Your kids are dumber than chimpanzees. It's official. Science is even backing this up. What's this mean? It means there's an awesome TV show just waiting to be made.
Seriously, get off your asses, Fox programming execs. NOW! Before NBC's forthcoming Children Vs. Chimps hits the fall schedule.
Artists interpretation below:
This man inspired a nation to put down their golden hued beer and pick up a bottle of cool and clear Zima. He was the Pied Piper of shitty malt beverages. Make fun of Zima all you want, but in 1994, clear was the wave of the future, and Kabler new it.
It was a very brief future, and who really thought that a clear wine cooler could topple beer as the go to booze of football fans. Seriously, try throwing a Super Bowl party with refrigerator full of Zima. You'll be alone with nothing but crappy ol' Zima to erase the pain of rejection as you cry into your kitschy bowler hat and wipe snot on the sleeves of your over sized suit.
So maybe Kabler and Zima haven't haunted your memories as much as mine. I'll be the first to admit, Mr. Feeling's brain is a dusty attic full of random memories. Misty, water-colour, memories of the way we were.
That's because I watched way too much TV when I was a kid. Enough to recognize Kabler first for his sitcom work and second for his Zima schilling. Seriously, researching this guy has been absolutely cathartic. I couldn't remember what show he was on, but I knew he played the wacky white guy at a black radio station. Also the promos had a dude with a flamethrower torching a TV because that's how hot the programming on NBC was.
How hot was/is Kabler? I'll let youtube do the talking.
There is no such thing as a stupid question.
That's Mr. Feelings Feelings Law #23. See, every now and again someone out there is grappling with an issue most of us have never thought to ask. Those people turn to Mr. Feelings for help. I've learned to nurture these souls through tough times and help them along the path to wisdom. I say that so you don't get the giggles when you read my next letter.
Dear Mr. Feeling,
Mr. Feelings is feeling protective. All you upper middle class homeowners who think rap music and illegal immigrants are the end of civilization need a wakeup call. The perfect world you love is being brought down from within by a perverse love of do-it-yourself home improvement. I'm talking about nail guns. For the love of Christmas, just don't use them.
Why not?
Is that good enough reason? If you still feel you need to get all John Rambo when building a spice rack, remember this:
Tip #4: Watch Out Where You're Pointing
Never aim the business end at any hand or any body part. Even from the other side of a workpiece, nails may go through and hit you.
See, that's what the guy in the X-Ray forgot.
I hope some of this got through to you.
Oh yeah, more pictures:
I do this because I love you. Need to hear it again? I love you.
Mr. Feelings feels outrage. Outrage at the subprime mortgage implosion. Outrage that our elected officials and their laissez-faire greed allowed this economic apocalypse to come to fruition. But most importantly, I'm outraged at the one person who could have made a difference, but instead of intervening, she played her metaphoric fiddle while Rome burned.
The following is an open letter to my onetime lover and full time bitch, Suze Orman.
Dear Suze,
I haven't heard from you in a while. Six months to be exact. You know... the night I made you a woman and you told me you loved me and that in the morning you'd go with me to look for an antique fauteuil to go with my collection, but then you left while I was asleep and never called me again. You remember that? Yeah, didn't think you would.
Well, anyway, that's not the reason I'm writing. I'm writing because I'm knee deep in debt, and it's all your fault. Remember how during that magical night we spent exploring each other's bodies, I'd asked you for advice on my variable rate home loan, and you said that I shouldn't rush to refinance and lock in a fixed rate because the fed would probably slash interest real soon? Or did you forget that along with the rest of the passion and ecstasy?
In case you forgot, I'm gonna make like Alanis because I'm here to remind you of the mess you left when you went away. That's right, Suze. You, you, you oughta know. You oughta know how Mr. Feelings is about to be kicked out of his condo because he can no longer afford to make payments. I tried finding another roommate to cover expenses, but the building co-op nixed the idea of cramming a third person in a two bedroom. I'm totally cool with sharing my room, but they say it would lower the value of their units. Elitists jerks.
