To quote from Raiders of the Lost Ark:
“Marion, don't look at it! Shut your eyes, Marion! Don't look at it, no matter what happens!”
The mustache has only hours to live. Don’t let it die in vain.
Please donate to help the Movember fight against prostate cancer. Our team has raised more than $17,000 this month thanks to generous (and hysterically laughing) people like yourself.
Drivers are white knuckling around my fair 'burb these autumnal days, employing the most important skill the Department of Motor Vehicles never tested them on: defensive leaf pile dodging.
Sure as the days are grower shorter, our local streets are becoming narrower than a stripper’s butt floss. Every trip for groceries requires channeling one's inner Lindsey Vonn to navigate an asphalt slalom between the driveway and the Stop & Shop. Meanwhile, rush hour resembles a live-action version of Mario Kart except the flying turtle shells are replaced by acorn-addicted squirrels leaping frantically at our vehicles from the roadside crack dens we have heaped along the curbside for them.
However, the bobbing and the weaving and the periodic near-death experience with oncoming vehicles doesn't bother me quite as much as ... oh, how do I phrase this delicately ...
You ignorant foliage-heaping narcissists who keep blocking my way!
You people are like inverse hoarders. Instead of stuffing every square inch of your property with others' castoffs, you blow, rake and dump your junk right smack in the middle of the public thoroughfare. Someone needs to get a TLC reality-show crew out here before Jim Bob Duggar knocks up his wife yet again an- ... what?
He did? She is? Man -- another shot at undeserved stardom blown.
I think "ignorant" is the key word I spit out back there. My city spends roughly $200,000 a year on leaf collection but precious little on educating its residents that safely navigable roads might be more important than naked lawns. For example, the leaf pickup instructions on my city's website state only that leaves must be “brought to the curb." Given the overwhelmingly liberal political tendencies of our residents, this is interpreted as "anywhere between opposing gutters is fair game."
One of our neighboring towns, with its wealthy citizenry of strict constructionists, lays down the law far more explicitly. Its public notice clearly states leaf piles should be "at the shoulder, off the pavement of the road." Unfortunately, no one there reads these notices to the under-the-table help toiling around his or her McMansion.
It wasn’t always this way. Municipal leaf pickup arose in these parts from the environmental movement of 1960s, culminating in the Clean Air Act of 1970. Before then, many people would gather the fallen foliage and set it aflame. They'd stand there, smiling proudly, sucking in the smoky autumn aroma with a cigarette in one hand and freshly mixed Manhattan in the other. That's Big Government for you. Always infringing on our right to poison ourselves.
Before striking the match, though, a dutiful citizen back then would first check the leaf pile for small children. That's not so much of a concern today, and not just because of the burning ban. Kids don't play in leaf piles much anymore, and that's a good thing. First, no one wants Junior to host a dinner party for Lyme disease-infested deer ticks. Second, most kids these days know better than to play in traffic.
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Look closely at the photo and you’ll see the Movember State of the ‘Stache Day 27. Don’t forget to donate to support the fight against prostate cancer and other issues affecting men’s health at my Mo Space -- http://mobro.co/uncool. I’m up to $525.
You’re always welcome here, friends. Except spammers. No one wants spam on Thanksgiving.
Cheers … and pass the gravy.
Are you going on Thanksgiving Day
To those family celebrations?
