This is NOT another post about basketball

Yes, the West Virginia basketball team won the NIT championship the other night, but that's not what I'm writing about.

This is the design on the shirts the players were given after the game ended. They wore these over their jerseys in a joyous courtside celebration.

V I R G I N A. The t-shirt company misspelled Virginia. And "virgina" is kind of how people from West Virginia pronounce "vagina", so this t-shirt had me giggling like a whore getting short-dicked.

I don't blame the team, though. If I had just won a championship, albeit a second-rate one, I would blindly trust that the provided t-shirt wasn't going to make me a sports world laughingstock; and I'd wear said t-shirt proudly until it was sweaty, then sell it to some loser on ebay.

These guys, especially the ones with no professional basketball options, need to hold on to these shirts. They are going to be worth a fortune, though probably not as much as the rare shirts from UCLA's 1995 NCAA Championship. The printer was going through a nasty divorce, and the shirts read "UCLA 1995 National Champions My Wife is a Fucking Whore". Those are solid gold!

Fun with the internets

Why just sit around switching channels on the television when I can also bounce around to different internets sites? Here's what I got into this evening...

youtube
My search for bad music eventually led me to the Carpenters. I found a video for their hit song Superstar and I posted the comment "That dress she's wearing makes her look fat." Was that wrong?

hot chicks with douchebags
Occasionally a website will go straight past "entertaining" right into the realm of "genius". HCwDB is exactly what the name suggests: Beautiful women photographed with the most assholish examples of the male gender, with commentary! This site not only makes me laugh, it also reconfirms my worst suspicions of human nature.

blogs, blogs, blogs
I read a lot of blogs, but I think this is my new favorite. Am I right? I'm still cracking up at the latest post. My ribs hurt from laughing.

Oh, and I found this.

-In non-internets news, I've given up all unhealthy foods and drinks except beer (and I'm cutting down on that). I'm not calling it a diet; that's a bad word for me. Now if you'll excuse me I have to go eat something tasteless.

Lookin' for love in all the wrong places?

I know this is going to come as quite a shock, but I don't think it's going to happen with the girl I drunkenly made out with on St. Patrick's Day. Right now you're all thinking "If those two crazy kids didn't make it, what chance does anyone have?" Oh, you aren't thinking that? Well, fuck you!

I'm sorry. That was uncalled for.

I'm considering rejoining match.com. Even though I don't have full membership, I received the following lovely email from a female match.comer:

"My name is Diana. I girl, which search for the true love in this large
world. I live together by my mum. I work as the seller in shop. I the
very cheerful and sociable girl, love the good companies, cheerful
parties, also I love to go in cinema and theatre. I love to listen to
music, which is romantic. Also I simply to like to walk on parks and
to meet with my friends. I like to observe sports competitions by the
TV set to look cinema, especially romanticism and adventures, also to
love comedies and films about love. I very vigorous the girl, I love
sports and to make behind the figure"

I don't know much about her, other than she's either foreign or stupid (or both), but I think I'm in love. She's the seller in shop, motherfucker; what do you do?! She's very vigorous the girl, which is probably a good thing. Most importantly, she likes to make behind the figure...Translation: HELLO, RIM JOB!

According to her match.com profile, she already lives here in Louisville. Not for very long, I'm guessing, which explains why she is so interested in me. And all other male U.S. citizens.

I'm getting to the point where it's either this or conjugal visits to the women's prison every weekend; and I'm kind of leery of that. I once dated a woman who was just released from prison. She was nice enough, but the relationship fell apart when she insisted on calling me her bitch. I didn't want to be standing in a church in front of friends and family, only to hear the minister say "I now pronounce you bitch and wife," so I broke up with her. She attacked me with a hastily assembled shiv, but I was as good as new after a year of intense physical therapy.

Should I marry someone who needs to gain citizenship? Or should I continue to drink too much and hope that the alcohol gives me both the bloated sense of self worth needed to speak to strangers and the welcome respite of an early death? Help me out here.

More fun at work...

The other day at work a female customer was wearing a two-piece bright yellow sweat suit. She wore it with the hood up, and it made her look like this.

For the rest of the day I was walking around singing "Peanut butter jelly, peanut butter jelly, peanut butter jelly with a baseball bat!" Damn her and her colorful wardrobe.

