Mads: Let's Make a Deal, Rio Style

I don't know why, but I called the number on the note.

"We have what you want. Meet us at noon tomorrow with the stuff, and no one gets hurt."

"What are you talking about?"

"We have your friend. Bring the stuff tomorrow."

"My friend's dead. You hit him with a throwing star."

There was some discussion going on in the background.

"Is your name Steve?"

"No, it's Mads."

"Mads? Holy shit. Mads Olafson."

I recognized the voice.

"Fred, what the hell are you doing?"

"Not much man. I got this gig working tech for--"

It cut off. I closed my phone. There was a knock at the door. I answered it. It was Juglass and the Ant Man, only now they were wearing long rain coats and cheap suits.

Mads: Big Trouble in Little Rio

It's all over but the crying. I'm an expert tennis player. I have to be, being I'm an affluent European. Abdul Karim's a great player too, being an affluent Iranian, which makes him only slightly less than an affluent European. So I took a bet. A bad bet.

A man in town named Hermon (her-MON), who has a lot of cash and likes to gamble, wagered me that Abdul Karim and I couldn't beat his team of tennis players. I figured he had to have ringers.

No. Instead it was Juglass and some half man/half ant creature known only as the Ant Man. I watched them play for a bit, and they seemed beatable. I took Hermon up on his challenge.

We lost, but barely. Ant Man would occasionally not return our serves. Juglass would sometimes swing at the ball and miss. But at the same time, when they needed points, they seemed to get them. Ant Man would use his ant-like reflexes, and Juglass would be impossible to beat at the net. They served for the match, and won, three games to two.

After the game, we barely made it out of the tennis courts alive. Apparently I'm not the only one who's been wagering with Hermon. A pack of wild ninjas stormed the court, looking for some kind of payment. Ant Man used his superhuman strength and Juglass used his amazing Frisbee prowess to protect Hermon, while we scaled the fence and made a run for it. When we got home, I found out the bad news: Abdul Karim took a stray throwing star to the back. There was a note attached: "Let's make a deal 555-4179!"

"Damn."

Mayor McCheese: My TV Appearence

I just had to announce this: I've got a stint as a baddie that may turn into a reoccurring role in the new hit crime drama Juglass and the Ant Man. It's really cool. I'm in episode 3, "Don't be McGlibb", where I play an evil Scientologist who kills his assistant to cover up my embezzling of Scientologist funds. It's really great. The show should be airing soon on Wednesday nights at nine on the ION network, right after Alice reruns.

AC Milan

Many of you know that Man Utd. played AC Milan yesterday for a chance to go to the Champions League final. Man Utd. was one goal up on aggregate, so they just needed to score one and play defense, and they were in pretty good shape.

Of course, I knew better. Utd. never plays well against Milan in Italy. Also, Patrice Evra was out on a yellow card suspension, which severely deteriorated their defense. I took as many bets as I could at 3-to-1 odds, and cleaned the hell up. Milan won 3-0, 5-3 on aggregate.

The best bet was the one I made with Sir Ian McKellen. This one wasn't for money. Instead, he had to walk around Harvard Square in a bunny suit. In perhaps the greatest irony, no one recognized him, assumed he was a street performer, and he made $22.37 in tips. Not a bad deal if you ask me.

Now I gotta think about the final...

Mads: My Trip to the Holy City

Abdul Karim was needed back home. His uncle, a Shi'ite cleric, had passed away. He invited me, and considering I hadn't been to Iran before, I was excited.

At the funeral in the holy city of Qom, a woman caught my eye. She had an amazing face, and these beautiful curves that seemed to poke out from under her chadora. She noticed me too.

I made the rounds meeting everyone. My Persian is pretty bad (I needed my Boston friend with me: he's fluent, being the foremost expert on Iranian cinema in North America), and most of Abdul Karim's family spoke poor English... except the woman from the funeral. She was Abdul Karim's cousin, and she learned English at a very young age in one of the Shah's educational programs.

Well, it didn't take long before Fatima (that was her name), and I snuck off to some secluded area. The whole thing was a disaster. First off, she was a virgin, so not very good in the sack (a 39-year old virgin?); second, her family caught us, and I barely escaped with my life; third, without Abdul Karim's driver, I had to ride a mini-bus back to Tehran, which broke down twice, and rolled over once, killing two passengers; finally, at the airport, I saw Abdul and Fatima. Abdul brokered a compromise with his family, which involved me marrying Fatima.

Iran is not as quaint as their movies would have you believe. I needed a drink.

A Rough Game of Asshole

I was playing Asshole the other night with Gwen, Matty the Mainer, Hubert Humphrey, and Steve Levy from ESPN. Matty was cleaning up as President, and it was difficult to deal with. He called himself "El Presidente" and referred to everyone else as part of his administration. He gave us all nick names like "Randolph" and "Buck jr.", and made people drink for obnoxious reasons like saying you liked Dodgeball or The Sopranos, or for not knowing who the Chancellor of Germany is.

This had to stop. Even though Matty referred to his reign as a benevolent regime, it was anything but. I needed a snack, so I went through some old Chinese in the fridge, and found a lone Fortune Cookie. I opened it up:

A man with no thumbs does not eat potato chip well.

Wow, it was right. It made complete sense. I went to work. I mixed up a Manhattan for everyone, walked uncomfortably into the dining area, announced my presence, then tripped over Gwen, and spilled the drinks all over the cards. Everyone freaked out for a second, then when they realized I hadn't spilled on them personally, they calmed down.

"That's my only deck of cards. I guess we gotta do something else."

We all went over to watch an episode of Flavor of Love Girls Go to Charm School I had TiVoed, but I pulled Matty aside as we did.

"I will never play that game again if you're within ten feet of the room."

His eyes widened.

"I knew it, you bastard. Ed Rush derailed me!"

Mayor McCheese: Cult of the Mayor

About three years ago, Chi Town was getting me down, and I felt it was time to get on the road. I hit up a used car dealership and picked up a Volkswagen bus. Then I scooped my Ethiopian Orthodox Bible and some Ethiopian food, and went to a Todd Agnew and Hillsong/Delirious? Christian rock concert. I set up shop with some of the other evangelists outside my VW bus.

The kids seemed intrigued, and I just reeled them in. I told them the true book, unfiltered by the old Catholic Church, is in the Ethiopian Orthodox Bible. I told them the food I was eating was the same that Jesus ate. Then I had them tell me about themselves. I endeared myself to the ones who said their parents had money, and recruited them onto the bus. I travelled the Christian rock circuit, living off kids' parents, and pocketing the profits. It was a real uplifting experience.

Mads: Tony Farini: Door-to-Door Cheese Salesman

Abdul Karim and I were playing a little 2006 FIFA World Cup the other day, and he was giving my Norway team the business with Iran, when we heard a knock at the door.

"Hello?"

"Hi, how are you today? I'm Tony Farini."

He put out his hand for a shake, while his other held a rain coat and briefcase. He was a thin Italian man with a slight New York accent. He wore a slim gray suit and a fedora.

"I'm Mads, and this is Abdul Karim. What can we do for you?"

"It's not what you can do for me, but rather what I can do for you."

Turns out he was a door-to-door cheese salesman. I can't lie, his marscapone was to die for, and I put in an order for a case of it to make some tiramisu. He also had a half-pound of some 6-year aged parm that I could buy right then, and I didn't hesitate. Abdul ran out and grabbed a Cab Sav and two hotties that worked at the local McDonald's. Tony Farini, the door-to-door cheese salesman, saved our night.

One of the girls was a huge Barry Manilow fan, and I still have "Mandy" in my head.

Pepe Was Not a Nice Boy

Sir Ian McKellen and I were playing 2006 FIFA World Cup on PS2, when he got a text message.

"Wow, I'm needed in Honduras," he said.

"Honduras? What's down there?" I had just scored with Didier Drogba, so I put the controller down and looked at him.

"I own a beach house. They're really cheap in Honduras, you know? Anyway, apparently there was a big police raid at my place."

We hopped a charter flight to Honduras without even packing. When we got there, it wasn't a pretty sight.

"Are you Sir Ian McKellen?" The head of the Honduran federal police department asked. He was a stout man with a thin moustache.

"Si, I am."

"When was the last time you were down here?"

"Wow, 2004, I think. Things have been hectic lately. I let Pepe live there when I'm not around."

"What do you know about Pepe?"

"He seems like a nice boy."

In fact, Pepe was not a nice boy. He ran an illegal drug operation, acting as a middle man for coke going from Columbia to Mexico. For fun, he raised pit bulls for a dog fighting ring, which also took place at the house. Mr. McKellen immediately contacted his lawyer. I asked the police chief where I could go to see some jaguars in the wild. I love jaguars.

Why Budweiser Commercials Are so Dumb

A classified document from Budweiser world headquarters surfaced today, and it sheds some light on their really bad commercials. According to the files, the sampling process for their focus groups was skewed, which caused them to pick more men with sub-three digit IQs.

For anyone who's seen any commercials targeted toward men during any sporting event, the message is very clear: men are dumb. The advertising executive with his bushy goatee and blue or pink button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up has a very low opinion of the men who watch sports but yet do not invest money in big brokerage firms. Now we know why.

I was telling Sir Ian McKellen this a few days ago when we were watching the Sox and Yanks on ESPN. He kind of ignored me while I was talking. Then the Bud Light commercial came on where these two meatheads play rock/paper/scissors for a beer, and one of the guys throws a real rock, which knocks the other one down. I shook my head and turned to Sir Ian, and he was laughing.

"I'm going to remember how funny that commercial was when I'm at a bar again, and I'll buy a Bud Light."

"Why don't you go make another X-Men movie?"

"Why don't you make me?"

Screech

Seeing Screech on Celebrity Fit Club last night reminded me of a cruise I went on about ten to twelve years ago. There were tons of girls, and Screech was there too. He was all over all the women, but none of them were really feeling it. I was a little shocked. So I asked one what the deal was.

"He may not sound like Screech in real life, but he still looks like a goof ball."

That's stuck with me. I asked Gwen what she thought about it while we were watching the show last night.

"It's not only that," she said. "But he's acting like the 15-year old know-it-alls that I have to listen to during me and my friends' Battlestar Galactica nights. It's like, he's the only one who doesn't know he's not cool when he acts like that, you know?"

"What do you think, Hube?"

Hubert Humphrey was finishing off a veggie wrap, and he put his hand up to let us know he'd give us his response when he was finished chewing.

"That Kimberly Locke is hot," he said. "I don't know why she's trying to lose weight. I hope Harvey kicks Screech's ass if he gives her shit."

"True 'dat, Hube, True 'dat."

