Michael Jackson Round Up

There's really no need to get into specifics. If you stop by these parts for your news, you don't deserve to know what happened yesterday.

Anyhoo, these are the funniest things I came across in all the happenings.

LA Times:Celeb Twitters React.

Um Miley, I think your dad Billy Ray might be a little disappointed in your choice of inspiration. Then again, I don't ever recall hearing you do a cover of "Achy Breaky Heart."

Then again, I don't ever recall listening to your music.

Just in case it's been a while since you've seen Children of a Lesser God, Marlee was the deaf chick William Hurt was trying to hump. I'd love to get her opinion on her favorite MJ song.

Seriously, why doesn't my Criterion Collection DVD of On Golden Pond have any footage of this? That had to have been one crazy week. Think MJ and Jane's dad spent any time fishing for Walter? Or maybe a game of Parcheesi?

Found my two favorite comments on LAist and coincidentally they came from a gal named Shar.

Why would the news industry devote so much air time to the death of a pervert while leaving out the news that Farrah has died. She should come first. I say it's a gender thing, just as most of life is. His talent was no more than Farrah's. He had people behind him who saw a vision. He did not fulfill that vision because he wanted to be white and female. Too bad he died on the same day as Farrah (LIFO) most recent first, that's just wrong! Everything about him was wrong. A product of the entertainment industry and a pervert from the time he made his first $1M. Very few people will mourn his loss. Good thing he died before he could mess up more lives. Farrah, on the other hand, was a vision and a wonderful person. RIP FARRAH, ROT IN HELL MICHAL JACKSON!

Then, 13 minutes later Shar posted the following comment. Totally different than her previous comment.

Farrah died today. Why would the news industry devote so much air time to the death of this wierdo, while leaving out the news that Farrah has died? Is it a gender thing? His talent was no greater than Farrah's. He had people behind him who saw a vision. He did not fulfill that vision because he wanted to be white and female (clearly). Too bad he died on the same day as Farrah. Everything about him was wrong. A product of the entertainment industry and a pervert from the time he made his first $1M. Only his family should mourn. Good thing he died before he could mess up more lives. Farrah, on the other hand, was a vision and a wonderful person. RIP FARRAH, ROT IN HELL MJ!

Just a hunch but I think Shar, might have once been the President of the Farrah Fawcett fan club but was ousted back around '83 for being a little too crazy.

Finally, yesterday Facebook was a veritable smorgasbord of Michael Jackson jokes. Guess that happens when a person has a ton of comic friends. Not surprisingly there were a lot of repeats referencing MJ's knack for the bad touch with the kiddies but I must hands down Brett Gilbert (maybe you've seen him as the Alien Autopsy Guy in Ghost World?) had the best jokes in both quantity and quality.

Favorite Michael Jackson dead jokes.. 1. Boys underwear flying at half mast 2. Heaven needed two white woman today. 3. Governor Mark Sanford just became a huge Michael Jackson fan. 4. Bubbles gets everything in the will. 5. The one thing everyone agrees on is that Michael touched many people. 6. He WILL be back. And he's bringing the dancing zombies with him!

Well played Mr. Gilbert. Well played.

Proof that someday a monkey will type the Gettysburg Address

One of the questions I frequently get asked regarding stand up comedy goes along the lines of "How do you know what you're going to do on-stage?"

There's a lot of different ways to answer that question but what I like to do before a set is to jot down a list of possible bits- either things I feel like doing, things I think might work for the room, or anything new I'd like to try out. Doing this helps to focus and reign in a brain that's constantly thinking 100 different things a minute.

Then what I'll do is take that list and write it out with some semblance of order on a tiny corner of the same page then rip it out and tuck it into my back pocket as a "break in case of emergency" measure on the off chance I cough up a bong hit from 1996 and have a thermonuclear brain fart on stage.

I consider the list that makes it into the back pocket as the game plan for the set. Usually, I'll do the first two or three things on the list before tempting fate and branching out into the unknown. One of the greatest things about doing comedy is working without a net and seeing what happens. I often go "off the list" and won't return to it until it's time to close up shop.

My favorite thing about these back pocket lists is that they're completely forgotten about until pockets are emptied. When they're rediscovered days or weeks later, it's always an intriguing find because nothing is really ever written out other than key words that would only make sense to the guy telling the jokes.

On my desk there's a nice sized pile of scraps of paper with scrawled out phrases as latino gas, tranny weirdo, boogie board, or pawn shop ninja. Each and everyone of these scraps represents a different set and for some unexplainable reason I can remember the where and when of each one.

Here's what something labeled pawn shop ninja looks like out in the wild.

Pawn Shop Ninja


This clip could probably have a better title like "The Greatest Ninja Joke Ever Told Followed by a Pirate Joke That's Way Too Smart for a Bowling Alley" but I've always lacked in the flair department when it comes to naming things.

