Souvenir Collectors

"Where did go the how you going to say certain person named Juan Carlos Vega?" This question going all over America like a busload of lesser known Baldwin brothers. Letters being written, e-mail being the sent, posters being glued to fences, 99 theses being nailed to doors, gerbils being launched out of tiny circus cannons, all with the express purpose of discover where to went Mr. Juan Carlos Vega, who disappear for over one month with no apparent fowarding address where to send his Lowrider magazine.

Well, here am I, Juan Carlos Vega himself, and at last the mystery can be revealing, however I reveal it with a certain degree of the how you going to say shame and humiliation. Juan Carlos Vega in the Palacio de Justicia, the prison. Fortunately, I have the good behavior so they let me have the occasional access to a little computer in the basement for fifteen minute per occasional time I get to use it. This is why I type the so furious style right now because already Reginald Hardensimple, the guard, can be heard to come down the steps, with the velvety pants creaking.

Why I went in the prison? Of course, you the nosey type person who have to know every scandalous detail, like the certain rodent what had to munch on its own faeces even though it getting the plague from faeces. Very well, I tell you. It is because of the certain vacation I take for the purpose of collect the souvenirs. Apparently, it not legal to collect the souvenir, even though I went with my official club, the Souvenir Collectors DDv-Style. We are a gathering of twelve persons from across the world and even to the uttermost parts of the Arkansas who take the annual trip to Souvenir Collect in the style we call DDv. Well, this year, our list of collection goals include the following 1) used hat of the DDv, 2) shoelace of the DDv, 3) one vial of breath from the DDv, 4) the DDv himself all trussed up like a Christmas ham and shipped via UPS to grandma's house for a dinner of the torta frita and frijoles with a lonely abuela. Well, we collect all these items, but come to discover that these collections, especially that last one, very not legal, especially when achieve with the paintball gun and length of rubber hose. NOW they tell me! Too late, Misters Lawman. I tell you what, Mr. DDv a big crybaby, I learn that much! Anyway, I guess that mean the annual Souvenir Collectors DDv-Style banquet is off. Too bad, because we had the meeting room at the Motel 6 already rented and the de-lousing and de-ratting of the carpet was well underway for in that room.

Oh, well, at least the prison food sort of the not bad style food. Tonight I had the gray stuff with a little of the brown harder stuff on the side and a nice plastic bottle of the red-flavored semi-sugar beverage to drink. Bubba Elbowstinks says tomorrow we probably will have the yellowish goop for lunch with the orange pile and a little more of the brown stuff. Yum!

Anyway, I better the stop now or the beating probably going to fofwkdsjlkjasf ejbgds....sdfaweesc0--

Let the weekend begin.

(Before you get into to it, yes, this is one of those, "What's up with us on the blog" posts. So if you're bored by this sort of thing, scroll down a few posts and check out the news about Tyra Banks breasts. Word on the street is that they're real!

...You have no idea how much the words "Tyra Banks' breasts" drive up the search engine hits on this site.)

It's late Friday and things are warming down for the weekend a bit, though I intend to have a few bits up over the next two days (Not my "personal bits", just in case you thought to ask.)

Stew continues his quest to see how many variations on Saddam Hussein in his underwear we can actually get away with. Answer: An infinite amount...not just because it's amusing to see a vicious dictator prancing about in his skivves like an Oh Calcutta cast member who couldn't bring himself to go all the way, but because it's our blog and we can do whatever the hell we want to do. Fart. See, I can type that and the FCC won't do a thing. (No, Zimpter, this doesn't mean you can do your photo essay on your stint as a Laker Girls shower repairman.)

Juan Carlos is still missing, presumed biking for health. Although, if he's been biking for one month straight, he's probably withered away to skin, bones, and dark, stylish facial hair. Biking for one month straight...He's like Forrest Gump on wheels, only with empenadas in his knapsack instead of a six pack of RC Cola and a Tupperware container full of shrimp gumbo.