Mayor McCheese: Wild Rebels Cereal

I attended a recent McDonald's board meeting, and let me tell you, it sucked a fat one. Most of the time I spent daydreaming and doodling on the table. I also had to deal with Ronald's inability to comprehend my sarcasm.

"Do you have any suggestions Mayor on how we can revamp our breakfast menu?" He said.

"Sure, Wild Rebels Cereal."

"Wild Rebels Cereal?"

"Yeah, it's like biker themed. There's little marshmellow chains and skuls and cross bones. It's not a bad deal."

"Whatever you say, Mayor."

The others snickered. I was pissed, so I opened a beer and lit a Parliament.

Red Charm School

The hottest thing in reality TV currently is VH-1's show where the Flavor of Love girls go to charm school. Mo'nique seems to have this thing licked, though I must admit, great first episode aside, I'm nervous when I see a guest appearance coming by New York (who is the epitomy of everything uncouth in the Flavor of Love girls), and when I hear that one of the judges is a pageant dude.

I have a friend who runs a great charm school in Woonsocket, Rhode Island. He and his wife work to take a girl like Paris Hilton, and turn her into Emma Goldman. That's right, it's a Red charm school.

They don't have girls walk with books on their heads, but rather understand that the whole point of making women walk with books on their heads stems from a long held belief that women were too dumb to read. Instead of telling the girl which fork to eat with what course, they explain that the leisure class invents these inane rules in a way to make themselves feel somehow better than the lower classes.

I remember another friend complained that his daughter was becoming too spolied and too much of an ignoramus. At 16, she wanted $150,000 birthday party, would only drive a Bently, and didn't know how many states there were in the US. I thought maybe his daughter could use a turn at the Red Charm School, and he went with my recommendation.

The results were mixed. After just three months there, when she returned home, she donated all of her designer clothes to charity (which made me cringe...), started renting out rooms in her father's mansion to migrant workers, and quoted Veblen and Marcuse to her grandparents. The father was ready to kill me, until he saw his daughter tell her boyfriend he was a "One-Dimensional Meathead" and that she could never waste her life with a dolt that was worth nothing beyond his father's money.

I received an '82 Bordeaux for my help.

Barry Barry Bonzo, I Don't Like Your Girlfriend

150K, a spitfire pop singer, and a beef roid-taking baseball player with a size 15 head. What does it all mean? My best plan ever.

I saw a commercial for Avril Lavigne's new CD, changed the channel, and saw Barry Bonds in a post-game press conference, as persnickety as usual. Of course, how could I have not thought of it before? I contacted Avril's agent and laid down the offer: 150K if she sang her "Girlfriend" song to Barry in the middle of one of his cat-and-mouse games with the media. I'd be able to get her and her friends the press credentials. She was down.

Two days later I got a text message:

"It's done. Watch SportsCenter at 11."

In the opening credits they showed all the crap that was going to be on, then the music quieted, and I saw a befuddled Barry Bonds listening to "Barry Barry Bonzo, I don't like your girlfriend. No way No way, I think you need a new one. Barry Barry Bonzo, I could be your girlfriend."
Scott van Pelt was speechless as ESPN showed the full clip. The people at the press conference were stunned. Avril said she had a question, then one of her little buddies turned on a boom box that had the backing music. She could only get that opening part out before security carried her and her friends off. Barry shook his enormous head.

"That was one crazy white bitch," he said.

Mayor McCheese: What's in it For Me Moon Knight?

I was watching Kaui and Taquita with the Hamburglar and Big Mac aficionado Ron Gorske, when Moon Knight burst in and pulled his tough cop routine. I exhaled a bong hit in his face.

"Listen, Mayor," he said. "We can do this the hard way or the easy way."

I was ready for him this time. I pointed over to the other side of the room. Mac Tonight was performing "The Lady is a Tramp" on my piano. Moon Knight released his grip from my collar, and fell to his knees.

"God damn you!"

"That's right, Moony baby, McDonald's own-a La Luna. Why don't you guys kindly show Mr. Knight the door?"

"Robble Robble."

"No, wait. I came because I needed some information. I gotta find the Tuna Cutter. He's been hired to kill a close friend of mine, and I need to stop him."

"What's in it for me, Moony baby?"

"I have an autographed 45 of "Careless Whisper."

"By George Michael, or just the other guy?"

"Both."

"You got yourself a deal."

He went home and brought it back, so I played ball. The Tuna Cutter was catching an encore performance of Menopause: The Musical at the MacArthur Playhouse, and Moon Knight could find him there.

Mads: Happy Fucking Birthday to Me

Compared to previous birthdays, trente-sept was pretty decent. The celebration only lasted two weeks, which may be indicative of my advanced age, but it was a good two weeks, and ain't that what counts the most?

My family flew me into Oslo on their private jet, and I was received by King Harald V with a parade in honor of my achievements as a Nobel laureate. I shot an empty beer bottle into the procession, hitting horse in the ass, which caused a fair amount of chaos. It was sweet.

Later my parents hired The Hooters to perform. I got to sing "All You Zombies" with them, which was a trip. I also did some drunk luging, and broke my left wrist.

That's when the fun started. Loaded on vicatins (vicodin?) and cheap Finnish beer, I hopped on a ferry bound for Hamburg. I hired hookers for me and five Japanese businessmen I'd bumped into in front of a DVD and goldfish store.

I met Abdul Karim in Prague the next night with some Shi'ite oil men from Bahrain. They bought me a castle just outside the city and we filled the pool with Jell-O. Kind of pedestrian, right?

That's what I thought, until Didier Drogba showed up. We took a train to Bratislava, and then Minsk, where I would've been arrested for dressing up like Stalin and trying to get free drinks if the Bahraini oil men hadn't bought the cops there. They sold me one for a reduced rate because they liked me, so if I ever go back to Minsk, I'll have my own police officer.

Then we went to Sofia: big mistake. I drank the Bulgarian Cocktail. I was out. I woke up five days later on a raft floating out in the Atlantic ocean heading toward South America from Africa. The raft had been built out of vegetation by some monkeys. Unfortunately, they weren't great conversation, so I burnt out my Robin Thicke loaded iPod. The raft landed in Argentina, and I took a train back here to Rio.

Porn Character Actor

We always here about so-called Porn Stars. Now I'm sure some of these people actually are famous for doing Gentlemen's Cinema, but I'm also sure that many other just have sex in movies and no one's ever heard of them. My friend Todd is neither. He's a Porn Character Actor.

He plays the police chief in porn detective dramas, the bad guy's second in command in porn action movies, the mysterious wiseman in porn horror movies, the father in-law in porn romantic comedies, and the colonel in porn war sagas.

Whenever I go anywhere with him, it's only a matter of time before someone asks "Hey, aren't you that guy?" and nods and smiles and says "Yes, I'm him.". It's a thankless job, but he's a true master of the craft: a consumate artist and professional.

Andy Messersmith, of course

I was watching the Dodgers/Rockies game the other day, and the Afflack trivia question asked who the last four Dodgers starters to lead the NL in wins before Lowe and Penny were. I knew Oral Herscheiser, Sandy Koufax, and Don Drysdale. I thought the fourth was Fernando Valenzuela (sp?), but it was Andy Messersmith. Of course... Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

I was on a date with a really hot Native American chick named Naomi, and missing the trivia question was still in my mind.

"What does it matter?" She said.

"I know in the grand scheme of life it's not so big a deal, but it's good to have stuff you care about like that, you know?"

"Well, I just think baseball's boring. I mean it's cool when the Sox are doing good, but after that..."

"Boring, huh? Well, I think we're going to have to remedy that."

Cue the montage...

Except the montage music was Disturbed: highly inappropriate. I looked through my iPod. Kenny Loggins, "Meet Me Halfway", Journey stuff, "Take it to the Limit" off the Scarface, soundtrack... too obvious. I settled on Ashley Simpson's "Pieces of Me".

Now cue the montage. I took her to some games, showed her some books, watched Baseball Tonight with her, saved someone's life using my glove, played catch... all in the space of the length of the song.

"Man," she said. "I didn't know baseball could be so good."

"Few do."

"So you think the Sox's problem at the bottom of their lineup will hurt them more than the Yankees' starting pitching woes?"

I looked at the camera and winked. We froze, and the credits rolled.

Almost Ted Lange

I was riding on a plane back from Paris, and it had just landed, and as we were standing to gather our belongings and disembark, I saw a man about ten rows in front of me who looked like Ted Lange, the man who played Isaac the Bartender on The Love Boat.

As I debated whether or not it was him without staring too much (staring is frowned upon, of course), he disappeared. I figured I'd lost my chance at meeting one of my idols. But what would I have said if I did meet him? Do that point thing you always did in the opening credits? Oh God, he must get that all the time, and besides, he isn't a wind-up toy... I have no right to expect him to perform on command.

I shrugged my shoulders and went back to the paper. Geez, they really dumped Imus. Not for that ridiculous luxury ranch he lives in and uses as a tax write-off because he makes kids with cancer paint it for him, but for a racist remark. Maybe he should've listened when that psychic pulled the Wheel of Fortune card when she did his reading.

Mayor McCheese: Love and a .45

Ronald invited me to play tennis and have lunch with him a few afternoons ago. I won't lie, I'm not a great tennis player. I know, as a mayor, I should be great at tennis, golf, what have you, but I'm just not always so good at being a Richy McKhakipants, you know?

Of course, Ronald is excellent at the game, and he was roundly destroying me. I was losing like 80 million love, and I'd had just about enough. For some reason I just could not get my racket to hit the ball the way I wanted to, and it needed to pay. I put it on the ground, allowed it to smoke a last cigarette, and then blindfolded it with a do-rag I had in my backpocket. I shot it with my .45. Ronald rolled his eyes.

Bon Pantalon

I was in Paris recently, reading Dos Passos's The Manhatten Transfer and wearing a pair of Nike windpants. A woman came by and said without a tinge of sarcasm in her voice:

"Bon pantalon."

Bon pantalon? Why would she say that? The waiter slapped me upside the head.

"She said 'Nice pants'."

I stood up and threw my water in his face.

"Oui, je comprend francais, fuck face."

He apologized and brought me my bill. All things considered, I gave him a 15% tip.

Dice-K's 21 Strikeouts

I was sitting in my livingroom, eating some fresh, pan-seared scallops a guy a knew who worked on a boat smuggled for me that day, when Sir Ian McKellen burst into my apartment.

"You'll never believe the dream I had last night."

"Try me. We'll see what I will believe and what I won't."

"I had this dream that I was hanging out with some people, watching SportsCenter. They were reporting on Dice-K striking out 21 batters, which is some kind of a record, right?"

"Okay...?"

"Yeah, then Lauren from The Hills called me over. I was sitting on the floor and she wanted me to cuddle with her on the couch. When I got over to her, she licked my face. Can you believe it? What does it all mean?"

