Sasquatch's Agent

If you haven't noticed, Sasquatch is everywhere. He does beef jerky commercials, Stone Cold Steve Austin ice cream commercials, and Beastie Boys videos. I talked the other day with his agent, Slick McPetervitch.

"Yeah, you'd be surprised how many calls we get to put Sasquatch in things. People love him."

"Yeah, it makes sense. I mean, if I had to sell something, I'd want him as my spokesperson."

"Well, it's not just that. If you're doing a camping comedy, it's better to hire Sasquatch as the kooky camping danger, than a bear or something. I mean, you hire the bear, you need a bear wrangler, PETA needs to supervise... it's just more hassle than it's worth."

"Yeah, with Sasquatch you've just got to deal with SAG."

"Exactly."

"Yet, on the other hand, I've heard Sasquatch has become something of a diva, and has crazy demands like DVDs of Guys Gone Wild."

"Believe me, he deserves it. He's worked hard for what he has."

"I bet he has."

Runny Nose Observations

I've never had a moustache. By the time I could successfully grow one, they weren't so cool for my age bracket. They still hold some fascination, though. This is especially true when I see a guy whose moustache has collected his post-nasal drip. It's a very utilitarian function, if you ask me.

I've always been obsessed with how to deal with a runny nose in an emergency without a Kleenex or toilet paper or something. I remember, when I was in kindergarten, a boy sneezed, and this snot blasted out of his nose and onto his upper lip. I was outraged, because his mom sent him to school in a short sleeve shirt. You don't send a kid with a cold to school in a short sleeve shirt, I thought. It just seemed obvious, and it stuck with me to this day.

"What the hell are you staring at?"

It was the man with the moustache and runny nose. I scraped my upper lip with my index finger, and he hastily turned his head and cleaned it with his pocket square.

"Thanks man."

Why was he thanking me? I didn't think I was informing him about his drippage, I thought I was indicating my marvel at his moustache's ability to stop said drippage. Whatever.

Mads: Ripped Abs

I was sitting at an outdoor cafe, smoking a cigarette, reading Baldwin's Nobody Knows My Name, killing time before a dinner date with my Boston friend. Roxy Music's "More Than This" played overhead. I saw a teal Mercedes drive by. At least I thought it was teal.

More than this...

A man approached me from the other side of the waist high metal bars that kept me from the sidewalk.

"Wanna try Axe Body Spray's new scent, Ripped Abs?"

I exhaled a couple smoke rings. I saw a man at another table, as if from a bygone era, in a suit with shoulder pads, his hair slicked back in a pony tail, talking into a huge Zack Morris cellphone. I pointed him out to the whisper thin fella offering me the Ripped Abs.

"Want me to stick the antenna to that guy's phone up your ass?"

Mayor McCheese: McDonaldland's Gay Club

Sometimes life in McDonaldland, especially when one is the Mayor, can be hectic. We need to let off some steam.

That's when I hit SuperSize Me, the neighborhood gay bar. I know what you're thinking, and perish the thought: I'm straight. But I can only dance to one kind of music, and that's Gay House. So I toss my suit and sash in the closet and throw on my designer jeans and form fitting T-shirt and let my bun down to the sounds of a house remix of "If I Can Turn Back Time".

The best is seeing Ron Gorske. He can't dance for shit.

Harry Potter

Gwen, the Cappie, came out of my room dressed like a twelve year-old.

"What're you doing, getting extra work as a decoy on To Catch a Predator?"

"No, I'm [don't remember] from the Harry Potter books. I'm going to the midnight release."

"You read Harry Potter? How old are you?"

"It's not just a kid's book. It has adult themes in it."

"No it doesn't. That's just what adults tell themselves when they read kid's books or watch movies like Finding Nemo. There are plenty of books that are well written by adults for adults. I can understand someone who hasn't read anything substantial telling me something stupid like that, but you've read Tolstoy, for God's sake, you should know better."

She shook her head.

"Well, are you coming with me or not?"

I had to admit she looked hot in her little outfit, so I relented.

"Now, you're not going to be a crab the whole time, are you?" She said.

Mads: Mads Murder Offer

I got a call from my son D'Brickishaw late the other night. I figured he needed me to bail him out of jail.

"I'm not in jail," he said. "I'm watching you on TV. On PBS."

"Yeah, so, I'm always on TV."

"Oh... well, I didn't know that you did work in the South Pacific, and these tribesman wanted to kill you."

Hmm, I didn't know that either. I had him TiVo it, and I caught it the next day. While studying birds on a remote island in the South Pacific, my buddy and I were chilling with these natives. I didn't think anything of it, but apparently they didn't like me, and they offered to kill me for my friend, if the price was right. He refused, because he needed me for the rest of the project.

The show had this character actor pretend to be me, and he was ranting and raving all over the place. I told them I was the King of Norway, and I could have them all killed if they didn't listen to a Spandau Ballet CD I played.

An Indecent Proposal

Looking for something to do on a Sunday, I went through my great-great grandfather Cumberland Billingsworth's old diaries.

March 21, 1864

During President Lincoln's second campaign, he stopped here in Boston to garner support. I met him at an event so I could be honored for my service to the country down in Vicksburg.

"If you're not busy later on, I'd like to meet you at my hotel."

Well, who turns down an invite like that? I know now that I should have. I learned many secrets about our president that night that would best go unsaid, the most stunning which pertains to his gender. Mr. Lincoln is in fact a woman. Not only was he a she, but she was coming on to me. I was offered $5000 for one night with her.

I wanted to accept-- I mean how often does one have the opportunity to make the beast with two backs with such a powerful head of state-- but we were rudely interrupted by a man wielding a derringer. Apparently this man was an actor, a Mr. John Wilkes Booth, and he was a jilted ex-lover. I barely survived with my life, as Mrs. Lincoln calmed him down.

The Crying Game

Reality TV tends to be a rather emotional affair, especially when you consider that most shows are competitions, and then being video taped 24 hours a day doesn't help. That being said, there are points where the crying gets ridiculous. Just ask Jen on Big Brother, after she cried when her picture wasn't good enough. Who does that? What a moron.

That brings me to a friend of mine I just got a phone call from. He met a girl at a party who was going on a dating show with tennis pro Mark Phillipoussis (sp?). They hit it off, and decided they'd keep in touch after the show, whether she bags Mark or not. She was booted not too far in, so they got back together, and a romance ensued.

He noticed some weird behavior from her, like when she would cry over small things like a woman cutting her in line at the 7-Eleven, or in having a conversation about baseballs at a Dodgers game laced with sexual innuendo. Sometimes she'd say "I don't even know why I'm crying", which made him even more apprehensive. He was, after all, considering taking her to meet his mom.

Anyway, so her show airs, and the shit hits the fan. She's crying in every scene. She's crying next to him while they watch it because she's so embarrassed she's crying so much on the show. He told her it was all right, but then he stopped returning her phone calls. I asked what she was like when he officially called it off with her.

