tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248162612024-03-12T17:54:41.112-07:00Gang of 60: Dispatches from the Moronic InfernoThe award-winning blog that offers commentary on the absurdities of contemporary life and the difficulty of being a highly intelligent person in an incredibly stupid world -- by Jim Gerard and the Gang of 60, a group of former Chinese Communist leaders who defected to the West and became comedy writers.
All material Copyright 2006-2007 - Jim GerardJim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-31457414861643361772007-10-10T23:50:00.000-07:002007-10-11T04:35:54.457-07:00Beware the Angry VaginaWhile sifting through a dense underbrush of resumes and headshots in response to an ad I placed in Backstage for actors to appear in comic videos, I was struck by how many women have appeared in one form or another in "The Vagina Monologues." It seems like vaginas, silenced for centuries, are now declaiming with a vengeance.<br /><br />For example, one young woman's resume listed that she played the part of the "Angry Vagina" in that selfsame play.<br /><br />Here are some other characters from that play:<br /><br />The Manic-Depressive Vagina<br />The Nervous Vagina<br />The Happy-Go-Lucky Vagina<br />The Vagina with a Heart of Gold<br />The Vagina with a Chip on Its Shoulder<br />The Goofy Vagina<br />Mamacita Vagina<br />The Yodeling Vagina<br />The Tap-Dancing Vagina<br />The Vagina with a Criminal Past<br />The Mom-and-Pop Vagina<br />The "Are You Looking at Me?" Vagina<br />The Ventriloquist Vagina<br />The Stepford Vagina<br />The Special Needs Vagina<br />The Passive-Aggressive VaginaJim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-17420658955130764342007-07-29T20:09:00.000-07:002007-07-29T21:39:25.870-07:00Now drilling at a theater near you<a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_0as_U7z0F-s/Rq1W5_vfk9I/AAAAAAAAAAM/hkv7voKNGVE/s1600-h/dentistmarquee.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092822307989066706" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_0as_U7z0F-s/Rq1W5_vfk9I/AAAAAAAAAAM/hkv7voKNGVE/s320/dentistmarquee.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Last night, I took the above photo of the marquee of Theatre Three in downtown Port Jefferson, Long Island. A production of "West Side Story" is the feature attraction, and the theater also advertises a Saturday night improv comedy show. But I was struck by the middle title: "Glenn R. Korsen, DDS." What is a dentist doing on a theater marquee? Does he have a solo act reading X rays of selected audience members? Maybe he does entr'acte root canal for the Sharks and Jets. I mean, I don't remember any character named "Glen Korsen, DDS" in "West Side Story." But my memory is sketchy; maybe along with the Sharks and Jets there was a dentists' gang:<br /><br />"When you're a Dent<br />You're a Dent<br />From your first wax impression<br />To your last dyin' day.<br /><br />When you're a Dent<br />You're the top cat in town,<br />You're the gold medal kid<br />Making a solid-gold crown!"Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-19439204789890958602007-07-24T00:01:00.001-07:002007-07-24T00:01:47.078-07:00Dating in New York City...The outpatients in pursuit of the in-patients.Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-47533401222684466232007-07-23T20:19:00.000-07:002007-07-23T23:58:39.424-07:00In Seaside Heights/God: the ultimate Peeping TomI was visiting some friends at the Jersey shore this past weekend. One night, I accompanied my friend Mike while he took his 13-year-old daughter and her friends to the Seaside Heights boardwalk - one of the last vestiges of old, vulgar-beautiful America. A Fellini-esque phantasmagoria of proletarian carny splendiferousness. Rides such as the Moby Dick, the Pirates' Cove and the Skyscraper, which consists of two capsules at either end that perform elliptical revolutions (and that resembles a weather vane), the apex of which is several hundred feet off the ground, and even the thought of which made me nauseous. Ski-ball, pinball, test your strength booths, the haunted manor, Sno-cones, cotton candy, Sicilian pie, sausage and peppers, frozen custard, Dutch pretzels, calamari - even arepas, an indication that the largely Italian-American crowd of my youth has been a bit diluted by Hispanics, Asians and a handful of other tribes, all sporting oversized T-shirts, faded jeans, baby doll dresses a la mode, piercings and bare midriffs overhanging pants like a landslide of flab. (I say the following with some affection.) I always wondered where in the world all the girls who do porn come from? Now I know: Seaside Heights. <br /><br />A background sonic drone of ringing bells and whistles, screaming kids and poorly mic-ed adolescents barking up prospective customers or declaring the winner of a stuffed bunny. We passed one girl desultorily swinging a Star Wars light sabre, her attitude signifying "yeah, getyourStarWarslightsabreswhogivesashitit'sasummerjobwhoneedsitsellingcheapplastictubestomoronsiftheythinkthisisarealStarWarssabrethey'reevenstupiderthanIthoughtIcan'twaittogetoffandmakeoutandsmokeajointwithmyboyfriend."