… Ok, to be honest I have no clue…”

This reminds me of when I used to play tackle football against myself when I was six (yes, I didn’t get out much). Sure the Browns may have kicked a game winning field goal with time running out to defeat New York, but I was the one who controlled both sides and was tackling myself. (Again, didn’t get out much). Isn’t that what a ref is doing…? “Hmm… Hold on… Let’s see if Nigeria can slip one in here, er, give it a few more minutes…”

Yellow Card # 5 Power kicks over goal
This has got to be one of the most frustrating parts of the game. A skilled professional, someone the very best in their sport, can still blow a wide open shot on goal… and they often do. The problem is, the opportunities are so few and far between, they are likely in complete shock they have a chance to score and end up blasting the ball not only just over the goal, but way over and into the stands, when all they had to do is finesse it past the goalkeeper. It is like waiting your whole life to sleep with Carmen Elektra, and then right at the opportune moment your zipper is stuck…

Son of a…

Check back tomorrow for the finale of this series... you can read all blogs and subscribe to the subscription list at :

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Two Worlds, One Cup - Volume I

Welcome to another edition of the blog. If you're still reading at this part, you've gotten further than most, and if you continue reading you will be treated to the first part of this three part musing leading up to the 2010 World Cup Finale. If you're reading on Facebook, you can read all my blogs at , but ultimately all this means is that you're wasting valuble time that you could be using to Facestalk, tweet your BFF, or possibly get in some quality sexting on your Iphone...And now to the write up...

FOR most Soccer enthusiasts, the start of the World Cup after waiting four excruciating years, is a jovial beginning of sportacular bliss, but for others it feels like that intoxicated hook-up one calls every six months that nine out of ten relationship therapists suggest you probably shouldn’t; sure you have a great time with her after a few too many, but the next day you sneak her out the back and spend the afternoon trying to convince your roommates you went to bed early, yet all they heard all night was what sounded like a dying, or at the very least, a wounded manatee screaming in agony coming from your room. (Or just choose an entirely different analogy that is less despicable and flippant that works for you…). This is how I feel about soccer ; every four years, I can’t get enough of it, but if I had to watch it on a regular basis, I may have to erase “Blue Shirt Girl, Tavern Bar,” out of my phone completely.

now, now, it's not you it's me...

Watching a World Cup game is like having a bad case of explosive diarrhea and you are exasperatingly pacing outside a bathroom awaiting your turn, but the bathroom’s inhabitant keeps jiggling the door as if he is coming out, but never does. (Or, again another more appropriate analogy…) You’re constantly on the edge of your seat, tension is building, and just when you think something is going to happen, nothing does, the game ends in a tie and you’ve just soiled your pants.

Since I only watch only every four years, I have been willing to sit and take it like a penalty kick to the rear, but if I’m going to suffer through a 90-minute contest that ends in a freakin’ tie, then I think I deserve to throw up a few yellow cards…

Yellow Card # 1 - Vuvuzela Horns

This year’s World Cup at least has hit one milestone – it is the first World Cup that a beekeeper and soccer fan can finally combine their two loves into one blissful-matrimony. If anyone reading has heard these horns, you would know that If a blind man sat down to listen to a game, he would probably run for his life in fear of attack since these horns sound exactly like a swarm of ferocious yellow jackets. In America we have an occasional cheer, yell or drunken idiot screaming “Jeter Sucks,” but at least they give it a rest after a couple taunts. Who has the lung capacity to keep these horns going for an entire ninety minutes – a Grey Whale? I recently blew up a small beach ball and nearly passed out afterwards due to oxygen loss. Shouldn’t these horn blowing-buffoons be using their breath-holding talents for something more productive, like saving drowning children in one-hundred feet of water… Like…on Jupiter? If you go online, there are German computer programmers who have figured out a way to filter the buzz from your TV broadcasts, so you can actually hear the announcers call the game, using a high scope band stop filter which removes the frequencies which will work on a computer with a sound card with low latency... Seriously? This is what they’re wasting their time on? What these crafty Hasselhoff-loving engineers didn’t realize, was that most soccer fans under the fear of an impending killer wasp attack, are not exactly the savviest at reading directions, and probably went insane before even managing to turn on their PC’s. Here is just a minor suggestion – stop blowing the blasted horns!