Suze, I gave you something special. I was there for you in a time of need. I know you felt the connection, and that scared you, but don't hide from me any longer. I need you. I really need you. Just help me consolidate some of this debt. In exchange, I'm willing to sleep with you one more time. I've got massage oils and some candles and shit. It's gonna be good. My roommate is working nights, so he doesn't get back until, like, four in the morning. That's a lot of love making.
Think about it.
Sincerely,
Mr. Feelings
Life is precious and unique, like a snowflake. Today, one of those snowflakes passed to the great beyond. Leona Helmsley, the 87-year-old snowflake, is dead. While the world remembers her as the "Queen of Mean," Mr. Feelings remembers her as something much more tender. Love, too, is a snowflake. And Mr. Feelings has seen many of these delicate creations in his lifetime, but none stands out as much as the plump-limped beauty that was Mrs. Helmsley.
Find out why they call me the Hemingway of erotic literature after the jump...
You never forget your first time. No, not sex. I mean the first time you fall in love. It was in Greece, Zakynthos Island. I was a foreign exchange student. She was the rich girl out for a good time. It started as a one night stand but blossomed into a secret love we hid from everyone we knew. I would take her in my arms and say, "Leona, my darling, I wanna do sex to you all night long."
Not long afterwards she was pregnant, and we foolishly planned to run off together. We were to rendezvous at the docks under cover of night and hop the first steamer to Jarkata. Darkness fell, and I waited... and I waited... and I waited. The next morning I read it in the papers. She and her husband had flown to New York to be near her ailing mother-in-law. I never saw her again.
I drowned my sorrows in a bottle of ouzo with a side saganaki, followed by an entrée of kleftiko and stifado with milopita me pandespani as the dessert. The food was delicious, and I forgot completely about pregnant ol' whats-her-name. Then my buddy, Jace, told me about a sweet party at the topless beach. I'd never seen so many boobs. It was awesome. We set a row boat on fire and got laid.
I returned to the United States with a B- Greek Art, a C+ in Greek History, and an A+ in love. Also, Leona gave me nasty "social disease," a reminder of our time together. I'll never forget her words to me: "I don't do condoms; only the little people do condoms."
So now when you see Mr. Feelings eating a gyro and weeping tears of regret, you'll know why.
Goodbye, Leona. We'll always have Greece.
This weekend two members of the Limpet family set out on a spur of the moment field trip to America's bacchanalian capital. You know what we're talking about. Vegas, baby. What delightfully grownup and sinful good times awaited us there? Swimming in an ocean of carnal delight, us Limpet boys did what any red blooded man would do. We went to The Official Star Trek Convention at the Las Vegas Hilton (brought to you by the people at Creation Entertainment). That's right, those Limpet boys did the unthinkable again and crashed Vegas's most exclusive party.
I lack the eloquence to sum up the experience, so I'll borrow a quotation to express my thoughts:
"... a dream that became a reality and spread throughout the stars" -- Captain James T. Kirk (Star Trek T.O.S. Episode #69, Whom Gods Destroy)"
Take a moment to wipe that tear from your eye on account of the beauty of Kirk's words. This event was better than Brazilian Carnival, Halloween, Christmas and Take Your Daughter to Work Day all rolled into one.
How awesome was it? Well, one bespectacled nerd fan put it best when he said, "These have been the best three days of my life." Not for a second do I doubt that claim.
The wardrobe of choice was a Star Trek uniform top, fanny pack, ill fitting jeans and sandals worn with socks. In other words, for the first time ever, someone from Limpet was over dressed. But what these people lacked in outer beauty, they made up for in sheer enthusiasm. They're the fat girl who refuses to let life get her down, the retarded kid who celebrates his "specialness," the drunk hobo who'll let you punch him in the face for a dollar. Misfits, all, refusing to conform to society's rigid standards of normalcy.
We arrived on the final day of the four day event, but like Vanessa Williams promised, the best was indeed saved for last. That's because both Leonard Nimoy and William Shatner took the stage stealing our hearts in the process.
Ok, truth be told, Nimoy was a lot of fun (he wore a "#1 Vulcan" T-shirt), but Shatner is a senile bore. Both myself and Hats fell asleep at different points during his old man tyrade.
