Move over Barbaro, there's a new horse in town

Pictured is the World Record holder crying into his bucket of slop
And he is god damn 6 foot 7 inches tall to the shoulder!

Yeah Barbaro broke a leg. Big deal. This horse (if you're to believe the comments which follow the story) is being tortured by travelling the world to show off his world record size.

The comments range from Mike in Baltimore

We should pray for the horse and its speedy return to a more suitable environment.

To S. Sparkenickle from West Bumpgarten's

What a beautiful coat he has.

If I wasn't sure that that was a fake name and that West Bumpgarten couldn't possibly be the name of a city on the face of the Earth, I'd wager that S. Sparkenickle would like to do unholy things to our fair Radar. Probably wants to use his giant skin for his horsey suit he's been making for years, which explains the missing horses from East Bumpgarten. Sicko.

If you're S. Sparkenickle and you're reading this post, know this: If I ever see you I'm gonna break your filthy pervert hands you bastard.

And as a final thought- I had a cat I named Radar once. It peed on a rug and then ran away for a couple years before coming back. I'm not sure if the two are connected, but I'll throw it out there.

Note: The cat was of average size and set no world records



What the hell did you click the jump for. Nothing more to see here, Dopey.

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I Am The Walrus

You see that thing? That's a walrsus's penis. Elaborate, no?

I've got a lot in common with the walrus. Like me, walruses have only three natural enemies: humans, orca, and polar bears. Also, we both make adorable plush toys that can be bought for your children on your way back from that business trip where you brought Misty and Blake something and totally forgot about me. Dad.

Additionally, we both compete for the affection of our womenfolk in much the same manner. According to Wikipedia:

The males show off in the water for the females who view them from pack ice. Males compete with each other aggressively for this display-space; the winners in these fights breed with large numbers of females. Older male walruses frequently bear large scars from these bloody but rarely fatal battles.

Sounds about right. I mean, really it's just exchanging ice floes for beer pong. Don't be fooled though, there are some differences between me and the walrus. These differences can range from our appearance (they're majestic, while I'm mind-bogglingly attractive) to the fact that when we display our genitals, the response ranges from "threat of police action" (me) to "celebratory news item" (walrus). Man, as walrus penises go, that's impressive.

Follow us after the jump for further thoughts on walrus dong.


Sometimes it's hard to discern if someone's talking about a walrus, or me, when they're talking about genitals. According to Wikipedia, "A male walrus's penis is completely internal; however, it has one of the largest bacula (penis bones) of the animal kingdom." That's all well and good, but if he doesn't know how to use it, what good is it?

Offense wins games, defense wins championships.

This weekend, I found myself in fierce game of beirut aka beer pong. Everybody knows the way you win at the game is to toss a ping pong ball into a Solo cup of booze until the other team has no cups. What's equally important is how well you can distract the other team from tossing their ping pong balls into your cup. This is where I come in; I am the Dennis Rodman of Beirut. While I may not be terribly good at tossing balls into recepticles (insert joke here) I am highly-valued when it comes to defense. In short, I have little to no problem exposing my genitals in an attempt to distract the opposing team from making their toss. Oh sure, some may call it crass, but honestly, I don't see why we have to treat it any different than a walrus's. How come when I give the world a glimpse of The Behemoth everyone panics, but when a walrus does it, kids get their picture taken.



Doesn't seem fair to me. And I'm not going to take it lying down any more (...ladies.) I want it known from this day forth that no walrus is safe. I will hunt down any of you spotlight-stealing bastards. We used to be cool, walrus community, but now that I know that society treats me differently than you, your ass is mine. Your uppance hath come.

(Ed.'s note: there is photographic evidence of my defensive strategy out their on the web, but, as I see we've got some visitors to the site from Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and the United Arab Emirates, I'll refrain. Welcome though, and tell your friends!)

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Great Vote-a-thon of 2007!

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:

Ron Artest

And...

Dame Edna
Between these two, who can trust with your most treasured possessions?

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How Netflix Made Me a Better Man

Oh, Netflix. You have so much to offer this world. The Moustache would like to personally thank you for guiding me to such glorious and great things.

Seriously, though, Netflix recently had a contest posted out to nerds across the country to work on their recommendation engine. The idea was the improve their algorithm or whatever sort of nerdy thing is used to determine what I like. I wouldn't know. I'm not a nerd. But yeah, some nerd helped things out, but it still doesn't make much sense.