Darn-it Sheila, I knew we should have just gone to Applebys

Yellow Card #2 - Scoreless Ties

The ties I get. 1-1. 2-2. 3-3, fine - but a scoreless tie? A fan pays $100, sits and watches ninety minutes of soccer, witnesses absolutely zero goals, and then the games ends, without either team accomplishing the one and only point of the game – scoring a goal. Basically, if the players never set foot on the field, the same conclusion could have been drawn. What exactly do you talk about after the game with your buddies? “Wow those were some great sideline throw-ins – who am I kidding, gosh darn it Rico, we got screwed…”

Yellow Card #2A Blowouts

I have no idea what constitutes a blowout in soccer but I do know that Portugal beat North Korea 7-0 in Group stage. This is probably the equivalent of winning a baseball game 114-0.

* Check back for Part II of this riveting saga tomorrow, and for the record no manatees were harmed during the writing of this blog. Blue shirt girl, is merely a figment of one's imagination, like a sasquatch, yeti, or the credulous belief, that one can walk into Taco Bell and place an order without an interpreter...

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part V

Welcome to another edition of the blog. This entry is a continuation of yup, you guessed it- 1,2,3 & 4which you can read at

Now that I’m thirty, I notice a plethora of commercials that never caught my eye in the past. If I did notice, they always induced a smirk, chuckle or witty comment spraying levity in all directions of the older demographic. At thirty, I’m starting to pay more attention.

Everyone has seen the commercials for Viagra, Cialis and whatever other erection-inducing stimulant drug company has shown up tardy to the dance to put more spark back in ones’ love life; but it isn’t those that have me concerned.

I’m talking about the ones that show a group of older men doing completely normal activities for sixty-somethings like kayaking while also ice fishing, cycling through the Grand Canyon while juggling anvils, or Windsurfing while playing chess at the same time, all because the drug Flomax allowed them to. Are these the normal activities guys in their sixties are participating in these days? Until a few months ago, I had no idea what Flomax actually did, and I also was credulous to the idea that men over sixty watched the stock market and played croquet.

Apparently Flomax helps with urination ; either more urination, or less urination, and I really don‘t feel like researching further. One thing I have figured out however, is that my future is going to consist of frequent hell-raising activities with my older buddies, and a steady diet of constant urination issues. (Or at least that is what Flomax wants me to think, so I rush to my local pharmacy hot on the trail of urination relief). I’m not sure what’s more depressing to think about; the urination, or the Brokeback-esque camping trips that appear to be in my future.

If you’ve never seen these commercials, then you are probably the target audience and Flomax is likely for you. This would mean you have likely been too busy urinating in the bathroom during NFL Football games or Man vs. Wild on Discovery which apparently the only two programs men with urination issues watch these days.

Ok, so you’re thinking, I too would like to reduce my urination, but what’s the catch? While Viagra and Cialis recommend consulting your Doctor when an erection lasts for a certain length of time, Flomax has somehow managed to create a drug with side effects that require consultation of a professional only at the notice of one thing : a loss of semen. Loss of semen? Really? How would one determine if one is experiencing a loss of semen, and is that necessarily a negative outcome? And does the Doctor really want to know this information? And once this symptom is diagnosed, what would be the proper solution to the problem? A guy who is saving lives every day, needs to have this image in his mind about ones’ semen loss when he goes home at night? How would that call to your Doctor go exactly?

“Dr. Johnson’s Office.” “Uh, yes, er, is Dr. Johnson there?”

“I’m the receptionist what seems to be the problem sir? I’ll pass the info along to the Doctor.”

“You know what, if you could just tell him I’m experiencing a loss of semen that would really be super, I’m supposed to uh-"

“Sir what did you say to me? You better watch your mouth.”

“You know what, nevermind, I’ll uh, call back…”

After Doctor’s diagnosis :

“Well Jerry, you’re right. You are experiencing a loss of semen, although we really can’t be too sure of it and to be honest this is all a little awkward, to say the least. Ok well … now that we’ve diagnosed it, I‘m going to need you to take two aspirins a day and, well, lets see…elevate your penis, and - you know what? Screw it… we really have no idea what to do here, how‘s a lollipop sound?”