Zimpter? Who knows? The man is a mystery, working his TV gigs, exchanging meaningful networking nods and pointing (The point with the hand slightly down means, "Let's do lunch!" The point with the finger straight and a smile means, "Congratulations on that Emmy Bill Shatner!" The point with the middle finger straight up means Bill doesn't like you pointing at him.)

So, all is quiet in DOUI land. On a serious note, our thoughts and prayers are with those faced Hurricane Rita right now. Take heart. The great thing about people is that, no matter what they go through, most of them always find a way to laugh again.

We plan on helping, if we can.

Yes, that was incredibly sappy. Blame it on the Moosehead and lack of sleep. Cheers.

A picture is worth a thousand words, and a nice cake is waiting for you.

Here it is folks, it disgusts us.

(Best Conan O'Brien little kid voice)

"Even Saddam no wike bad sawad."

I made a fortune!!!!

Earl, I have fulfilled your request for additional fortunes. We will wait to see if Juan Carlos or Zim can come up with more.

“Employees should wash hands before returning to work.”

“You will die today…just kidding, a nice cake is waiting for you.”

“Vote Nixon/Agnew 1969”

“Ancient Chinese secret huh!”

“You can’t get blood from a turnip…you idiot.”

“Curiosity killed the cat…we cooked it.”

“Ingredients: Egg, butter, flour, vanilla, salt, and some MSG to grow on.”

“Money buys everything but good sense. Please tip your waiters.”

“Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto, Mata ah-oo hima de, Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto, Himitsu wo shiri tai”

“What goes up must come down. If you ate our food reverse that.”

Salad Days

All right, I'll keep this brief. (That was not a reference to underwear, Zimpter.)

I like salad bars. I like the choice, the variety, the creative zest I can indulge in building my own massive tower of greens and accompanying foodstuffs. However, (You knew that was coming, didn't you?), I suspect that many restauranteurs do not understand the purpose of, nay, the philosophical premise behind salad bars.

The restaurant I was at today, let's refer to it as mmm... say, Mazzio's, has, for the most part, a very nice salad bar. They have pepperonici, ham, cheese, great ranch dressing, red onion slices, wonderful fried Durkee-style onions, mushrooms, fresh bacon bits, and on occasion sliced green olives. It is a well-stocked salad bar.

I usually look forward to all the wonderful toppings and trappings of a first-rate salad bar experience when I arrive (with some pizza on the side), but one thing always spoils it. The managers of the company insist on mixing bits of purple cabbage and carrots with the lettuce.

I know the stupid reason they do it. Some chef or culinary "expert" (translation: git masquerading as a expert) or most likely "marketing expert" (translation: interfering jackass) has put it in the heads of the vast majority of restaurant owners that they need to add "color" to their salads, so they will seem more appetizing. The person who did so is the type of idiot who would automatically expect Crunch Berries to sell better than regular old Cap'n Crunch, just because there's a bit of blue and red mixed in with the yellow-orange crunch bits. This is the person who insists that every steak you order in America come with a drying and slightly discolored piece of parsley limply withering on the side of the plate.

Getting back to salad bars, they should know that there are a substantial number of us out here who despise carrots. Bugs Bunny is a funny cartoon character, but he eats the crappiest vegetable known to man. Even Mel Blanc, who voiced Bugs, was deathly allergic to carrots. The poor fellow had to spit them out after each take.

If people want carrots (or cabbage for that matter), they can put the carrots on themselves. What part of the salad bar concept do these mental cases not understand. Next they'll be splashing bits of ham in the salad and alienating all their Jewish and Muslim customers (not to mention PETA members, the loonies), or tossing in peppers and aggrevating all of their customers with weak constitutions, tastebuds, or pepper-phobias. ("EEeeeekkkk!!! Peppers!!!!!")

Stop putting carrots in the bleeding lettuce!!! Stop it, right now!!!