"I must say, my man, being the limey that you are, I'm rather impressed that you know the Major League record for strikeouts in a game is 20. I'd say the dream can mean only one thing."

"No, you can't be saying..."

"Yep: Road Trip!"

We rented a red convertible and drove down to Des Moines, Iowa.

Who Sings "Electric Blue"?

Hubert Humphrey and I were having a bite to eat, discussing recent campaign developements. Overhead, Icehouse's "Electric Blue" was playing, and two husky men in the booth behind us were having an arguement about it.

"No way, this song was done when Lou Gramm was with Foreigner. I know, it was on the album with 'I Don't Want to Live Without You'."

"No way, dude. It was when he was solo. It was on that album that had that 'Just Between You and Me' song."

I held a finger up to Hube, and he nodded. I turned to the boys behind me.

"If I may interject, fellas, but this song has absolutely nothing to do with Foreigner or Lou Gramm. It was done by an Australian band Icehouse. In fact, the song was co-written by John Oates of Hall and Oates fame."

They seemed none too convinced, until the song ended and the DJ proved me right. I gave them a thumbs up and turned around. I wanted some more fries, but found my container wanting. I looked up. Hubert had a mouth full of my fries.

"Dude, that was way weak."

He shrugged his shoulders and continued chewing.

Mayor McCheese: Who Robs a Post Office?

I had just taken another bong hit, when my phone blew up. Hamburglar answered it.

"Who is it?"

"Robble robble."

Birdie? At this time of night? That can't be good. I took the phone.

"Mayor?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Look, it's not my fault. I'm in jail."

"What happened?... Forget it. I'll just come down and bail you out."

At the station, I found out the whole story. Birdie was pregnant, and she and the baby's father decided to make a little cash robbing a post office. They were arrested.

"If you needed the cash, why didn't you come to me? I'd've helped you out."

"I just wasn't thinking. Please, don't tell Ronald."

"What makes you think he won't find out eventually?"

"I don't know... are you gonna bail out Trevor too?"

"That the baby's father?"

"Yeah."

"What? You cannot be serious!"

"What are you, John McEnroe?"

"No... no, I'm not. I'm sorry... you didn't deserve that..."

Soul II Soul Tour

I couldn't believe it. One year ago at about this time, I saw listed on Foxboro Stadium's upcoming events list the Soul II Soul tour. I was so stoked. Soul II Soul was one of my all time fav groups: I mean my vinyl copy of Club Classics Vol. 1 was so worn I had to retire it and buy another. They were that hot.

So I bought my ticket, and the whole way there I was blasting "Back to Life" in my iPod. Then it happened.

That's right, the Soul II Soul tour was a pop country act. It wasn't even good enough to feature Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash. I was so mad, I took the two singers (I don't remember their names now) to small claims court. They offered to settle for $1200, and though I didn't want to take it, I had to when I found out the court date conflicted with a scheduled trip to Fiji.

Apparently they haven't learned anything from last year's experience, because the two singers are touring again under the name Soul II Soul. What dorks.

Just For Men Marketing Conspiracy

I saw a commercial the other day for Just For Men. In it, guys with gray hair couldn't get laid, but guys who used Just For Men were getting action from lithe, blonde, twentysomething women in cowboy hats and tank tops. I was curious about this, because as far as I could tell, gray hair wasn't the kind of criterion for pariah status they were making it out to be. I mean guys with non-graying hair still have trouble getting broads, and they're are plenty of hotties hooking up with dudes who have graying temples.

So I did some investigating. What I found shocked me. I talked to some men I knew in advertising, and they led me to some people, who led me to some more people, who led me to Stock Luckman.

That's right, the Stock Luckman, self proclaimed King of Marketing. Apparently back in 1973, he was in a bar in Tortola, a Caribbean resort island in the Caribbean, with a fellow marketing guru, who shall remain nameless. The man told him he couldn't create a market for hair dye for guys growing gray.

"Even you aren't talented enough to invent that kind of vanity. I can see selling it to actors who want to keep doing leading man roles past their prime, but the average guy just isn't that worried about it."

"You're wrong."

And with that, he went to work. He gathered the hottest young women he could find, and had them say on TV that they hated men with gray hair. From there everything went downhill. Men stopped watering their well manicured lawns and ran to the nearest drug store to get this stuff. For some reason they thought the same secretary that had been banging them on the side for years suddenly found them unattractive.

The whole thing made me question my own life. What was I buying that I didn't need, but Marketing made me think I needed. Was brushing my teeth a legitimate need? I considered a guy I knew who had rotting teeth, and figured I was safe on that one. Shampoo? No, Irish Spring just didn't cut it on my hair, and $1.89 for a bottle of Suave wasn't too extreme. Moisturizer? Yes, I threw that out: I knew I was buying that due to some GQ article. I mean what guy needs moisturizer, right?... well, apparently this one. My doctor told me my skin was extremely suceptable to drying in the winter. Damn it! Marketing won again!

The N-N-N-Nineties Cafe

Boston has a lot of really hot radio: BCN, AAF, Jammin', Kiss. But my favorite is one that's less known. In fact, I don't even know what its call letters are; I just find it somewhere in the middle of the dial. I only listen to one program, but that one block is the best in Boston: "The 90s Cafe". Every night from 11pm to 6am, they play the best music from the decade: not any grunge or gritty alternative, but more mainstream stuff. The show starts every night at 11:02 sharp with "Hey Jealousy" by the Gin Blossoms. Other bands include the Goo Goo Dolls, Matchbox 20, Del Amitri, and Go West.

The only reason why I know it's called The 90s Cafe is that a voice will pop in every few songs and tell me. Sometimes it's preceded by a whoosh. The voice is kind of deep. "You're listening to the 90s cafe" or "All your favorite hits on the N-N-N-Nineties Cafe".

The other night, the show didn't start on time. There was some weird song that was going on and on instead. I listened to Jammin', and would switch back every so often to see what was up. Finally at 11:42, I tuned in, and they were in the middle of "Hey Jealousy". I was relieved.

Then a mysterious voice came on. Not the one in the bumpers.

"Hello listeners. I want to apologize for that. My buddy's wife wanted to listen to that song, and she just doesn't get the 90s like we do."

And that was it. What did it all mean?

Mayor McCheese: God Damned Chapstick!

I was over at the local Laundromat, doing my laundry, drinking a forty, and eating a new McDonald's Cheddar Melt. I pulled some of my shirts out of the dryer, and my chapstick fell on the floor. It took a second to realize what had happened: I fucking left it in my pants, and it went through with my clothes. As they dried, the intense heat melted it, and I had lip balm all over my shit. I was pissed.

I probably should've cooled off, but at the same moment, I noticed that Red, the local nutty military buff, was cleaning out his gun while his fatigues were washing. He had two grenades on his vest, and I grabbed one, pulled the pin, and lobbed it into the dryer where my clothes were. Luckily, no one died in the explosion.

As a side note, Red was institutionalized, because no one believed that the Mayor McCheese threw a grenade into a dryer. I had Ronald make sure he was sent a Cheddar Melt Value Meal as a consolation.

Mads: The Pizza Dominatrix

Abdul Karim and I were up for some pizza the other day, so he went down to the new place up the street to grab us some. He came back about forty-five minutes later, and he didn't look happy.

"What took you so long?"

"I ran into some trouble."

I noticed in faded red letters the word "PIG" on his forehead. I asked him about it.

"I don't want to discuss it. Let's just eat."

I needed to know what happened, so I decided to do a little solo mish down there one night, just to get the full scoop. I perched myself on the roof of the restaurant, and viewed the goings-on from a skylight. It was not a pretty sight.

I'm big fan of extra anchovies, and so is Abudul Karim. Unfortunately, extra anchovies is a code, a la Loverboy, for something a little more. People who order that are actually ordering a session with the Pizza Dominatrix. I'm guessing poor Abdul Karim couldn't convince them that he just wanted the pizza, and suffered accordingly.

The roof I was sitting on gave way, and I fell thirty feet, onto a big bed. Had the businessman that was chained to it five minutes before still been there, I have no doubt that he'd have perished in cushioning my fall. I was pretty embarrassed, but I couldn't lie, the Pizza Dominatrix was hot. I got her number before I exited out the back door.

The Three Bills

Being the foremost North American expert on Iranian cinema, I felt it was necessary for me to review the recent release The 300. Beyond the overall "ass picnic" feel of the film (not mine, but another reviewer's term), the movie made me feel inspired. I felt like I could take on impossible odds... and die afterwards.

It also made me frightfully aware of a new trend in masculinity: male body dismorphic disorder. That's right, guys chasing that "perfect six-pack". I say, we need to stop this before we become women. The gut is one of the few endearing traits that make us men. After 25 (sometimes earlier), our metabolism slows considerably, and we develop this cute roundness at our midsection. It's like the moustache: only older men can pull this off.

I for one would feel more comfortable with a PBR, a cigar, and a nice episode of Good Times or Barney Miller than to be fighting for space in front of the mirror and feeling bad for myself. I think Vince Vaughn and Orson Welles would agree with me.

Now of course, I don't have that aforementioned gut. I look more like the dudes in The 300. But I knew someone that was sporting a bit of a spare tire, and I thought I'd go to him to get some insight. It's our own Matty the Mainer.

"I don't know what to tell you, dude."

"Well, how often do you go to the gym to get that gut?"

"The gym? Are you serious?"

"C'mon man, what's the secret to getting a good belly? I tried the PBR, but it's not working."

"You're fucking with me, right?"

I was at a loss. I guess I would never be a real man. I left him in the living room so I could admire my six-pack in the mirror. It needed work...

God Being McGlibb

I was watching the Vagina Monologues in Karachi, Pakistan. We were almost hit with acid that was thrown by some Islamic militant as we were exiting the show.

Later that night, sleeping in my hotel room, I had a dream. I was in heaven, and all the women were wearing burqas. I woke with a start, and I gave Mads a call.

"Hey," I said. "Remember when we dressed in burqas and travelled through Taliban controlled Afghanistan?"

"How can I forget? Those things were hot as hell!"

I told him about my dream.

"Oh, I remember that in the Alannis Morrisette song," he said. "It's like going to heaven, and finding out the fundamentalists were right/ it's like meeting the man of his dreams, and then meeting his beautiful wife/ and isn't ironic... dontcha think?"

"Yeah, only the second one about "the man of your dreams" isn't ironic, it's just a sucky situation."

"I got another call," Mads said. "Let me call you back." He did two minutes later. "That was the Mayor McCheese. He said your dream about heaven wasn't ironic either. God was just being McGlibb."

