Your mom loves Neil Young. It was a source of friction.

The best president we ever had was William Henry Harrison. This will be a short post.

I Fathered You with a Fictional Character. Your Move, Darth I-Thought-I-Was-Clever.

I am sorry we got into this argument, but it is true. Between harassing J.K., coming to terms with Pumas, and warding off phantom skeleton daemons, I did pursue your mother. In fact, I hit it. Twice.

However, what the previous paragraph does not do is help explain who your mother is/was. It all started when...

I still remember the day. The candles were lit on the cake, and a gentle breeze caressed my chin. I had made my wish--no I won't tell you--and then I closed my eyes and blew out the candles. When I opened my eyes again, I saw her. She had just gotten off the u-haul and was preparing to start the move into her new, beautiful brown house. She had brown eyes. The color of muddy-water drizzled with puke and seasoned with feces. Actually, her eyes were a major turn off. I never let her look at me. But her body was perfect, full of curves and crevices I wanted to delve deeply into to mine for the purest Mithril! She turned and looked at me (I soon informed her never to do so again) and I quivered. We clearly were destined to be together--besides the puke-brown eyes. For fucks sake women, get some contacts! Anyway, we survived through famine and bountiful harvests, through sunrises and moonsets (TM E & J 2008), and through the most epic bout of collective diarrhea I have ever witnessed. How I cherished her wholly--except the eyes--until the Pumas came. I still lament her to this day. She was perfect for me, although she was twice, if not thrice, my age at our first meeting.

I'll never forget my 10th birthday...









-J.A.

Your mom was slightly hotter than a border collie

The other day, I was thinking back to the days when your mother and I used to stroll hand-in-hand through the gardens of Westchester, PA. I don't know how we got there, since neither of us has ever lived east of the Mississippi River, let alone in Pennsylvania, but it was rapturous. Until the pumas appeared. I don't know how they got there either, since they definitely do not inhabit anywhere near Westchester. But after the tragedy, I was not inclined to ask questions. I wasn't inclined to much of anything.

It's been difficult to think about pumas the same way since. It's strange--I always thought of myself as a rational person, not someone prone to fly off the handle. Why should I blame the pumas for killing my lover? After all, that's what pumas are made for--ruining your day. Every muscle from their snouts to their tails is tailored to the purpose of making people miserable. Wouldn't it be wrong to let such an efficient and beautiful machine go to waste? No, I should not blame the pumas. I should feel sorry for them. I'm sure seeing the woman I love ripped untimely from my arms and devoured with evident glee by hungry mountain lions before my eyes as I stood helpless hurt them far more than it did me.

And yet I am weak. I should respect and honor pumas' function. But I don't. I can't get past the turning of my viscera and see the event for what it really was--a harmless accident of the jungle. My brother is stronger than I. He spend all of one day in March looking forward to enjoying a delicious spumoni at the end of the day. He worked hard in the mines with that confection in mind, licking his lips even as the sinews in his back and arms strained against the bowels of the earth to craft the fuel that drives our industry. Without this green, pink and brown vision, who is to say he could have made it through? And yet, when he gets home, he finds his roommate, a puma, sitting at the table, whiskers dripping with school cafeteria green ooze. The puma had devoured the pistachio out of the spumoni. Everyone knows that pistachio makes or breaks a spumoni.

But my brother accepted this as a fact of life. He moved on. All I had to do was withstand the death of my beloved and I didn't--I am weak, I am sorry. So to try and make it up to pumas, I've given them the win in this week's "Who's hotter?" against Johnny Depp.


-eleanor

Once your mother and I met Bono.

Last week I got Google advertising for this blog. Yes, I am selling out. I am a shameless whore and should probably be arrested for prostitution. In fact, this entire blog thing was just a thinly veiled attempt by me to get free lodgings via the court system. I am hoping to be arrested and tried within the week, hopefully for something that will set me up with free room and board for at least fifteen years, although I guess the point is just getting there. Then I can kill a man on the inside and get set up forever.

But anyway, until my trial, I may pass some time being fascinated by what the ad ticker on the side of the page thinks our readers will want. Harry Potter is a regular reader of this blog (he soaks up all information available about his late mother), and he may be the only one, so we can learn a lot about what he's into by looking at the side of this page.