Discover the intimate details of my Netflix recommendations after the jump...

So a couple of weeks ago I decided that I was going to check out this Extras that's all the rage with the kids. So I get my two discs of Ricky Gervais fun and excitement in the mail and am ready for my new awkward experience that I've been seriously been missing since The Office was removed from the British airwaves.

It was funny and everything I could hope for. I wanted more. Like a heroin junkie I requested for some recommendations based on my stellar review (5 stars, Ricky, if you're reading). As I waited for the consequences of my review to come across I was imagining all the British humour glory that was to be discovered, to be loved, to be laughed at. The recommendations came and, much to my surprise, what was recommended to me was Who Killed the Electric Car and When the Levee Broke.

Ok, Who Killed the Electric Car? could have easily been played off at a party with a simple phrase like, "Seriously, the electric car surviving? What a joke!" Then me and my rich conservative friends would have clinked our tumblers filled with scotch in triumph of another well played joke only to adjust our monacles afterward due to the steam created from laughing so hard.

But When the Levee Broke? Seriously? That's like, Netflix, being that friend that goes, "You want to laugh? Do you? LAUGH AT THIS YOU IGNORANT, SELF-INDULGENT ASSHOLE!!! Dead people would love to laugh, but they can't. You want to know why? Do you? Then rent this movie next time you tell me you want something funny."

It was then that I realized my ways. How I really don't care about others. How Spike Lee could show me how to care again about those less fortunate than me. I went on a soul searching trek, dear readers, all the way to my fridge. Which was empty.

Then someone farted and I giggled.

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Cylon Made for Loving You Baby

The South Korean government is currently drawing up a charter that will set ethical guidelines to prevent humans from abusing robots. Humans from abusing robots? Is not the whole point of robots to be abused? Rosie the robot was nothing more than a slave to Mr. J and the gang. The Terminator was only obeying his evil computer overlord. C3PO was made to be a translator and R2D2 was for… What was R2D2 for? The point is: if I build a robot, I should be able to do whatever the hell I want with it.

"Imagine if some people treat androids as if the machines were their wives," Park Hye-Young of the {South Korean} ministry's robot team told the AFP news agency.

Treating a robot like your wife is probably the best idea in the history of ideas. Think of it, she will look lovely forever, she will do nothing all day except maintain the house and maybe a little grocery shopping, and when you get tired of her just shut her off and stick her in the closet. I have been treating a toaster as if she was my wife for years, is the South Korean government going to set up a charter for the ethical treatment of kitchen appliances? I certainly hope not.


A robot is a thing and should be treated as such. The South Koreans should set their sights on anyone who creates a robot which is self-aware or has feelings. Anyone who makes a robot that appears to have feelings or is able to beg for its own life is an asshole, and should be stopped. No one wants to see a robot cry, so don’t build him with tear ducts, problem solved.

I leave you with this quote from the man who invented robot ethics, Mr. Isaac Asimov:

“Stupid, stupid, stupid maltifunctions robot who won’t even make a simple orange juice! I hate robots!”

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Angelina Jolie's Guide to Starting Your Own Orphanage

So, due to the recent press brought on by the new adoption of the always entertaining Jon Voight's daughter Angelina Jolie the Moustache thought he might inform you of the proper way to start your very own orphanage! It appears to be easy, but there are various intricacies involved in slowly build up your stock of children to pimp out to a celebrity public and have them do your bidding at your oversized house. Jolie's got it down to a well-oiled machine and for the first time ever reveals her secrets to the Moustache!

So follow the Moustache past the jump to learn how!


"You can see the defeat in their eyes and, if they look strong and healthy, those are usually the best ones to go for." -Angelina Jolie

Ok, first thing's first. Get yourself a big place to live in. The bigger the better because if you really want to commit to having your own orphanage of underprivileged kids from various third world nations you're gonna need the space. Don't worry, you will always be able to get the kids to clean, eat practically nothing (I recommend gruel or imitation gruel) and you're not going to want to sleep anywhere near their stinky, close-knit, bunk bed quarters.