And since this whole thing took place at the Hilton, we took the chance to go on the Star Trek Experience. The experience begins when you fork over 45 bucks, then walk through the "museum" which is just a really long hallway on the way to two rides that don't justify the price tag. But if you're going to do this sort of thing, you should do it right, dammit. So yeah, no regrets. If you don't believe me, just look at the photos.
Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.
Repent! The Lord's prophet is upon thee! And this time, he's made of Lego. Like Jonah vomited out by a great fish, Mr. Lego arrived at a Dutch beach bearing a stern warning from Yahweh...
Goddammit, I'm keeping my promise and bringing you a piping hot Best of Wikipedia. This week's entry: The Guardian.
Not the British newspaper, but rather the 2006 Kevin Costner/Ashton Kutcher box-office-bofo-dynamite- blockbuster-smashtastic-fantastic, hit movie. I waited in line six hours to be the first one in the theater doors, and I have no regrets (except for not wearing enough sun block, LOL). Apparently I'm not alone, as some kindred spirit out there took the time to write a complete synopsis of this film. It's an 1,100 word opus that so perfectly sums the movie experience, reading it is equivalent to twelve consecutive viewings.
Find out why after the jump...
Of particular note is the section entitled "Never Let Go." An excerpt:
The major theme throughout the film is the idea of letting go. Taking many forms, this idea is both physically and figuratively illustrated. The first mention of this idea is in the opening, where Randall is trying to save the husband and wife. As the husband tries to grab ahold of the basket, Randall can be heard saying 'Let Go'. The idea reappears for a second time when Randall's wife looks at him and begs him to 'let her go', a referance to her leaving him. The irony is that neither character can really 'let go' of the other, evidenced after the Helicopter crash and Randall's death. Figuratively, 'Letting Go' is illustrated by the tale of Randall's heroism holding onto the man during the Helicopter flight to safety. Fischer re-creates the same scenerio during the final, climactic rescue, only to have Randall undo his glove and fall to his death. Randall is also forced to 'Let Go' of his career after a PTSD attack during a rescue. An irony here is that Randall is called back into service the same day to rescue Fischer.
Ok, I'm sorry I made you read that. Anyway, Kevin Costner dies in the movie, but not really because he becomes the mythological "man under the sea" referred to by the Alutiqq people of Kodiak. So he's not dead; he's just a merman who aids the Coast Guard in dangerous rescues. It's kind of like this blog's namesake, The Incredible Mr. Limpet, only instead of Nazi U-boats, Costner fights the ocean. (I know you might not believe me since I tend to embellish these things, but really, it's the truth. Check the article. He's a damned dirty merman.)
There are murmurs of a sequel where Costner, now tired of his merman life, wishes to be part of our world once again. He makes an ill-advised deal with an underwater sorceress, trading his soul for land legs, but the goodly King Triton comes to his rescue granting Costner his heart's truest wish. Brian Adams will also contribute music inspired by. I can't wait!
From the sixth hour until the ninth hour darkness came over all the land. About the ninth hour Jesus cried out in a loud voice, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?"—which means, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"
-Matthew 27:45-46
Well, replace the god mentioned above with Mr. Feelings, and that's pretty much how you've felt this past month. But I'm gonna make a pledge even god can't keep. Never again will Mr. Feelings leave you alone in misery and darkness. I'll be there for you. Be it your birthday, wedding, doctor's appointment, tax return, extreme makeover, moving day, or divorce, I will always be by your side. And when you look down in the sand and see one set of footprints, it's because I'm carrying you.
That said, I'll be back shortly with a new Best of Wikipedia.
In what is sure to become a regular feature, we bring you an exclusive interview with John Larkin, better known as Scatman John. His hit, "Scatman" remains one of UK's best selling singles. We caught him on the tail end of a his tour through the Balkans where he made headlines for his public feud with rapping toddler, Jordy.
Interview after the jump...
The Incredible Mr. Limpet: Scatman John, thanks for sitting down to chat with us. I know you're real busy, so I'll cut to the chase. Who do you see coming out on top in the west? Suns of Mavs?