Despite the bit's bland title, you can imagine my surprise they other day when I received a MySpace message from the Pawn Shop Ninjas that said:

So... we did a search to see if anyone had a similar name to our bands', and your pawnshop ninja bit came up. We totally cracked up, and we think you'd make a lovely addition to our humble collection of friends :D

- Penny Dreadful and Digital Lo-Fi (two-thirds of the Pawnshop Ninjas)

Can you say most random thing ever? I still need to hit them back up and find out how they came up with that name but until I do that I will continue to be baffled.

Less Fartsy. More Artsy.

A couple buddies are both having art shows tomorrow night. If you wanna be a cool kid like me just go ahead and plan on hitting them both up, m'kay.

First up is my friend Mike. In addition to having a knack for screaming he's a wicked good artist and is in a printmaking show at Nomad Gallery.

That "one time" Denise Richard's went bat shit crazy on her reality show, she did it in front of one of Mike's prints.

Just in case you're too lazy to hit the Nomad link.

Next we've got my golf buddy and American Girl Store shopping partner Danny. He's in the Skate Shop Showcase which is happening just a stone's throw down the scenic LA River from Mike's show.

I forgot to ask Danny what he's going to have on display but if he's half as good as he is here, I think his work will be very well received.

Yelling at the TV on a Wednesday night.

In the bottom of the 8th inning of tonight's Dodger game against the Oakland A's, Mitch Jones was called in as a pinch hitter for the second night in a row.

The evening before, Mitch stepped up to the plate and made his debut in the Major Leagues after spending a decade playing in the minors.

After 10 summers of wondering and dreaming, when finally decided to happen for Mitch Jones. The Dodger Stadium crowd welcomed Mitch to the big club with a standing ovation but the baseball gods had other plans. There was no home run or other heroics for Mitch Jones. Just three strikes and a lonely walk back to the bench.

Tonight Mitch Jones found himself back in the batter's box for another try.

The batter before him, All-Star catcher Russell Martin struck out without putting up much of a fight. Mitch didn't seem intimidated to be there but only he knows what he was thinking. He dug-in his back foot with the poise of a seasoned veteran as he readied himself for the unorthodox sidearm delivery of the A's pitcher.

Ball one.

Strike one.

A swing. And Contact.

In the exact same instant, Mitch's bat shattered, the business end headed towards the pitcher's mound, the ball had a visit to center field on its itinerary, and I started yelling at the TV.

The series of rapid fire stutters and and grunted half words I was able to get out in two or so seconds the ball was in flight loosely translated to "Don't go too high. Please stay low. That's it. Keep going a just a little further but not too far. OK feel free to hit the ground any time."

In in the last couple feet of its voyage, the ball's text book Texas Leaguer trajectory was thrown off course by the A's second baseman who made an outstretched desperation stab with his glove.

Had it been hit just a few inches shorter or Adam Kennedy been a step quicker that ball would have been caught and the inning would have been over.

Instead, Mitch Jones was standing on first base a lifetime .500 hitter.

And ten seasons, two continents, over 3, 500 at-bats and 221 minor league home runs suddenly became a fair trade for one base hit in the Major Leagues.

Now accepting works of art featuring battling Unicorns

Over the weekend I had a chance to catch up with a good buddy and I told him about setting up this here website. After explaining that I was either wasted and/or hammered when I came up with the title, his next question was "Could I send you some battling unicorn artwork?"

The fact that that question fell out of the mouth of a married, 35-year-old father of three makes it all the more awesome.

And the best part was the next morning, these pictures were cold chilling in my in-box.

I don't know how a father of three found the time to whip these up and I don't want to know. For the last few days I've been telling myself it's OK not to throw away the can of Cheesy Nacho Twistaroni that's sitting less than a foot from where I'm writing this because I'm just that busy doing my best to keep the couch from getting lonely.

However, if you've got a little free time on your hands and feel like stoking the creative fires with a picture depicting battling Unicorns, by all means send it my way. Make whatever you want just as long as you can email the end result.

The best picture (as judged by my dear mother) wins a prize. For realz, it might even be a major award.

Send your submissions of fine, fine art to: unicornbattleground [AT] gmail.com

Lazy to a whole new level

These folks passed me the other day while I was out running some errands. Dude was skitching a ride on the back of his chick's electric wheel chair and they were hauling some serious ass.

Just hope all the extra weight doesn't shorten the battery life too much because that thing would be a real bummer to push.

I suppose though, riding along is better than running along because that would just be showing off.

An open letter to Chris Kattan...

Dear Mr. Kattan-

While we didn't get the chance to actually meet last night, I was the guy sitting at the end of the row at the 10:25 showing of The Hangover at the Arclight Hollywood. Sitting next to me was my girlfriend. We didn't plan on sitting near you and your crew (definitely wouldn't call it an entourage) but that's the way it all played out.