Next, picking out the children you want. Don't get them all from one specific country. You don't want to blow your wad in one country and realize that the kids you got have the work ethic of a high school drug dealer. You want kids that are dreamy about America, filled with hope of what they can achieve, and then you crush those dreams making them the perfect little slaves you always wanted.

Composure while picking out your child is very important. You don't want to come on too strong, now. Walk casually among them, choose the three strongest looking ones to play with and, this is important, you must pretend like you're actually enjoying playing with these filthy bastards. Let out a laugh, hug them because you're going to have to convince the evil foreign master that you have good intentions. I do not recommend lining them up execution style and simply pointing out the one you want. Also remember that it is rude to check the child's mouth prior to purchasing.

Lastly, when you get back to America remember to talk copious amounts about how bad this child had it. Really play up that he had no mother, no father, and lived in way worse conditions than your tobacco plantation in the south where they'll be able to "play in the fields" and "learn valuable life skills."

One more thing, if it turns out the child has a father that wants him back, just talk shit about him and his home country. You're American, dammit, and you know your new little slave has it way better over here with you than with his biological drug dealing, AIDS infected father.

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Free Ice Lollies For Us All!

I was on my way to the chemist shop when I heard the good news. We're big in England. Well we love you too! Check out our other posts tailor made for your strange culture (Ok, it's just the one post, but we're trying).

In celebration, here's a list of things we adore about you:






1 - Bob Hoskins
We call him sex in a sweater. On cold nights we dream about snuggling up next to him as he whispers sweet nothings in our ear. "Limpet, my love, be a dear and get me another pint." And of course we would. He's Bob Hoskins!







2 - Muesli
Wonderful breakfast food. Way better than what we eat stateside.







3 - Dark Shadows
More like Dork Shadows. Just kidding. Our love for Lara Parker burns with a white hot intensity. If we ever lose our virginity, it will be to her.






4 - The Falklands War
We love wars here at The Incredible Mr. Limpet. In fact, we're members of over a dozen different recreation societies, but the Falklands has always been our favorite. Just ask Hats Bagelman; he does the most amazing Prince Andrew, Duke of York.




5 - The British East India Company
For taming the savages and cornering the opium market, you earn our respect.

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My Roommate is a Moron

It pains me to insult someone that claims to read this amazing page. Seriously we love you readers (especially the Chinese ones) but the events that have occured this past weekend are just so astounding I can't stay silent anymore.

First a warning this post will contain stories of a frank and disgusting manner. If the idea of a maggot burrowing body parts or failed home surgeries are not your cup of tea I reccomend you just go to the bidet post . It's funny and far less disgusting.

Okay those of you who are staying please follow me after the jump for a Belizian bot fly adventure!

To save time I will just list dates and times as I learn more and more what kind of psychopath I am living with.

Friday 3/2/2007 7:00pm: I get home from work and see the roommate. He's hobbling around so I ask him what's wrong. He corners me in our living room and shows me one of the most disguting bug bites I have ever seen. This is the first time I hear the words Bot Fly. You see my roommate just got back from Belize and he spent a couple nights in the jungle and they have this fly out there that lays eggs in mosquito bites. The roommate is convinced he has a maggot growing in his leg. He's really excited about this, he even named it "Nathaniel"

Saturday 3/3/07 10:00am: I get up to watch the UCLA/Washington game. The roommate is in the living room watching videos of people removing maggots from their body. He tells me his plan to remove Nathaniel and then invites me to film the process. I decline.

Saturday 3/3/07 11:00am: The roommate now tells me that he can feel the maggot moving in his leg, he invites me to feel it. (Oh at this point I should mention he had seen a doctor about this. the doctor gave him some pain killers and told him to see him again if the pain persists but the doctor does not believe there is a maggot in his leg, this infuriates the roommate)The roommate begins calling friends of his to film the maggot extraction.

Saturday 3/3/07 1:00pm-7:00pm: The roommate performs the surgery using a swiss army knife and a pair of tweezers. I am not present. He spends six hours digging in his leg while Incredible Mr. Limpet super-contributer 10lb Moustache films the procedure.

Sunday 3/4/07 11:00am: I wake up after a long night out drinking. I groggily walk to my bathroom where I find this scene:



This is our bathroom trash can. Inside you will see packing tape covered with blood. The roommate used this to try and suffocate Nathaniel


There's the packing tape and swiss army knife.