Scatman John: Ski Ba Bop Ba Dop Bop. Ba Bop Ba Dop Bop. Ski Ba Bop Ba Dop Bop. Ba Bop Ba Dop Bop.
TIML: The Mavericks appear immortal right now, but what if they face the Warriors? Do you think that is a first round threat for them? Or will the Clippers bump them out of the eighth spot and make this irrelevant?
SJ: Everybody stutters one way or the other, so check out my message to you. As a matter of fact don't let nothin' hold you back. If the Scatman can do it so can you.
TIML: Isn't that kind of underestimating Elton Brand's low post game?
SJ: Everybody's sayin' that the Scatman stutters, but doesn't ever stutter when he sings.
TIML: I see your point. So the Suns and Mavs both stumble. Spurs then?
SJ: But what you don't know I'm gonna tell you right now, that the stutter and the scat is the same thing. Yo I'm the Scatman.
TIML: Sorry, didn't mean to cut you off.
SJ: Where's the Scatman? I'm the Scatman.
TIML: (Laughs) Yeah. Ok, what about the east? I mean, with Gilbert Arenas injured, that leaves the Heat, Cavs, and Bulls to unseat the Pistons. Any surprises coming our way?
SJ: Why should we be pleasin' all the politician heathens Who would try to change the seasons if the could?
TIML: I agree, the Heat have been overrated all year.
SJ: The state of the condition insults my intuitions and it only makes me crazy and my heart like wood.
TIML: Oh, man if it comes down Pistons vs. Spurs, I'm watching MLS.
SJ: I hear you all ask 'bout the meaning of scat. Well I'm the professor and all I can tell you is while you're still sleepin' the saints are still weepin' cause things you call dead haven't yet had the chance to be born. I'm the Scatman.
TIML: Mind if we post your playoff tree ? I mean, I know it's early and some spots are up for grabs.
SJ: I'm the Scatman. Repeat after me: It's a scoobie oobie doobie scoobie doobie melody
I'm the Scatman. Repeat after me: It's a scoobie oobie doobie scoobie doobie melody
TIML: Thanks.
SJ: (Scatting)
Editor's note: Scatman John later asked us to remove his bracket, but just so you know, he thinks the Suns could win it all. Also he left us with this:
Here's a fact you probably didn't know. Three of the seven writers who make up Mr. Limpet were members of Algonquin Round Table. Since those wonderful days our intellectual pursuits have faltered, bottoming out along with it, our sense of humor. A fart echoing in an empty hallway is enough to send us into hysterics. We don't even listen to our old Capitol Steps tapes anymore. We've had enough; we're getting back to the format that made us great: high-brow satire. We're a little rusty, so bear with us after the jump.
Target the first, Mr. President:
Suppose he'll try and blame the Democrats for that one. Oh, wait. Read the caption. He blames it on diarrhea. That's a little less witty, but you get the point.
Target the second, Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez:
Looks like your mom is gonna get indicted... for being sexy. Sorry Alberto, but if you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen. Hold on, didn't read that article. Oh, wow. Hmmm... wonder if there's a way to tie in this scandal with a "your mom" joke. Because if you could, that would just bring it to another level.
Target the third, Mr. Bush once again (gotta pay the cost to be the boss):
What's this? The President has a boner? We've seen it all!
Well, we hope this made you laugh, but more importantly, we hope it made you think. There's a lot happening in the world out there, so read a paper, pay attention to U2 lyrics, and donate to whatever charity Gwyneth Paltrow is a member of.
With fifteen of his best sailors stuck in the confines of an Iranian prison cell, one thought crossed Tony Blair's mind. We need a good ol' fashioned soldier of fortune to handle this shit. Which brings us to this week's best of Wikipedia: Soldier of Fortune.
Full frontal knowledge after the jump.
Call them what you will, privateers, mercenaries, heroes, but just remember, the soldier of fortune is the bravest man this nation has to offer outside of the Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, Coast Guard, National Guard, FBI, Secret Service, policemen, firemen, EMT's, public school teachers, lifeguards, sheriffs, and the members of the local neighborhood watch. These men dare to fight wars for something greater than national pride or a sense of duty. They fight for cold hard cash.