If you’re a male actor, Viagra commercials have to be the most demoralizing acting gig you will ever land. It is always some decent looking chick, her summer dress waving in the wind elatedly dancing because she will finally be satisfied as her dejected husband is in the background dolefully skipping rocks. How is any washed up actor supposed to score chicks after singing a two minute guitar riff about how he can’t get it up? Maybe if the guy spent more time figuring out how to satisfy his lady and less time singing Elvis songs about getting boners with four other middle-aged dudes, he wouldn’t be skipping rocks in the first place. (Makes you appreciate country songs about dying dogs and pick-up trucks a lot more)

While Flomax has you contacting your Doctor due to semen loss, Viagra has you contacting your Doc for an erection lasting more than four hours. But isn’t that the idea?? I don’t go see my opium dealer when the stuff lasts thirty minutes longer than its supposed to, I simply consider that one helluva great deal. The Mayans didn’t sacrifice lambs to the Rain God and pray that he brings them rain for their crops, then after a few drops… “Whoa, hold on now, we didn’t sign on for this - the cabbages have had enough."

And what is my sixty-two year old male Doctor from Sweden supposed to do for me? He may have done a quality job cupping my package and having me cough, but with four hours I can probably catch a flight to Reno to the Bunny Ranch, which would make much more sense.

Loss of semen and erections that never go away. Sounds like a great future to look forward to.

“Dr. Johnson’s Office.”

“Uh, yes, er, is Dr. Johnson there?”

“I’m the receptionist what seems to be the problem sir? I’ll pass the info along to the Doctor.”

“Well Er, we talked earlier, and well you see I have don’t know how to put this but I seem to be experiencing a loss of semen, and now to top it off, I also have a an erection that has lasted for four hours.

“You again - And when did you first notice this sir?”

“Well I was out camping while skeet shooting with my middle aged buddies, and well…”

The End.


Thursday, February 18, 2010

Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part IV - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space

Welcome to another edition of the blog. This entry is a continuation of yup, you guessed it- 1,2 & 3 which you can read at

In addition to hangover severity tripling, lasting three days instead of three hours, when you hit thirty, wedding invitations, bachelor party invites, kid’s birthday parties and bar mitzvah solicitations start showing up at your door like a Jehovah Witness, trying to meet his end of the month quota. All of a sudden the next twenty years of weekends has just unveiled itself right in front of my very eyes and none of them include keg stands or Flabongos.

However, nothing stresses me out more than a commitment for a future event.

Case and point?

Save the Date cards. Pure misery in my book.

A wedding invite is one thing, but these magnets, balloons, and singing wedding telegrams performed by half-naked clowns at my door has got to stop. Everyone has seen these - they are the ones of the happy looking couple magnetically secured to fridges across America with a seemingly innocent request to clear your schedule, yet basically demanding you to make a firm commitment a full year before the day even occurs. In the past you’d receive something by regular mail that a loved one is getting married, but now for 400 days you have to look at this ecstatic couple and hate them more and more that they’ve locked down a day in your future, every time you grab a glass of milk. I mean, sure, I’ll probably be free October 16th, 2018, and since I barely make plans three hours in advance let alone three years in advance, what excuse can I give? Like clockwork, the date comes around and sure enough the Giants are playing game seven of the World Series, “The Hills, the scenes too hot for TV,” marathon is on, or Megan Fox shows up at your door wanting you to handcuff her and massage her body with coconut oil.

“Sure Megan, I’d be happy to; oh fuck me - This day was already planned for me back in 1972 by this prick wearing an Izod shirt his fiancĂ© made him wear. “See Megan? I tattooed it to my ass thanks to the iron on, save the date tattoo they made me use so I wouldn’t forget…”

And I’m not against bachelor parties, by any means, but maybe more so, what they are supposed to symbolize; the last great night of freedom. Haven’t we all been partying like it is our last night of freedom for the past twelve years? Is it really necessary to give it one last go, just in case the sixty-eight Jell-O shots, ninety games of beer pong and twenty-two trips to strip clubs in the past year weren’t enough to get it out of your system? Furthermore, do these strippers understand we are in a recession? Gas prices are going down, GDP is down, more importantly, my fantasy football entrance fee decreased, but yet these ladies still feel that they are impervious to market conditions? How is a lap dance recession proof? Ok, we get it, you can dance and spray whip cream down my friend’s pants who is halfway to the altar, but for his sake and for the sake of my bank statement, do we really need one last night of drunken debauchery? Lets just call the game now due to darkness, or perhaps a ten run rule like back in Little League, while I still have some funds in my bank account…

Til next time and the final edition…


Part 5 coming soon…

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part III - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space

Welcome to another edition of the blog. This entry is a continuation of part 2 which you can read at

I think I speak for all of us here at Shenanigans, when I say we hope you enjoy your stay on the blog site, and should you not, may you be attacked by a roaming gang of angry of Rosie O’Donnells.