I'm done now. You can scroll down to the bit on Tyra Banks' bosom.

"They're Real and They're Fabulous!"

News flash... Physician proclaims Tyra Banks' breasts are real.

The Dow rose 12 points and the Department of Homeland Security reduced its terror alert to yellow on the news. One Department of Homeland Security stated off the record, "Thank heavens! We were all so concerned. I mean, we know she said they were real, but it was kind of hard to believe. I mean, just look at them. The Golden Gate Bridge doesn't have that kind of suspension. Now we can finally get back to focusing on hurricane relief." On the Dow, Playtex saw the biggest lift to their stock, which split later in the day.

In a related story, a physician from the Discovery Channel proclaimed that Jennifer Lopez's backside is "definitely made of polyutherane." NASDAQ plummeted on the news, although there was a upturn towards the end of the morning as polyutherane stocks firmed up. Analysts said that these stocks would do well on the backside of the crisis, and that problems with similar investments should not rear up any time soon.

Driving Ms. Huffington: or, the evils of muscadine wine.

It was recently reported in the blogosphere (I’ve always wanted to use that word) that the maven of environmental snobbery and SUV detractor Arianna Huffington was seen leaving a Sierra Club meeting in a Suburban. Not that this was shocking to anyone here at DOUI we did still find it strange that she would do such a thing in broad daylight. Taking it upon ourselves to solve the mystery, we had the photos enhanced and discovered the answer to the question and can exonerate Ms. Huffington. Under electron microscope we were able to determine the driver of the vehicle was none other than our old friend Lukas P. Short, you can’t miss his trademark Stetson. It seems that Lukas has opened up another business, a limousine service to the stars and lesser personalities in the greater San Francisco area.

I called Lukas and in regard to the situation with Huffington he admitted that the Sierra Club had requested a hybrid only and that is what he provided. Seems the SUV in question was converted to run on Lukas new fuel Grassoline which as you may or may not remember is a mixture of cattle manure and bourbon. Lukas told me that he has a hidden microphone to record all the conversations of his drivers for legal purposes and has sent me the tape. When Ms. Huffington arrived all of Luke’s drivers were on calls so he took this one himself.

[Static]

Lukas: Testin’ one, two, three. Time is 4:45, making a pick-up at the Sierra Club. Must be a group of Alfonso Bedoya fans.

Arianna: Thank you darlings, bye bye. What is this, an SUV… where is the Prius I ordered. Stan, it’s your ass if anyone sees me in this! (crosstalk) Whatever, YOU… DRIVER just get me to the airport, that private jet is burning fuel.

Lukas: Howdy ma’am. Any bags?

Arianna: No, other than my Gucci. (Lukas starts driving) How can you drive this behemoth? Don’t you know how much gas you’re wasting?

Lukas: Well little lady, this particular machine is running on a little invention of mine called Grassoline. It’s a powerful concoction of cowpie and red-eye.

Arianna: What is that smell?

Lukas: Well, I topped her off before I left so she might be a peck wiffy. Jerky?

Arianna: What?

Lukas: I got a bag of muskrat jerky and some muscadine wine up here. Don’t be shy, sidle up here and grab ya some.

Arianna: No Moet or foie gras?

Lukas: No spreche espanol little lady.

Arianna: Just give me some of the wine, I need anything after meeting with those hypocritical, pain in the ass metro-sexuals.

Lukas: Here take the whole bottle.

Arianna: These seats are pretty comfortable, what are they made of.

Lukas: Gopher pelts, I thought about faux marmot fur but didn’t want to get too ritzy.

Arianna: What’s your name cowboy?

Lukas: Lukas P. Short, but my friends call me Luke.

Arianna: Can I be your friend Luke?

Lukas: You’re not trying to seduce me, are you Miss Huffington?

Arianna: Do you want me to?

At this point Arianna’s speech became too slurred to understand but Lukas told me he was a perfect gentleman and poured her into the plane when he got to the airport.