A rag tag bunch of misfits, one publication has united these men in their quest for immortality, Soldier of Fortune , the magazine. Because these men are too smart, too strong and too goddamned extreme to take shit from a by the numbers pansy-ass general, they turn to Robert K. Brown, the magazine's creator, for their marching orders. Originally created in the 1970's as a recruitment news letter for the Rhodesian War, Brown's magazine has since flourished into a publishing empire on par with Flynt Enterprises, only with much more hard-core robot-on-soldier pornography. However, since the 80's, Brown has been accused of going soft, the turning point being the mag's merger with rival publication, Combatant of Affluence.
Glamorized by Hollywood, there have been two films with the title Soldier of Fortune. The first stars a mustachioed Clark Gable as Hank, a man hired to rescue a photo journalist held prisoner in communist China. While Hank is at it, he also seduces the journalist's wife. Why? Because he's just that smooth. The other Soldier of Fortune was released in the U.S. under the name Laser Mission and stars Brandon Lee. It involves lasers, a mission of some sort, and lots and lots of ass kicking. Watch it if you dare.
Last, but not least, is the TV show, Soldier of Fortune, Inc. It lasted only one season, but is considered by many to be the greatest television show to grace the airwaves, followed closely by Babylon 5. The people who think this are sad, lonely, and read Soldier of Fortune magazine. Pray for them.
Watch out world, there's a new advice slut on the block. No I'm not talking about Sally Jesse Raphaël, I'm talking about What Should I Say. Think of it as the internet with the wisdom of your favorite senile grandparent. I know I might be giving away trade secrets here, but from time to time, even Mr. Feelings turns to this page for advice.
Some pearls of wisdom after the jump.
Got in a bar fight...what should I say to the judge to get out of trouble?
-jimmy725
I can hear your collective tongues clucking, but who among you is perfect? Besides, you might benefit from this man's courage to ask. How else would you know the best course of action is to:
Try to shift the blame saying that it was the other guys fault.
-bubblegirl76
Thank you, bubblegirl76. You just saved this man's life.
Got a stinky rasta man in your life?
My new friend's dreds smell like ammonia and pee. He's a good person, fun to hang out with and girls think he's cute - but the smell makes me ill. I'm pretty sure no one else has the guts to break it to him... Or maybe it's just me who is sensitive to it. WSIS?
-how2b
I know you thought there was no delicate way to address this issue, but you all thought wrong.
Hey , So what sort of products do you use to maintain your hair like that? You know they have an odd smell?
-michaelarkins
Holly shit, that's tactful. Double or nothing on the next one.
How can I ask my mom to switch to boxers instead of briefs?
-irsmart
Wow, that guy is a pussy. What advice could possibly help him?
I'm going to assume that your mother still buys your clothes. That's fine. The best thing to do is just ask. Just do it and feel embarassed or whatever but then you'll get what you want and you'll be happy you did it.
-Idon Twana Tellya
Can't argue with that. Let's suckle the wisdom teat one more time before calling it a day.
My girlfriend and I recently were in a threesome. How do I tell her that I wished she was not there and it was only me and Billy?
-face the cougar
Billy Dee Williams, what have thou wrought?
You don't say that, under any circumstance. If you cant get it out of your head, and you have the stomach, call Billy and f*ck his brains out. Whether you should break-up with your gf is a different decision. But keep the piehole shut.
-falameufilho
Crisis averted.
Can music change the world? Mr. Feelings thinks so. That's the focus of this week's The Best of Wikipedia, Roundball Rock.
If you watch the NBA, then there is a John Tesh shaped void in your heart. That's because the rousing score written by Mr. Tesh that accompanied every network telecast between 1990 and 2002, Roundball Rock, was dropped when the National Basketball Association signed broadcast rights over to those figure skating fans at ABC. Tune into a game now, and you'll get bombarded by a piss-tastatic song from The Pussy Cat Dolls.
Read more on Tesh and the NBA after the jump...