With that said, I give you Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part III, chalked full of fabricated tarradiddles…

Now that I’m thirty, reluctantly, it may be time for me to overcome a condition I’ve had for years commonly known as PFS (Post Fraternity Syndrome). After a college career of frequent exchanges, parties and gatherings that were always set up with some sort of theme in mind, I am forever scarred for any rendezvous in the real world, and even seven years later, I find myself in utter disarray. Symptoms of this condition include being unable to casually invite people over for a beer without a specific reason such as Eighty’s night, a Wild West theme or a Dress like your favorite Boy Band member event. (I generally choose Lance Bass obviously). Every drinking juncture basically has to have some sort of theme or purpose, otherwise you are unable to enjoy the evening and end up becoming an inhospitable outcast pouting in the corner. If you too are noticing any of the aforementioned symptoms, you may also be suffering from PFS, or perhaps you may also just be a loser, ignoramus who truly believes they are still in college. I’d like to blissfully exclaim that there is a splendiferous elixir for this horrific condition, giving way to a gloriously jovial ending to this blog post, but, alas, even with the greatest of scientists working around the clock, there is unfortunately no cure, other than of course, just coming to the realization that you are that ignoramus loser Ghost of Fraternity Past. Recently it got worse when my buddy invited me over for a barbeque…

“What’s the occasion? New Year’s isn’t for another week, so what are we talking here…?” I asked sheepishly.

“No occasion,” he responded. “Just a couple of burgers, chicken breasts, beers, you know, watch the game.”

“Great,” I replied. “I’ll wear my disco outfit, the same one I wore back in ’02 to winter formal. You have an ice luge right?”

“No, just come over, and why would I have an ice luge?” he responded completely bewildered (clearly not suffering from PFS and has actually grown up)

“No reason…no problem,” I calmly replied, though inside I was frantically screaming… ok Steve, don’t panic, don’t panic, ok, got it – “I’ll just wear my toga instead then, no worries, see you in twenty…

Another sign I was getting older was I no longer had to covertly hide my alcohol when attending house parties. In the past, I’d get to a party and individually unwrap my twelve pack of Pabst and hide each one behind a perishable item in the refrigerator, worried that some bootlegging, plundering alcoholic would discover my precious beers from behind the leftover meatloaf. Maybe one would be placed behind the milk carton, another in the vegetable drawer, and another in a box of popsicles in the freezer which likely was forgotten about and exploded during the night. In each case I’d make them just visible enough so I‘d remember, but hidden enough so if you weren‘t looking for them, unless you were fishing through beef stew from the night previous, you‘d never find them. But then things started to change…

“Hi Steve, welcome to the party, I’ll take those beers for you, the friendly host would greet me.

“These are Sierra Nevadas, missy,” I would respond. “Nice try, but you’ll have to alligator wrestle me to the ground before you can pry these from my catlike grasps. You can take my freedom but you can never take my Sierr-.”

“Whatever…that’s fine, why don’t you just put them over there with the seventy other beers,” she’d scornfully respond.

Glancing over to the kitchen I’d notice that some moron had left an entire twelve pack of Stella out in open, ripe for the taking.

Oh, they’re like for everyone? The bewildered thought passed through my head. Wait a second…who left the guacamole dip out, and who didn’t finish eating their pizza rolls, and why isn’t everyone attacking them? My head was racing…


Friday, January 22, 2010

Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part II - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space

Continued from last entry… (If you missed it and want to catch up on all past entries, you can Read all past blogs @ )

2009 was a year up and down like a toilet seat, and like an ESPN employee illegally video peeping sexy reporter Erin Andrews, I had to constantly stay on my toes. The most significant event, other than finally discovering that Every Kiss, does not begin with Kay, it begins with a couple of Washington Apple shots, a dash of exposed nipple, and a hearty music diet of Barry Manilow, was turning thirty.

The good news, or bad news depending on how you look at it, was that the party seemed to last an entire week with each group of friends looking to cash in on my aging misery.

Realizing you are halfway to retirement is one thing, but waking up face down on the bathroom floor with your eyelid stuck to the remnants of a Jager shot is another. In most cultures taking someone out, forcing him to drink poison, then leaving him for dead on the side of the toilet is done purely as means to torture convicted felons, but in our culture, it just says you like the person and want him to wake up the next morning looking like he is the decrepit, resulting offspring of all Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse having sex with one another.