More Fortunes

Now that we have Donald Trump's attention, allow me to present twenty of the worst fortune cookie fortunes you could ever hope to receive.

(Please note, that if you circulate this on the Internet, remember to give us credit and put a link to the blog. We're not expecting riches, we just crave worldwide fame. Is that too much to ask?)

Twenty Really Crappy Fortune Cookie Fortunes

20. A nice cake is waiting for you. (How did that get in there?)

19. Die, bastard scum.

18. Is that your chin, or are you wearing a woolen scarf?

17. You are a mass of quivering flatulence.

16. A bird in the hand will leave poop on your sleeve.

15. Klaatu Barada Nikto

14. Confucious say nothing...because he snuffed it.

13. I'm watching you.

12. A journey of a thousand miles was cancelled due to high oil prices.

11. Your mama writes fortune cookies.

10. Think of a number between 1 and 20,000...I guess 3!

9. Message on next fortune cookie.

8. Paul is Dead.

7. This fortune cookie was poisoned.

6. Avoid sunlight.

5. Visit http://unfortunateideas.blogspot.com (Just in case you loafing freeloaders forget!)

4. Daed si Luap. (see #8)

3. The kitchen staff here are completely naked.

2. Go Marshall Thundering Herd!!

1. I brake for fortune cookies.

I'm sure Stew, Juan Carlos, or Zimpter (a notorious sushi fiend) have some of their own. Gentlemen?

Fortunate Cookies

Tonight, I had dinner with Mrs. Fando and the Littlest Fando at a local Chinese eatery that we frequent. They have smashingly good steamed rice, a ripping Mongolian Bar, and the sushi chef always gives me a seaweed salad, which is actually quite good - despite the actual seaweed wrap. Anyway, we were finishing up our meal when it came time to eat our fortune cookies.

Being Christians, we have absolutely no superstitions regarding fortune cookies, but they are rather amusing to read. The one exception to this rule is the fortune cookie my wife got one evening while in college. It read simply, "Today is your lucky day." That night I asked her out for the first time. Several people have since commented to her that this is absolute proof in the complete falsehood of fortune cookies. (God bless her, she smiles and politely disagrees.)

Still, the vast majority of fortune cookies are filled with cliche's and homilies best suited for bumper stickers. Not tonight though. Tonight, my fortune cookie said the following: "A nice cake is waiting for you."

For those of you who don't pay attention to fortune cookies, preferring to eat the orange slices and pay the cheque as quickly as possible, you should know that this is an earthshaking new trend in fortune cookies. Prior to this message, the single most amusing fortune cookie I have ever read (and "amusing" is a relative term, as you shall see) stated, "You like Chinese food."

Excuse me while I dry my eyes and massage my aching sides. Very droll. So the notice that somewhere, apparently, a nice cake is waiting for me, is clearly a huge step up for fortune cookie writers.

Cake could mean any number of things, poetically. It could mean prosperity, affluence (not that I crave wealth or anything, but getting the house paid off would be something) , or an actual cake. It could be a chocolate cake, an ice-cream cake, a Bundt cake, or even a rice cake (although that's more Japanese than Chinese, to be fair.) It could mean yellowcake as well, which may indicate that I will become radioactive in the near future.

Come to think of it, this whole cake thing could signal a new trend in not only fortune cookie writing but poetry in general as well. Imagine Nobel Prize winner Seamus Heaney coming out with a new English Translation of Baking with Julia: Based on the PBS Series hosted by Julia Child. All right, the original was in English as well, but Heaney's version would be so much more poetic.

**********

Baking with Julia - Translation by Seamus Heaney

Page 6 - Buttermilk (excerpt)

Though no one bellys up to a soda fountain
In these days to chance a tall glass of sour
Buttermilk, bakers still add it to butter cakes,
muffins, and quick breads for tang and tender crumb.