"She was pissed at me."

"Ooh, crying and angry. Not a good look."

"No, she didn't cry. She was defiant. Even when I told her it was from all her crying, she didn't cry. It almost made me regret dumping her."

"Umm, I can see that, a sudden back bone after all that weepiness."

"Yeah, and she also straightened her curly hair and was wearing this hot dress." He shook his head and thought for a second. "I guess it's like the saying: Women, you can't live with them..."

"...And they can't do stand-up comedy."

Mads: D'Brickishaw's Lesson in Cougars

I felt that D'Brickishaw was making out all right in his summer in Boston. I set him up with his own bachelor pad, bought him a new wardrobe, and got him a Kawasaki Ninja. Still, something was lacking.

D'Brick and I were at a book store, when we saw two amazing looking women laughing and enjoying coffee in the cafe section.

"Which one you want?" I said.

"Are you kidding? They're old enough to be my mom."

"Maybe older. They're probably old enough to be your grandmother's younger sister. But they're hot, no?"

"I guess. It just kind of weirds me out, you know."

I put him in a headlocklike hug, and pulled him close to me, ready to give a stern lecture on his stupidity, when the Cougars approached us.

"We couldn't help noticing you two over there," one of them said.

"I'm Mads and this is my son D'Brickishaw."

"Your son! You two looked like brothers. There's no way your old enough to be his dad."

"And there's no way you're old enough to notice."

Long story short, they tag teamed me at D'Brick's place while he played FIFA 2006. One was 44, the other 45, so they were old enough to be his grandmother's younger sister, because my Aunt Emmi is 44 too.

Mayor McCheese: Attention Mayor

I received this troubling e-mail the other day:

Attention Mayor

Greetings,

I write to seek your services in a private and confidential matter regarding some funds unaccounted for in our bank here in Ghana during the last 2006 business year. As a Regional Manager in this Bank, I deposited this fund in an ESCROW ACCOUNT at our headquarters pending when I shall get a reliable person. This requires a private arrangement. Could you perhaps be able to receive these funds under legal claims then I will fill you in. I will appreciate for fewer questions asked and your participation will be 30%of the total money.

There are practically no risks involved, the transaction will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law, it will be simply a bank-to-bank transfer. I have all the details and will fill you in if you are really willing. Your major role would be to provide an existing account or open a new bank account where the funds will be transferred and stand as the original depositor of this fund in our bank,as long as you will remain honest to me till the end for this important business trusting in you and believing that you will never let me down either now or in future.

At this juncture, I wish to tell you what prompted me to package this deal.I have a 9yrs old daughter who has leukemia, a disease of the blood, and she needs a bone marrow transplant or she will die. I want this transplanting to be done in any good children's hospital in your Country, if there is one.Once this fund is transferred into your account, I shall resign from my job and bring my family to start a new life in your country all correspondences will be via email and my private phone number: [censored] for now.

The funds in question are quite large,Ten million ,eight hundred and fifty thousand United States Dollars ($10,850,000.00). I will expect a straight answer from you. If yes, please get back to me with your full name, address, private phone and fax number so that we can work out the modalities without further delay including your phone number for easy communication..

With best regards,

Mr.Richard Kofi Addo

I contacted Ronald, who told me under no circumstances was I to go to Ghana. But I had revenge on my mind: no one uses kids to extort money, especially not in McDonaldland.

Executive Privilege

Hubert Humphrey, still alive in the race for the Democratic presidential nomination, made an appearance on Keith Olbermann's show. It wasn't so bad. He interviewed us via satellite from a local roller skating rink.

"Senator Humphrey," Olbermann said. "The current president has been invoking Executive Privilege recently, for a whole host of reasons, some extremely frivolous. If you were president, under what circumstance, if ever, would you invoke this privilege?"

"Well, would invoking the privilege make me look like a dick?"

"Excuse me?"

"A dick, you know... when I was vice president, as I'm sure you're aware Mr. Olbermann, the man holding the office of president, LBJ, was something of a dick..."

Keith chuckled.

"Yes, I remember that."

"Well, I'd like to avoid being a dick as much as possible. I know sometimes as a president you gotta be one, I just only wanna be one when I have to."


Keith went to say something, when he was interrupted by music starting in the background to signal a couples skate.

"Oh, that's my joint right there," Hubert said.

"What? The Jets 'Let's Make it Real' is your joint?"

"You know it, Keith. If you were here right now, I'd totally slow dance with you."

Keith cut to commercial.

Mads: Velkommen Beckham

As a fan of the beautiful game, I can't be unexcited by the prospect of David Beckham coming to play for the LA Galaxy. Here in Boston, in order to see him play without pulling strings, I'd have to buy tickets for four games. Luckily I have strings that can be pulled.

I had a chance to meet Becks once, in 1999 after Man U won the treble. I was invited to a lunch with the Queen the same time the team was. Unfortunately, I had a bit too much of the Bulgarian Cocktail the night before, and slept right through my alarm. I was disappointed.

I asked my Boston friend what he thought of Beckham's arrival.

"Dude, the Sox're in first place, and barring another '78, they got a chance to win the whole thing. Fuck soccer. Tell me when Mike Greenwell's coming back to town, and then I'll care."

He had a point: no matter how cool Beckham is, he's no Mike Greenwell, the Gator, who patrolled left field for the Sox in the late 80s and early 90s. Welcome to America, Becks.

The Wide Saragasso Sea

Matty the Mainer visited us from his new home in Portland the other day.

"Yeah, we were at this bar that had a trivia night, only what they said were the right answers to some of the questions were wrong, like the Khmer Rouge invading Hanoi to end the Vietnam War."

"Actually," Mads, my Norwegian companion, said. "In Germany, that's what's taught to school children. I think it was a misprint in the text books a long time ago that hasn't been fixed."

"Interesting," I said. "So you're saying your general knowledge base was wasted on that night?"

"Yeah," Matty said. "I'm better at Trivial Pursuit."

Mads and I both gasped. Matty seemed curious, so we told him the deal. I found out later that Matty wasn't curious, he was looking behind me at the TV to an MSNBC report on the popularity of the new Harry Potter film, and he couldn't understand it.

Anyway, a few years back, Mads, me, and a few women we brought back were playing a friendly game of Trivial Pursuit. Mads and I were neck and neck, both trying for our last question. He was first. It went something like:

"Jean Rhys wrote this book as a prequel to Jane Eyre."

"Oh, that's easy, The Wide Saragasso Sea."

"Is that your final answer?"

"Of course, I've read it."

"Well your wrong. It's The Wide SARGASSO Sea, not SARAgasso."

Let's just say that didn't go over too well, especially when he found out I was serious in not giving him the game. We had a messy altercation. Though Mads is a well versed Jiu-Jitsu fighter, I'm a former high school wrestler and gymnast, so we were somewhat evenly matched. My apartment was destroyed, one of the girls' nose was broken, and an air conditioner from my room almost hit a man walking his dog below us. In order to avoid arrest and prosecution, we agreed to let the cops confiscate the game, and never play it again.