<br /><br />At the end of the night, as my two friends and I left the boardwalk my friend Mike suddenly said, "Hey, check out that guy over there." I turned my head just in time to see a small, older man standing in a dark driveway peering into the window of a bungalow right off the main drag. A Peeping Tom, who was startled by the sound of our voices and scurried away.<br /><br />This led to conjecture about the man's motives. Could he be the bungalow's owner who locked himself out? Unlikely; otherwise why did he allow us to interrupt his mission? If he was a "peeper," at what was he peeping? Did he peep on a regular basis, or was this a special occasion? My friend Mike said he probably peeped all around the neighborhood, which led me to add that he was taking advantage of the town's "$9.95 All U Can Peep" policy.<br /><br />We continued riffing in this vein for so long that it dawned on me that we were becoming as obsessed with the Peeping Tom as he was with, well, the object of his peeping.<br /><br />Were we meta-peepers? <br /><br />My friend Michael had the last word: "Since God knows all and sees all, isn't he the ultimate Peeper?"Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-25313109245029027192007-07-19T22:21:00.000-07:002007-07-19T22:23:08.382-07:00Uniqueness of the massesA current Time Warner Cable TV spot ends with the announcer's exhortation, "Share your individuality with people just like you."Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-64486377502138519472007-07-13T21:13:00.000-07:002007-07-13T23:45:26.090-07:00IngredientsI bought a package of caramelized walnuts from Balducci's. The ingredients listed were "walnuts, sugar, honey." Then in capital letters were printed the words "CONTAINS WALNUT."<br /><br />It's as if they had to reassure you that the food you just bought is exactly what it purports to be. <br /><br />And it got me thinking...Humans should come with their own ingredients list. A label on their clothing. For one thing, it would make dating much easier and allow you to completely bypass potential sociopaths (which comprise at least 75 percent of the population of Manhattan). <br /><br />For example, you see an attractive woman at a party and start a conversation. She seems interested -- she's curious and enthusiastic about your work, she touches your arm frequently, smiles constantly and laughs at your jokes. Then you lean in (or perhaps turn her over) to read her label: "Ingredients: self-involvement, egocentrism, superficiality, materialistic bent, insensitivity, erratic personality. May contain nut."Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-85919932036703005982007-07-10T23:54:00.000-07:002007-07-11T00:25:16.365-07:00Next, the "Overture to Lohengrin," but first the Philharmonic would like to congratulate Sammy Liebowitz on his bar mitzvahLast night, I attended an event at Lincoln Center that was part of their outdoor "Midsummer Night's Swing" dance season. My longtime friend and virtuoso saxophonist Michael Hashim was leading an exceptional band in a program of the music of Billy Strayhorn. In other words, consummate musicians playing some of the greatest music ever written.<br /><br />At one point, I was dancing with a young woman around 21. She had come with a group of friends to celebrate one of the friend's birthday. While we were dancing, she complained to me that she had asked Michael if he would announce the friend's birthday and he had replied, "Uh, no." She seemed to think that his was some sort of bar band whose duties included taking requests ("Hey, can you play "Money, Cash, Ho's"?) and announcing milestone events in the lives of audience members. She hadn't the slightest idea that she had been granted the privilege of attending an event of rare musical importance and sublimity. (The Billy Strayhorn Orchestra, as Michael calls the band, plays many obscure arrangements retrieved from the archives of Duke Ellington and elsewhere, and the costs in time and money for research, transcriptions, copying, gathering the musicians, rehearsals, etc., puts practical limitations on the frequency of such concerts. In fact, the band hadn't played at Lincoln Center in four years.)