My Raindrop Blue Lacoste Polo

I've only been to Australia once, and let me tell you, once is enough. Here in the States, we are given this image of the Koala Bear as a gentle, noble being, who wants nothing more than to live in harmony with us and his eucalyptus trees. That's so not true.

I was attacked by one of these vicious beasts, and would've died, if not for my trusty raindrop blue Lacoste polo. The thing leaped on me from the branch of a tree like some rabid monkey, and proceeded to claw me apart. Fortunately, it's right paw was caught on the lizard sewn on the left breast. Before it could get itself free, I pulled a can of mace from my pocket, and sprayed the little bastard in the face. As it ran off in immense pain, I yelled behind it:

"I gotchur PETA right here, bitch!"

One Night in Bangkok Makes a Hard Man Humble

People often ask me (and I have no idea why) if I have any regrets in life. I do, actually. One in particular that still eats at me to this day.

Back in 1985, I got into a Boston night club with a fake ID. After a few beers, I saw the most amazing woman ever. She had this poofy blond hair, with an oversized white sweater that revealed her right shoulder, and this hot black leather skirt. She seemed equally interested in me, so during Murray Head's "One Night in Bangkok", I asked her to dance, and she said yes.

One thing led to another, and we were back at her place. I was excited: she would've been my first time. But I betrayed myself. I tried to pretend I was going to BU, so she wouldn't think I was as young as I was, and I mistakenly referred to what should've been my "8 o'clock" as "First Period". She asked how old I really was, and when I told her the truth, she was none too pleased.

I still see her in my head whenever I hear that song (or even mention of it, like when Mike Nelson did during the Alien From LA episode of MST3K). I replay the moment in my mind: why did I say I was in college? how could I have been so dumb? what would our kids have looked like?

One night in Bangkok does indeed make a hard man humble.

Mayor McCheese: One Night in Bangkok Makes a Hard Man Humble

Between the Moon Knight, the Verona, the Tuna Cutter, and Ronald being a pain in the ass, I needed a bit of a break. To get this break, I took a trip to Bangkok.

First thing I did was score some coke and some hookers. What a mess that was. The coke was Ajax, and the hookers were dudes. When I finally found a place where I could unwind, I was caught off guard and one of the chicks slipped me a Mickey. I woke up two days later in a remote Cambodian jungle, completely naked. It was hard enough to navigate the tigers and land mines under "normal" circumstances, but this was really pushing me to my limits. I could've easily bit the bullet and called Ronald from a military outpost so he could arrange the long trip back to Chicago for me. But I still had my pride.

I barely made it back to Bangkok in time to find my passport and other identification in a trash bin outside the brothel where I was drugged. I guess it's hard to sell a US passport with the Mayor McCheese's information on it. I was lucky, but humbled by the experience.

Mads: Olsok

With yesterday being St. Patrick's Day, I thought it might be nice to share with everyone the Norwegian equivalent: Olsok, or St. Olav's Day (literally "Olav's Wake). Observed on July 29th, the day commemorates the death of St. Olav in his attempt to unify Norway and make it a Christian nation. By all accounts, he wasn't a bad guy.

Now one must keep in mind that I celebrate the holiday and my Norwegianess in a slightly different way than my fellow countrymen. I don't do a feast of traditional Norwegian food and a trip to St. Olaf's Church in Oslo. Instead, I paint the Norwegian flag on my face, find the nearest late sixties model convertible, hot wire it, and drive as far and as fast as I can while listening to Eric Carmen's "Make Me Lose Control." Nothing makes me more proud of my heritage.

Last year I was in Boston, and my Boston friend insisted on celebrating with me. I was leery of this, simply because car theft is better done as a one man operation. Finally I relented, and agreed to let him join me.

There was a cherry red '68 Corvette parked about two blocks from his apartment that I had been keeping my eye on for about a month before. I knew when the owner would park it on the street: it just happened to be every Saturday, and Olsok fell on a Saturday too. I couldn't believe my luck.

On the fateful day I hid in the bushes until about noon. I saw him park the car and run inside with his girlfriend. He even left the top down for me. It took me 30 seconds to get the car started and on the road. I picked up my Boston friend in front of his apartment.

That's when my luck turned. He directed me down a side street in Dorchester. At the same time we were there, an argument had turned violent, and shots were fired. A stray bullet hit the back driver's side tire, which sent the car momentarily out of control. Before I could regain control of the vehicle, I hit a street lamp, crushing the front end. More shots were fired, but I knew we needed to get as far away from the stolen car as possible before the cops came to mitigate the violent dispute in front of us. My Boston friend was paralyzed with fear. It was difficult, but I hoisted him up on my back and we made our way to the nearest T stop.

I decided from that point on, I would never take a friend with me as I celebrated Olsok.

Men's Pairs Luge

I noticed Fox Sports Net had luge on the other day, and I decided to watch it. I'd seen highlights before on Winter Olympics past, but never an actual event.

Was I in for a surprise. They have men's pairs. That's right, two men, one sled. You do the math. They were just lying on top of each other.

Now I'm 36 years old, closing in on 37, and I like to think of myself as rather mature for my age. Dick and fart jokes just aren't doing it anymore, and I'm secure enough in my sexuality to not feel uncomfortable when a couple of dudes hold hands. But I don't know, this just seemed gay.

I talked to a representative of the US Luging Association (USLA), and they told me I needed to grow up. I decided I had to cut to the chase: I called in a homosexual.

It just so happened that Kyan from Queer Eye was in town. I had him come up to my apartment and give it a look.

"So, what do you think."

"Gay. No doubt about it: gay."

Mayor McCheese: The Tuna Cutter

I was a little pissed at Verona after the whole poker game incident, and I felt he was probably not worth keeping around anymore, so I called in the big guns... that's right, the Tuna Cutter.

For those who don't know, the Tuna Cutter is a Japanese fish monger who moonlights as a hit man. I seldom call on his services, because he's rather pricey, but now the costs were more than worth the benefits. If I couldn't have a poker game with my friends, something was wrong.

The Tuna Cutter gave me a DVD of the work he did. Verona was having sex with a Cuban immigrant named Jose. The Tuna Cutter Uzied him before they noticed he was there. It was that hot.

I gave him an extra 2 Gs because the DVD was so cool.

Aftermath

I walked Gwen, the Cappie, home after she found out Captain America was killed off, and then I didn't hear from her for two days. She didn't return any of the messages I'd left on her machine. I was worried.

I made a trip over there, just to try and cheer her up. I had a whole host of speeches in mind: everything from "he'll live on in your heart" to "they'll probably just bring him back to life when sales are low."

I hesitated when I got to the door. Was I ready for this? Dealing with sad people's not really my forte, you know?

When she answered the door, I could see in her apartment an open suitcase. Dear Lord, was she running away?

"Hey, I was just gonna go over and see you. What are you doing here?" She said.

"I... um... I was just in your area."

"Sorry I didn't return your calls, I was up in Durham, Maine, visiting my cousins, and I don't get service there."

She's not upset?

"You know, your messages were kind of weird," she said. "Things like 'How're you holding up' and 'call if you need to talk, I'm here for you'. Have you been hitting the coke again?"

"What? I thought you were upset because they killed off Captain America."

"Yeah, I was disappointed, but it's not the end of the world. He's a comic book character, they'll probably bring him back to life sometime soon; maybe when their sales are low. Why did you think that? Did I seem upset when we left the shop?"

"Well, not exactly, but I thought you were just trying to keep a stiff upper lip for me."

"You're a moron. Let's head over to Penang's and grab some food. I'm starving."

Undercover Dungeons and Dragons

I accompanied Gwen, the Cappie, to a local comic book and Dungeons and Dragons store. Gwen was always looking for obscure back issues of Captain America and even more obscure cameos he had in comics like Moon Knight, and those comics were in the back room: where the kids held their Dungeons and Dragons games. While Gwen was knee deep in the hooplah, I took inventory of the players. One of them look familiar. He had a big moustache, black-rimmed glasses, and this odd blue baseball cap with no logo. He looked like an extra from the "Sabotage" video. But he looked familiar.

That's because he was Ashton Kutcher. What was he doing there? I asked him.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"C'mon, Ash, you're not fooling anybody with that obnoxious disguise. Where're the cameras, huh? You punkin' someone?"

He took me aside.

"Look, I'm here to do a little research for my Beauty and the Geek show. I'm thinking of maybe having the girls do something like this for a challenge."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"What's that behind you?"

"What?"

Like a moron, I looked, and when I turned around, I was hit in the eyes with some small rocklike objects, which temporarily blinded me. I found out later they were his 8-sided dice. I regained my eyesight, but not before he had made a clean getaway. That's when I heard a scream. It was Gwen.

"They've killed off Captain America!"

Mayor McCheese: Heads Up With Ronald

With Moon Knight back in town, I thought it might be a good idea to keep a low profile, so I had the gang over for a little poker night.

Now it might be a good idea to explain how the table plays. Grimace: he's been known to lose pots on purpose just to make people think he has no clue; Officer Big Mac: plays very conservatively, and gets really pissed when he loses hands, especially when he had the better hand and ended up getting a bad beat; Birdie: she can definitely hang, and I hate being heads up in a big pot with her; the Hamburglar: impossible to read; finally, Ronald: I've never seen anyone better at knowing what his opponents are holding.

I'll cut right to the chase. The cards were coming my way; it was just my night. In the end, I found myself heads up with Ronald, and I had about a two-to-one chip lead. My first hand was ace-queen suited. I called the big blind and left it to Ronald. He raised. I went all in. And then it happened.

"Get buck naked bitches!"

Two men in ski masked barged in. I could hear from the voice that it was Verona, probably coming to reclaim his VCR. Ronald was not impressed. He gave me look. I thought he was going to try something, and he wanted me to have his back. I was wrong.

The windows of my house were shattered, and four men in SWAT gear swarmed in. They took out Verona and his friend with a taser.

"Are you all right, sir?" One of them asked Ronald.

"I'll be a lot better when I get out of here."

Whatever.

Mads: No, Not My Antonella

It happened. They cut her. And with it, they cut my reason to watch American Idol. Sure, she may not have been as good a singer as some, but she was definitely better than that other chick that got through... I don't remember her name... you know who I'm talking about, the Latina... Christ, why can't I remember her name?

Anyway, I put in a call to my old buddy Simon, and he was a little annoyed with me for championing Antonella's cause.

"Yeah, but, Mads," he said. "She just can't sing. And this is a singing competition."

Oh is it? Apparently not. And if you're not going to put the best singer through, you might as well vote for the best looking chick. I've gone to bat for you quite a bit America: from SUVs to bad John Cougar Mellencamp jingles for inferior to import Chevrolets, even as far as the whole second term for Bush thing... but this not voting for my homegirl... this is too much.

