Monthly Archives: February 2010

oh Canada

By “own the podium” do you mean you want to sail to the podium, purloin it, and colonize the indigenous podium-users?

I’m sorry Canada— because I really like you a lot— but the podium is not for sale.  However, you can rent it for a reasonable sum. I like that ultra lightweight, wheeled podium because it features your choice of two faceplates. Two faceplates!  And for 427.13 CAD! Or $405 US dollars.  Or for 3 man-made islands in Dubai.

Leasing the podium is another option.  Unfortunately, you’re no longer able to lease any podiums made by Toyota because they explode when you lean into the mic.

No, wait, I take that back–they’re totally safe.  Your Toyota podiums are fine.

Whoops sorry, your Toyota podiums are deadly!  They will kill you in your sleep. Please load your podium into a RAV4 and use it to give 5-10 more speeches on your way to return it to the dealer.

When asked about Canada’s plans Apollo Anton Oh!No! replied:

“I’m not so much gonna own the podium, as I am going to rent it by the hour and make sweet love to the Olympic Spirit all over it.

And then I will return to the rink to jackhammer the competition.

Also, I will trim my soul patch on it.”

Drivers not wanted.

Sorry I missed you, yesterday.  I was busy driving my car up and down the interstate. Why you ask?  I was waiting for local news trucks to pull me over, so I could tell people how bad the conditions are and that they should stay off the roads.  Stay off the roads people!  I’ve been driving all day and I can tell you it’s a mess out there.  I’m not sure whose car this is– but still, it is not handling well in the post-blizzard conditions.

Chariots on fire

Trying to outdo the man with the unicycle, we have the woman who drives

a bicycle rickshaw.  Or perhaps what was once a bicycle rickshaw before she pedaled it through the forest fire in the end of Bambi.  Last night, the young hipster parked her vehicle and carried groceries from Whole Foods into a luxury condo.  She stopped only once, to look back at her beloved charred bicycle rickshaw. I think we can be sure she was wishing she could bring it inside and cuddle it close to her on that cold, cold night.

I write out of bemused jealousy–I’m confused but sort of always wanted a dirty bicycle rickshaw of my very own. I would use it for commuting and patrolling the streets, and to give tourists rides pointing out lesser known  landmarks like:

1.) Konnatuck’s Point in Central Park where Mark Twain fought a big bear who called him a racist (that, bear–went on to become California’s state mascot);

2.) the second statue of Liberty, Lord Liberty who overlooks  the Bronx from North Brother Island in the East River and is actually less of a statue and more of an old man who paints himself green and swims out there every morning.

3.) And, of course, the Steampipe Alley where millions of men and women built hundreds of steampipes throughout the early 1900s.  Located in that spot today? Saks Fifth Avenue.

Uni-toones

Dear man who rides a unicycle all over my neighborhood,

Stop. I may just be envious of your masterful balance but, you’re starting to get under my skin.  Why are you doing this to me?

What is so wrong with things having handles?   Do the doors of your house just fling open? Can you even access your drawers? Do all your spoons just look like mini-plates?

I really can’t take it, man.  What the hell do you have against using your arms?  Do you just thrust your groin at people to say “hello”?

Where did you pick this habit up? College? Oh I’m sorry I mean university?

You and your unicycle. I’m losing my mind a little more each day, everyday, with this freaking mythical bike.

I’m sweating right now as I type! This has got to stop, immediately.  And I don’t think you have hand brakes, so that’s bad news.

One morning soon, when you wake up in your unitard (or onesie), you’re gonna walk outside to find your unicycle riveted to the hood of a car.  And it’s going to be a station wagon, with four wheels.

“I’m right here and I always will be”, he said.  ”Even after I remove your teeth and fingernails and bury your body”.  She hung up the phone and it immediately rang again, it was the police: “We’ve traced the calls and they’re coming from inside the house!”  They went on to say, “in fact, they’re coming from the same room as the one you’re in right now.  It’s that poor man’s Scott Cohen right behind you!  The one on his cell phone!”

Every kiss (of death) begins with Kay

It’s nice of Jerry Bruckheimer to sell off openings of CSI to jewelry stores for commercials.  However, I don’t know that they’re really pulling their weight over at Kay’s marketing department.  Who’s buying this charm?  I mean who besides the next guy to seduce Erica Kane and take her hostage posing as an international spy/financier.  How long will it take for Sgt. Trevor Dillion to figure it out?

If you’re so scared of lightning why don’t you get some curtains for your GD windows.  You know what you should be frightened of? Your insurance premium after your house is burglarized. Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll leave the necklace.