<br /><br />But all this was unknown and probably incomprehensible to the young woman. <br /><br />Can you imagine some bozo attending a concert of the New York Philharmonic and asking Lorin Maazel, "Oh, before you do Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring,' could you play 'Happy Birthday' for my girlfriend?"Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-16664650075674350292007-07-09T00:31:00.001-07:002007-07-09T01:01:57.771-07:00Area 52You ever watch one of those documentaries about people who claim to have been abducted by aliens? These incidents always seem to take place somewhere out West -- Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico -- and the subjects are always white people, usually lower-middle class, trailer park-types. I mean, have you ever seen a black person who claims he's been abducted by aliens? Of course not. Just don't tell Al Sharpton. <br /><br />I mean, blacks have been abducted by white people. Even by other black people. But not by Pleiadians. Those guys don't abduct blacks, Hispanics, Jews, Italians or Asians. Or gays (who would admittedly love the anal probing). The aliens may look green, but they vote white. <br /><br />They're goggle-eyed, hypercephalic space bigots -- the rednecks of the constellation Taurus. <br /><br />They may or may not be a superior civilization, but they do have their own website: http://www.pleiadians.net/. On its home page, they claim that "We come to you with love and purpose ... from another dimension." Only when you scroll down to the bottom do you see that the Pleiadians are using an earthling, one Lia Shapiro, to write all their material. And that her/their book, <em>Comes the Awakening: Realizing the Divine Nature of Who You Are</em>, is available on Amazon. Maybe there they explain the reasons for their racial prejudice.<br /><br />Either way, I wouldn't be surprised if all the groups that have NOT been abducted are considering some kind of class-action suit against the aliens. Out there in Area 52.Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-81921650301600386952007-07-09T00:02:00.000-07:002007-07-09T00:30:26.831-07:00Don Rickles' Seven Habits of Highly Effective LeadersNumber five: Learn to delegate, you hockey puck!Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-62611832147736155342007-06-27T23:42:00.000-07:002007-06-27T23:57:24.790-07:00Earth vs. the Alien PaparazziStrangest headline of the day comes from the Smoking Gun website:<br /><br /> <em>Perez Hilton In Alien Paparazzi Suit</em><br /><br />From what I can gather, this gossip columnist who changed his name to mimic that of a celebrity birdbrain because it would fraudulently steer Web traffic from the millions of boobs who can't spell "Paris" when typing it into a search engine, claims that he is being harassed by Martian photographers competing for a scoop they can deliver to their readers back on Mars, where Perez is presumably a celebrity.Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-62767316548521813652007-06-22T00:21:00.000-07:002007-06-22T00:29:57.647-07:00General, the enemy has launched its super whoopee cushion!From a story today on ABCnews.com headlined, "Fringe Science Yields 'Gay Bombs' and Psychic Teleportation" about how the Pentagon is spending $78 billion a year on whacked-out weapons and space research:<br /><br /><em>Scientists are exploring beamed speaker systems that only one person can hear and foam that makes the enemy slip and fall.</em><br /><br />Other top-secret projects on which they're working include a giant squirting flower, an enormous dribble glass and the world's biggest banana peel...Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-41435328787475302632007-06-21T21:13:00.000-07:002007-06-22T21:15:43.054-07:00Moses parts the FDR Drive or: The Ten Commandments for motoristsEarlier this week, according to a wire story, the Vatican issued a "Ten Commandments" for motorists to <em>keep them on the road to salvation, warning drivers against the sins of road rage, abuse of alcohol or even simple rudeness.</em><br /><br />While the directive didn't come straight from the Pope, but instead a mid-level functionary known even to Vatican honchos as a bit of a loose cannon, it did arouse my curiosity about the commandments. (They were not enumerated in the story, which only alluded to road rage, DUI and other mobile "occasions for sin" such as illegal passing.)<br /><br />Then I took a cab uptown and suddenly had a vision of the motor vehicle Ten Commandments:<br /><br />I. Thou shalt sport a “WWJD” bumper sticker.