The University of KKKentucky

Is this man a "wacky neighbor" from a sitcom on the new CW network? No, it's Tubby Smith. He was the basketball coach at the University of Kentucky, but yesterday he got sick of being criticized, harassed, even threatened, because he didn't win a National Championship every year; so he quit, and took the same job at Minnesota.

Okay, it isn't enough that this man was forced out by irrational Kentucky fans, most of whom can't read their own outstanding warrants for spousal abuse and flagrant non-support. To really rub salt in his wounds, the state's largest newspaper, the Louisville Courier-Journal, posts the above picture on its website.

No one is ever going to mistake Tubby Smith for Denzel Washington (except Dick Cheney, who thinks all black people look alike), but come on! Find a more flattering photo, for fuck's sake. To be brutally candid, this picture makes him look like a black guy who saw a ghost in one of those 1940s racist comedies. It does! Admit it! For the record, I'm against that sort of thing.

Not only did the Courier-Journal post this humiliation, it also allows readers to comment on all newspaper stories and articles. Here are a few gems from the comment stream regarding Tubby's departure.

"Tubby is a coward! Thanks for leaving us with the mess Tubby... im just glad youre gone, now somebody else can try to clean up the mess you made! COWARD!"

A coward is someone who pushes children down to escape a burning building. It isn't a coach who goes to another school because the fan base hates him.

But this is the one that best epitomizes the reason Tubby Smith left, and the reason why the cool people are University of Louisville fans.

"Hopefulie we will get a wite coach this time!!!!"

I surrender. Why anyone would want to coach there is beyond me.

St. Patrick's Day, Part Two

St. Patrick's Day didn't start so great for me. As I mentioned a few posts ago, I went Naomi Campbell on this motherfucker at a crowded Irish bar. After that, I stood there fuming as the University of Louisville lost a hard-fought basketball game in the NCAA tournament. It seemed as though St. Patrick's 2007 would go down in history as a day that really bobbed the knob of lousy.

Then, with enough alcohol still in my system to convince myself I was charming, I started to talk to two ladies at the end of the bar. I used my gigantoresque stature to get the bartender's attention for them, and then it was on, man! Well, I really just started talking. I have no game to speak of, but I must have said something right.

Before long one of them invited me to her coworker's private birthday party, which was being held in the upstairs of a bar a few miles away. Since I was too sloshed to drive, the girl (to whom I'll refer to as Tina from now on) drove my car to the event. Note: My mentioning that she drove my car is an example of a literary device known as dramatic foreshadowing.

Her coworker, it should be noted, is a lesbian; so there I was, on St. Patrick's Day, attending a private party at the invitation of someone I had met mere hours before, and there are young hot lesbians everywhere! I obviously wasn't dead, because where I'm going I won't be seeing lesbians grinding one another on the dance floor. No, ladies and gentlemen, for one night I lived the American Dream.

Actually, I didn't pay much attention to the lesbians. Tina and I spent most of the time sitting in a corner, talking and making out. Yes, DON'T PAY YOUR BILLS! It's a sign of the Apocalypse. The end is nigh! I actually got just a little action.

I started drinking water as soon as I got to the birthday party, knowing I'd have to drive myself home at some point. After a few hours, she shared a cab with a few coworkers and I went downstairs to get a burger.

Remember when I said Tina drove my car? Well, my automatic seat is a fickle bitch, and refused to move back so I could fit my big ass comfortably in my car. Therefore, I drove home looking like this.

Headlines You'll Never See

Uh, the title is fairly self-explanatory, but to reiterate, here are some Headlines You'll Never See.

Bush Speech Wows Mensa Convention

Latest PETA Campaign Fair-Minded, Reasonable

Harvard Grad Reports UFO Sighting

Handsome Man Charged With Sexual Harassment

GM Moves Mexico City Plant Back to Detroit

Britney Spears to Focus on Raising Her Children

Drop in College Tuition Prices Tied to Athletic Department Cuts

Talented Musician Tops Pop Chart

Jessica Alba Weds Obscure Louisville Blogger

Gunman Described By Friends as "Talkative, Social"

Jay Leno Says Something Funny

The wearin' of the green; the yelling at the douchebag

This Saturday, on St. Patrick's Day, I started drinking pints of Guinness at 1 in the afternoon. I stood in a crowded Irish bar watching a little college basketball action. Everything was going well, since I mind my own fucking business. Unfortunately, not everyone is a great person like me; specifically, the mid-fiftyish lout with the graying white guy 'fro who was standing behind me.