Our plan was to catch the 8:30 showing in the Dome but when my lady called at 8:25 to say she was stuck in traffic halfway across town we had to improvise a new plan.

Everything worked out for the best though because what was really just a lame mid-week attempt to see The Hangover before we became the last people in America to have not seen it turned into a nice little date night. We browsed through Borders and then went to one of our favorite spots, The Hungry Cat, to have a couple drinks and small plates before the movie.

Walking back into the theater we found ourselves caught up in the scrum that was leaving the show we meant to see. Everyone was laughing and having a great time- especially one guy who looked a lot like Quentin Tarantino. And that's one of the amusing things about life out here. Chances are, if someone looks enough like somebody they probably are that somebody. Sure enough, it was Mr. Tarantino and he seemed to be having a nice evening out. For a split second, I was tempted to ask if he had The Pussy Wagon parked in the garage since when Kill Bill was out I'd see him driving it around town on a pretty regular basis but really, that would have been dumb so I didn't.

When we entered the theater our seats were wide open and waiting for us. Getting to reserve your seats is reason enough to pay $14 a ticket. Plus, that extra couple bucks seems to do a good job of keeping the idiots away. There's something about paying $14 to see a movie that puts people on their best behavior.

Everyone except you.

Even though you were four seats away, it was very obvious every time you pulled out your Blackberry. Do you realize just how bright those things are in the dark? You might as well be waving a flashlight around.

The first couple times though were kind of OK. The movie was just starting and the stragglers were still filing in. Whatevs, right?

But when we're half an hour deep into the movie, is that really the right time to start taking pictures of your friends? I know The Hangover isn't exactly a suspenseful, edge-of-your-seat thriller but having an impromptu photo shoot during a screening is just disrespectful to those around you.

When you stumbled over us on your way to the bathroom, I made a comment about there being a heavy "Mango" factor hovering in the air around you. I think my exact words were "This guy's like f*cking Mango." My girlfriend, who is much smarter than myself, connected the dots and realized upon your return that you were in fact the person who brought Mango into the world.

Suddenly, everything that was so annoying about you became a lot more annoying because you'd think that as a performer you'd at least be a respectful audience member and not jump around in your seat like some man-child. We did appreciate you trying to show some courtesy when you put your coat over your head for one round of messaging. At least now we could amuse ourselves by speculating what you were writing- "Dear Agent: WTF happened to my career?"

Surely Corky Romano made you enough loot to afford your own screening room. Plus, shouldn't you have the crazy connects to get movies sent to you? Why go to the movies if you're just going to annoy everyone around you? Seriously, you could go see a movie at CityWalk and find a public schooled 13-year-old girl with better theater etiquette than you. I behaved myself when I saw Undercover Brother in the theater and when I'm at home and Night at the Roxbury comes on and I can't find the remote, I don't even yell at the TV all that loud. In fact, I've even tried to watch it a couple times.

Please Chris, next time you're out slumming it with with the masses, try to bring your manners along.

Sincerely,

The Annoyed Guy at the End of the Row

ps. I do sincerely and wholeheartedly apologize for the "I bet you wish you were in that movie" comment I made as the theater was clearing out. That was very immature and foolish. It's totally disrespectful to heckle a stranger even if they are a public figure who annoyed you for the better part of 90 minutes. Even a day later I feel terrible for saying that. In hindsight maybe it would have been better to slide over and start shaking you into submission like that panicked lady in Airplane! which was my original plan. Actually, that probably would have been worse because then the whole theater would have gotten involved.

pps. If you don't care to accept the official apology issued in the ps, I accept that and if you chose to do so, I will gladly engage in a feud with you. I've always wanted to be in a feud. I've already given it some thought and was thinking you could be Tupac and I could be Biggie. What do you think?

Presenting the last fully functional Pontiac Fiero.

I really shouldn't be writing this right now. I should really be in the shower so I can arrive at the office all clean and April fresh but I just don't have it in me. They are my balls and if they stick to my leg it is my choice.

I technically have about 32 minutes of freedom before I need to head out the door so I can show up only five minutes late and I intend to make the most of it.

Undoubtedly, at some point along the soul crushing journey to work, I will see this sweet ice blue Pontiac Fiero.

I see this car every morning and every morning the guy behind the wheel drives as though he's running late to an audition for the fourth insalment of The Fast and the Furious- which I really hope is something that happens because then there might be a fifth chapter called The Fast and the Furious Five and then just maybe Grand Master Flash could be the star and that would be awesome.

But let's get back on task and back to the Fiero. The guy behind the wheel elevates the asshole driver concept to a whole new level which is not an easy thing to do in Los Angeles- much in the same way Jeffrey Lebowski being the laziest man in LA County automatically places him high in the runnin' for laziest worldwide.