Mayor McCheese: DC Madam Scandal

I got a call from Ronald's office that he needed to see me. I had an idea of what it could be.

"Come in and sit down, Mayor."

I did.

"Have you seen this?"

I looked at the Chicago Tribune headline reading "Burger Icon Snared in Madam Scandal."

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

"I know, and I think that's what distresses me the most."

Mads: Kevin Tighe

I needed a quick bite to eat, so I stopped into McDonald's. I had had too much Mountain Blast Powerade, and needed to hit the can.

After relieving myself, I bumped into Kevin Tighe, messing with graffiti on the walls. He took "FOR A GOOD FUCK" and turned it into "FOR A GOOD BUICK".

"You know," he said. "This used to be a classy joint. Now it's the kind of place where they sweep the eyeballs off the floor after closing."

I felt like the guy waiting for the subway that the crazy person picks to talk to that day. I tried to smile. We were rudely interrupted by a monster truck trying to run over the store. It was stuck on the front stone wall. I felt that was my best moment to exit.

The Black Chicken

I was invited along with Mads, my Norwegian companion, to a party at Martha Stewart's, down in the Hamptons. We were having a conversation with soccer legend Dion Dublin, junior Virginia Senator Jack (at least I think it was Jack) Webb, and chef Anthony Bourdain, when Mads nudged me on the shoulder.

"Look at that."

"What?" I said.

"That bird. It's a black chicken."

In fact it was this fuzzy little white bird that Mads informed me had black skin underneath. He had a great recipe for it, he said.

"Don't you dare. I think it's her pet or something."

"So."

In true Mads fashion, he took the bird out back, killed it, and prepped it for cooking. He snuck into the cooking area, and made a stew out of it. Martha noticed his disappearance.

"I believe he had a phone call," I said. Right then, a small Caucasian midget in a white suit stood on a chair and whispered something in her ear.

"Thank you, Bobo," she said.

She left, and five minutes later Mads ran past me with a huge Tupperware container steaming and leaking out of its sides, chased by Martha and some men with moustaches dressed like English bobbies. I excused myself from the individuals I was conversating with.

Aeon Flux Redux

I was a little surprised when I went through my IFC in Theatres section of my ON Demand and found something entitled Aeon Flux: Redux. I watched the preview. Not only was this a remake of the 2005 theatrical release, but it said it was conceived by the creative genius who wrote XXX: I Pledge Alliegiance and Alpha Dog. I knew that was none other than my personal biographer, Matty the Mainer.

Before I rented the movie, I watched a 10 minute documentary where they interviewed Matty to understand the creative process:

"I thought the original Aeon Flux kind of missed the point of the cartoons. I personally don't remember the plots of any of them. What I did remember was the art. The Plot needs to be secondary... perhaps tertiary."

"I felt the film makers had the wrong inspiration for their film: not Star Wars, but Miami Vice."

"I must admit, when, in the original, they gave the African American woman hands for feet, I felt uncomfortable. It was worse than seeing an Al Jolson in black face, because we should know better."

I had to rent it. He was right, his film had almost no plot to speak of. There wasn't much dialogue either, and when there was, people would say things like "the impeccability of your timing left much to be desired", which, at least to me, made no sense. Much of the film was immersed in this eclectic soundtrack that didn't fit one particular era or decade. One moment he'd use Charlie Parker, the next Tina Turner, or even crazier the Gin Blossoms. He had Didier Drogba in a scene wearing a leather trench coat and leather pants, and he looked really cool.

The backgrounds were all done with computers. One room was all Andy Warhol's Elvis screen prints. Another looked almost identical to Trevor Goodchild's bedroom in the original, but instead of being a bedroom, it was a cafe (with a bed in the middle), and everyone was watching Klaus Kinski films on haphazardy stacked TVs scattered everywhere.

Fire Millen 3:16

Matt Millen has had trouble since he took over running the Detroit Lions. The fans in Detroit have had enough, and they want him out. Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were at an Arena Football game, and the guy next to us was holding up a sign that read "Fire Millen 3:16". I've never seen anything like it.

"You know," Mads said. "We could start one of those campaigns for Danny Ainge."

"Fire Ainge 3:16? It's sassy, it's brassy, a real musical humdinger. I like it, make it shorter, I'll buy it."

So when we got back to Boston, we made up a sign and stood in Harvard square. Tommy Heinsohn walked up to us. He had one single tear drop from his eye. Mads and I felt bad, so we tore up the sign and went home.

Mayor McCheese: Burger Con... Um, nope

After the success of the King's underground marketing campaign, Ronald's gotten nervous. He's afraid we'll lose the Superfan, i.e. the 18-28 male demographic that eats Kit-Kats for lunch.

The problem here is two-fold. First, I should be the McDonald's answer to the King. With my stints on Conan and with the dude from Cobra Starship saying I was in his band, people still dig me. Unfortunately I'm unavailable due to the horrible Sid and Marty Kroft settlement. If McDonald's uses me in an official advertising capacity, they're done.

The second problem is that we aren't after the Superfans. They'll come to us regardless. We need the rest of them. We need the kids whose parents don't have time to cook dinner. We need the worker with a short lunch hour whose got no other option. We need the family coming home from a road trip whose stopping in to grab something to eat that's quick and right off the highway.

I brought up my concerns to Ronald and he laughed.

"You just don't get it, do you, Mayor?"

Jonathan Frakes

Gwen, the Cappie, told me her sister ran a bed and breakfast in Belfast, ME. I'd never been there before, so I thought I'd give it a try.

The first thing we did was grab a pizza some place called Alexei's or something. I was kind of annoyed when this chubby older guy bumped me in line. He was apologetic, so I let it go. Then Gwen got antsy.

"That's... th-th-that's..."

"What? It's what?"

"He's..."

This weird smile popped up through chubby guy's salt-and-pepper beard. He held out his hand.

"Jonathan Frakes, don't you remember me?"

I racked my brain. How could I know this guy? Wait, did he say Jonathan Frakes?

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," I said. "Yes, I remember you."

"How is your Norwegian companion? He was in pretty bad shape from what I remember."

He laughed and slapped me on the back.

"Yeah, Mads and Jaeger isn't good."

Well, needless to say, Gwen was shocked that not only did we bump into Jonathan Frakes, but that I knew him from a party Patrick Stweart threw a long time ago. So long ago, in fact, that I didn't recognize the inflated version of Cmdr. William Riker sitting in front of me. He invited us over to lobsters with his wife, Laura of Luke and Laura fame. It was kind of annoying, because Gwen acted like a fool around him the whole time. It was worse than when I introduced her to Stan Lee.