One of them is for chocolate. Once I saw a toy dog in a store that moaned "I looooooooove chocolate" when squeezed. I have never personally met Harry Potter, as far as I know, so I can only assume that was him. To say that JK Rowling, Potter's biographer, is bad at describing her subjects is a massive understatement. Journalistically, her ethics are nothing short of scandalous. She never mentioned the fact that Harry Potter is significantly shorter than a normal person, or that he, apparently, has no bones (!!!). She did not report on his lisp or extremely poor vocabulary. And the report that he wears clothes and glasses is, on this evidence, completely false.

There are only two explanations for this: 1.) Ms. Rowling has extremely bad eyesight; 2.) she is hideously incompetent; and 3.) she is part of his "wizarding" agenda. I personally feel it's the latter. I have heard that Voldemort is a very nice man and people have told me some very disgusting things about owl-owners. And she has even bamboozled unfortunate filmmakers such as Chris Columbus and Alfie Cuaron into compromising their credibility by making biopics based on her work.

So to Ms. Rowling, I have this to say: Fuck you. Take your ethical ambiguities elsewhere and stop disparaging Voldemort's name. I wonder what other inaccuracies are built into her work. Based on this evidence, I can only assume that Dumbledore looks like this:


-eleanor

Heidi Klum: Soothsaying and a Guide to the Oscars.

Yes, it has been too long. Yes, Harry Potter did not die of a sexually transmitted disease. Again yes, the war on pollen is still going on. However, this does not mean that i won't be coming in loud or i won't be coming in clear. Oh and yes, i still get massive erections due to poor grammar skills, so lets do it.

Perhaps the biggest problem with dealing drugs is the metric system. I have no idea how much a "kilo" is. I also refuse to recognize that a meter can be used to measure distance, or quantifies as anything other than a five-letter derogatory word. The last time someone told me that the courthouse was sixty meters to my left i promptly kicked her in the face with my foot. This did not go over well considering "her" was a police officer and i was late for my meeting. To further clarify my last sentence, i must admit that my "meeting" was actually a "trial," and the reason she was using meters was because this "trial" took place in The Haag. Furthermore, this did not help my case being that i was on trial for War Crimes. I was in quite the pickle for a while, but after a heated courtroom exchange and some tricky maneuvering, i was able to get an advantage. After some clutch free-throw shooting on my part, U2 dropped the charges. The lesson to take away: Bono is a world-class musician, but a horrible defender.

So the five keys to life i would like to leave you with are...
5) Start a social movement to end all usage of the metric system
4) Dealing Drugs can lead you to meet modern day legends (Hi N.S.A. While you were data harvesting the blogosphere, you thought you caught me selling drugs. However, everything written in this is pure fabrication--i promise. So please, do not disappear me, Lost is only in season 4).
3) Just stay away from The Haag.
2) Do not become an international war criminal unless you...
1) Out rebound your opponent by 5 and make your free-throws (I'm looking at you Vinn
Baker)










-J.A.

Kid, your mom and I, when we was your age, we didn't mess around with any of this business.

Fidel Castro is stepping down. It's a bold move by him and I don't really see how he expects to stay in power doing something like that, but he's a wily fox and I wouldn't be surprised for a second if he didn't have some trick up his sleeve. It makes me think, though, because I watched the subtle, witty French film Blame it on Fidel on Sunday. It was about a girl with communists for parents and the "Fidel" in the title was definitely Castro. So I wonder--do I have the power to overthrow dictators simply by watching films with their names in the title?

I can only hypothesize that the answer is probably "no." Anyhow, I figure that it won't change all that much in Cuba, at least not right away. Fidel collapsed during a speech a couple of years ago and he's looking pretty old, so I don't think he has been all there for a while anyway. He's probably got some fairly competent people under him and probably hasn't relinquished all control of the government. We'll probably have to wait until he actually dies for any change, and with that damn Cuban health care system, there's no telling how long he'll live.

Age, though, is an underrated force in politics. Fidel Castro is old and probably too doddering to run a country, but it's worth noting that John McCain is only five years younger. I don't want to get into some big partisan debate. Yeah, I have left-leaning views on politics, but I actually believe that, if John McCain had been elected president eight years ago, he would have probably done a pretty good job--I would even go as far as to say he might have done better than Al Gore. Back then, he was a good man who trusted his own beliefs rather than toeing a party line on issues like immigration and guns. I think that he's not a bad man at all. I just think he has been coming across a bit lost lately and it may be out of senility.