Here's the video camera and probably my favorite part the magnifying glass maybe the roommate was planning on solving crimes with Nathaniel once he was out.

Anyway I am far too hung over to deal with this. I take a quick shower and get out of that bathroom as fast as possible.

Sunday 3/4/07 12:00PM: I call the roommate to ask about the surgery. Things did not go well. Nathaniel is most likely dead in his leg. The roommate tells me that as soon as his band practice is over he'll be going to the E.R.

Sunday 3/4/07 3:00PM: The roommate calls me. He's been admitted to the hospital. They are running tests on his leg because they aren't sure there is a bot fly at all. The roommate demands the doctors to just cut his damn leg open and take out the maggot.

Monday 3/5/07 4:00PM: The roommate is still in the hospital. He speaks to a specialist that tells him there is most likely a maggot in his leg but there is also a bigger issue: his leg is infected. Apparently the home surgery wasn't exactly sterile and the dead maggot in his leg was beginning to rot. The roommate calls me and asks me to bring his camera to him so he can take pictures of the surgery also he tells me that he wants to keep the maggot.

Tuesday 3/6/07 6:00PM: I bring the roommate his iPod charger (I conviently forgot the camera). He tells me the maggot is out of his leg. The doctor spent a good part of the day squeezing his leg till Nathaniel popped out. The roommate offers to show me his leg. I decline.

Tuesday 3/6/07 8:00PM: Curiosity finally drives me to research bot flies. I go to Wikipedia. Here's what I find:

"Since the fly larvae can only survive the entire eight week development if the wound does not become infected, it is rare for patients to experience infections, unless they kill the larva without removing it completely (below). It is even possible that the fly larva may itself produce antibiotic secretions that help prevent infection while it is feeding"

Oh and this:

"The botfly maggot cannot be removed easily whilst alive due to the strong, hooked spines that run in circular rings around the midsection of its body, though some people have reported success simply by careful application of pressure - but this approach runs a very high risk of killing the larva in situ, leading to infection. One medical treatment is to suffocate the grub by sealing off the air hole found in the surrounding blister. This can be done with petroleum jelly or a similar substance. This forces the grub to expose itself temporarily (to clear the spiracles), making it easier to remove, though it is still risky if the larva does not come completely out of the wound, and therefore not a simple matter to perform without killing the larva and causing infection. Most commonly, people will snap off the tail of the larva, leaving the portion with the hooks still embedded."

I read this and my jaw dropped. How in the hell did he not see this? Why didn't he go to a doctor? Ugh.

Well, he's just been released from the hospital but I have a feeling he hasn't learned his lesson. Fatty Arbuckle summed it up the best: I sent him this little passage from wikipedia:
"They do not kill the host animal, and thus are true parasites (though some species of rodent-infesting botflies do consume the host's testes).
I joked that it's too bad that the roommate didn't get this strain of bot fly and Fatty wrote back "He wouldn't learn anything he'd probably have you take pictures of his empty sack.""

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Back Row Review Show: Simply the Best

Ok, as promised, I finally got around to doing my top five list for my favorite films of the year!

But here’s the rub. I still haven’t finished my list from 2000. I know it’s March, but leisure time is for the privileged. I’m on the grind, So I’m forced to feast on the scraps of George Orwell (Big Brother is always watching). So, better late than never, here our my five favorite flicks of the year 2000,

Why did 2000 rule? CUZ WE SURVIVED Y2K BITCHES!

 





5). THE PERFECT STORM: 














4). THE MOVIE ABOUT THE PEOPLE THAT DO DRUGS AND WATCH TV, AND ALL THAT GANG RAPE STUFF THAT STARTS TO HAPPEN TO THEM:








3). I DON'T REMEMBER THE THIRD (That's a movie, netflix it sucka). 









2). A MOVIE THAT HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH THAT GUY WHO MADE THAT AWESOME GAY MOVIE, ONLY THIS ONE HAD KUNG FU:











1). REMEMBER THE TITANS/BAIT (too close to call!) 