Passing on knowledge down through the years
At the gathering of generations
Every year it's the same routine
All over, all over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Papa looks over at the small gathering
Remembering days gone by
Smiles at the children as he watches them play
And wishes his wife was still by his side
She would always cook dinner on Thanksgiving Day
It's all over, it's all over
It's all over the American way
But sometimes the children are so far away
And in a dark apartment on the wrong side of town
A lonely spinster prays
For a handsome lover and a passionate embrace
And kisses all over, all over
All over her American face
It's all over, it's all over, it's all over
'Cause today she feels so far away
From the friends in her hometown
So she runs for the Greyhound
She'll spend hours on the bus but she'll reach town
For Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
At a truck stop a man sits alone at the bar
Estranged in isolation
It's been a while now and he seems so far
From those distant celebrations
He thinks back to all the mistakes that he made
To a time when he was so young and green
Innocent days when they both looked forward to that
Great American dream
Now it's all over, it's all over, all over
And all over America people are going home
On Thanksgiving Day
Now Papa looks out of the window
The sight brings a smile to his face
He sees all his children coming back home
Together on this special day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
Come on over, come on over
Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day
-- Ray Davies
His face not blurry. It’s distorted by steam rising from the pot. Turkey chili. With free bread.
Mmm, mmm -- NO SOUP FOR YOU ‘TIL YOU DONATE!
Maybe you get him over the $1,000 mark, he sing Freddie Mercury song for you. He does good “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”
You want “Bohemian Rhapsody”?
TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS!
Just took some nude photos of myself … with my new Canon PowerShot.
Valuable life lesson: What happens with a blonde tramp in the hot tub, doesn’t stay in either.
Yo @justinbieber! My invitation stands.
@aplusk The million $$ Redford gave me is not part of the pre-nup. It was a movie, moron.
Counseling with rabbi at Kabbalah Centre. Hope I properly used the words “schtup” and “schmuck.”
About last night … the tub shower is warm, wet and waiting for you once again, @RobLowe.
Finally! I can stop explaining how I survived growing up without social media.
The world is filled with love sweet love today for Regis Philbin, who will be retiring after long ago establishing himself as the pit bull of morning talk show hosts.
Not pit bull as in “vicious” or “mean.” As is in foaming at the mouth.
Drooling, really.
The man is like 147 years old.
He once interviewed Roosevelt.
Teddy Roosevelt.
Oh, everyone loves Reege. Even though he’s a terribly inept interviewer, I like the guy, too. Even after the time that he allegedly wanted to kick my ass.
At least that’s what Frank Gifford insinuated.
Frank Gifford. Hall of Fame football player. Sportscaster. Philandering husband of Kathie Lee Gifford, Reege’s former co-host.
Many lifetimes ago I was the reporter at a newspaper in a small-but-insanely-wealthy town. One day I proposed writing an article about the many celebrities who owned property there.
I combed through the property records in the town assessor’s office. Talked to some locals in the know. Stood on the main street and watched them pop into Starbucks and nosh at the local eateries.
Oooh, there’s Mel Gibson. And Diana Ross. And Ron Howard. And Frank and Kathie Lee. And, yep, Regis.
The article ran and, as with most things I wrote then and write now, I never heard a thing about it from anyone.
Until the next night.
As soon as I walked in, one of the guys in the sports department stopped me.
“Oh, man. Did I take a bullet for you today,” he said. “I got chewed out by Frank Gifford because of that article you wrote.”
He had called Frank, then in his post-football glory/pre-cheatin’ on Kathie Lee days, for comment on some local sports matter. Instead, he got an earful about how he couldn’t believe the newspaper would publish an article like mine.
People like him moved there to get away from the spotlight! (No, they want to be near New York City and other celebrities and live in posh mansions. Otherwise, North Dakota would be teeming with Kardashians and Baldwins. Besides, your wife talks about the town you live in every day. On NATIONAL TV!)
How dare we print what street he lived on! (Then don’t buy the land in your own name. It’s in the land records. Besides, I didn’t give the house number, the street is two miles long and it has dozens of other “estates” on it.)
Now the kicker.
“And he said it wasn’t just him who was upset,” the sports guy told me. “Regis was very upset, too.”
Regis.
Very upset.
With me?!
Reege, on this special day when the whole world is bowing at your feet and the media is falling over itself with weepy praise for you, can we just put this behind us? Can we? Because, man, …
Well?
What do you say?
Now get some rest.
And get me a shot at the seat next to Kelly Ripa. Rrrrrrowl.