<br />II. Thou shalt not stop for hitchhikers unless they’re holding a sign that reads, "Vatican City or Bust.”<br />III. Thou shalt install special holy water cup holders.<br />IV. Thou shalt not remove thy hands from the wheel and “let Jesus take over.”<br />V. If thou gets pulled over and thou wishes to avoid a ticket, thou shalt offer the highway patrolman an autographed photo of Pope Benedict XVI. <br />VI. Thou shalt not commit road rage – except against heathens. <br />VII. Thou shalt not make any carved images, except for plastic dashboard Jesus. Also, thou shalt not allow the Styrofoam dice hanging from thou rear-view mirror to touch plastic dashboard Jesus.<br />VIII. Thou shalt not use a CB radio to speak in tongues. <br />IX. Thou shalt not park in a “handicapped” parking space, unless one is “blind, halt, lame, or a leper.” <br />X. Thou shalt not use thine cell phone while driving – unless thou is dialing the 1-900-CONFESS line.Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-50256097538279446222007-06-18T21:10:00.000-07:002007-06-19T01:51:37.797-07:00The Aryan Nations personalsWotan seeks Brunhilde. Single, proud Viking needs mate for enjoy grail-seeking, dwarves and other Teutonic fun times. Don’t let my love become a funeral pyre. <br /><br />Aryan accountant, 45, never married. Looking for racially aware woman, any age, into national socialism, Quickbooks. Must be white enough to please Aryan mom. <br /><br />Idaho movement activist seeks partner to keep survivalist tent neat and clean. <br /><br />Athletic Caucasian seeks fit woman for hunting, fishing, etc. (not golf, which is making our race weak)<br /><br />To “evabraun69”: Please resend your last email. My server ate it, and I can’t retrieve it. I know it is the work of the liberal elite who betray our country to illegals and others who dilute our racial purity! <br /><br />Skinhead starting neo-Nazi group in Upper West Side. So far not so good. Would love to meet a smart, young pale babe. No kids, pets, Zabar’s shoppers. <br /><br />Cute, slim anti-Semite with two tickets for a concert by Adolf the Cable Guy. Any hunky Aryans want to join me?Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-69567746405127846392007-06-18T15:02:00.000-07:002007-06-18T15:14:26.052-07:00I'm laying a ten-spot on R2D2On the scientific front:<br /><br /><em>Robots from 33 Countries Clash at RoboCup 2007<br /><br /> Nearly 300 teams from 33 countries are gearing up to compete at RoboCup 2007 Atlanta, the world's most renowned competition for research robotics, at the Georgia Institute of Technology July 3-10.<br />--Georgia Institute of Technology</em><br /><br /><br />The Russian Federation robot team was disqualified when they were found to be taking performance-enhancing RAM.Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-10926741934536570142007-06-05T22:52:00.000-07:002007-06-06T14:48:54.717-07:00Entertainment Tonight in the monkey cageFrom a 2/19/07 story on CNN.com:<br /><br /><em>In "Fame Junkies" Halpern cites studies that suggest fame is a factor in other animal groups as well. In one study rhesus monkeys were willing to give up their food simply to stare at a dominant monkey.</em><br /><br />"Everyone thinks that the dominant monkey has it made. I'm here to tell you that is so not true. Oh, sure; at first you get off on it. The chicks throwing themselves at you. The non-alpha males staring at you admiringly, wishing they could be you, presenting their rump (too much information!). Your own personal trainer. Everything catered -- all the bananas, pears, ice cream, grubs and termites you could ever want -- and available 24/7. <br /><br />But they don't warn you of the downside: Your total lack of privacy. The pressure to always be "on," to have a "heavenly body." The nonstop harassment by the paparazzi from Animal Planet. The fact that some zookeeper named you Mr. Jiggs. (Hell-O! That's a chimp's name.) The overentitled brats who think they can ride you. (Just try it, punk!) The ever-present threats from other males, who feign submissiveness by picking nits off you, but who you catch out of the corner of your eye shooting you those "silent bared teeth" and who might even bitch-slap you out of the blue if they think your guard is down. <br /><br />No wonder we dominants only maintain our rank for two years. It's not because some other dude is bigger, stronger and has more bad-assitude. No way. It's that the fast lane wears you down. Always checking your ranking in the pack and worrying that some young upstart will take you down and put the moves on your babe. While you end up hooked up to an IV in some lab at Pfizer.