Luckily I chose a very mature way to spend my thirtieth birthday to really prove to myself I had grown up. My previous birthdays were spent ingesting large amounts of alcohol at various watering holes formally known as bars because that is what immature twenty-somethings do - pub crawls. For this birthday, however, I went wine tasting in the beautiful Napa Valley, focused on elegantly and daintily tasting various wine splendors, since I had matured so much in the past year and that is what grown ups do - they wine taste.

Unfortunately the idea of tasting the wine lasted about as long as one’s attention span to this blog, and it wasn’t long before it became a wine chugging trip instead. That is unless of course you compare a “taste” to the time at Costco when you politely “tasted,” Mildred’s brownie sample, then proceeded to tackle her, ransack her brownies and dropkick her into the condiment aisle. Who was I kidding - this wine tour was no more than an intoxicated wolf dressed in Winery clothing. It was another debaucherous pub crawl…

The good thing about being at a winery, however, is that it’s very difficult to find a revolting shot that your brainless buddies generally buy you on your birthday.

Everyone knows the ones I’m talking about. Your buddy yells down from the other end of the bar - Steve, how about a Flaming Car Bomb, Buttery nipple, Three Wise Men, Appletini shot?
Distracted, you simply just yell back, “Sure,“.

All of a sudden you hear a car explode outside, the side doors open up and a naked Eskimo in a King’s chair is carried in by Three Wise Men who proceed to blowtorch an apple tree (which they‘ve also carried in), while some obese dude in a Speedo is rubbing margarine on your nipples and an insatiable Ocelot is licking your genitalia.

Somewhere in the distance a dog barks…

“What the hell did I get myself into,” you perplexingly ask yourself, as the flaming shot is thrown your way by a guy in a clown outfit who is now riding the Ocelot. ** If this reminds you of your last drinking experience, please refer to ** below and lock all your doors.

At that point, you have no excuse but to take it down, which you do by pretending it is no big deal until an excruciating burning engulfs your mouth, throat and spleen, like troops storming Normandy on D- Day.

You attempt to maintain your stolid composure as liquid you had no idea existed in the human body starts to drain feverishly from your eyes, nose and throat as well as from places that never excreted liquid previously. If you’ve never had liquid come out of the dry pores in your elbow before, just try a Flaming Eskimo-Wise man-Double helix- Rose Thorn- Saber Tooth - Appletini and your body will rid itself of that poison by any means necessary…

I’m also against any shot that requires me to prepare myself by pouring things on my person or preparing for in advance. If I have to pour salt on the small of my back, harvest a tree of lemons, and rub ointment on my privates all in an uniquely timed sequential process, then that shot is probably not for me.

I absolutely loathe taking shots, but even at thirty, I can still be convinced to take one, but it will be on my own schedule. I also don’t want any of the five food groups nearby to cushion the blow. While I’d like to think I don’t need a bunch of flare to help, it’s actually because I’ve probably tossed the shot over my shoulder and onto some unsuspecting poor chap behind me, thus creating the illusion I’ve actually taken it, while the other person is busy sprinkling fresh parsley on their upper thigh to prepare for their shot.

I figure I’d rather take my chances with the seven foot biker dude behind me with Fernet dripping down his brow than my throat on fire and a horrific headache the next morning.

Another thing that increases as you get older are the strange injuries that you wake up with the next day. In the past your younger self shook these off and maybe even repaired them before youwoke up in a drunken stupor the next morning, but now I wake up with all types of mysterious injuries; a bruise here, a twisted ankle there, all with no recollection of their origin or cause. The other morning I woke up and the entire left inside of my mouth was raw. It was either burned, beaten or attacked by a curling iron. No clue.

You can’t go to your Doctor for these types of injuries, because he or she is going to ask you a series of questions you simply don‘t know the answers to.

“Well when did you notice this, and how did it happen,“ your Doctor will quiz you.

Your response will be : “I don’t know, I uh, just don’t know.”

“Well when did it happen,” your Doctor will ask, mind boggled.

“I don’t know. I just don’t…

"…Well lets see, actually the last thing I remember was the Flaming Elephant shot, then there was a naked Eskimo who rubbed lotion on my nipples…”(your mind starts to drift off to the shocked look on the Eskimo’s face after you had mistaken his tanned skin for Melinda, the hot bartender, and had done a shot off his man boobs by accident. A chill of melancholy reminiscing awkwardness creeps down your spine. You then remember the Eskimo socking you in the face after you jokingly juggled his man boobs and you slowly reach for your mouth like the Detective in “Usual Suspects,” when he finds out who Kaizer Suze was. Your mouth blurts out before your brain can react).