Mads: A Very Aggressive Green Bean

I took D'Brickishaw out to dinner with my Boston friend for our last night in LA. We went to an upscale restaurant that will remain nameless. It was also a great learning experience for my son on what he can expect if he spends any time with dear old dad.

We were given our meals. My Boston friend tasted his, then made a funny face.

"What is it?" I said.

"The green beans are very aggressive."

We called our waitress. Then the chef came out. He seemed very angry.

"What the hell do you want from me? You ordered a steak from a truck stop."

The truck stop was the only thing open at 3:45 in the morning in Baker, CA. Anyway, I thought the chef was threatening us, so I sprayed him in the eyes with mace. Then the waitress jumped on my back, and fellI forward, knocking her face on the table. My Boston friend picked up his chair and broke it over a trucker's gray-bearded chin, causing his head to jerk back like he'd slipped on a wet floor.

I took D'Brick by the arm and dragged him out into the parking lot. I saw an open convertible at the gas pump that sat empty while it's owner was inside paying for his fill-up.

"Get in the car!"

"But it's not ours!"

"If you don't get in, I'll leave you here for the bikers."

"Why aren't we driving the car you rented?"

"I like the convertible."

I hotwired it and sped backward in reverse, spinning the car almost into my Boston friend as he ran from the place and jumped in the back seat.

My Plans Ruined

"Concert cancelled. Refunds ticket counter."

"Damn."

Mayor McCheese: Jumping in Paul Newman

As I may have mentioned before, our coffee is the bomb, and everyone is digging it. We have Paul Newman, he of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, The Hustler, and The Long Hot Summer, to thank for this, as McDonald's has had a long standing partnership with his Newman's Own brand, the same brand which makes the coffee.

Now, we don't just let anyone into our gang. You need to earn your stripes, you know what I mean, so when the deal was finalized that we'd feature Newman's Own products in our store, I invited Mr. Newman to my house so he could be initiated properly into our ranks. He needed to be jumped in.

He knew something wasn't right when he saw the whole crew minus Ronald surround him. Officer Big Mac shut the door.

"What's going on here?" He said.

"Robble robble, robble robble."

"That's right, Hamburglar, it's initiation time. Guys, masks on."

We all pulled down our hockey masks and moved in his direction. He was lucky, though. Ronald stopped in just in time and pulled him out of there. Apparently Grimace couldn't keep his trap shut.

Mads: Father Son Bonding

Despite Dr. Phil's protests, the kid called my bluff, and agreed to change his name. I decided to call him D'Brickishaw. Undaunted, he wanted to spend the day with me, so I chartered a flight to Vegas.

At one of the strip clubs we went to, I got us an invite to a private room. D'Brickshaw told me later that I went in totally the wrong direction from where we were supposed to go, and somehow we ended up stairs somewhere. We entered a random room.

There was an old guy in a tweed suit spanking a thirtysomething guy in a school boy's outfit. The "boy" was leaning over a table, yelling at the old man to hit him harder. I looked around the room and saw a copy of Faulkner's The Unvanquished. I snatched it before we left.

"Why did you take that book?" D'Brickishaw said.

"Because I've never read it. Have you read it?"

"No."

"I've heard by some that it's up there with As I Lay Dying and Sound and the Fury. We'll see. Do you like Faulkner too?"

"I don't even know who he is."

I put my arm around him.

"My dear, D'Brickishaw, I have so much to teach you."

Igfried Pop

LA is a great spot to see celebrities, and sometimes even a guy like me gets star struck. Not when I see someone like David Sylvian of Japan, but definitely when I see a dude like Iggy Pop, who I saw coming out of Dolce.

"Oh my God, you're Iggy Pop."

"I know man, what can I do for you?"

"Dude, your songs 'Pussywalk' and 'Butt Town' really spoke to me. I know when I'm surrounded by Latin American and dark women, I can't help but think about their pussies, you know?"

"Yeah, I know, man."

"Hey, before you run off, I just got one question to ask you. What is Iggy short for?"

"Igfried."

Why Did I Doubt Nicolas Cage?

Mads was recently asked to be on Dr. Phil because one of his kids wanted to confront him or something. It was a free trip to LA, and he asked me if I wanted to go too. Why not, right?

While he was taping the show, I decided to take a trip to Rodeo to grab some clothes. I saw Nicolas Cage exiting a store by himself, putting on his sunglasses as the sun hit him. There were a couple of paparazzi who noticed, but that was it. I ran over.

"Hey, Man," I said. "How you been?"

"Oh my God, I almost didn't recognize you. What're you doing in LA? Walk with me to my car."

"I'm here because Mads is on Dr. Phil for one of his kids."

"That Mads, what a kidder."

We reached his car, a Lamborghini that once belonged to the Shah of Iran, and there was a pause. I wanted to ask him, but I wasn't sure how to broach the subject. I could tell he was getting impatient, so I blurted it out:

"Why don't you make good movies anymore?"

"What?"

"I've been meaning to call you about this. I know it's kind of harsh to bring--"

"No, I mean why would you ask? Isn't it obvious?"

"Obvious? Why you make movies so bad that you can't even screen them for critics anymore because you know what they'll say? I don't see what's obvious about that."

"I did Leaving Las Vegas, The Rock wasn't bad either. People know I can act if I want to. The plan now is to just take the dumbest script possible for the biggest film possible and cash my 8-figure paycheck. Call it a Kinski approach, only instead of doing as many small bad roles as possible, I do a few big ones for a bigger pay off."

I dropped my head.

"I'm sorry I doubted you, old friend."

"Don't worry about it. Wanna grab a drink?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Mads: I Was on Dr. Phil

Child number 2 is a 17-year old boy whose mom I impregnated while studying abroad (quite literally, I guess) for a year at Florida University. I didn't know I was his dad until I received a court order for a paternity test a year later in Oslo. He and his mother have been getting his cut from my vast estate ever since.

I guess the money wasn't enough, because the little bastard called Dr. Phil in an attempt to reach out to me. I figured what the hell, a free trip to LA.

I sat back stage in the green room while the kid told his sob story. I wanted to throw up. Finally they brought me on.

"You've been watching back stage. What do you want to say?"

"Um... hmm... you don't look familiar... I have to assume you didn't make the Christmas party... right?"

There was an audible gasp. Dr. Phil knew about the Christmas party from my pre-interview with his producers, and he was excited I brought it up. When I explained what it was: a way for all of my six kids and seven baby-moms to get together, there was a bigger gasp and scattered boos.

"How many of your kids do you have contact with, Mads?" Dr. Phil seemed very stoic, and it was freakin' me out. I wanted the no-nonsense, crazy-sayings, Texas justice, cut-through-the-bullshit Dr. Phil; not this one.

"I see whoever comes to the Christmas party once a year."

More gasps and head shaking.

"Tristan, is there something you'd like to say to your dad?"

"Tristan? Your mom named you Tristan?"

"You didn't know my name? I'm your son and you didn't know my name?"

"That's not important. No one should be named Tristan. With all the money I send your mother, she should have the good sense to buy a baby naming book and rename you."