<br /><br />That's it for now. I'm having grub withdrawal. The others keep pushing me to enter rehab, but it's just an excuse to get me out of the way so that KoKo or Ling-Ling or Curious George W can take my place. But I'll have the last laugh. You see, I'm going to dish all the dirt in my memoir, <em>A Million Little Rhesus Pieces</em>. <br /><br />Check it out."Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-87351619785660639452007-06-04T22:50:00.000-07:002007-06-04T22:57:00.029-07:00The surge: 7th Avenue and 14th StreetThe other night around 11 p.m. I was walking home up Seventh Avenue. When I got to the intersection of 14th Street, I saw a young woman standing close to the middle of the street frantically trying to hail a cab while blabbing to a friend on her cell phone. As this woman -- who was wearing sunglasses -- became increasingly frustrated, she blurted into the phone -- loudly enough for me to hear above the street noise -- "I can't get a cab here. It's like Baghdad!"<br /><br />And that, my friends, is exactly the reason why we are still in Iraq.Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-37249072317438778442007-06-03T21:10:00.000-07:002007-06-03T21:11:55.665-07:00This blog is so obscure......that some Russian hackers tried to break into it, but they couldn't find it and gave up.Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-61076779095968539922007-05-30T23:46:00.001-07:002007-05-31T00:03:08.405-07:00Cyber-mating, part 5: Curse of the Cat PeopleToday a woman on the dating site FastCupid.com "winked" at me. A "wink" is a wordless overture from a member who is interested in you but too cheap to spend a buck or two that it costs to send an email message. Her user name is "babylambtbone."<br /><br />This is how she filled out the last three sections of her profile:<br /><br /><em>Five items I can't live without<br /><br />coffee, naps with my cat, something to read, positive reinforcement, chocolate raspberry rolled scones from the read<br /><br />In my bedroom one will find...<br /><br />me and my cat taking a nap or reading a book or the newspaper the cat doesnt really read tho<br /><br />Why You Should Get to Know Me <br /><br />i like real dates im old fashioned but i like loud music and im pretty noisy sometimes i love my cat i like quiet too sometimes i dont really take myself very seriously i like to take naps and stay up late</em> <br /><br />This woman is 43 years old, can neither spell nor punctuate, and from this evidence -- "i like loud music and im pretty noisy" -- has the sing-song syntax, unmediated mind and cultural predilections of a IM-mad ten-year-old. She describes her occupation as “yoga teacher/waiter” and spends far too much time in bed with her cat. She's the Collyer Brothers’ younger sister.<br /><br />And it's a good thing that the cat can't read. He'd be appalled.Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-9351438575924019892007-05-30T23:27:00.000-07:002007-05-30T23:28:40.991-07:00Bush's new World Bank presidentWillie Sutton.Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-55733173591840188362007-05-26T21:10:00.000-07:002007-05-27T01:11:34.991-07:00The zombie armyThese days you hear a lot about zombies. They’ve become a hot item. In demand. If you want your party to be officially hip, you’ve got to invite at least one zombie. But if you want the zombies to keep coming back, you’ve got to make sure you also invite enough victims. They could be people you don’t like, exes who done you wrong, or just random passers-by. Party crashers make perfect victims. Because of the irony. <br /><br />And there are a lot of zombies, apparently. They occupy whole towns and have taken control of several cities, including Washington. And yet, they're the ultimate outsiders. They didn’t attain power using traditional methods, like the electoral process. No way. They ate everyone who was in power until there was no one left. <br />They have their own institutions. Like the zombie army. Which is not to be confused with the Mahdi Army of Moktada al-Sadr, the Iraqi Shiite cleric. There’s a big difference. Sadr is Shiite; the zombies are Sunni.<br /><br />I was wondering if it was easy to get into the zombie army. Or is it mandatory for all zombies? Are zombies obligated to perform two years of military service before resuming their bloody rampaging of civilians? Is it a volunteer zombie army? What would have to be wrong with you to be declared unfit for duty? I mean, they're already dead, which would get you an easy 4F in any other army. Maybe you get a deferral if you’re a vegan.