But for those brief dozen years, life was sweet. Michael Jordan dominated the game, the US men's basketball team was amazing, and John Tesh's new age music was a sweet siren call to camp out in front of the boob-tube for three hours at a time.
This clip brings back so many wonderfully painful memories
The story behind the song is legendary. John Tesh was cycling through Pau competing in the Tour de France, when, during an endorphin generated hallucination, he saw before him none other than Kareem, The Captain, Abdul-Jabar riding a great white steed. He opened his mouth, and from it flooded forth a light brighter than the a billion suns. A chorus rang out. Tesh originally called this song, The Dirge of the Apocalypse (As Told to Me by Kareem Abdul-Jabar).
Tesh stopped at a pay phone and sang the tune into his home answering machine. The machine promptly melted under the power of the music, and Tesh was forced to lay the track down once more with the aid of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Only three orchestra members survived to tell the tale.
Shocked no one wanted to buy his apocalyptic tune, Tesh fiddled with the tempo and the dirge become an upbeat fight song re-titled Roundball Rock. NBC scooped up the anthem for its new baby, the NBA, and the rest is history.
Of course controversy still courts the song wherever it is played. Tesh himself admits he tried to use a pseudonym when shopping the song due to the lyric's graphic descriptions of the end of times. A 2006 performance of the song led to riots between Christians and Muslims throughout the streets of Hamburg, Germany. Even more troubling, the song was performed thousands of miles away in Melbourne, Australia.
Tesh has vowed never to write another song for fear the next single might beckon the earth one step closer to doom. That, and he admits everything else he's written is new age jerk-off crap. But he boasts Roundball Rock still gets him laid. Bravo, Mr. Tesh. Bravo.
Today's letter comes from a concerned mother in Rhode Island. Let's feel this mother out.
Dear Mr. Feelings,
I'm the proud mother of a nine-year-old girl. They wait far too long to teach children about sex in elementary school, so I thought I'd get a head start. I fear I may have gone too far however, and now find myself the victim of a protracted witch hunt led by Judge Jude Jeremiah S. Jeremiah Jr. and his dogmatic interpretation of child safety laws. You may have read about it.
He says I can't bone my boyfriend in front of my daughter, even if it is for educational purposes. I say let parents do the parenting. Am I alone on this?
Sincerely,
Sex at Home Mom
Advice after the jump...
Dear Sex at Home Mom,
I hear you. This is exactly the kind of crap I said would happen when Bush was elected. I've been showing my body off to third graders for years. Same as you, it's always educational (wink), but what used to be a harmless bit of show-and-tell is suddenly a criminal act. Just the other day I visited an elementary school in Calimesa where I was scheduled to lecture, but my guest pass was lost, and before the paper work could get cleared up, the local sheriffs department had me in handcuffs like some common pervert. These days even Slim Goodbody would be branded a pedophile.
Children need to know being naked is being natural. We weren't born with clothes. Free your body, the mind will follow. The sex act falls in the same category. Do it where you want, when you want, and in front of whomever you want.
I'm going to break protocol here, and say we should meet up. Us progressive thinkers need to stick together. Also, bring your boyfriend. I'd love to see your teaching methods. Is it cool if I invite some friends? Mind if I videotape it? I'm trying to start my own curriculum. Also, how do you feel about role-playing (for the curriculum) as a Nazi dominatrix? Think about it. You know where to find me.
Sincerely,
Mr. Feelings
Wikipedia Falsely Reports Sinbad's Death
Wikipedia giveth, and Wikipedia taketh. That's the cruel lesson learned in today's installment of The Best of Wikipedia. While every major news source has scooped us for the headline, not a single one of them has the smarts nor the courage to tackle the true story of Sinbad's Wikipedia page.
The truth about Sinbad after the jump...
Sinbad is a man of many faces and names. Sometimes spelled Sindbad, Sunpadh, and Sex-Bad, Sinbad got his start working entertainment when studying the Avesta at the Zoroastrian temple in Yazd. A disagreement between him and the greater body of faith led to his expulsion, which really is for the better since the Zoroastrian church went bankrupt after investing heavily in cold fusion in the 1980's.