Should you not find this sour, liquid butter in the shop
Substitute a 2/3 cup of plain or lowfat or nonfat yogurt
For every cup of sour, lovely buttery curd and whey.
Powdered buttermilk is available in supermarkets.

**********

...So anyway, this clearly signals China's growing influence in the United Nations and in the World Bank. I'm sorry, where was I? Ah, fortune cookies! Cake! What a surprise to see them together.

I just hope this cake I'm waiting for doesn't have coconut on it. That would not be a "nice cake."

Post #502: A New Beginning - The Sequel

Here it is, what you've all been waiting for, Post #502. Please come in and feast your eyes about the post, it is truly awe inspiring. Lined in sumptuous 100% faux marmot fur and sporting a 8-cylinder 345 Hemi engine we think you'll find it has power to spare. What are the critics saying about it? We think they've fallen in love.

"We've fallen in love." - The Critics

"Fallen in love does not even come close." - Other Critics

"I fell a little in love." - The Most Cynical Critic

"What is love." - A Philosophical Critic

"Love in an Elevator, livin' it up while I'm going down." - A Critic with Big Lips

Oh yes, they are in love. But what about the reader or the casual observer, or even the Next Blogger. We took to the streets to get the layman's view of Post #502.

"It certainly has the numbers 5 - 0 - and 2 prominently displayed." - Kamel Sopwith

"I liked the faux marmot fur, it tickled my noses." - Michael Jackson

"I think Post #433 was much better, they don't make'em like that anymore." - Barry Oldman

"It's the shizzle. If the post is hip, then you must quip." - Snoop Dogg

So, to all who light upon the blog for a moment; rest, breathe deeply, and throw off the cares of the world that are meaningless here... at post #502.

Well, they say, "Write what you know..."

...This however is getting a bit ridiculous: Senator Barbara Boxer has written a novel.

Now before you get your knickers in a wad and start screaming "DOUI has jumped off the apolitical bandwagon!" (For all the good it will do you...you know how many readers we have! It would be like a hamster complaining about the sunrise) please understand that I'd be just as bemused if Tom DeLay or Orrin Hatch has announced the release of a sordid page-turner. I wrote about this phenomenon on my private blog some time ago (cue plug for private blog, which badly needs updating) pointing out that such authors are rarely chosen for any talent they may have, but instead are chosen because they happen, luckily for their nascent writing careers, to be famous politicians. I strongly suspect that Boxer and DeLay don't even know the meaning of the word "nascent." (Hatch probably does, but only from thousands of misspent hours of playing Scrabble.)

Boxer is at least following the old writing teachers mantra of writing about what she knows: Her book is about "a feisty left-wing senator from California faced with a vexing decision: What to do about a conservative Supreme Court nominee who appears headed for confirmation?" Hmmm... sound like anyone we know? All right, replaced "feisty" with "crotchety". How about now?

There are a couple of major differences between Boxer and the character in her book, "The Woman Who Ripped George W. Bush's Heart Out and Stomped on It While Wearing Football Cleats" (I'm just kidding, it's really called "A Time to Run". I just assumed that's what she would secretly like to title a book.) For example, Boxer's character is 15 years younger than the California senator, and also has no children.

If Bill Clinton were the author, I'd say it was pure fantasizing on his part. However, I'll give Senator Boxer the benefit of a doubt and suggest she was merely embellishing her character a bit. Especially the passage where she describes the senator as "...like Venus de Milo, only with a briefcase and arms to carry it with."

No word on how many sex scenes are in the novel (my guess: 22) but there is a rumour (started here, and right now) that Julia Roberts or Ashley Judd are being lined up for the inevitable movie role. Realism prevails, eh?

I have to imagine though, given the average Seantor's speeches and prose (and to be fair, Boxer runs about average) that this will be a fairly turgid and dry read. It probably doesn't help that advance copies of the book have the author starting off every chapter with the words, "I reserve the right to revise and extend my remarks." Who does she think she is, J.K. Rowling?