Gay is Our Fake Boobs

I was sitting in a coffee shop, reading Conrad's Nostromo, and waiting for Gwen, the Cappie, to meet me there. I couldn't help overhearing two women sharing the newest US Weekly. They were looking at a story on Angelina Jolie.

"Oh," one of them said. "It looks like she's adding another Third World baby to her collection."

"Where's this one from?" The other said.

"Vietnam."

They looked at the article for a few seconds without saying anything, before the second one said:
"You know, I don't know why everyone thinks she's so attractive, because I just don't see it."

"No, I know what you mean. Like, one of her eye brows is a little bigger than the other."

"Oh, I know, and her chin is like 4 centimeters off."

"And she's got fake boobs. I read it online."

When they were finished, Angelina sounded more like Frankenstein then the amazingly beautiful woman I remember in Cyborg 2. They proceeded to do this to every woman they saw in the issue. They'd start with imaginary flaws and work their way up. Also, every chick had fake boobs, according to them. I don't need to be Dr. Phil to tell you that both of these women were far from attractive, and were compensating for feelings of inadequacy.

I wondered, though, what, if any, defense mechanism we guys have developed to deal the same feelings. It took me a minute, but then it hit me: we just call them all gay. Brad Pitt's hot? Yeah, but he's probably gay. Gay is our fake boobs. It's not that we're saying being gay is bad (well, the stupid of us might be, but I'm not), we're just saying that gay men don't like straight women.

But we can't get away from it. It's the American way to first be jealous, then to inflate someone's flaws until one feels that that person is at his or her level. What's great for us guys, is women can't use the gay card. If they called Angelina Jolie a lesbian, she'd be even hotter to us. I thought of myself and Mads talking about Brad Pitt's eye brows being two centimeters too far apart, and I shuddered.

Gwen came in. After we did our hellos, I asked her what she thought of Angelina Jolie.

"Oh, she's hot. Those lips, whoo! And her eyes, man! I totally forgot all about her bad British accent in Tomb Raider just by how hot she is. Hey, did you TiVo last week's episode of The Hills?"

"Of course. I didn't delete it yet."

"I'm so mad that you got me hooked on that show."

Mayor McCheese: Trouble Brewing in the Windy City

It all started when the Hamburglar came back to my crib in a sorry state. Someone had really worked him over. I asked him what happened.

"Robble... robble... robble... robble..."

There was a note attached to him. It said: "There's a new sheriff in town.", and it was signed with a crescent moon. I couldn't believe it.

I called in Officer Big Mac to gather information, and he confirmed my suspicions. That note was written by none other than Moon Knight. The crime fighter was back, and I knew there'd be hell to pay.

I couldn't have a vigilante like that threaten my criminal enterprises. I had Officer Big Mac find out when his alter ego, Jake Lockley, would be driving his cab. We needed to talk.

I didn't get the chance, though. He found out my plan to meet him and set up a trap for me. Before I could get into his cab, he was on me, beating me with his nunchuks. I thought I was a dead man, for sure.

He laid off me, though. He said something to the effect of "let this be a lesson to you", but I didn't really hear it. He had crushed my pince-nez, and could barely see him bound off. I passed out, and woke up on my couch, with Officer Big Mac looking over me.

"I guess we'll need a Plan B," I said.

You Are Not the Deepcheeks

I had this weird dream the other night. I was watching Maury, and it was your run-of-the-mill DNA test type deal. There was something not right about it, but in the dream, I found it to be completely normal. It was only when I woke up that I realized how odd it was.

Maury had this big black woman on his couch next to him.

"We're here with U God Sham God. U God Sham God, tell us your situation."

"Well, me and Keonton, we was cool at first. I mean, we slapped at that shit, you know what I mean."

The crowd oohed.

"Really, you slapped at that shit? When did things go sour?"

"Well, then he starts talkin' bout his Beetis, an' how my deepcheeks wasn't his, how he wasn't the deepcheeks."

"He was denying your deepcheeks?"

"Yes Maury. Look at them deepcheeks. Don't they look like his?"

It was a picture of Wilford Brimley. The crowd cheered in agreement.

"Well, here's what he had to say."

They cut to a clip of Kurt Rambis in his old Lakers uniform and his goggles. He was gesturing and making angry remarks. They'd cut to a shot of him with his arms crossed shaking his head, and then him dribbling the basketball kind of awkwardly. For some reason he was wearing black Chuck Taylors too.

"U God Sham God know them deepcheeks ain't mine," he said. "She had too many other guys for them to be mine. I ain't the deepcheeks. My boys tell me she was all up in some house with five guys at once, making a movie. Now how she gonna say they mine deepcheeks?"

"Let's bring him out, meet Keonton!"

It was Marvel comics superhero Moon Knight. He was waving at the crowd in a dissmissive manner as they booed him.

"I have the results right here. Keonton, in the case of U God Sham God, you are not the deepcheeks."

I found myself in the audience, then on the stage with Moon Knight. Unprovoked, he took a swing at me with one of his nunchuks, and I woke up. I tried to make sense of it as I went over it in my mind: you are not the deepcheeks. What did it mean? I considered going to a dream analyst, but then decided against it.

I Was Stuck in a Dateline Set-up

A friend of mine living in Duxbury owed me 15 Gs after Liverpool beat Barcelona two weeks ago. He finally told me to stop by his house to get the money. He gave the directions, and told me what time he'd be home. It sounded good to me.

The first thing that seemed off was the young girl that answered the door. I asked her if I had the right house; that I was looking for Dave.

"Dave? Aren't you [some random Internet screen name]?"

"No, not at all. I'm here for my 15Gs."

I put a hand up to Sir Ian McKellen, who had driven me there, and was sitting in the car with it running. He gestured for me to come over to him. I shrugged my shoulders. He got out.

"There's cops staking out the house, man. I think we should get out of here."

The cops got nervous, and jumped out of their hiding places. They yelled for me to get down on the ground. I put two and two together. They thought I was there to have sex with the girl. I was on Dateline. It took a far amount of work, but once the Perverted Justice people were able to confirm that I didn't look like the guy they were expecting, and there was no obscene chat that corresponded to me, they let me go. There was also the threat of me and Sir Ian suing them, which convinced them not to use any of the footage of my visit.

Dave had skipped town. A friend of his at the local police station told him of the Dateline sting, and he thought it would be funny to set me up, so he established a chat with one of the decoys, made an appointment to meet her, and then sent me over. I found out from someone else that he was over in Chicago, so I put in a call to the Mayor, who I knew would take care of him for me. Awful jackass.

Mayor McCheese: It's That Time of Year Again

Every year at this time, Captain Crook comes out of hiding. It's Lent, and Captain Crook was made for Lent. The idea is if people can't eat meat, they can eat the Fillet-O-Fish Sandwich. Of course, now, the only devout practicing Catholics in this country who give a shit about that are old people; and the Fillet-O-Fish tastes too much like ass crack for people to eat it otherwise, so Crook's raison-d'etre has changed a bit.

Women of Chicago, close your shades, at least until Easter. I mean, you can keep the shades open if you want to see a man dressed as a pirate watching you undress, but most women aren't into that. I have been working day and night in the McDonald's lab to create a substitute for the Fillet-O-Fish so the Captain will have something better to do with his time, but it's difficult. Fish just isn't something one can pull off in a cost effective manner and still have it taste good.

I've considered letting the Cap go and do what he's doing, because it's actually good for the company. One year, the local fuzz got to him before our own Officer Big Mac could, and he was all over the news. We got so much free publicity, our sales shot up 13.8%, mostly from Muslim communities, because they can't eat non Halal meat, but they can eat the fish. They would've never known about this option had it not been for Crook's fortuitous arrest.

But Ronald flatly vetoed my suggestion. He felt having a peeping tom as a form of underground advertising strategy was too Burger King, and it wasn't us to stoop that low. I had to agree with him. Now I'm back at work trying to make that new fish sandwich.

Mads: A Moment

I was in a magazine store with Abdul Karim, when I had one of those moments you always hear about, but seldom ever happen. I saw her: perhaps the most beautiful women I'd ever seen in my life. She had a perfect figure, long brown hair with perfect highlights, and these amazing mocha colored eyes. She met my stare, and for a solid 30 seconds we were caught in a trance as Crowded House's "Don't Dream It's Over" played out of the store speakers.

I knew she was the one.

Then her mom came over to me a slapped me across the face. My dream girl was only 14. Who knew? I heard a voice behind me.

"She had me fooled too."

It was George Clooney. He was thumbing through the Brazilian GQ.

"We won't let them win," he said.

"Well, at the very least, we can catch the deluge in a paper cup."

Pan's Labryrinth's no Beauty and the Beast

Matty the Mainer has been raving about how amazing Pan's Labyrinth is since he saw it a few weeks ago. Of course, me being the foremost expert on Iranian cinema, I saw it at the New York Film Festival in October, and I had been telling him to go see it, but I digress. After we watched the Idol results show on Thursday, he made a remark about the movie that made me pause:

"I think Pan's Labyrinth is the best fantasy movie ever."

"Ever?"

"Better than those Lord of the Rings movies."

"Well of course, that goes without saying. Have you see Cocteau's Beauty and the Beast?"

"I've had it TiVoed on my parents' box for months now. I've just never gotten around to watching it."

That wouldn't do. I had the Criterion Collection version of it on my shelf, and we put it on right then. I just couldn't have him making foolish comments about cinema like that, when I had the means to remedy them.

As expected, Matty was changing his tune. Sure, Pan's Labyrinth is an amazing movie on it's own, but in terms of the overall fantasy genre, Beauty and the Beast is just on a whole other level. It wasn't even close, and he understood.

He Voted for Antonella 76 Times

Matty the Mainer was in town last night to watch a little Idol with us. He had a ton of Cingular roll over minutes to use, so he wanted to vote for Antonella, because he thought she was the worst. I think he got the idea on voteforetheworst.com.

"So you're trying to skew the results by voting as much as possible for the worst, even if there are better singers who deserve your vote more?"

"No, don't be so cynical."

"Okay, indulge me with you reasoning, I want to hear this."

"It's simple, Deep Cheeks: America is all about the underdog, right?"

"Okay."

"Well, what's great about Idol is that we don't only get to root for the underdog, we get a chance to help the underdog out. What could be more beautiful? I'm not voting for Antonella because I think it'd be funny to keep her around. I'm voting for her because I'm pulling for her. I believe in her."

I looked at him for a second.

"You're full of shit, you know that?"

"Whatever. Did you TiVo Monday's episode of The Hills?"

"Yep."

"Then let's pop it on. I want to see what happens when Lauren's friend hooks up with Brodie. And that Audrina's hot."

"True 'dat."