“Now I rememb…Uh you know what Doc, actually nope, I, uh, I have no idea how it happened…“

**you may want to lay low for a while because you probably inhaled PCP by mistake, or illegally abducted a live, small game animal; ocelots are endangered you prick.

To be continued next week…


check back or subscribe for email updates at

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Un-Enthralling Epiphanies Part I - 2009 in Review, Turning 30, and all types of Tantalizing Tomfoolery Too Hot For My Space

Just like the media gets giddy for the first birth of the new year, the first murder in Oakland (usually two seconds after midnight), or first crotch shot of Lindsay Lohan, the staff here at Shenanigans have elatedly awaited the first asinine comings and goings of 2010 to hit newsstands. With each dedicated employee seething with incongruent, non-creative musings, it has been decided that the New Year would start out with not just one debaucherous delicacy, but a four part edition of nonsensicalness to get things started out on the wrong foot. Readers, hold onto your Taylor Lautner lunch pails ; this is only the first of four excerpts guaranteed to make you ask more with each edition ; why am I reading this wretched babble?

Settling back in after a holiday is never easy, but the staff is always determined at the very least to hit the ground drooling and sputtering. The first order of business after having to sneak through the electrical closet after the office locks had been purposely changed and tiptoe past the receptionist to avoid further complicating a pending restraining order, was to check the voicemail system. Unfortunately, as expected, it was not overflowing with ebullient fans requesting a 2009 yearbook of Shenanigans, so we felt positive that our E-mail inboxes would be littered with jovial notes from loyal fans dying to know what was next for the #8891st ranked blog on the internet. There, strategically delivered between a Cialis Advertisement and an email from a Swedish exchange student/male escort, I saw it:

Re : Blog.

It was from a real fan.

“Gay Proctologists? Number 2 pencils?? So. Carolina Gamecocks material??? Did the mother-load of bad comedians break down in front of your house recently & you've been forced to provide them food & shelter in exchange for their 'quality' material?”

Alas, this humbling e-mail, less entertaining than the blog itself, if one can even fathom, was from none other than Pleasanton’s own, Johnny P. Before him, idolized prominent figures shortened their names. First there was JFK who used three. Then LC from “The Hills,” took it to where JFK could not, but this beloved icon needs just one letter to gain the respect of thousands. He is known in the cross-dressing community, chat rooms, and “I’m a Fan of the blonde Backstreet Boy,” on Facebook, simply as “P.” (Well, actually we just received word that on Hasselhoff’s chat room his handle is actually ticklemyhoff69 - sorry folks, but everywhere else it is P)…

On one hand Shenanigan’s popularity has grown substantially (fan base of 1 in 2008, up to 3 1/3 in 2009), but on the other hand, insatiable fans like P, continue to demand more, no longer willing to settle for stories of unmoving tales about locker rooms, sexual innuendos regarding the whale community and fabricated fables about exhumed latex products discovered on jogs. Sure, it is a mere cross to bare, a small price to pay…

“A victim of their own success? Seriously? Get that thing out of my face, you loser…Officer! No I don’t know why it is called a Sperm Whale, Officer, this guy is scaring me,” one critic screamed, when asked, or confronted rather about the blog…

Ok...And now to the write up…

2009 was a year up and down like a toilet seat, and like an ESPN employee illegally video peeping sexy reporter Erin Andrews, I had to constantly stay on my toes. The most significant event, other than finally discovering that, Every Kiss does not begin with Kay, it begins with a couple Washington Apple shots, a dash of exposed nipple, and a hearty music diet of Barry Manilow, was turning thirty. Fortunately for the hit tracker on my blog website, which in turn generates negative $11 every month, you’ll have to check back to read more… you may even want to subscribe so you will be notified, like for example just when you sit down to dinner and prefer to be left alone, just got snuggled in that new Snuggie or have just enough battery on your phone for this email to come through when you were waiting for your new special someone to sext (sex text) you, that a new blog has been released. (All the hip kids are doing so at :

In the meantime take a few moments to reflect on your 2009; maybe even with a nice cup of coffee at Starbucks. While there you can try to figure out who in God’s name is buying the warm Ethos waters for two dollars when they offer cold water in a perfectly good fountain or cup of ice water for free…

To be continued... ...