So as you can see, 2000 was a great year, for many different reasons. And it wasn’t just because I was seeing classics like “Gone in 60 Seconds,” it was because there was something in the air that year. And that something was the sweet smell of weed. Getting high, writing rhymes, working on my plan to break into Fort Knox (Fuck You Jeremy Irons, don’t think I forgot about our “little idea”). Where we all that young? These were the dreams of a man who had a happy life before being cursed with children that hate the ground he walks on. Or the Zombies that line up outside my house everytime I smoke a little hasish, and very conveniently disappear when I come down. Or a mother-in-law who thinks meat loaf is afdasjjghfdgashfshfdhjgasdshjsdhjfshvcbxzcbbvasbncvbbcvxzzznbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbvcxzxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxmn.

Shit. I feel asleep on the keys. Ok, don’t tell my wife I’m using again. We just had our third baby in three years and this will kill her. She already thinks somebody stole our bed, which was really me.

Shit. my wife is here she's pissed...fuck..please...if you’re reading this call the cops, please just call somebody and help me. She hates me, she's awful, HEL-----

False alarm! It was my friend Scary Sam Buttonchop the Polish Ghost. What a joker!

Till next time, see you in the back row!

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Bling Crosby Knows Movies!

The Incredible Mr. Limpet just gained 300 pounds! That's right, we had a baby, and we're calling him Bling Crosby. The kid loves movies, so much so, he wants to take them out behind the middle school and get them pregnant.

Writing from the cultural center of Southern California, aka the Inland Empire, Bling takes precious minutes away from his deviant lifestyle to lay before you a buffet of art theory. Pick, choose and nibble to your liking, but just remember to take what you touch.

Once more, a round of applause for the one, the only, the BLING CROSBY!

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The Best of Wikipedia

Mr. Feelings feels knowledge matters. That's why I'm starting a new weekly series, The Best of Wikipedia. While Wikipedia is hardly a new toy, it is one that rarely grows old. When you put editorial power in the hands of the masses, beautiful things happen... dictators overthrown, disease cured, hunger wiped out, and a 1,000 word essay about the history of the bidet finally answers the questions we were all thinkings, but were too afraid to ask. That's communal intelligence at its best. Full thoughts on bidets after the jump.

Did you know bidet is a French word for pony? Makes sense seeing how both do a fantastic job cleaning the anus. Thank French furniture designer Christophe Des Rosiers for thinking up the toilet pony. Sometime in the 17th century he was commissioned to design a drinking fountain that could also function as a chamber pot, bath basin, and shower. It did a fantastic job at all four tasks, but purvey French royalty derived more pleasure by allowing the gentle stream of water to clean the buttocks. Cried King Louis X1V, "It's just like my childhood pony! I shall call this bidet!" He died a week later, most probably of bidet poisoning.

Other facts gleaned from this article, Victorians had some strange kinks. Check out this etching.

WOW! hot! Hot! HOTTT!
Godspeed, Wikipedia. Godspeed.

P.S. Feel free to tip Mr. Feelings to any other fantastic Wikipedia entries.

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La Geezer Nostra

What happened to the mafia of our grandfather’s? Where is the tough, southern Italian immigrant who came to this country and made a name for himself through hard work, intimidation, and illegal gambling? That exact same mafia is still operating, and I mean the same exact guy who demanded protection money from grandpa in the 40’s, is still doing the same today.

The Mob’s outdated and misguided practice of never allowing a made man to retire is catching up with them through with a rash of guilty pleas from its elderly members. On February 28, a mobster, who will be 97-years-old in just 5 days, pleaded guilty to a Florida charge of racketeering conspiracy and a New York charge of conspiracy to tamper with a witness. Albert “The Old Man” Facchiano, a member of the Genovese family, uses a headset in court to hear questions, and sees a doctor four times a week for back pain, arthritis, among other old man ailments. From a group that deals so closely with this great nation’s strongest unions I am appalled at a lack of a pension plan for workers who have given decades of faithful service.

The esteemed Mr. Facchiano may be the most extreme victim of this institution’s blatant disregard for its employee’s (or “soldier’s”) welfare, but he is hardly alone. Facchiano’s own superior, Capo Renaldi Ruggerio has also has pleaded guilty to related charges. Ruggerio is comparatively spry at 73, but still far too old to break kneecaps or trudge up and down dark streets making collections for the boss. Another elderly member of the Genovese family, Matthew “Matty the Horse” Ianniello pleaded guilty to charges in Connecticut recently, he was 86 years old!