Mayor McCheese: It Looks LIke Somebody Missed Snack Time

The Hamburglar and I made a trip over to Verona's house to pick up the 10Gs he owed us for a job we did a few weeks back. Verona was not happy to see us.

"Ay, man, I ain't got your money."

"That's not good, homeboy. How much do you think we could get for that stereo, 'Burgs?"

But he couldn't answer. Verona's pit bull had jumped on his chest and was making a move for his neck. I pulled out my double deuce, and shot it in the back of the head, killing it instantly.

"It looks like somebody missed snack time."

"Robble robble, robble robble..."

"Yeah, maybe you should've fed it a snack wrap, Senor Verona. Now let's get that TV unhooked. I can get at least a G for that."

My Weekend at the Oscars

I had expected to spend the weekend at the Oscars, but there was a slight change in plans. Sir Ian McKellen and I decided to catch the C's game Friday when they played the Lakers. We were fortunate enough to be sitting right behind Jack. Mr. McKellen was fortunate enough to notice that as Jack bent over to pick up whatever was at his feet, his underwear was showing. In actuality, it wasn't, because Jack was wearing a blazer that covered his ass, but I'll let Ian tell the story as he saw it.

So anyway, he saw the exposed drawers (or rather, pulled up the back of the coat), and gave Jack a massive wedgie, practically lifting him off the ground. I didn't know what to do, so I stood up and yelled:

"That one was for you, Tommy! Go Green!"

We were asked to leave. Ian and I still went to the Oscars, but when he saw Jack again, all bets were off.

"That's right fucker," Mr. McKellen said. "You can't handle the truth: I shoved your drawers so far up your crack that you're still picking them out."

The security there tried to separate them, but Ian grabbed my mace out of my back pocket, and sprayed wildly, even hitting me with some. As I tried to clear my eyes, I felt his hand take mine and pull me away. We didn't stop running until we'd made it to a nearby McDonald's. I ordered us some food, and we sat in a booth.

"That was beautiful," he said. "Later, we'll go egg the apartment complex where those girls from The Hills live at."

Mads: My Night at the Oscars

I just got in today after a great night at the Oscars.

I had an in to one of the better after parties from my buddy Djimon Hansou. When I got there, I did a little 8-Ball's worth of pregame, and then found the Jaeger. I was in pretty good shape.

I had a conversation with Cameron Diaz, where I just could not fathom that she hadn't read Nostromo. She was a little uncomfortable with me when I tried to stuff a $25 Barnes and Noble gift card in her back pocket so she could go and buy it.

By the time I got over to the stereo, I had a strange desire to hear Sponge's "(Molly) Sixteen Candles". I stopped the song that was playing, and then messed up all the presets in getting my song on. Alan Arkin made the mistake of trying to help me. I turned on him and grabbed him by his collar.

"Sixteen candles down the drain… down the draaaaain… sixteen candles down the drain… down the draaaain… third place is you're fired!"

I waited for the other shoe to drop, but it didn't. Alan was too enamored with his own Oscar success that night, and all he did was pat me on the shoulder and laugh. The others were as close to as wasted as I was, and they started to act worse. It was a bad scene man, and I need to get out of there.

The last thing I remember, I was ordering four Big Mac extra value meals at a nearby McDonald's. I woke up in a beet farm with a 75-year old Chinese man who was playing SR-71's "Right Now" on an old, beat-up, beat box.

My Train Concert

I went out drinking a few nights ago, and man, was I wasted when I got home. So wasted, in fact, that I had to resort to listening to the cool sounds of Mom Rock to keep the bed from spinning.

I fell asleep while Train's "Meet Virginia" was on, and I had a dream that I was at a Train concert. I was surrounded by tons of early to late forty something moms, all rocking out and trying to look like their teenage daughters. I was in heaven.

I flirted with a couple of the hotter ones, and they were feeling it; they were having a wild girls night out, you know.

That's when it happened. One of the women's faces abruptly turned into Bobby Ewing (also known as Patrick Duffy). I tried to pull away, but she/he kept inching closer, calling me "JR". Right as his lips touched mine, I sprang to.

I was in bed with Patrick Stewart, and he'd turned on Dallas on the Soap Network.

"What are you doing in here?"

"Your couch was very uncomfortable… sorry."

"It's okay. Turn up the TV so I can hear it."

A White African American's Thoughts on Barack Obama

My friend Teddy was in town a few days ago. For those who don't know, Teddy's three-quarters African American, but is paler than the average Irish American. He and I were discussing Barack Obama's presidential candidacy.

"You know," he said. "He's not really black."

"What do you mean? Of course he is."

"Not like I am."

"Well that's obvious."

"No, I mean he's not descended from former slaves. His dad's from Kenya."

"Do you hear what you're saying?"

There was a knock at the door. It was our Chinese. I paid the man, and then laid our food out on the table.

"Beef and broccoli?"

"That's me." He pulled out his chopsticks and went to work. "I'm just saying, it's a different animal when you're born into centuries of oppression like me, as opposed to when you move here from outside the country."

"So Kenyan's have it way easier than a white dude like you?"

"I'm not white, I'm African American. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"All right, smarty pants, I got a scenario for you: you and he are driving separate cars, both Mercedes. Who do you think gets pulled over for being black?"

"Hey, I've been racially profiled before."

"You were doing 105 on the Mass Pike, you deserved to be arrested for that."

"That cop was a racist."

I shook my head and took another bite of my Peking duck.

"Turn on the TV," I said. "I think Cheaters is on."

Did You Know ER was Still on TV?

I had some people over, and we were drinking copious amounts of alcohol, when Sir Ian McKellen looked over to me, and in a drunken stupor, said:

"We need to clean stuff up, before we get in trouble."

"You're right, DJ, we better get everyone out of here before Uncle Jesse gets home."

We laughed.

"I love watching him on ER ," Will I Am, from the Black Eyed Peas said.

"Uncle Jesse?"

"Well, the guy who plays him. He's on ER now."

"First, who invited you here? I don't hang out with advertising executives. Second, why is ER still on the air? It was already stale after the fourth season. And finally, who the fuck, who the fuck, who the fuck got the dope."

"I'm not an advertising executive, I'm Will I Am..."

"I know who you are, and you make jingles for TV ads."

He wanted to respond, but instead jumped up and down in agony, clutching his right leg. Ian had given him a hot foot. It felt good.

Adam West's Goat

I was sitting in a coffee shop, enjoying a venti iced latte, when Adam West came in and went to the front counter.

"Excuse me fine citizen, but you didn't happen to spot a goat run through here?"

"A goat?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Um... no."

"Hmm, puzzling."

At that moment, a man rushed in behind him, and broke an empty Snapple bottle over his head, which knocked him unconscious. Without missing a beat, the man stepped over him and approached the counter.

"Hi, I would like a poppy seed bagel."

"Cream cheese?"

"Absolutely."

XXX: I Pledge Allegiance

Matty the Mainer was commissioned to write the third installment of the XXX series: XXX: I Pledge Allegiance. He gave me a rough draft of the script, and I must say, I was disappointed.

In it, XXX is played by (he hopes) James Spader. Instead of jumping out of exploding buildings and doing extreme sports, he enjoys fine wine and smooth jazz. There are some stunts, like when Spader jumps out of an exploding sky scraper onto a waiting helicopter, from which he straps on a snowboard and disembarks over a snow covered mountain. So I guess there is some jumping out of exploding buildings and extreme sports, but just not as much.

The basic premise is that the bad guys have changed their tune: they're trying to kill American freedom with kindness. It's going to take a new kind of XXX to expose them as the frauds they are and blow the bastards up. Enter the charming Toji Watanabe (played by Spader), a man who was adopted by Japanese businessmen when he was two, and is the world's foremost conman. His job is to con the bad guys into revealing they're bad guys through his in affable charm and wit. At one point he finds out a dude is a bad guy when the dude can't tell the difference between a Merlot and a Malbec. He then shoots the guy in front of Samuel L. Jackson, who reprimands him for being so reckless.

The other issue I found with the script was the bad guy: Phillip Seymour Hoffman. He poached the exact bad guy from Mission Impossible III, except his only line is: "There's an explosive charge in you head." That's all he says the whole movie.

I was shocked when he told me the film was green lighted.

Mayor McCheese: The King vs. The Mayor: I Got This Shit

I was slouched on my couch in a heroin induced stupor listening to Ryan Cabrera's "40 Kinds of Sadness" on a loop, when I was almost hit with brick that had been tossed through my window. The Hamburglar picked it up and showed me the note attached to it.

"There's a new King in town, Mayor!"

Needless to say, I was none too pleased. I put in a call to Officer Big Mac. Within 24 hours, he'd brought in a bruised and battered King. His plastic face was partially melted off.

"Who rules Barter Town?" I said.

"Mayor McCheese rules Barter Town," he said faintly.

"I can't hear you, shitfuck. Who rules Barter Town?"

"Master Blaster, I mean Mayor McCheese rules Barter Town."

"That's what I thought. Ron, give him the works."

Ron Gorske (sp?), noted Big Mac aficionado, came in with one of McDonald's famed sandwiches. I snapped my fingers, and the Hamburglar started a record player with the Big Mac theme song. The King screamed.

"Is this a good idea, Mayor?" Ron said. "I mean, why make him eat a Big Mac, when I'll eat it willingly?"

"With all do respect, you don't make those kinds of decisions, Ron. Now feed the King."

At first he rebelled, but eventually he understood: the Big Mac just simply rules. The Whopper can't compete. I knew I wouldn't have to worry about anymore bricks through my window from that fucker in the near future.

Captain America A-Go-Go

I was having a cigarette while Hubert Humphrey tried to get the Minnesota Vikings to the Super Bowl on Madden 2007, when Gwen came in waving a VHS cassette.

"Check this gem I found at the Goodwill."

It was some old 60s Captain America movie, entitled Captain America A-Go-Go. It looked rather dubious. In order to avoid conflict with Hube's game, we took it into my bedroom to watch it. It was a trip.

The whole thing was Cap trying to fight bad guys while being surrounded by hot women in go-go boots and short skirts. He'd be chained to the wall, while they fondled him, or he'd beat the Red Skull, and they'd fondle him some more. There was no real dialogue, just some sketchy male narrator, and this music that sounded like some variation of "Tequila": lots of brass and guitar.

I was stunned. So was Gwen, only less so because she'd found this rare piece of Cap memorabilia.

"Hey, I'm gonna order out, you guys want anything?" It was Hube. "Hey, watcha watchin'?"

"Captain America A-Go-Go."

"No shit. I'm in this. Rewind back to the 33 minute mark."

We did. There was a young Hube, dressed as a French sailor, sitting at a table in some seedy bar with a stripper on his lap. He was watching with excitement while another woman danced in front of them. Then he made a half-hearted attempt to fight Cap when the Star Spangled Sentinel came in to do whatever. I don't really know why they were fighting, and neither did Hube.

