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.