"I happen to like my name--"

I stood up and unpinned my microphone.

"Listen, even though your 18th birthday is coming, you will still continue to receive money from the estate. A relationship on a personal level is out of the question until you change your name. I'm sorry."

And I walked off stage.

Trajan's UFC

I had some friends over the other day to catch the UFC where Liddell was beaten by Rampage. During the first fight, they went to shots of Mandy Moore in the crowd. She didn't look too comfortable, and I noticed a figure making peace signs right to her left. It was my buddy Trajan, the author. I had to call him.

"Oh yeah," he said. "I went to the UFC with her."

"What? She invited you?"

"No, I invited her. I was out in LA and bumped into her. She wanted to talk to me about one of my books, so I told her to come with me. I had to catch the senior citizen's bus to Vegas."

"You took the senior citizen's bus to Vegas?"

"Oh yeah, it's a goldmine for writing material. I met a guy who worked for Howard Hawkes in the 40's. He knew William Faulkner."

The story sounded very dubious. I made some phone calls. In fact Trajan was sitting two seats over from Mandy Moore, and he jumped into the picture, against his wife's wishes. Not only that, but the wife was none too pleased that she had to ride the senior citizen's bus with him.

Mads: My Mom's Visit

I'd barely been back in Boston two days before my mom showed up. With all the cash she has, I'm utterly shocked she decided to stay with my Boston friend and me. She wanted to go to a "skeezy American town" and bowl, and wouldn't shut up until I took her.

We went north, into Maine, and finally she felt all right in a little town called Brewer. It was close to 10:30 on a Saturday night, and all the locals were in full effect. We went to a bowling alley, and the place had black lights and glow-in-the-dark paint and bad upbeat country. My mom sniffed the air, looked around, and exclaimed:

"This is it!"

She got hella wasted and took some random older dude in a trucker hat and flannel shirt and no teeth out to the parking lot and into our limo. I sat outside on the curb with my hand in my head. She then kicked him out onto the ground in front of me, because "his dick was too small!"

Mads' Mom's Cooking

I didn't know Mads, my Norwegian companion, had a mom. I thought he was asexually spored. But there she was, in our apartment. She wasn't very mom-like: she hated kids with a passion, only watched Baseball Tonight (she was a huge Pittsburgh Pirates fan, go figure), and she made excessive off-track bets on horse races.

The last night she was in town, she offered to cook for us, as a repayment for her stay in our place. Mads insisted she didn't, but I thought he was just being nice, so I said I'd be delighted to have her cook. Mads wasn't just being nice.

I thought things were weird when she brought in tons of apples. Why would anyone do that? Mads rolled his eyes, but I thought it was just some Norwegian traditional recipe. I was wrong again.

She put all of our dishes in hollowed out apples: the fried calamari, the pan seared salmon, the braised lamb chops in Barolo wine sauce. I was shocked. I'd never seen anything so ludicrous in my life. Sir Ian McKellen called to tell me he was coming over and did I want him to bring anything. I told him supper.

Mayor McCheese: Mayor, the Substitute

Sometimes I need to make some alternative sources of income so I have something to show Uncle Sam when tax time comes. One of the jobs I'll take from time to time is a substitute teacher.

It's an easy gig. I bring tons of MckeyDees for the kids, fill out a bunch of library passes, and put The Jerry Springer Show on the TV. For that, I earn $75. At the same time, I can keep my pager active, and conduct other business.

Ronald called me into his office the other day. It seems my activities as a sub were giving the company a bad name. We aren't supposed to blatantly promote kids eating that much of our food, and my presence in the Windy City's school system contradicts this. Ronald agreed to repay my lost wages by doctoring the books and saying I cleaned toilets part-time. Though I had to accept his decision, I was disappointed. I enjoyed working with America's youth.

Two Bills: We Made It

This is it, baby, the 200th blog (mine, anyway). Everyone was at my apartment for the celebration: Sir Ian McKellen, underground casino owner Martinson Agunga Agunga, night club owner Ukrainian Hank, Gwen the Cappie, Matty the Mainer and his son Goodtimes, Patrick Stewart, and former Red Sox second baseman Marty Barrett, just to name eight. The party was planned by Martha Stewart, and catered by chef Ming Tsai. It was a regular happening.

It all really came together when Mads showed up. It felt like old times to have my Norwegian companion back with me. I had him on my team in a game of Beruit against Matty the Mainer and Santino from Project Runway. We killed them, and considering I hadn't won a game since Mads left, the whole thing just seemed right. (Matty will tell you we won so easily because he had to hold Goodtimes, and Santino wasn't very good.)

As the party wound down, Mads and I went out on my terrace and shared a cigarette.

"I'm thinking of moving back here," he said.

"You know your room's just as you left it."

"All right then."

We gave each other a firm, manly hug. Then we heard:

"I thought you'd never ask."

It was Patrick Stewart. Sir Ian McKellen had suggested they blow this pop stand (my party) and go grab a drink at his hotel. I never thought I'd hear one of my events referred to as a "pop stand", but I guess if anyone would do it, it would be him.

Bill Walton

30 years ago today, Bill Walton led the Portland Trailblazers to their only NBA championship. As a seven-year old, I watched the game on tape delay.

One thing I'll always remember is Mads' impersonation of Walton. It was so perfect, it never got old. I once got a copy of the games from that series, and I hired Bob Costas to do play-by-play while Mads did his Walton at a party I threw. It was pure genius.

"Bill Walton is the greatest center in the game of basketball today," he said after Walton hit a jumper. "He might be the best center since Marc Blount."

I wondered what Mads was doing at that moment. I missed him. I picked up my phone, went to dial, then stopped and hung it up. Maybe it was for the best. There was a knock at the door. I was excited. Could it be him?

No, it was just Bill Walton.

"What are you doing this afternoon?" He said.

"You wanna go catch that new Pirates movie?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Mayor McCheese: No More Sopranos

I caught the last Sopranos like everyone else did last night. I'm not sure what to think. If the idea is that that was an open-ended ending, then it's the worst case of hack writing I've ever seen. If the idea was that you never see the one with your name on it, then it's a cool ending.

I must say, I was more worried about how the episode killed the boring NBA Finals in the ratings. The Sopranos, as I'm sure you already know, is on HBO, which means we don't earn any advertising during it. On the other hand, we have a lot invested in the NBA Finals. I think I'm gonna talk to Ronald, and see about us getting an endorsement deal with the UFC.

Juglass and the Ant Man

Matty the Mainer and his buddy Ian decided to enter into the Crime Drama genre, with a police series call Juglass and the Ant Man. Here, they take their character Juglass, based on their friend of the same name, and pair him up with Ant Man, a half man half ant dude. The two not only solve crimes for the local police department, but they're also battling their way through the pro tennis circuit.

"What makes you think this'll be any better than You, Me, and Juglass?" I said.