"I needed the cash, so I just whatever the director said."

I looked at the box. It said 1961.

"Weren't you a senator back then?"

"Okay, I didn't need the cash."

Mads: Me, Kobayashi, and a Boat Load of Yesega Alcha

On our way back to Rio from Chicago, Abdul Karim and I stopped off in New Orleans for a bit. The Big Easy has always been one of my favorite cities, and it pained me to see the devastation it went through in 2005. But it was back, and so was I.

I wanted to keep a low profile, and Abdul was in agreement, so we dipped into a little Ethiopian restaurant for a light dinner. It just happened to be all you can eat Yesega Alcha night, so I put in some work. There went my low profile.

One of the cooks noticed how quickly I was putting away his food. He asked if I wanted to represent his restaurant the next day at the Yesega Alcha eating contest. His son, who was supposed to compete, couldn't make it because he had too many episodes of Days on tape that he needed to catch up on. I understood his plight, and I said yes.

The Yesega Alcha eating contest is an officially sanctioned event on the Major League Eating tour, and there were a bunch of pros there, including Kobayashi. I was excited.

I was the only one there without large cups of liquid to dip the food in. I didn't understand that that was some kind of strategy. After the bell rang, I watched Kobayashi as he dipped the pancakes in the liquid, and then tried to sop up the food with his fingers. He was unsuccessful, as were the other competitors. I was skilled at eating Ethiopian food: I knew how to get the most possible food on those pancakes and stuff it down quickly. It was an easy victory.

After the trophy was bestowed upon me, Kobayashi and his translator took me aside. They asked if I would be his personal trainer for next year's Yesega Alcha eat-off. I told them no. I felt it was necessary for him to understand Ethiopian cuisine on a deeper level, like I did, as opposed to just seeing how much he could scarf down in as little time as possible. Only with that understanding could he unlock the mystery of the Yesega Alcha.

The Harrison Ford Coke II Conspiracy

In the early 90s, I squatted out in LA, making my way, the only way I knew how (but that's just a little bit more than the law would allow). Anyway, I got a job working craft services for Sidney Pollack's remake of Sabrina.

Many people don't know that Harrison Ford loved Coke II. He drank the hell out of it. They had to keep cases of it in stock. I know what you're thinking: "Why didn't they just buy Pepsi?" Because Harrison Ford liked Coke II.

One day on the set, Mr. Ford was relaxing between takes, enjoying a tasty Coke II. He set the drink down to sign an autograph for someone, and when he went back to his beverage, he found it missing. He was yelling and tossing furniture around. It wasn't a good scene.

At that same moment, as luck would have it, I was treating myself to a nice Coke II. Mr. Ford caught this, and accused me of stealing his. There was nothing I could do, my goose was cooked. I was escorted out by security.

I've tried to patch things up with Harrison Ford, to no avail; not that I care anymore: did you see Firewall? Can you say ew?

I did, however, find out that it was not simply a matter of circumstances that cost me my gig on that production. My co-worker, Sal Falsano, a stout, grotesque, little man of Italian decent from North Jersey, had the hots for this girl, Janine Bruebecker from Encino, who was a part of craft services with us. To make a long story short, she was repulsed by Sal, but in love with me, and he was jealous. So he waited for his perfect moment, and made the steal.

Unfortunately, the incident only endeared me more to Janine. She loved my devil-may-care attitude in taking Harrison Ford's drink. I think if Sal learned anything from this, it was that no manner of intrigue can change the fact that one is a grotesque, little, fat man.

My Second Poetry Reading

Gwen invited me to another one of her poetry readings, and based on my previous performance, the café owner insisted that I recite another piece. My brain was a tad off due to drinking four Tab Energy Drinks, and I could only think of The Match Game, which I had been watching while waiting for Gwen to get ready.

I gave it a go anyway.

"Hello people," I said. There was cheering. Someone yelled "Gay Rodeo!" in reference to my earlier work; another "Buttless Chaps!". "Here's what I got for you people. A little extemporaneous piece entitled Farmer John's Blank." More cheers.

Hello, Gene,
My name is Susan
I have three children
And live in Van Nuys
I'll take question A
My mind races
Farmer John said:
My wife was so happy last night
How happy was she?
She was so happy
Instead of buttering my rolls
She buttered my [blank].
I can't think
I say the first thing that comes to mind
Pickle
The crowd boos, my face turns
Crimson
Please Robert Urich
Not a Match
Brett Sommers?
Buzzer
Charles Nelson Riley, you're my man
0 for 3
Blonde chick from that Kojak episode
Not even close
Richard, I'm begging you
I feel my heart drop
Fannie Flag, you're my last hope
But it wasn't meant to be
It was an honor to meet you Gene Rayburn.

I sat down. I expected the applause, like before. But there was dead silence. The MC uncomfortably took over, and announced the next poet. I found out later that no one in that room knew what The Match Game was… none of them had been born prior to 1978, and none of them watched enough TV to see it on the Game Show Network. C'est Dommage.

The King of Kansas City Lowball

A buddy of mine, Martinson Agunga Agunga, who owns some underground casinos in the Boston area, called in an old favor recently. His poker pro had a death in the family, and he needed a stand-in at this big tournament down in Atlantic City. I was a little apprehensive about playing after my last experience in London-- almost four months later and I still can't look at a can of crab meat without feeling nauseous; but this was a big favor that Martinson was calling in, and I couldn't refuse.

There was another issue. I am a fairly accomplished poker player, don't get me wrong: I won a World Series of Poker bracelet in 1999 in pot limit Omaha, and another in 2000 in Razz; but the game we were playing in the tournament was Kansas City Lowball, which is an almost extinct form of poker that I had little experience with. That's when I realized I'd been duped by my buddy. It wasn't that his player couldn't make it, it was that he couldn't win. That's because the King of Kansas City Lowball, Earl McKriedivitch, was in the game. For some reason, he wouldn't play any other type poker, and for some other reason, no one could beat him at his own game. I was called in to accomplish this previously unattainable feat.

No one really gives a shit about Kansas City Lowball, so much so, that the tournament that I was in had a first prize of $25,000. The real money was being made between Martinson and Phil Helmuth, giving him 5 to one odds that I couldn't ding the King, with a potential payout of $500,000.

Good.

I spent the early part of the tournament reading Nikolai Gogol's Dead Souls, while other players were bounced out around me. I played just enough games to give me some chips for the later rounds. Once we were there, I had no trouble taking everyone's money, because they had no idea how I played due to my earlier inactivity. Earl and me were on a collision course to wackiness.

Earl had never played a certified poker pro before, and when we met at the final table, I made sure my bracelets were jangling off my arm. He played tight, and started trying to see things that weren't there. I never even got a chance to play him heads up. He was done with five people left. It was kind of a let down.

I took the money I won from the tournament, and flew out to Hong Kong to get some new tailored designer suits.

Mayor McCheese: Never Trust a Person Who Takes Bowling That Seriously

I found myself in the possession of some expensive jewelry, and I needed to move it as quickly as possible. I knew a cat in town with the resources to help me out, so I got in contact with him. He suggested discussing our business over a little bowling. I was game.

I became a tad suspicious when I saw that he had his own shoes, ball, and glove. I was even more so when he pumped his fist after an opening strike.

I, of course, went for my requisite 69, and that's when it hit me: he doesn't find that amusing. I gave him some cash for the beer, and hit the road. One of my personal rules is that I never trust a person who takes bowling too seriously.

And again, my personal rules were vindicated. The fence was wired. Word got back to me that the cat was hot, and had I discussed the terms of our deal, I would've been arrested by the FBI. It's these kinds of Street Smarts that have kept me alive for so long. Holla'.

My Trip to the Jerry Springer Show: 150th Episode Spectacular

I didn't really have much going on over the week, and Gwen, the Cappie, asked if I wanted to accompany her to the comic book convention out in Chicago. I thought that was a great idea, so I went.

The highlight of the trip out there was our visit to The Jerry Springer Show, the title of which was "Moms, Daughters, and the Mayor McCheese". Gwen and I were dying while the Mayor made an ass of himself on stage. The girl he was supposed to be pimping out's mother would routinely slap him across his big cheeseburger head.

I got a little crazy grinchy idea during the second group of guests, when the Rev. Shnorr married a young couple against the wishes of the groom's mother. I asked Gwen what she thought.

"Get married? You and me?"

"It's not a real wedding, as in no one in America save this show would recognize it as a legal union, but I think it might be a cute, fun thing to do."

"All right, let's do it."

I signaled Todd over during the break, and he asked the executive producer, who seemed all right with it. We just had to wait through a couple of audience comments.

That's when it happened: Mads was singled out by Jerry for his Nobel prize winning exploits, which prompted Mads to start a shouting match with the Mayor. It was insane. Gwen was a little taken aback, while I was trying to keep from wetting my pants. Then Mads jumped on the pole and took his clothes off. It was all too much.

Finally our moment arrived, and we went to their little alter.

"I think I'd like to have my buddy Mads act as my Best Man."

I looked over, and could see his eyes misting up a bit. He left his pole, and joined me at my side, while the Rev Shnorr read our vows.

It was great fun, but at the same time, I couldn't help wondering if the Cappie was as good as it gets... was she The One...

Nonsense, fake marriage with the Rev Shnorr is way better than real marriage: why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?

Mads and his Iranian buddy Abdul Karim spent the rest of that evening with Gwen and me. It was like old times, only we were in a city that was slightly foreign to both of us; and the Mayor was lurking about, looking for a shot at my former Norwegian companion.

He got his chance when we were all hanging out in my hotel suite. The door was busted open, and the Mayor, wearing some black Zorro mask over his eyes, came barging in, joined by the Hamburglar.

"Get buck naked, bitches!"

"Robble robble, robble robble."

Gwen, Abdul, and I all put our hands up. Mads was in the bathroom. In a flash, he jumped from behind a potted plant, and onto the back of the Mayor. In the confusion, I threw a Gideon bible at the Hamburglar, and the Iranian and I were able to subdue him.

"Who's getting buck naked now, motherfucker?" Mads said, as he worked his anaconda like magic around the Mayor's neck.

"Fuck you, Mads. This isn't the last you've heard of me. You've lost your Chicago privileges... biiiiitch..."

And with that, he was out. We called Ronald McDonald from the corporate headquarters near by to come scoop them.

The next day we said our goodbyes at the airport: Gwen and I heading back to Logan, Mads and his Iranian flying out to Rio.

"Come on, Mads, come back to Boston with me. We have enough room for your Iranian. Let's bring back the old good times."

"In due time, my good friend, in due time."