Out of nowhere, this fucking drop of scrote sweat screams into my ear: "HEY, YOU NEED TO STAND IN ONE PLACE, GOD DAMMIT!"

You know, it wasn't my fault I got to the bar hours before this fucker. But still, if he had been polite I would have worked with him. But since he had to be a rude asshole, I responded in kind.

The conversation went as follows (my words are in bold):

"WHAT?!!!"

"MAKE UP YOUR MIND ABOUT WHERE YOU'RE GOING TO STAND. YOU'RE TOO DAMN BIG TO SEE AROUND."

"HEY, YOU'RE FATTER THAN ME, MOTHERFUCKER! YOU'RE JUST SHORT, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

Just then the guy's yuppie friend chimes in: "Hey hey hey hey...." In other words, "How dare you yell at my friend who yelled at you first?"

So I said to Mr. Helper "FUCK HIM AND FUCK YOU, TOO." I know; I'm incredibly witty when I'm angry.

A friend of mine then said something to appease the guy. At first I thought he was applying the calming salve of reason; but it later turned out to be a thinly veiled threat. Oh well.

A few minutes later, during a commercial break, the guy's wife came over and asked me not to kick his ass. She was a nice lady and obviously one long-suffering chick to be married to such an obnoxious pile of crap.

I calmly explained to her a)I had no intention of kicking anyone's ass; and b)if he would have asked politely I would have let him stand in front of me or whatever he needed to be able to see the game. She said that he was drunk. I replied that I was equally drunk.

I'm not proud of my overreaction, but guys like that think treating people like shit is their fucking birthright. I hope the next time he acts in such a manner (and there will be a next time with this shithead) someone cracks his skull.

American Douche

The mere sight of this picture makes me sick to my stomach. Look at that fucking scrote Chris Daughtry. There's a look on his face that suggests he just got a whiff of Seacrest's pussy-fart. He needs to be slapped across the grill with a bag of subway tokens.

Oh, he's making the double devil sign gesture. How 'rock'! The guitarist for Black Sabbath should be allowed to saw all of Daughtry's fingers off for committing such a blasphemy.

Where I work the word "Daughtry" is synonymous with "shit":

"I have to take a healthy Daughtry."

"Damn, it smells in here. Someone Daughtry'd in his pants."

"I walked outside and stepped in a huge, steaming pile of Daughtry."

And why does Ryan Seacrest get work? He is so void of a personality that I can't even think of anything to say about him.

The Shirtless Father and Son Duo, Revisited

On September 18, 2002, William Ligue, Jr and his minor son, the infamous Shirtless Father and Son Duo, attacked a visiting baseball coach during a game at Chicago's Comiskey Park.

Royals first base coach Tom Gamboa had his back turned toward home plate when the Ligue family rushed onto the field and attacked him.

They were then beaten senseless by the entire Royals team and promptly arrested.

Yes, these guys are a couple of low life scumbags, but at least they did things together as father and son. My dad and I never participated in the highly publicized cowardly beatdown of a much older man; we were never on Sportscenter together.

Actually, I think they did it to get on television. They claimed to have been taunted by Gamboa, but witnesses say otherwise. I imagine this conversation:

"Hey, son...."

"Yeah, dad?"

"Wanna be on Sportscenter?"

"Uh huh."

"Let's beat the ass off that first base coach."

I also bring them up to prove that not everyone who does this sort of thing is from the South. We have a bad reputation out there. Some people think we are ignorant of the tapas restaurant phenomenon, for God's sake! It's refreshing to highlight the brutal stupidity of folks from a big ol' sophisticated place like Chicago.

UPDATE: Where are they now? What has become of our shirtless ne'er-do-wells? Well, the father is in prison for violating his parole and the son was recently arrested for planning a drive-by shooting. A drive-by? Why does that kid think it's okay to just randomly attack someone?

Ode to ODB

I'll admit it, I miss Ol' Dirty Bastard. If you're honest, you do too. Ol' Dirty was a non-stop party, man.

ODB was a complex dude. He was a crack addict who had about a million brushes with the law, but he also pulled a four year old girl from the wreckage of a car following an accident (witnesses say he organized a dozen onlookers to help lift the car and free the girl). He was born Russell Jones but went by the names Ol' Dirty Bastard, Big Baby Jesus, Dirt McGirt, Freeloading Rusty, Osirus, and the Professor, among others.