Sources inside the mob claim that this is not only a Genovese family problem and that “Oldfellas” as they have come to be known, are increasingly becoming commonplace in the underworld. As “the greatest generation”, and their baby-boomer children are living longer thanks to advances in both blunt-trauma and gunshot wound treatments, as well as greater awareness the cost of an unhealthy diet, more and more mobsters are seeing their golden years then ever before. With life expectancies soaring and Indian casinos moving in on the mafia’s territory, the mob needs to create a pension plan, or they can expect more of their out of date Mafiosos to be retiring to prison, or worse turning state’s evidence.

It is up to the young Goombas to demand their organization create a new way for them to safely plan for retirement, or the mob will surely end up as other once powerful organizations such as, the Freemasons, The Black Hand, or the Catholic Church. The mob will become a mere social club with no real power and even less dignity. So next time “the Boss” sends down word on some no show jobs at esplanade, keep those union employees working. Until crime lords give you just a taste of what the construction union (that you pretend to represent) is supposed to stand for, stand your ground, and keep that cement pouring.

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Of Squirrels and Psychopaths

Squirrels these days just don't understand their bodies. That's why squirrel teenage pregnancy rates are through the roof. Thank god the progressive minds of Santa Monica are taking it upon themselves to humanely empower the female squirrels of this generation.

Calif. City Tries Squirrel Birth Control

More thoughts on squirrels after the jump...



Now a hot young lady squirrel can be in charge of reproductive rights without being slave to the man. It's time for casual sex in squirrel-ville. But be safe. Squirrel syphilis really is a downer. Just ask Dale. He didn't get it looked at and it slowly poisoned his mind.

Another life wasted to venereal disease.But not everyone is so hot for the idea of a capped squirrel population. If you've seen Zodiac, then you know serial killers love these cute little rodents. It's part of their pederast mindset. Mr. Feelings knows, he works with one. Well, the man I know hasn't killed anyone yet, but it's only a matter of time.

These guys loved squirrels so much, they killed people.
I can't mention him by name, but the man I work with, let's call him Ricardo, he's a squirrel fanatic. Just seeing those cute little creatures, with their adorable squirrel paws, infantile eyes, and playful disposition floods him with feelings of warmth, nurture and repressed erotic desires that will never be fulfilled. At lunch, he goes to the local squirrel sanctuary and feeds the rehabbing rodents with the nuts he keeps in his pocket. For a year I believed the squirrel sanctuary was real, that is until I found out he was really going to the botanical garden near the office, and the grounds keepers had repeatedly asked him not to return. Mr. Grounds keeper, you just made Ricardo's list.

Another thing about Ricardo, I can see him in the reflection of my computer monitor staring at me. What thoughts are running through his mind, I don't want to know. I do know this. He's really messing with my head. I'm pretty sure he's going to kill me. Probably when it's just me and him in the office. I imagine a hard-boiled cop rendered speechless when he finds my lifeless corpse wrapped in a squirrel hair coat. Let them know who killed me, dear readers. It was Ricardo!

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Life Lessons

The majority of emails I get from my vast readership seems to revolve around one subject area. Most of them ask "Jerk Stupidneck, what advice can you give to me, a lowly stinking peasant, that will help me better my putrid and depressing life?"

Your words, not mine my friends. Although I do share the sentiment, I will nonetheless offer these Life Lessons from time to time.

These are lessons I have learned by observing others, through careful tutelage from a mentor (I'm looking at you Big D), and through sheer gut instinct. Now I pass them on to you that you might lift yourself out of the cesspool you call your life. Today's Lesson I learned from a great man - Mr. Orson Welles.





Screenwriter. Director. Actor in theatre, film and radio. Orson Welles was a great man in his day. At the age of 18 months was declared a child prodigy (and these were in the days when you told your kid he was stupid until you were proven wrong - The Golden Era). Through the company of his father he learned magic from various Vaudevillians while his mother bestowed upon him her musical talents as well as a knowledge of Shakespeare.

But all that is boring. The point is that eventually he began working in films and eventually masterminded one of the greatest films in cinema history - Citizen Kane. He can be seen in this clip acting opposite Joseph Cotten in "The Third Man"


Young, handsome, powerful, in the prime of his life. The world was his oyster.

And he, like so many success stories before him, began to eat that oyster. By the time he roasted Frank Sinatra he had retained a few oysters in his belly region, but nonetheless he was a well spoken and well respected artist. Commanding an audience of the era's finest entertainers and taking shots at another great man, Mr. Frank Sinatra.