And with that, he was off. Farvel, Mads, and may Godspeed... you'll always be my Norwegian companion...

Mads Special Edition: My Trip to the Jerry Springer Show: 150th Episode Spectacular Intro

I got a call from some people in the Windy City that they wanted me out there to be honored at a dinner for ornithologists held at the University of Chicago. I didn't have anything else to do, so I packed up some clothes and Abdul Karim, and we flew out there.

Despite a few problems in customs with Abdul, the trip was rather uneventful, as was the dinner. The whole "honoring Mads" thing was getting old. On the day before our last I day in the city, Abdul and I made a stop at The Jerry Springer Show to see what was going on. The title of the episode they were taping was "Moms, Daughters, and The Mayor McCheese". Oh, we're going.

At first we were told there weren't any seats left, but when word got out that I'd won the Nobel prize, they found two seats toot sweet.

The Mayor was everything I expected him to be. To call him an old friend is a tad misleading. He is an extremely unpredictable individual in a very uncouth way. The last time we were together, the night ended badly; but in an environment like this, it was great to watch and see what he'd do next. It was the difference between encountering a lion in the jungle, or at the zoo.

When Jerry announced my presence to the crowd, I knew it was my time to lob a few aluminum cans over the bars to agitate the caged animal.

"Why in God's name are you here on The Jerry Springer Show, if you've won the Nobel prize?"

"Two reasons: first, I'm here to support that triflin' cheeseburger pimp, The Mayor McCheese!"

He stood up, right into the waiting arms of Steve.

"I'ma' kill you mothafucka!"

I put my arms up.

"Come on, burger bitch! You ain't got a gun this time. I put you to sleep like a little baby the last fucking time even when you did! Watchyou think you gonna do?"

"Oh, I don't need a gun to fuck your ass up, you dirty Norwegian!"

"A'ight, bitch, get a bar!"

"I gotchor bar right here, mothafucka!"

The crowd was going nuts. Jerry was laughing and trying to keep it together. I was up near the stage, and the security people were holding us a part. Finally, things calmed down some, and Jerry spoke to me:

"Okay, okay… you two obviously have some history. What, I have no idea… but anyway, you said there were two reasons why you were here. We saw the first… what is the second?"

"I wanna go on the pole, Jerry!"

They led me over, and I climbed up to the top, leaned all the way back so I was upside-down, and I slowly slid to the bottom. It was pandemonium. I pulled off my shirt when Todd had the crowd chant for me to, and my designer jeans as well. Once that calmed down, Jerry went back into the audience to talk to more people. That's when it happened:

"Hi Jerry, my home girl Gwen and I would like to be married by the Rev. Shnorr."

"And let me get this right, you know our Nobel prize winner who's on the pole over there."

"Yes, he was my former Norwegian companion."

Mayor McCheese: My Trip to the Jerry Springer Show, 150th Episode Spectacular Prologue

I got a call from The Jerry Springer Show the other day asking if I could appear as a guest. The girl who I was acting as a pimp for was being confronted by her mother to stop her street walking. I figured it'd be all right, and I put on my best suit and sash, and made my way over there.

While I was backstage waiting to go on, I heard LaQuisha (my prostitute) out there arguing with her mom. She was saying how I don't ask her for much money and I don't beat her. She showed the audience the tattoo of the Golden Arches on her left buttcheek that symbolizes that she's my ho, which Jerry and Steve loved. Then they called me out.

I was booed, and I threw a bunch of Big Macs and Arch Cards into the crowd. LaQuisha's mom was right in my face, and Tony had to move her away. Finally I sat down.

"Hi, Mayor McCheese, it's an honor to have you on our program."

"It's an honor to be here, Jerry."

"Okay, you heard what was said backstage…"

"Listen Jerry, it's like this: LaQuisha was all runnin' up on me sayin' "my daddy's no good… he beats me… he don' take care o' me… will you be my new daddy? So I'm like, a'ight… McDonald's had just put out it's new coffee, an' I had some paper in the bank, so I went to her daddy, and I paid to have her released."

"You bought her off the pimp?"

"Fo' sho' Jerry. If I didn' buy her, she'd hav' ta get beaten out by his bottom bitch, an' I know his bottom bitch, and she don' wan' none o' that."

Laughter.

"Okay, so LaQuisha's mom wants her to stop. Will you let her quit?"

"Sure, I don' own tha' bitch. But she don' wanna stop, ya 'eard me?"

We went on like that for a little longer, and then we went to the green room while another group came out and fought. Some guy's mom didn't want him marrying his girl. Eventually the Rev. Shnorr did the mock wedding ceremony.

After another break, we were called back out for audience questions. That's when it happened.

"I have just been informed that we have a Nobel prize winner in our audience today. This would mark the first time we've ever had a Nobel prize winner within ten miles of this studio. Could you please stand up… Mads!"

Elaine Benes or Miss America

There was a knock at my door. A girl was standing on the other side of it, crying.

"Hi, I'm Ashley. My aunt, Eileen Goldstein, said I should see you."

"Oh, did she?"

"I'm Miss Rhode Island. My pageant coach just quit, and I need someone to help me win Miss America."

Now everyone knows Mads is the pageant guy. He's completely fascinated by them. Me, on the other hand, find them to be wholly antiquated and unnecessary to our modern society. That being said, Eileen is a good, old friend, and I'd do anything to help her.

First we had an argument about the walk. She said she was supposed to walk a certain way. I thought that looked too "ornamental", and suggested a more forceful, assertive walk. I didn't like her swimsuit, or her evening gown. She didn't like my replacements, saying they were too "modern".

While I was waiting for some food to come for us, I turned on some Seinfeld. Oh, my God, I thought, that's it: Elaine Benes is Miss America. I had her watch 20 hours worth of Seinfeld with me so she could study Elaine. The first few episodes did nothing for her, but by the end, it had sunk in.

As you can well imagine, she lost the pageant. The judges couldn't appreciate her sarcastic yet insightful answers to their banal questions; couldn't appreciate how she pulled off her gross heels because they were annoying her during the swimsuit portion of the competition; and they definitely couldn't appreciate her in her evening gown in the background pantomiming using her finger to induce vomiting when one of the other girls walked past. She also didn't get the patronizing award of Miss Congeniality.

What she did get, though, was the strength of character to know that being Elaine Benes is much better than being Miss America. Eileen was happy with the result.

Filene's Basement is Closing

Word on the street is that the Filene's Basement in Downtown Crossing will close this summer for two years. That's right, THE Filene's Basement, the one that was opened in 1909, and my all time favorite bargain clothing store.

I have many stories about my times at the Basement, but one in particular is my most memorable. That was the first time I heard Human League's "Don't You Want Me." People were raving about it, and I was trying on a light blue blazer, when my buddy Joey McCarrol pointed it out to me while it was playing overhead. God, I'll never forget that, every time I hear that song.

Another time I met Mitch Gaylord while he was there looking for a tie. Filene's Basement is the cat's pajamas… or rather was, as of this summer, 2007.

Mayor McCheese: Captain Crook Was Robbed (Ironic?)

I couldn't stand that atrocious second pirates movie that had Johnny Depp in it. It just sucked a fat dick. But just the same, we made some mad cash out of the deal.

As you may have known, McDonald's had a huge advertising campaign centered around that stupid waste of celluloid. What you may not have known was that McDonald's paid no money to get the rights to that advertising campaign. After he saw the first movie, Captain Crook sued Disney and what not for copyright infringement. Of course, Captain Crook doesn't have the right to sue anyone because he's beholden to McDonald's, so McDonald's came up with this lucrative settlement in lieu of a court battle.

I don't know what's worse: that Disney came up with a movie idea they stole from a pirate that steals fish sandwiches, or that so many Americans watched it and thought it was great.

Mads: It's Me, Mads

I had a little chat over the phone with Matty the Mainer, pretty much just to touch base about the blog and the state of my MySpace page. I did have to admit, I liked the big Norwegian flag background… it almost brought a tear to my eye, and made me want to do a little seal beating.

He also mentioned that his friend Heather, and her boyfriend Forrest (of Forrest T's inc., where I got my amazing shirt of Christopher Lambert in Day of Wrath slapping some guy while the two are on horse back… but I digress), were headed down to the Rio film fest, where Heather had a screenplay entry in the movie High School of Mirth.

Apparently Heather read the Barnes and Noble Classics version of the Edith Wharton novel The House of Mirth, and in the back, there's a set of questions that I guess a teacher would use to direct a classroom discussion of the novel. One of them asks if the novel would work in a current situation. Heather immediately thought of a modern day high school.

She wrote a screenplay adaptation, and producer Harvey Weinstein agreed, and so the movie was made, and being screened here in Rio. I decided to take Abdul Karim down to see it, and then we introduced ourselves after the film.

"Hello, you must be Forrest and Heather. I'm Mads."

"No you're not," Heather said. "Mads doesn't exist. Did Matty put you up to this?"

Forrest was laughing.

"I'm Mads. The Mads."

"We'll have to tell Matty that we met some guy in Brazil named Mads," she whispered to Forrest.

Ice Castles or Cutting Edge: You Decide

Like many children growing up in New England, I played hockey. I actually wasn't half bad… it's just that here not half bad is not really that good compared to guys like Jeremy Roenick. As a senior in high school, a man approached me after one of my games and asked what I thought about figure skating.

"Toe pick."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

He had with him this gorgeous 13-year old Asian girl named Soo Kwon. In fact, she was my age, 17, but she just looked 13; and she was to be my partner if I gave figure skating a try. So I did.

I'm not sure if you know anything about figure skating, but those bastards keep long hours. We'd go at like 4am, then I'd go to school at 7, then get back over there at 4pm to skate until 10. We had Friday night through to Sunday morning off.

I only put up with the regimen out of my infatuation for Soo Kwon. I needed her. She would quietly rebuff my advances with a simple smile, or a "no, we gotta practice". She lived a very sheltered life, one completely different from mine as a working class boy in Brockton. I used to regale her with tales of all night parties, drunken debauchery, and trips to McDonald's. Finally she relented, and agreed to join me at this rager a kid was having while his parents were out of town.

It took only three sips off a Bull Ice 40 for her to profess her love to me, and suggest us running away together. When the cops showed, she tried to fight them, and they were pissed that we'd let a 13 year old drink. In fact, she'd just turned 18, and was legal have alcohol back then, but the damage had been done. When word got back to her coach, I was removed as her partner.

Two weeks later she appeared on my doorstep with a bag of her clothes. She was running away, and she wanted me to come with her. It was a no-go, as I only had a couple months before graduation; and she turned down my offer for her to crash at my mom's place, because it didn't have the amenities she was used to.

I'll pour out a little Cab Sav for you Soo Kwon… into the sink, because it's been opened for two days, and it's no good.