"The Ant Man. He's what makes it better."

I can't argue with that logic.

The Big Money, No Whammies

Matty the Mainer told me he was finally free of what he termed the albatross around his neck that was Dos Passos' USA trilogy. He started it when he went to Florida, and apparently was doing well, until he stalled out around page 900, smack dab in the middle of the third book, The Big Money.

"Well, now that you're done with it," I said. "You can read my buddy Trajan's take on The Big Money, called The Big Money, No Whammies, set in the 80s."

It wasn't the colossal success his other book, Aries Moon, was, which netted him the National Book Award. It was still a pretty sweet novel, though, the only caveat being that you have to read the 1100 plus page USA first to really get the full effect. Matty was finally at that point.

"What did you think?" I said.

"Yeah, it was a pretty cool concept. I loved the part about the Coreys. I mean, I can't give him too much credit, because he already had the basic idea written for him by Dos Passos, and not only that, he only had the one book to focus on, as opposed to three. I think the reason why The Big Money was the poorest of the trilogy was that he'd gotten in too deep, and couldn't really see the forest for the trees."

"So what're you saying, you didn't like Trajan's book?"

"It was cute."

Mads: Giant-Size 50th Issue

The boys saw the humor that everyone else couldn't with my shirt. Hugo got nostalgic and threw on Dream a Little Dream. We smoked some cigars and drank some nice rum. Castro didn't want the night to end, and he sent some people out to get more films with the Coreys.

That's when things took a turn for the worse. Someone came back with National Lampoon's Last Resort. It was atrocious. Hugo, Castro, and I all sat there with dazed looks on our faces. Castro called the guy in that brought the film, and he pulled out a pistol and shot him. Things were getting heavy.

I tried to sneak out, but Chavez caught me and asked what I thought of G.W. Bush. I think he wanted me to call him the Great Satin or something. My first instinct in cases like that is to play Devil's Advocate and say what the person doesn't want me to say just for argument's sake. But I was in the Lion's Den, and I had no desire to stir the beast.

"He's a bad, bad man," I said.

He laughed and slapped me really hard on the back. I was worried I'd never make it out of there alive. They pulled out more rum and cigars, and got pissed when I wouldn't take as much as they did. I thought all hope was lost...

Then there was a phone call. I heard Castro say in Spanish:

"The Norwegian Embassy? Yes, we have Mads here. You want us to let him go? Fine, we'll help you out."

My country had not forgotten me! I was allowed to leave, on one condition: I leave my shirt. I relented without hesitation. In a place like this, you don't push your luck.

I was placed on a cruise ship bound for the Bahamas. I couldn't get a direct ship to the States because of that damned embargo. I thought about the invite from my Boston friend, and decided to book a flight there instead of hang in the Caribbean for a few days.

When I got my luggage in Logan, a man in a suit with a little cap held a sign that read "Mads, my Norwegian companion". It was good to be home.

Mads: Corey Feldman as Che Guevara

I looked around my suite one last time. There was nothing left for me here in Rio, and it was time to move on. I went through a stack of invitations to see where I might go next. My Boston friend had sent me one for his 200th Blog Spectacular. That sounded like fun to me. But I had a Giant Sized 50th Blog of my own to do first.

I hopped in a plane and flew out to Cuba. Being that I'm a Norwegian citizen, the trade embargo doesn't affect me, so I can spend as much cash as I want there. I checked in at a nice beachside resort, the kind they don't let the natives into, and shot down to the bar.

I didn't even notice that I was wearing my Corey Feldman as Che Guevara T-Shirt. With things being as hectic as they were the past few days, it's no surprise. Just the same, no one thought it was funny, and I ended up in jail.

After a day, I was taken from my cell and put into a state limo. Something was up, and I was a little leery. Would Norway recognize my existence and bail me out? It turned out I wouldn't need them. We went to a huge mansion, and some soldiers took me into a large recreational room, where Castro and Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez were smoking cigars. They took one look at my shirt, and laughed hysterically.

Reno Hard 8's

With my sizeable financial holdings, I decided a few years back to purchase a minor league baseball team: the Double A Reno Hard 8's. It was a disaster.

First was my mascot, a giant octopus. I love big, furry mascots, and I thought an octopus would be a cool step in the mascot evolution. I was wrong. He had trouble hugging little kids, his tentacles would get caught in the wheels of the golf cart as he rode around the field, and he couldn't do the "YMCA". Kids were weirded out by him, and parents started taking their kids else where for fun.

Second, I tended to undermine the manager's authority when it came to the players. When I was in town, I insisted they party with me. The coach didn't like this, and was especially mad when half his team couldn't play the next day with hangovers. He also didn't like it when I called down to him during games telling him when to switch pitchers, or when to hit-and-run-, or even how he should position his fielders.

Finally, I never considered how difficult it would be competing with the casinos in the area. Every promotion I did was trumped by them. I'd have a most improved student night where the kids would get into the game free, they'd have most improved student night where the kids would get $25 in chips. There's nothing I can do about that. I made a huge stink in the area when I hooked up with a brothel for a "Lady's of the Night Night". First 1000 people get coupons. The community didn't like that at all.

I sold the team a year later. It was an experiment I'll never try again.

The Softball Chick

ESPN has been showing the NCAA softball championships. I've always had a thing for softball chicks. I like the ones with the slightly muscular legs and the solid, well developed butt. The ones that can pitch or hit like a beast. The ones who braid their hair then tie ribbons of their school colors in it. It's just too much.

During Spring Break of 1991, I met Alexandra, a softball chick from Florida State. She had everything a guy could want, and we were hitting it off really well. I thought she could be The One. We were inseparable for the whole week.

At the end of our time together, I convinced her to let me try and hit some of her pitches. She agreed, and we went to a nearby softball field.

She looked amazing in her tight uniform pants and high socks and cleats. I thought I could marry this woman.

That's when it happened. She was very competitive: it only makes sense considering she was a Division I athlete. But I'm not slouch at the plate either, and after a couple of pitches, I caught up to her fast ball, and timed her screwball. I was cranking the ball to all fields. She couldn't get a decent pitch by me.

That night at supper, she wouldn't let it go. She was grumpy the whole time. I tried to validate and quantify things for her, but it just made it worse. She was pissed at me, and our love affair dissipated quickly.

Here's to you Alexandra, you were one of the good ones. Sorry you were a shitty pitcher.

Mayor McCheese: Michelle Wie

There have been reports lately that women's golf phenom Michelle Wie has been less than friendly at the pro-am down here at Bulle Rock before the McDonald's LPGA Championship. I can tell you first hand that this is true, yet not true.

I did my work for the company along with my other McDonaldland characters as caddies for the Wie group. I watched as the people who paid thousands of dollars tried to engage her in conversation, and I watched as she seemingly rebuffed their attempts.