<br /><br />They all kind of move pretty clumsily, and I can’t imagine they have the coordination to handle sophisticated weaponry, or fly planes.<br /><br />Digression: What if you boarded a 747 and it took off and the first announcement from the cockpit was “This is your pilot speaking. Grrrrrrr!!!!! And then the cockpit door flings open and out staggers a headless flight attendant! “Chicken or beef?” “Chicken or beef? Arrghhhh…..”<br /><br />Back to the zombie army. Let’s say a platoon of zombies is going off to fight the enemy in Iraq. And they’re out in the yard getting broken in…<br /><br />SERGEANT: Alright listen up, ladies! You call yourself zombies? I mean, look at you! You’re falling apart. Blood drooling out the sides of your mouths! The worst posture I’ve ever seen. You, Jackson, pick up that part of your arm that just fell off! And Francisco, stop gnawing on that human skull! Mess hall is over! Jesus, you’re the sorriest group of rooks I’ve ever laid eyes on. <br /><br />Let’s drop the zombies into a typical Hollywood World War II flick, where the platoon has an Italian from Brooklyn, a naive, blonde farm boy from the Midwest, a Southern boy everybody teases about his drawl, a laid-back Californian. And a zombie. He’s considered the “odd one.” The other recruits pick fights with him until they find out he bites. <br /><br />They’re about to head into the big battle, and the zombie, who can only grunt, takes out a grimy photo of his sweetheart back home in Zombieville to show the others, and she’s absolutely hideous, with half a head and generally leprous all over, and the Italian guy looks at it and of course he’s totally repulsed, but he tries to hide it and says to the zombie, “Bet you can't get back to her, huh?” <br /><br />Then the battle begins, and at a key moment, the sergeant finds himself without a grenade and he calls out to the zombie, “Grenade!” and the zombie of course fumbles it and blows the sergeant to high heaven. Later, back at base, the rest of the platoon is too grief-stricken to eat, while the zombie gnaws on a Nazi jawbone.<br /> <br />Now what if the zombies had other ways to organize besides the army? Like zombie medical organizations – “Les Médecins sans les Cerveaux.” Let’s say you need surgery and you have really bad health insurance. You’re strapped to an operating table and in limps your zombie surgeon. And the only implement he’s holding is a rock.Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-29169152324762580582007-05-23T13:55:00.000-07:002007-05-23T13:58:10.619-07:00No$talgiaYou've seen those banner for Classmates.com -- "Find Your High School Buddies!" <br /><br />If they were such good buddies, how come you need a search engine to find them?Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-63371127758227025522007-05-20T20:18:00.000-07:002007-05-20T22:21:05.602-07:00The suicide love lineSome years ago, I met a woman -- can't remember where. She was a psychotherapist, slim and attractive in a Levantine way. (I also can't remember her ethnic background; there's a lot of lacunae in my memory bank, probably the result of trauma that I experienced from around, say, 1974 to 2001 or so.)<br /><br />This was back in the 1980s, when sex moved in the express lane, and men and women had an unspoken "one-date rule." Thus, during a pleasant dinner, the therapist informed me that in addition to her private practice, she volunteered to be an emergency counselor on the Suicide Hotline. This required her to be home at 9:30 every other Saturday night and available to receive calls from desperate people who were seriously contemplating self-extinction. And then she asked if I would mind coming to her apartment. Again, I was younger, and the imminent possibility of getting laid prevented me from considering either the ethical dimensions of trying to seduce someone away from the outstretched hand of some bridge-jumper and the practical impediments to doing so. <br /><br />I rationalized it by thinking that since she initiated it, she must have a way of multi-tasking that would accommodate both interests. She told me that some nights were very slow, and almost nobody wanted to off themselves. I hoped that something good was on television that night that would distract the suicides at least for a few hours. Maybe a good heavyweight bout. <br /><br />We quickly removed our clothes and had reached a stage of advanced foreplay when the first call came through...