Truth to tell, I can only imagine two current or former senators pulling off a really good book: Former Senator Fred Thompson, whose tome would include plenty of good movie star anecdotes from his body of film work and his role on NBC;s Law and Order. The one downside would be that it would likely be "co-written with Chris Kreski." The other one would be Ted Kennedy, who I'm confident would deliver reams of entertainingly incomprehensible passages, and immense amounts of dirt on his more admired brothers Robert and John.

John McCain might come up with something good, but when I imagine a work of fiction by him, one word comes to mind: gritty.

You'd think though that of all non-literary professions, that politicians would be quite good at fiction, given the reams of it they produce every day.

(The above remark provided by Cynical Citizens on Politics, Politicians, and Things Beginning with the Letter "P".)

Unfortunately, I suspect a trend is forthcoming. Soon to be released! John Kerry's tale of wartime intrigue, "The President Who Was in Cambodia (I Tell You!)" and Bill Frist's hospital potboiler, "Dr. Animal Magnetism." The funny thing is that every one of them ends with the protaganist in the White House. Imagine that.

500!

This is our 500th post.

We would like to thank the people at Blogger for making this possible, despite the occasional glitches in their product and colorful language that has often resulted from discovering them.

We would also like to thank you the readers (all 5 of you) for your faithful, well... readership. We could have done this without you, but it wouldn't have been nearly as fun.

We would also like to thank William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy, Brittney Spears, Justin Timberlake, the Jackson Family, Ben Affleck, Jennifer Lopez, Donald Trump, The Friends of the National Zoo (who I'm still not finished with), and countless others (mostly in the entertainment, sports, and poltical worlds) without whom we'd have to recycle old lightbulb jokes. Fortunately, we don't have to compete with Reader's Digest in that regard.

On behalf of Stew, Juan Carlos, and Zimpter, it's been an enjoyable 500.

On to 1000!

It's Morning in America

However, I am not fully awake yet.

Not being a coffee drinker definitely has its disadvantages. Stew is probably already bouncing off the walls like a cat that slept in a catnip patch. He's into the refrigerated mocha-frappo-espressocinos. I drink bottled water and, if I'm lucky, snag a granola bar on the way out of the house.

By the way, Stew's new mansion is palatially grand. I especially like the marble goldfish pond, which he has already mischeviously stocked with piranha. He told me he was planning on throwing a few coins in the pond and then inviting some lawyers over, just to see how long it takes someone to lose an arm. (My vote is F. Johnny Lee...although the piranha had better be careful, as he bites back.) He has to let the kids in on that prank though, as kids love to grab coins out of fountains, etc. Also, the dogs are carefully trained to avoid the pond as well, although little "Stumpy" learnt that lesson the hard way.

The lawyers have indicated to me that I should let everyone know that I'm kidding. They don't really have much of a sense of humour about such things, especially since they claim the exact scenario happened to one of their partners at Trump's place. ...And I thought the waterfalls were just for show.

It's the Emmys!! (Yawn)

You may be wondering why we don't live blog the Emmys the way we did the Oscars? The answer is a complex one, informed by classical asthetic theory, sociological pressures, and economic trends. It can, however, be summed up in two words:

"Who cares?"

While up to a trillion people will tune in globally and extraterrestially to see the Oscars on any given year, the Emmys, America's television awards, can rarely be counted on to draw enough people to fill a studio apartment. One reason is that television is simply less glamourous than film. Film stars make massive amounts of money for doing the amount of work a TV actor has to do just to reach the studio in the morning. Also, films, particularly American films, are a worldwide phenomenon, whereas American television largely consists of remakes of older, cheaper, and generally better British television series (the exceptions being Star Trek, the Tonight Show, and Gilligan's Island.)