Shortly thereafter, it seems the oyster began taking hold of Welles brain. Or perhaps, it was the need for more and more oysters that caused him to take on work that would have previously been below him. For reference, view this clip from a special on Nostradamus's predictions called The Man Who Saw Tomorrow


Ok fine. So the arabs teamed up with the Rooskies in 1999 and nuked the hell out of New York. The evidence is inconclusive as to whether or not this happened, but everyone knows that Nostradamus was functionally retarded and could often be found staring at glass beads for hours before spouting off gibberish about caped arab men conquering the west with nuclear hell... well everyone knew that except Orson who decided it was an excellent career move to narrate such stories. I wish would have kept my sweet cape that I used to wear in 1999.



Ok this is simply too much. Not only is it humiliating to the man's memory that you can type in PORK and find a clip with him in it. But that clip also shows a once great man drowned in so much Cutty Sark that he can't see straight. Let alone act his way through a commercial for some carbonated vinegar with some French label glued to it.

Where am I going with this? Why drag down one of the nations greatest achievers?

Because within this sad tale is life lesson number one: Don't waste everyone's time by lingering on longer than we want to tolerate you. Go down in a blaze of glory and be done with it before you embarass yourself

James Dean had a car wreck. Anna Nicole was a car wreck. Hendrix choked on his own puke.

Me? I plan on being the first man whose innards orbit the earth after my crudely made Moon Rocket explodes in the upper ionosphere.

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My Pal Chris

The guy you see there is one of those people that, when you really think about it, it's kind of amazing you ever crossed paths with. He was raised in rural-ish Ohio; his parents are accomplished performers, and thusly he has the most angelic voice I've ever heard. Consequently, that statement wouldn't even make the top five of gayest things I've ever said about him.

This man is Christopher O. Jones. He's a good guy. He's my college rooomate and, if you follow us after the jump, I'll tell you all about how he gave me one of the greatest birthday presents ever.



See that guy? I consider that guy to be a pretty alright actor. Always have. Not ashamed to say it. Never have been.

Anyway, today was the last day my folks were in town, and they wanted to see some of my college friends so I invited a few out to lunch. Some of my boys showed up and regaled my folks with tales of working in Hollywood. We watched some sports. A good time was had by all.

When we left Chris, who was in attendance, said he was headed to the "My Name Is Earl" wrap party tonight. He texted me as I was leaving a late dinner with the information that not only was he at the party, but Leo DiCaprio himself was there as well. He then told me that he would be unable to get me in to the party, fore he had already used his free pass on our other college roommate, Ricky.

I replied, "no big deal. Just have Leo tell me happy birthday," and I hopped on the I-10 headed home. Not two minutes later I get a call from Chris. I answer, "Yello?" "Hey is this Smokey?" "Yes." "Well Happy Birthday man! Have a good one!" At this point the phone was handed to Chris and I wittily replied, "that was Ricky, wasn't it?" He replied, "Nope. I walked up to Ethan [Suplee] and Leo and said 'I've got a friend who can't get in, but it's his birthday. Would you tell him happy birthday? And he said, 'Fuck yeah, call him up,' and then he talked to you." My mouth agape, my car exceeding the speed limit, I thanked Chris profusely, calmly made my way home, cracked open an ice-cold beer, and wrote this.

It's gonna be a good weekend.

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Oh Lord, Let Thy Butter Harden!

It's a miracle I follow pro-sports. I'm a poor postured, uncoordinated nerd who owns every season to Star Trek TNG (The Next Generation to all you not virgins out there). That said, I've followed the NBA all my life. Specifically the Lakers. This one passion has helped me salvage some machismo and given me a talking point when mingling with bad dudes. For that I owe a debt of gratitude to one man. No, not my father (Mr. Feelings was raised in a laboratory by escaped Nazi war criminals). I'm talking about Chick Hearn, Golden Throat, the greatest human to walk the earth (and I'm including Jesus Christ, God's only son). More Chick after the jump...

I won't bother explaining what made Chick so great. I also won't explain why food tastes good, masturbating feels fantastic, or why stealing Lotto scratchers is amazing. To know these things is to know pleasure. Same with Chick. He was a tidal wave of personality that both understood and loved the game. Also, he was in Fletch. Were you in Fletch? If you're reading this, I doubt it.