<br /><br />(to be continued)Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-55668523584177218272007-05-19T21:08:00.000-07:002007-05-19T23:28:43.153-07:00Cyber-mating, part 4: Les hommesIf you are a man searching for l'amour via an Internet dating site, whatever you do, don't use a photo of yourself in a giant bunny suit (with the head off, of course), as one poor schlemiel did on a site that calls itself "the smart people's personals."<br /><br />Here are some other examples of how men with presumably good intentions sabotage themselves by unconsciously revealing strange obsessions and off-putting personal neuroses.<br /><br />Man #1:<br /><br /><em>i believe that one should believe that leprechans exist.<br />i believe when you are in ireland and come to a bridge you should get out and ask the leprechans for safety in your crossing, for fun.</em><br /><br />This is one too many leprachaun references -- and besides, if you love 'em that much you should at least know how to spell their name.<br /><br /><em>i believe you when you whisper in my ear that you saw a mermaid </em><br /><br />I would run screaming, but that’s just me. <br /><br /><em>i believe my friends keep me alive</em> <br /><br />They protect him from the leprachauns.<br /><br /><em>i believe what my friend told me about some mini guy who lives in the conch shell he brought back for me and spends his days lifting grains of sand from here to there building miniature igloos, fireplaces, snowmen, etc.</em><br /><br />O.K., you’re clearly obsessed with small imaginary creatures, and need to seek professional help ... from a very teeny-tiny psychiatrist, who lives in a tree on East 11th Street. <br /><br />Man #2:<br /><br /><em>If you're a widget maker, I'll try to pick up enough widget jargon so you can tell me about your day and I'll be able to keep up and ask the occasional intelligent question just so you'll know I AM listening (and to indulge my vagrant curiousity). </em><br /><br />Translation: I’ll make a condescending, half-hearted attempt to learn how to feign an interest in your professional life.<br /><br />Man #3<br /><br /><em>In my bedroom one will find...<br /><br />A bed, Eames side tables, Voss water and a copy of American<br />Psycho ... I've been told that my apartment looks like Patrick Batemans. </em><br /><br />Ladies: If you don’t hear the cries of “Danger! Danger!” ringing in your head, your weirdo detector needs a new battery. And just in case the foregoing isn’t enough warning, in the “What I’m Looking For” box, he writes... <br /><br /><em>And nobody crazy. I mean, crazy to the point of hiring a hitman to kill your ex (which actually happened to me once). So... if you ever tried to actually kill your ex boyfriend, I'm probably not interested in a relationship with you. Unless you're REALLY hot.</em><br /><br />Man #4:<br /><br /><em>If you're a vegetarian, you'll get preferential treatment. If not, then at least be healthy in your food choices. Of course, everything in moderation, including moderation. Let's pig out on your favourite vice once in a while, and then back to the diet.</em><br /><br />"Then, back to the diet”? Does this guy run a vegan cult?Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-63520044214610615472007-05-16T21:54:00.000-07:002007-05-19T23:39:21.756-07:00Cyber-mating, part 3: Under the Bushwick SunOn many of the popular online dating sites, members are required -- or at least strongly urged -- to fill out a personality questionnaire, which solicits not just essential information, but banal questions such as "What celebrity do you most resemble?" and to fill in the blanks in "Mad Libs"-like sentences such as "-- is sexy; -- is sexier." Another sentence that you're supposed to complete is "If I could be anywhere right now..."<br /><br />A majority of the women answer, "Tuscany." No shit! You mean just like every other nouveau riche, unimaginative Yuppie in the world who read that book and saw those movies with Russell Crowe and Diane Lane playing overworked/traumatized/lovelorn Americans who discover the true meaning of life is to be found in sunshine, wine and the smiles of gap-toothed peasants? It's like wearing a T-shirt that reads, "I spent two weeks in Italy and all I got was a veneer of sophistication." <br /><br />Well, my grandparents <em>lived</em> in Italy, and loved it so much that they endured a month in the fetid, tubercular steerage section of a passenger ship to emigrate to Newark.<br /><br />The reality is that so many obnoxious American Yuppies have descended upon Tuscany that the Tuscans can't handle it. How would the lawyers and designers of Prospect Park like it if every summer their neighborhood was invaded by hordes of Italian young professionals, all smoking like chimneys? Worse still -- what if the Italians decided to start moving to Brooklyn? Yes, my friend, we're talking "My Villa in Bensonhurst."