This was not exactly the case though. My time on the streets has given me life experiences the average rich businessman paying to play with Wie in a pro-am will never dream of. One of those is in seeing teenage prostitutes. Like Wie, they're very young, interact only with adults, and are told how to think and what to do by their pimps. We can't be surprised that Wie's difficult to talk to when she has no idea how to properly communicate.

I invited her out to have a milkshake with Grimace and me afterwards, but she declined, saying Nike and her dad wouldn't like that.

Bill Vendall or Rutherford Bixby III

Matty the Mainer's friend Heather showed him this video, which he showed me, that had Sanjaya telling everyone he was graduate art student Bill Vendall, and that his Idol stint was all apart of some graduate project.

That reminded me of my buddy, Rutherford Bixby III, descendant of president Rutherford B. Hayes on his maternal grandmother's side. He was a graduate student in cultural anthropology specializing in American pop culture. He's been on Big Brother twice. You may know him better as Chicken George.

It was interesting watching him on the Big Brother All Stars, because there was this understood wink-wink nudge-nudge whenever he talked about how smart the Doctor was, or when he became a member of Chilltown. I really thought he was going to give himself away when he almost put the Doctor up for elimination, but luckily Mike Boogie stepped in and bailed him out with his little power play about his "power that can change the game" thing. That Rudy, dumb like a fox.

Mads and I saw him present a paper based on his doctorate dissertation after his first appearence on the show, and we figured the game was up. But CBS didn't seem to care, and he made the All Stars show. Chicken George and Rutherford Bixby III were such disperate personas they figured it wouldn't matter if they brought him back. They were right.

Punch Out!!

One of the sweet things about the new Wii is how you can download old games. One thing that sucks, though, is you can only download the Mike Tyson's Punch Out!! post Mike Tyson, meaning it's only Punch Out!!

I was in the mall with Gwen, and we saw a kid playing it in the front of a store. He sucked.

"Dude," I said. "You gotta pop Piston Honda in the face when he blinks. What the fuck's the matter with you? Oh Jesus, how the hell do you plan to beat King Hippo if you can't beat this guy?"

The kid was too young to remember all the tricks to beating these dudes. I bumped him aside and picked up at Don Flamenco, who's a push over. As I got to Tiger, I was getting too into it. My blood pressure was rising. At Bald Bull, I wasn't sure if I could time my punch right to hit him in the gut as he charged me. The first one was perfect. The second one...

I heard the opening to "Oh Sherry". I looked to see where it was coming from, and was knocked down. My timing was shot. I was a failure. Some jackass had it as his ringtone. It didn't take long before Bald Bull was laughing over me.

"You suck," the kid said, and he threw his Icee in my face.

"Well that's just plain tomfoolery."

Mads: A Love Grown Cold

I sat in my suite, as Kansas's "Dust in the Wind" played overhead, and watched a montage of clips of things Abdul Karim and I did. There was a knock at the door. It was Juglass and the Ant Man. They had some camping equipment all packed up in their arms.

"Hey, we're gonna hit the road. We're sorry about your friend."

"It's okay, Juglass. He needed to be written out of the plot anyway."

His dad stopped in.

"Hey, can we take any of that in our car? We have extra space."

They handed him some stuff. Juglass went over to the empty rabbit cage on the other side of the room. The Ant Man pulled out a wad of cash.

"Where'd you get that?"

"I won it in an Internet poker tournament last night," Juglass said.

"Not bad."

There was a spit take behind me.

"Jesus, these rabbit pellets are stale."

"No shit Sherlock, I killed the rabbit two months ago when it was fat enough to make my Rabbit in Barolo Wine Sauce dish."

We said our goodbyes, and they left.

Mads: That Would be Cheeeeees-y

As we stood there in a stalemate, with Juglass' shaking like a leaf, his gun pointed in T-Bone's face, I was getting annoyed. I wanted something to happen. T-Bone never said a word, never changed expression, but slowly lifted his right hand and snapped his fingers. In a moment the place was raining Party Mix and ninjas. I ducked behind a boiler for cover. The ninjas had pictures of Juglass on their chests, framed by the words "Beaver Ultimate".

As the boys were dispatching their adversaries, T-Bone tried to get away. A dolphin with a box on his head jumped in and tripped him with his fin, knocking T-Bone into a vat of something.

"You have the right to be dead," the dolphin said, and he threw a lit Zippo into the vat, causing a huge explosion.

"Jesus, did you see that?" I said. "The talking dolphin just killed T-Bone."

"The dolphin wasn't talking," Juglass said. "The box was translating for it. If the dolphin talked, that would be cheeees-y."

Ant Man hit him upside the head and handed him a broom.

"Why am I cleaning up the Party Mix?" He said.

"I think it's because you have all the experience from playing curling."

The Ant Man nodded.

Mads: Showdown in Regular Rio

When I got back to my suite, I made a drink and slumped down in my chair. I found a rerun of Sanford and Son, and figured I'd use that to lower my blood pressure after had just transpired. I was wrong.

Juglass and the Ant Man were at my door again.

"Come on. We got word on the whereabouts of the kingpin-- the man we've been chasing the whole time."

Ant Man hit play on a boom box, and Foreigner's "I Wanna Know What Love Is" started. I wasn't really sure what to do. There was a montage of clips of Juglass and the Ant Man readying their arms, putting on war paint, and tying bandanas on their foreheads. I made myself another drink.

The song continued as we drove silently in Juglass' Subaru wagon to the docks. There were a bunch of Uzi toting bad guys manning some ship, and I knew this was our target. I kind of stayed behind while they made their way to the man they termed The Kingpin. I thought I could avoid any danger, but I was stuck with an Asian stereotype dude wielding some weirdly shaped knives. He slashed me a couple times, and even though it hurt, it didn't seem to affect my ability to attack him. I managed to get him to the ground, where I broke his arm with a jiu-jitsu move.

When I finally made it to the control room of the boat, I saw the Ant Man and Juglass holding some minotaur like creature at gun point. The thing looked like a sports mascot, and he had the name "T-Bone" on the back of his jersey. Ant Man kept saying things to Juglass, and Juglass was holding his sawed-off in T-Bone's face, shaking violently. I stepped in.

"Hey, Juglass, do you need a candy bar or something."

"This man embarrassed me at the AHL All-Star Game."

Mayor McCheese: The McFundamental

With the Spurs in the NBA Finals going for their fourth title in the post-Jordan Era, I thought it'd be nice to talk about our new sandwich, the McFundamental. In the tradition of the McJordan and the Big 33, burgers made in honor of Michael Jordan and Larry Bird respectively, we released the McFundamental for Spurs power forward Tim Duncan. It's a hamburger with ketchup, mustard, onions, and two pickles on it.

In order to pay special tribute to Tim Duncan's under appreciated success, especially with all the Lebron hype, you can't order the McFundamental by name, but have to ask for a "hamburger". If you ask for the McFundamental, the kids working behind the counter will act like they don't know what you're talking about.