Later, Sinbad joined the navy, where he sailed the seven seas. He wrote some crappy books about it under the horrible pen name, Sinbad the Sailor. It earned him mountains of cash, but he missed his true love... family appropriate ethnic comedy. Fortunately Bill Cosby was wise enough to cast him as the goofy coach Walter Oakes on the soft-core erotica series, A Different World. Sinbad shocked the nation with his casual nudity and open bisexuality as he courted and conquered then entire cast of the show. Despite critical praise, the show was a flop, and Sinbad was once again unemployed.
Then Jingle All the Way happened, and the world was never the same. For you see, Jingle All the Way opened a cosmic portal through which a prophet was delivered to the world.
The Prophet later wrote and edited Sinbad's Wikipedia page, where a typo misled the public to believe Sinbad had died of a heart attack. What The Prophet meant was, Sinbad will die of a heart attack. And pretty soon. The time and place are fuzzy, but we do know he dies with a raging boner.
Where does the universe come from? If you like easy answers, credit God for existence as we know it, but if you're an intellectual like Mr. Feelings, you know to dig deeper. Thankfully the smartest man alive has done just that. Stephen Hawking, that guy in the wheelchair, is prepared to blow your mind with the scientific reason for everything. Here's the headline:
Stephen Hawking Says Universe Created from Nothing
Wait? That's it? There was nothing, then there was something? That sounds suspiciously like a form of creationism, except in place of god, we get Stephen Hawking, genius and literal sex-machine.
Well, I for one embrace Hawkingism. As far as deities go, Hawking is easily among the most kick ass. It's a well known fact that his wheel-chair is equiped with all kinds gadgets and weapons. How else could a man suffering extreme atrophy cause a domestic disturbance. He learned a valuable lesson that day. Never turn the spank-master past 7.
Also, Hawkingism has no sins. It's like Outback Steakhouse... No rules, just right. And unlike those invisible gods, we all know Hawking is real. Your prayers will never go unanswered. Just zip off an email or voice message and wait for Hawking's smooth computer voice to put all worries to rest.
And what does Hawking want in return for eternal enlightenment? Nothing but our gratitude, which we freely give. Gratitude, and of course first crack at our daughters. The man is a FREAK. He spreads his seed like a sunflower, but who am I to judge? He's really smart. 
Time again for Mr. Feelings to dole out some wisdom. Today's letter comes from a reader in Seattle. Come feel with me!
Dear Mr. Feelings
I'm in trouble. My fiance loves cats and I'm afraid to tell her I'm allergic. Fortunately right now she doesn't have any but I know that once we move in together she's going to want to get one. How do I let her down?
Thanks,
Sneezy in Seattle
Real advice for the real world after the jump...
Dear Sneezy,
What do you mean you don't like kitties? They're cute, soft and warm. I don't understand you. You are unreasonable. Did your daddy rape you then blame it on the house cat? You're too far gone for me to help. Obviously crazy. Crazy people never like cats. Crazy and mean.
As far as your "allergies" go, kitten allergies are just a myth perpetuated by grumpies to deprive cat owners the greatest joy in life. To prove this falsehood, I live in a home where cat life outnumbers me 76 to 1. I haven't had so much as a sniffle in over 30 years. Cat urine is a natural antibiotic. Cat fur kills dust mites. Cat feces tastes of butterscotch and cardamom.
I'm shocked. How can you be so cruel? These are kitties we are talking about. Living, breathing, meowing bundles of love. I'm crying as I write this. I wouldn't piss on you if your head was on fire. I hope your fiance dumps you. I also hope you get a kitten shaped tumor in your heart. Maybe then you'll chose your words better.
Asshole.
Stop breathing and die.
Learn to love kittens.
I hate you.
Sincerely,
Mr. Feelings
Time for a good ol' fashioned poll. You're going out of town. You own two dogs, a priceless 18th century French wig collection, a home recording studio, a pair of diamond studded eyeglasses autographed by Elton John, a gentleman's club complete with shake-dancers, and last but not least, a rocket car. You can't leave these items unattended, so you call your two best friends in the whole world:
And...
Between these two, who can trust with your most treasured possessions?