Oh, and he had thirteen children (that he knew about) from a variety of women. A few times, he was thrown in jail for not paying child support. Normally, I'm against deadbeat dads, but what did these ladies think would happen when they had a child/children with a guy named Ol' Dirty Bastard? I wasn't surprised when my former girlfriend, Ol' Skanky Ho, slept with all my friends and gave me pubic lice. I rolled the dice, baby.

My favorite Ol' Dirty Bastard story was when he rode a limo, with the MTV cameras following him, to pick up his welfare check. That was a fucking riot. He had an album on the charts at the time. Yes, I'm against welfare fraud and all that, but funny is funny.

Ol' Dirty Bastard died in 2004 and the world has been a little less dirty ever since. It's still full of bastards, though.

Why I had a good time Saturday night

There are many reasons I had a good time going out Saturday night. Here are a few:

-We went to a bar called Joe's Older Than Dirt. That's cool. You didn't go to a bar called Joe's Older Than Dirt.

-The DJ was a normal looking guy who: a)has most likely never banged that living skeleton Nicole Ritchie; b)actually played music people want to dance to, not music that makes him seem cool to Eurotrash electronica fanzine writers.

-There was a girl there who danced like this.


-There was a girl there who looked like this.

-There was a woman on a first date with a guy who wore the dreaded Canadian tuxedo. She spent a lot of time talking to me, and Denim Dan's fashion sense may have had something to do with that.

-Females still like to shake their asses to Baby Got Back.

Nothing earth-shattering happened, but at least I wasn't smacked in the face with a two-headed dildo.

Will the Real John McCain Please Sit Down?

I honestly think John McCain is threatening George W.'s life in this photo. I imagine him saying menacingly "Listen, rich boy, while you were getting drunk with your buddies in the Texas National Guard, a cadre of North Vietnamese prison guards were using my nutsack as a pincushion; so tell one more fucking lie about me and I'll gut you in front of your ugly mother."

That's back when I had respect for John McCain. Now that he's proven himself to be just another political hack, willing to say anything to be elected, I'm hoping he isn't afforded a stage in which to further discredit himself.

The slide down the slippery slope of whoredom starting during the 2oo4 Presidential campaign. Now, even though he was a close personal friend of Sen. Kerry, no one could have realistically expected McCain to endorse the opponent of a sitting President from his own party. That would have been political suicide. But for him to enthusiastically campaign for a man he personally hates from the depths of his soul goes beyond mere party loyalty.

Now that McCain is running for President his own self, he's taken a sharp turn right. He was once vaguely pro choice, for instance, and now he's decidedly pro life. I'm going to start referring to flip flops as "John McCains".
Usage: "It's warm out, so I'll forgo the shoes for a comfortable pair of John McCains."

Seriously, McCain has changed positions more often than Jesse Jane in Island Fever 3.

If the Presidential Race turns out to be McCain versus Hillary Clinton, good god almighty brace yourself for pandering that might stop your beating heart. Oh, it's going to be a pander-off for the ages! The world will not have seen such pandering since I was in college and told that sorority girl I wanted to hear her Huey Lewis tape so she'd give me a quick handjob before lunch.

Daylight Savings Time

I don't know how I feel about this early time change. That's right, Saturday at 2am America sets the clocks ahead an hour. What does this mean to you, the average blog reading citizen?

-If you have something to do on Sunday morning (church, parole hearing, booty call with that waitress who works third shift at Steak and Shake) you're going to lose an hour of precious sleep.

-If you live in a town where the bars close at some lame ass time like 1am, DST won't affect you. However, here in Louisville, where the bars close at 4am, the local drunks are going to be robbed of sixty minutes of liver-punishing shenanigans. (Note to self: Get drunk early.)

-In Vegas, where the bars don't EVER have to close, the debauchery will continue unabated.

I always HATED Daylight Savings Time when I lived in Las Vegas. Yeah, that's just what I fucking needed as summer approached; an extra hour of searing heat from my natural enemy, the sun. Everyone who lives in Las Vegas for more than a month learns to hate the sun. Why? Because it gets up to 130 degrees in the outlying areas of the valley, that's why. And the sun is an inch away from your retinas at all times, so close you can smell its farts. Even in the winter when temperatures are somewhat cool, the wretched sun shines incessantly.