<br /><br />And if they don't choose Tuscany, then it's another idyllic spot as designated by Conde Naste Traveler. One advertising industry woman claims that this year she went to Bamff, London and Rio, and says she’s happy as long as she gets to “explore new cultures.” As if you could explore a culture in a week or two while staying at the local Hilton. “Look, dear – we're in London! Oh my god, I'm having culture shock – they drive on the right!”<br /><br />Here are some more examples:<br /><br />Palazzo Sasso in Ravello (name dropping a five-star hotel) <br /><br />Hanalei Bay<br /><br />Greece during a full moon in August, dancing until sunrise. (Yeah, you and Zorba.)<br /><br />A small pub on the side of a mountain in the west of Ireland listening to live traditional music and enjoying the grey sky... <br /><br />Crete, watching the sun set into the Libyan sea. (Or in Libya watching the sun set into the Cretan Sea)<br /><br />Mali (average life expectancy: 53, but what do I care? I love the music! according to the woman who listed it)<br /><br />The irony, of course, is that the people who actually live in these places – Caribbean islands, rural Ireland, can’t wait to get the hell out of them. They’re usually poor and have to make their living/endure the intrusiveness of gouche American tourists, on whom they are, unfortunately, economically dependent. <br /><br />But all that is lost to these cosseted suburbanites, who like to think of themselves, as one woman put it, as “world travelers” -- as if they’re Thor Heyerdahl and they rafted to Tahiti.<br /><br />Perhaps the most horrific response came from a woman who declared that if she could be anywhere in the world right now, it would be "at a Prince concert that never ends." <br /><br />I'm pretty positive that's against the Geneva Conventions.Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24816261.post-81914931783048570912007-05-15T21:35:00.000-07:002007-05-15T22:48:02.127-07:00Cyber-mating, part 2: Love me, love my hula hoopFrom the FastCupid.com profile of “Have hula hoop, will travel.”<br /><br /><em>Call me crazy, but I like everything to be fun. I'm a playful, light-hearted, upbeat, spontaneous world traveler. Watch out what you suggest to me, or you might suddenly find yourself on a plane to Bali to surf with the dolfins. One of my favorite things to do is to sink into a new culture - the music, the food, the spirit – but <strong>there will always be a yoga mat and a hula hoop with me to make me feel at home</strong>. ... I manage to find adventures where ever I go, and not just in my own mind. It could be out in the world, and even at home - like a night of cooking, painting and hula hooping and whatever else it all leads to. </em> <br /><br />Most people don't know this, but if you're not careful, hula hooping can lead to more serious stuff, like yo-yo's or invisible dogs. Hula hoops are a gateway toy.<br /><br />I also like her dare, "Watch out what you say to me, or you might suddenly find yourself on a plane to Bali to swim with the dolfins." {SIC} What's she proposing here -- extraordinary rendition? Is she part of a secret CIA plot that employs 1950s children's fads to entrap evildoers? "You'd better talk -- or we'll send in the Slinkys." And does "swim with the dolfins" the New Age version of the old Mafia threat? <br /><br />In the section "More About What I Am Looking For," she writes:<br /> <br /><em>Playful, fun-loving and adventurous.<br />A fearless traveler.<br />Sincere, creative, willing to create with me.<br />A doer – TV addicts need not apply.<br />Someone who is patient; you'll need to wait for my hula hoop at baggage claim wherever we go.</em><br /><br />Yes, because the Homeland Security people know that the terrorists try to smuggle in dirty bombs in hula hoops. And Al-Qaeda operatives have been known to break out in public demonstrations of hula-hooping as a distraction while one of their guys sets off an IED. <br /><br />To be this woman's man, one must worship the hula hoop, must endure traveling with a woman dragging her collection of oversize plastic rings through security checks and trying to stuff them in the overhead compartment, just so she can "feel at home." I wonder what "home" is. A traveling circus? <br /><br />Here's a truly frightening thought: Does she bring it to bed with her? Talk about a woman making you jump through hoops...Jim Gerardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13661788150017427690noreply@blogger.com0