I don't know about you, but with my Bulls out of it, I'll be rooting for Tim Duncan and Robert Horry to lead the Spurs to victory against the Cavs.

Our Trip to New York

Boston is great, but sometimes we need a break, so me, Gwen, Sir Ian McKellen, Hubert Humphrey, and Matty the Mainer made a trip down to the Big Apple. We decided to take in an amateur night at a comedy shack.

The comedian was horrible, and no one was really enjoying it, except for a few pity laughs. At the end of the set, he made a joke about his kid taking a dump on the floor, and his response to it.

"What... should we rub his nose in it?"

You could almost hear the crickets, until Ian Mckellen stood up. Oh shit, I thought, here it comes:

"Why doesn't someone rub your nose in this set so you don't do it again? You suck."

The comedian tried to respond, but was drowned out by the cheers and laughter. Luckily for us, no one recognized him as Magneto from X-Men, or we'd've heard about it in the tabloids.

Wings Hauser Sighting

I was watching some 90210 on SOAPNet. It was the episodes where Dylan needed to get his money back from the family that scammed him. Those, of course, have Wings Hauser in them.

So I stop by the Ramrod after to see some friends, and what do you know, there's Wings at the bar. I went to shake his hand, but he was ranting and raving about something.

"I know a rule's a rule," he said. "But God damn it! You can't suspend Amare for a game, it taints the series!"

Everyone around him looked scared. He grabbed a skinny gay guy by his oversized polo shirt collar.

"The Spurs were the one who should be punished! Horry's the one who threw the hip check!"

I wondered if I should call the cops. But that was unnecessary. At that same moment, David Stern walked into the bar.

"Wings, I'm not sure what you're complaining about. Amare knows the rule. If you leave the bench during an altercation, it's one game."

"But your series will be decided by undeserved suspensions."

"Now you stop it. If those suspensions impact the series, it'll be Amare's fault, because he knew the rule, and he broke it. Don't be glib."

"I'm sorry, you're right..."

Wings went over and hugged him. I felt my pulse slow considerably. It was going to be a nice afternoon after all.

The Minotaur

Matty the Mainer stopped in the other day to show me his new project, The Minotaur. I was intrigued.

"Dude," I said. "Do you know how many movies have been made about minotaurs?"

"Not like this one."

He showed me some screen shots. The Minotaur was actually an action hero. He wasn't your standard mythical minotaur, but rather a dude with a bull's head that was the kind of black and white spotted deal you'd expect to see on a farm.

"What the hell are you doing?" I said.

"What? It's good, right?"

"Yeah, except you stole the idea from those soy milk commercials."

"Damn, I didn't think anyone would notice."

Mads: Game, Set, Match... ish

What a mess. None of us really planned out this meeting with the baddies well. Now I was hiding under a table, dodging stray bullets.

The idea was simple: I'd meet the guys at a restaurant, undercover cops would play fellow patrons, and Juglass would play our waiter. The Ant Man stayed behind in a van, listening in. I'd hint at this or that, and try to trap the bad guys into incriminating themselves.

My buddy Fred and some angry looking man came in and sat at my table. We did our introductions and how-you-beens, and then Juglass came and took our orders.

"Can I start you guys off with something to drink?"

"A TNT," I said.

"Manhattan," Fred said.

"A Blue Moon with a slice of orange," the other guy said.

"You sure you want an orange in your beer?" Juglass said. "Wouldn't you want a lemon?"

"No, it tastes better with an orange."

"Um, Okaaaay..."

"What're you, patronizing me?"

"Hey," I said. "Just take it off his TAT* number."

But it was too late. An all out ballroom blitz ensued. I dove behind a table. From what I could see, it was pretty crazy. Ant Man ran in, and with his superhuman strength and ant-like reflexes, he was throwing furniture and people around. Juglass was dispatching as many as he could with his frisbee and a set of darts he found behind the bar.

What a day...

*TAT= Total Adjusted Tip, a numerical system used to determine a waitperson's tip based on overall service.

Mads: Love and a Fireblanket

"Can I help you fellas?" I said.

"You could start by telling us who the dead man is on your floor." Juglass said. The Ant Man mumbled something inaudible to him. "I know that's the guy we just played tennis against. I just wanted to see if he knew. What do you mean that doesn't make any sense?"

I sighed.

"Listen, Mads, we're not tennis players." Ant Man hit him on the arm. "Okay, we are tennis players... but we're also police detectives, and we came down here to Rio to follow a white slavery ring. Your buddy Hermon was working for us as a police informant. We were about to blow the case wide open before that stuff happened a few minutes ago."

The Ant Man mumbled some more to him. They started arguing.

"I got an idea guys."

"Okay, we're listening."

"Do you want to take a seat?"

"Yeah, sure, give me a second."

Juglass pulled out a purple inflatable couch, and blew into it. He and the Ant Man sat on it in front of me.

"Here's what I got," I said. "What if I agree to meet the guys that left this note tomorrow morning?"

"What if we just go down to Foxwoods and live off cold Dominoes pizza for a few days." The Ant Man hit him on the arm again. I assumed if I could make out the Ant Man's mumbles that he'd have been saying "would you stop!"

We had a party that night to kill time before the big meeting the next day. Juglass hit it off really well with this nice Brazilian chick, while the Ant Man and I played Gin. Juglass took her into another room of my suite, then emerged a few minutes later.

"Hey, Mads, do you have... like... a fireblanket?" The Ant Man shot him a death stare. I looked at him and then at Juglass and shrugged my shoulders. He went back with his woman and shut the door.

"You know," I said. "You two make a great team."

He shook his head at me, and we had a good laugh. There was a knock at the door. The Ant Man drew his gun, and I hid behind a potted plant. It was Juglass's dad. He was in the next suite over, and thought we might want some of his peach cobbler.

Mayor McCheese: Our Coffee Rules

I've been hearing for quite some time now that our coffee at McDonald's was the bomb. I figured it was time I gave it a try. Boy, let me tell you, it was a nice slice of all right.

While I was waiting for them to ring my order, I heard a familiar voice humming the Pet Shop Boys' "What Have I Done to Deserve This?", which was playing overhead.

"Since you went away... I've been hanging around... I've been wondering why... I'm feeling down..."

"Moon Knight?"

I turned, but it was one of his alter egos, the cab driver guy. He put a finger to his lips. I nodded.

"I just came to get some of those cool Shrek glasses."

Makin' It Rain

Hubert Humphrey wanted to let a load off with all this stress from the campaign, so I took him to a strip club. Maybe not such a good idea.

He took a briefcase full of campaign funds my niece helped us raise, and started throwing money around. We got a VIP room, and he "Made it Rain" on the dancers as they showed us their stuff on the pole. He yelled these outrageous statements like:

"That's right bitch, I'm the only man who's ever been both the senior and junior senator of a state."

Or:

"I knew John F. Kennedy. How many of those rap guys can say that?"

Report of the incident was all over MSNBC the next day.