Your mother is a man. No, it's not funny. The sooner you accept that, the better.

So, you might have guessed this will be a "Who is hotter?" blog. This was going to be between Jessica Alba and Jaye Davidson (promise me you won't look it up until you reach the end of this paragraph at least). Then I saw the end of The Crying Game. The shock made my genitals fall off and now I am seriously considering giving up movies. That didn't really happen. I've never seen The Crying Game. Probably because my dad spoiled the ending. But I won't. You should see it and tell me how you felt. It's a stuffy, arty sensation I will never be able to experience. Woe is me... (so please don't look it up. It will spoil it).

So instead, this one will be about Liam Neeson and Alfred Kinsey. I recently saw Kinsey and it was one of the worst films I have ever seen. But aren't the Hollywood actors who play in biopics always much sexier than the people they play? Yes. And this is no exception. There is only one exception--Anthony Hopkins in the film Nixon. Am I the only one who cannot think of dour, balding crooks opening relations with China without having a spontaneous, highly embarrassing orgasm in public?

It was November. The wind was blowing just so. We were having a lesson in my tenth grade history class about the Vietnam war, when my teacher began to say, "you know, Nixon was not that bad a president." Suddenly, I felt all the elastic in my body turn to instantly hot coal with a loud snap. I was at rapt attention. He put on a video of Nixon delivering the "Checkers Speech." The blubbery moon of his face rotated ever so slightly and caused a massive tidal undulation that traveled up and down my spine. And then, I saw him shaking hands with Chairman Mao and it was as if SuperSoaker had made a shotgun in a secret factory in my pants and decided to test it at a hideously inappropriate time. I couldn't speak to anyone in my high school ever again.

So yeah, obviously Liam Neeson

Your mother used to be an important bureaucrat. She didn't want you to know, because she thought you would think less of her.

Hello. I know it's been a while since we posted, but that was just because we thought the world wasn't ready for material as brilliant as ours. Now it's a new world. Great Britain has a new prime minister. Benazir Bhutto, always a major impediment to our writing, is now dead. Queen Elizabeth has beaten Queen Victoria for the title of England's oldest monarch. And, finally, the straw that broke the camel's back: Maine has selected its nominees for US President. So we're back.

And we're coming back with a vengeance. In what may become a recurring series for us, this first post of the new era will be dedicated to this important question: Who is hotter? This week's contenders: Madeleine Albright and Jean Reno.

What's that? Are you trying to tell me that Janet Reno would be a more apt opponent for Ms. Albright? Why? Sure, both Ms. Reno and Ms. Albright were Clinton appointees. Sure both were the first women in their positions. Sure, both are unmarried and thus ripe for the taking. Sure, they are both of the same gender and, roughly, age. But there would be no contest. Everyone knows Janet Reno is a sex goddess. She has it all: the figure of a woman half her age, a great singing voice, and a sassy wit that would have made Barbara Stanwyck look like J.R.R. Tolkein. I would not only do her, I'd marry her and let her keep her last name. We would pass her name on to the children. Five of them. Named after the Three Stooges. A man can dream.

No, Jean Reno is a far more fitting opponent for Ms. Albright. Similar square, meaty shoulders; similar birdlike mouths; similar high, nonchalant hairlines. Moroccan-born Reno fixes you in those set, beady, determined eyes and you know you're in for an ass-kicking. Ditto for Czech-born diplomat Albright and then some. The French action star has appeared alongside the likes of Steve Martin, Tom Hanks and Rob De Niro. The US diplomat has rubbed shoulders with Bill Clinton, Al Gore, and Michael Dukakis. For every fist to the face Mr. Reno administers, Ms. Albright punches right where it hurts--the breadbasket with economic sanctions.

The tie-breaker: only Ms. Albright has appeared as a sex object on Matt Groening's Futurama. When you're so on the fence about something like this, you need to turn to the only people who truly understand sexuality: cartoonists. So thanks to you, Mr. Groening. Our winner is Madeleine Albright. Next week: Mr. Rogers vs. Pope John Paul II.