The main reason though is the simply massive number of awards given out at the Emmys. Not only are there Best Actor and Actress awards given out for Dramatic series, but also for Comedy, Variety, Western, Horror, Variety, Mystery, Suspense, Musical, Variety, Erotic, Dance, Legal Drama, Hospital Drama, Animal Drama, Reality, Variety, Children's, Daytime, Nighttime, Overnight, Daylight Savings Time, Leap Year, Variety, Science-Fiction, Variety, Sports, Variety, Variety, Variety, and Spam. (Ahem...um, just skip that last one.)

Given the number of writing, directorial, costume, and sound awards that go along with each of these categories, the show takes no less than 72 hours to run. There simply aren't enough musical numbers celebrating even legendary classics like Green Acres or The Jeffersons to hold our attention that long. Even the affable host, Ellen DeGeneres, can only make the "running time" bits work for the first 17 hours, although the ventriliquist's dummy was a nice touch.

Having said that, and realizing that the programme is still going on as I type this (and will be until about 6 a.m. EDT...they're awarding the Best Supporting Extra for a Science-Fiction Western Variety Programme in Esperanto right now - there are 12 nominees), there have been a few highlights this year worth mentioning:

- William Shatner gets an Emmy: The Transformed Man gets an Emmy award for his work on Boston Public. Shatner has a rep for beign notoriously difficult to work with, yet still keeps getting work because, face it, the bloke is hilarious.

He's the obvious inspiration for better actors like Christopher Walken. He's a spectacularly entertaining mess, who every so often gets it right (The TV version of the Andersonville Trial, for example...His recent album Has Been contains an eerie, almost creepy poetic reading about his wife's drowning death that is surprisingly effecting, most of all because it's so alarmingly personal for a fellow who spends most of his time playing a caricature.)

We can't help liking the guy, despite our better judgement, and despite the acrimony he inspires in so many others, including the recently departed James Doohan (Who had he not passed on, probably would have keeled over to see Shat get the award.) Now, Bill's got a statue to put on the mantle. Could this be the inspiration for another 10 years of comic prima-donna icon revelery from this dynamically comic male diva? Will he trash his hotel room tonight in celebration? We should only be so lucky. Phillip Michael Thomas is an amateur male diva compared to B.S.

- Johnny Carson Tribute: David Letterman was the perfect choice to do this, and, although it left out some choice bits, it was still rather nice to see Carson on the screen again. These things tend to be maudlin and depressing, reminding all of us who used to watch the Tonight Show just how old we are (Did I mention that I turned 40 this year? When do the Social Security checks start coming in? When do I get my complimentary bottle of Geritol?) Nonetheless, it was a good opportunity to show these whippersnapper kids how it's done. Letterman himself once said of today's generation of comics that there's "no wit anymore, it's all just attitude." ...Attitude and four letter words masquerading as punchlines.

- Network Anchors Tribute: Peter Jennings' untimely death gave this more emotion than it would have otherwise had. In other words, everyone stayed awake and didn't interrupt the proceedings with calls for Teri Hatcher and Ray Romano. It was marred a bit at the end when Dan Rather left the teleprompter script to ramble, "George Bush doesn't care about black people."

- TV Themes Tribute: Green Acres, The Jeffersons, Star Trek...all classics. Fame...It was an overhyped piece of disco pap when it was the movie theme, and remains so today (Which may be why some people love it so much.) "I want to live forever?" How about five seasons? Still, that was longer than Trek, proving that there's no justice in television.

Still, they left off several classic American TV theme songs that were equally deserving, listed below:

• Gilligan's Island
• Dobie Gillis
• S.W.A.T. (Not a song of course, but still gripping!)
• Maude
• WKRP in Cinncinatti
• Hawaii Five-O (Again, not a song per se, but the best of the lot.)
• The Flintstones
• The Brady Bunch
• The Saturday Morning Looney Tunes Song

This just in: The award for Lighting in a Comedy Variety Sports Variety Event Variety Special has gone to the crew of Super Bowl XXXIX. The award was accepted on their behalf by Leonard Nimoy.