Anyway, all praises sung, this clip isn't his finest hour. Instead it's a candid look at legend. A chance to see a star out of his element, but still in his prime.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Chick Hearn, Wazzup!

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The Single Best Show on Television

Most people when asked will tell you that the best show on television is either, Lost, 24, House, The Office, or some show on HBO that no one watches. Well, if history has taught us anything most people are idiots. (Just kidding about 24. Kiefer rocks!)

So, you ask, what is the best show on televsion? The answer is simple: THE KNIFE SHOW.

Follow me after the jump for a clip and a further explanation as to the pure awesomeness of The Knife Show.


The Knife Show appears on QVC and is hosted by a genius named Tom O'Dell who has dedicated his life to sharing the love of the blade to us the lucky viewer/consumer. Part of the reason this show works is because it is on 4 days a week 7 hours at time. So with all that airtime Tom has decided to bypass certain steps of production such as rehersing or having a basic idea of where the camera is going to be. Instead he preps like any true professional: he gets really drunk and wanders around the set pointing at knives.

Last night for example he continually lowered the price for a 35 piece knife kit until he realized that he was actually selling the knives for below his wholesale cost. Did this stop O'Dell? Of course not he just blamed the price decrease on the fact that he had been at the dentist's office all day and couldn't think straight. That my friend is a salesman.

Well, I could go on and on about this show but I think this clip really sums up the pure brilliance of the show. Take a second to watch and then I dare you not to Tivo this show every night.

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How To Be Cool

Mr. Feelings fields lots of letters from teenagers going through their formative years. I'm gonna hit the "tweeners" with a bit of knowledge. In this whirligig world we live in, you've got influence being pushed on you from all kinds of crazy people. And I bet there's nothing you would love more than to be one of the "cool kids." So what makes you cool? I'll tell you what worked for me.




Find a hobby. For me, it was scale modeling. It gave me something to discuss at mixed functions with others my age. A girl would ask me why I had paint under my finger nails, and I could tell her it was because I was working on a detailed replica of the Slave-1. Of course she had no idea what that meant, but it allowed me to take the lead in the conversation.

Don't be afraid to venture outside your sphere of influence. I loved Star Wars, but some of my best friends turned out to be Star Trek fans. Blaspheme! I know, but if I had stuck to my sworn allegiance to George Lucas, I would have missed out on three separate Star Trek conventions, each with it's own unique set of memories. I got soooo many complements on my ILM T-shirt. A huge confidence boost. Which leads me to my next point:

Clothes matter. I used to go through the Lucas Arts catalog once a year with my mother and pick out three new T-shirts for the school year. I had my own unique style. Between those T's and my trips to Ross for slacks, I always looked my best.


Practice good hygiene. Deodorant and hair gel should be the cornerstone of every boy wanting to look his Sunday best. Carry a comb in your back pocket for emergencies such as a tricky cowlick.



Last, study hard. Work like your mom is a teacher at your school, and always looking over your shoulder, constantly watching, talking to your teachers, giving you hugs in the hallway. She loves you; that's why she smothers you. You can't talk to girls. You're too busy anyway, what with the model building and all. Your mom is your best friend. Don't cry. They can see you. They can all see you. See you and your shame. You'll never be cool now. Never, ever.

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For Strong Women Everywhere

Reading this blog, something occurred to me. We are chauvinists. Alright men, Mr. Feelings hasn't made his three marriages last a collective decade by acting the fool. So, ladies, this is for you.

First, this is what I look like.











Second, I'm sorry for the less sensitive posts on sexy advertising, weight loss,rainbow parties, and sausage fests. Let me make it up to you with a poem by Maya Angelou.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

She was writing about your lady parts. They are beautiful.

Third, I'm here to listen to you. So starting now I'm listening. (Below is a symbolic gap in text where I'm letting you do the talking.)









Wow, I heard everything you said, and yes, I agree.

And last but not least, I read Cathy too.
See, it's funny because she's like a real woman, not the whore Blondie.

I know this is just step one of a multi-step healing process, but everything has a beginning.

P.S. I'll be selling my book this weekend at the Promise Keepers meet-up in Anaheim. Men, bring your wallets and an open heart.

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