So remember to set your clocks ahead an hour this Saturday. Or don't and be an hour late for your Sunday appointments. At least you'll have an excuse.

And hey, check out that wacky picture. The clock is wearing a watch! How zany. And he doesn't appear to know what time it is because of that confusing Daylight Savings Time. Pure hilarity.

Unfortunately, Mr. Clock is also unaware he has a case of syphilis that, if left untreated, will drive him to madness.

A rant about music

Michael Jackson was recently in Japan, charging people $3,500 for thirty seconds of "face time" with the former celebrity. Yeah, the news report actually said "face time". Hahahahaha. Face time with Michael Jackson is kind of like cock time with John Wayne Bobbitt; they're both disfigured messes with which no one should ever concern themselves.

I realize people have the right to spend their money any way they see fit, but I'd like to offer an exception: Wasting thirty-five hundy to gawk at a child fucker for half a minute!!! Why would anyone want to reward this pedophile? It wouldn't upset me in the least if he was ripped apart by an angry mob and fed to vultures.

I know that doesn't really count as a rant about music since Michael Jackson hasn't been musically relevant for about fifteen years, but it's a good way to anger up my blood about current "musicians" who just need to rot in the fiery pits of hell.

-That American Idol fuckspittle Chris Daughtry is coming to town with his brilliantly named band, Daughtry. A few of us at work are thinking about going so we can rush the stage and beat him like a tuneless pussy fart in front of his fans. That's how fucking tired we are of hearing his song.

It makes me chuckle heartily when someone says "He's the American Idol rocker." NO HE ISN'T. There has never been any rock on that show, and there never will be. American Idol is the antithesis of rock. If you want to like his music, fine; but if you think it's rock then there's a trough of cesspool juice where your soul should be.

-Groups of attractive, scantily clad young women rarely make me angry, but most of them aren't the Pussycat Dolls. They were fine as a burlesque troop, but then they had to start recording music. The worst is that vapid, arrogant "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?" piece of shit song. Well, that depends. Is she also a brainless, self-centered bitch like you?

Are guys who are lucky enough to have a nice girlfriend really upset if she doesn't look like a Pussycat Doll? "I wish my girlfriend had a tighter body and would blow the first shiny-shirt wearing douchebag who offers her a line of coke. That would be great."

-I've never knowingly heard a song by Danity Kane, but damn that's the worst name ever. Also, they're managed by Sean Combs and were manufactured for an M-TV show, so they have to suck. They just have to. Did I mention how much I hate the name Danity Kane? It pisses me off just typing it.

-Your mission this weekend is to go out and hear an original local band or solo artist. If you live in a hellish backwater that doesn't offer live music options, buy a good CD from the internets. And destroy those motherfucking I-Pods; they're ruining music. Can't ANYONE listen to an entire forty minute CD? Is everyone an ADD third grader these days?

The night I had to admit that yes, I am a nice guy

Todd, you're saying to yourself while dressing your poodles in sailor outfits, why is there a silhouette of a stripper attached to a post about your eternal nice guy status? Because, blog friends and assorted lurkers, it was at a strip club that I finally realized, once and for all, that women think of me as the nice guy, no matter what.

Until that fateful evening I had always been in nice guy denial, or NGD. Come on, who doesn't want to be the guy who just might fuck his date's sister if he gets the chance?

Anyway, one night about six or seven years ago I was at a Louisville strip club, one I had been visiting about twice a month. A friend and I were sitting at a table drinking overpriced bourbons and I was talking to "an employee of the club", a nice young girl who was working her way through college by showing her goodies to strangers. I had talked to her a few times before, and I think she appreciated my concerted effort to look her in the face during our conversations.

Strippers can smell a nice guy like a queef in a car, so she started "confiding" in me. Then, with one bold gesture, she told me that I might be the nicest fucking guy on this shithole called Earth.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she said. "Make sure nobody bothers this." This was A SMALL PURSE FILLED WITH ALL OF HER STRIPPER EARNINGS FOR THE NIGHT! She left it there. She went to "freshen up" and left several hundred dollars sitting on the table in the form of a bedazzled handbag. She, a stripper, trusted a virtual stranger with her cash.

And god damn it she was right to trust me. I didn't even think of stealing her money. Hey, she had made that cash the old fashioned way, by nakedly gyrating to Motley Crue's Girls, Girls, Girls and Nine Inch Nail's Closer. If that wasn't enough, she then grinded on numerous sticky crotches. Who was I to thief her stash? I'm a nice guy.