When he pulled away from the stoplight his tires were howling like a drunken coyote. Who could he have been drag racing? The only other person near him was me on my bicycle. Was he running from the devil?

See, he's already going so fast he's out of focus.

At this point he's probably already doing 75 which is only a little more than double the speed limit and really maximizes the time you get to spend waiting and the next red light a block up the street. The guy drives like this every morning. How can his car not start on fire on a weekly basis?

Mr. Fiero driver, if you happen to read this, seriously chill yourself out and take a step back and realize that if you're driving a Fiero to work, your job really can't be that important.

Our Boy Chess is back on the Scene. (Again)

Chess, the first time I spotted one of your ads you looked claimed to look like LL Cool J. Now you're saying you look like Barack Obama.

Just in case it's been too long since mama said knock you out, this is LL Cool J.

And this is Barack Obama. In case, you've just awoken from a coma and for some strange reason this was your first stop since gaining consciousness, welcome to the future. Obama is the President of the United States.

Other than the profound lack of body hair, I'm not seeing a lot of similarities in the looks department between Mr. Cool J and Mr. Obama.

Chess, I know there's probably been a time or two when you've been out posting up your signs and you've overheard the ladies talking about the hotness of Barack Obama. The thing you've got to understand Chess, is that Barack is hot because he's the friggin' President and he can string together coherent sentences. If you claim to look like Barack Obama in the ads you post on street lamps, the ladies are going to think you're just a sad, grown up verison of Urkel who hasn't figured out the internet. You might want to go back to reppin' the Cool James.

Also, notching an 80% on the SAT is actually a score of around 1280. You might want to revise that part of your ad so that you sound a little more hip to the jive, unless it's a trick question to find someone with the ability to think outside the box and do a little math.

Just a friendly reminder...

If you ever find yourself in Bangkok, there is no need to sequester yourself in your hotel room and tie a rope a round your neck and genitals before rubbing one out.

From what I've heard, there's enough craziness around those parts to keep a guy busy for a good couple weeks.

Please, save the do-it-yourself hanging for a time when you're really in need of a little excitement like when you're on day three of being snowed in at Motel 6 in North Dakota. Dying in that scenario might even be classified as socially accepted behavior.

But doing that same thing in Thailand while people are expecting you at the dinner table, that's a whole other level of freaky- light years beyond anything from Rick James' wildest night walking the earth.

Godspeed Mr. Carradine. Hack comics around the world should be grateful to you for making all their stale Michael Hutchence jokes relevant once again.

Pop Quiz Thursday:

What's worse than assaulting Special Olympians?

Getting caught attempting to assault Special Olympians.

David Robert Schwartz was arrested in Valencia on suspicion of assault with a deadly weapon and committing a hate crime for allegedly throwing a metal bolt at the participants of a Special Olympics torch run.

The LA Times goes on to report that a man inside a vehicle began yelling at the children to get off the road, using a derogatory term regarding their sexual orientation before proceeding to hurl a metal bolt out the window of what I'll assume was his beat up, windowless white van.

Luckily none of the kids were hit by the bolt, but Mr. Schwartz did come close. I don't understand how he could have missed. It's not like those Special Olympians could have been running that fast.

Good thing Deputies from the Santa Clarita Sheriff's Department were running alonside the kids because they got to see it all go down.

This is just speculation but I imagine the post-pullover conversation went something like this.

David Robert Schwartz: Why did you pull me over officer? Is there a problem?

Sheriff's Deputy: Actually there is, we watched you call these kids homos before you started throwing things at them.

I know cruel and unusual punishment is kind of a faux pas here in the America but what I propose as a fitting punishment for Mr. Schwartz is both awesome and fitting.

Mr. Schwartz and his metal bolt of hatred and ignorance should get locked into the octagon to square off this Special Olympian shot putter. I'm sure the kid would welcome the chance to be unshackled from his dungeon.

All too quickly Mr. Schwartz will learn that it's never a good idea to mess around with those who those who possess that little somethin' somethin' known as retard strength.

29 years ago today...

seven, yes, 7 tornadoes descended upon my hometown during a night now known in certain parts of the world as the night of the twisters.

Spent that night in the basement camped out under a ping-pong table with my dear mother. The next morning, the sun was out and the big oak tree that had anchored our front yard for decades was found in someone else's yard a block and a half over.

More than anything I was most upset at what happened to the Dairy Queen.

Not even 12 hours earlier we stopped there for Dilly Bars and suddenly it was a pile of splinters. Getting your neighborhood Dairy Queen leveled is one crappy way to kick off the summer.

It's only fitting that as I write this, thunder is crashing in the sky above Los Angeles for only the 3rd time in the 9 years I've lived here.

Good times.