"Rain" in the Desert: The NBA All-Star Game Hits Vegas

Last weekend the NBA All-Star game was held in my former town of residence, Las Vegas. Reports have been surfacing for several days that the event was a complete disaster, mainly because local authorities were unable to contend with every wannabe gangsta thug on the planet Earth coming to town to start shit.

I wasn't worried about the safety of my brother, his wife, or anyone else I befriended during my stay there, because any local with a brain bigger than a rat turd knows to avoid the strip on big weekends (And if you just have to go there, hit the Mandalay Bay on the far South Strip, to avoid the traffic). But for the unfortunate souls who work on the Strip, according to published reports, their weekend was filled with threats, bad tips, and skipped checks. And two of them even got shot for their efforts.

The man in the above photo, taken during one of his numerous arrests, is NFL player Adam "Pacman" Jones. Jones plays football, not basketball, but he made the biggest impact of any athlete last weekend by starting a riot in a strip club.

Pacman decided it would be fun to take about eighty thousand dollars (or eighty gurr as we say here at DWAFM) and "make it rain" in the club by throwing the money in the air at a stage full of strippers. That part is understandable. If I was a millionaire I'd be making it rain at strip clubs all over this semi-great land of ours. The last time I "made it rain" at a strip club it involved urine and my subsequent lifetime ban from said club. So at this point, Pacman is my hero.

But where did Adam Jones go wrong? HE TRIED TO GET THE MONEY BACK! Are you fucking kidding me? Have you ever tried to pry money from the greedy mitts of a stripper? He would have had a better chance of getting a rock star's cock away from Winona Ryder. Needless to say, bedlam ensued, shots were fired by someone, and two club employees are still in critical condition at a local hospital. At this point, Pacman STOPS being my hero.

The Mayor of Las Vegas has been lobbying for an NBA franchise. Thanks to All Star Weekend, he'll no longer have the support of anyone who works on the Strip. Is it fair to judge the entire NBA by the actions of some of the fans in Vegas last weekend? No, but it also isn't fair to be shot just for showing up to work.

These are the people who set the beauty standard in our society...

Whenever there's an awards show or a Hollywood premiere, a group of quasi-celebrities emerge from the bowels of basic cable to critique the fashion choices of the stars. Fair enough; the stars are all well-compensated from their endevours and should be able to handle a little tongue-in-cheek ribbing from their D-list counterparts.

But really, couldn't at least one of these fashionistas NOT look like a joke?




This is Miss Jay. No, really. A grown man wearing Aunt Bea's hat is going to tell Meryl Streep what to fucking wear. An adult male who looks like an extra from the church scene in The Color Purple MAKES A LIVING telling people how to dress.

Is this a statue of Joan Rivers made from straw
and a bowl of mashed potatoes? No, it's Joan herself.

Joan is a broken-down old has-been who could no longer make a living from her own tired comedy, so she found a "niche" criticizing the looks of people with real faces.

This is Andre Leon Talley, a fashion editor for Vogue. Yes, an editor for the leading fashion magazine in the world looks like a chickenhawk pimp from a seventies blacksplotation film.

While it's true that Jennifer Hudson is on the latest Vogue cover, try being even a size six model WITHOUT an Academy Award and see if you can get a photo shoot. I find it odd that someone who leads an industry that promotes female anorexia is himself pleasantly plump.

And who wears sunglasses indoors? Blind people and douchebags.

Is this the result of an unholy union between Steven Tyler and David Spade? Maybe. But Steven Cojocaru, or "Cojo" as he's

known to fans of fashion industry television filler, makes money by telling celebrities their hair and wardrobe are unacceptable.

Someone needs to tell him the same thing, god damn it!

But Todd, didn't you just say that Phillip Seymour Hoffman looked like "Nick Nolte's mugshot" at the Oscars? How is that any

different?

Well, the man didn't take a shower before appearing on the Academy Awards. I wasn't criticizing the width of his lapels.

The entire enterprise is as if I got a job on television insulting fat celebrities when I myself am fat. I guess that would be perfectly fine, since these idiots find work.

I'd like to thank Brooke, who inspired this post by sending me a picture of "Miss Jay" sporting a Little Dutch Girl haircut.