Scum Scum update

It has now been confirmed that Scum Scum the forgotten Teletubby is not any of the following people in disguise:

• Henry Kissenger
• Lance Bass (although Jerry Falwell has started calling him "Tinky Winky")
• George Michael
• Boy George
• King George VI
• Howard Dean
• William Shatner
• Carol Channing
• Dick Cheney
• Prince Harry
• Alec Baldwin
• Billy Baldwin
• Scum Scum Baldwin (No relation at all)

In addition, it has been revealed that there were other Teletubbies tryouts who didn't even get as far as Scum Scum (mainly because they didn't know who to blackmail at the BBC). Their names are:

• Up Chuck
• Touch Touch
• Loo
• Scrotum
• Snotty
• Ta Ta (Suggested by the Littlest Fando, who didn't know what Ta Tas are)
• Bones
• Thrust Thrust
• George Galloway
• Picky Sticky
• Tinkle Winkle (Suggested by Mrs. Fando)
• Liberace
• Wingo, the Magic Stallion
• Floppy
• King Dong
• Poo

Why Cenk Uygur Sucks

Since I'm on about football this evening, let me call your attention to a small and insignficant piece of literary excrement recently published on the happy nuthatch that is The Huffington Post.

The piece is by Cenk Uygur, who hosts a radio program that apparently longs to be part Al Franken and part Howard Stern, judging from the number of porn "actresses" interspersed among the politicians on the guest list (and I'm just reading that from Cenk's bio). One can just imagine Howard Dean following the star of something titled "King Dong" or "Garfield II: A Tale of Two Titties."

Anyway, Cenk thinks that football (soccer) is unfair, because of the penalty shootout, and that American sports are imminently fairer because they play all the way to end on the field in the manner of the regular sport. Of course, the penalty shootout is necessary because, unlike baseball players (or cricketers for that matter), footballers do a fair bit of running during the match. Playing 21 innings or 7 overtimes isn't really practical in football, unless you enjoy seeing leg spasms, people passing out, and lactic acid overdoses.

Cenk might suggest that the rules be changed so that it's easier to score goals, but that's not fairness, that's simply cheating to get a more "exciting" result. "Exciting" amongst some American sports fans means that they get to count a lot during the match, to demonstrate they have the equivalent of their "0" level in math. Also, people are bloodied, but that already happens in football.

Cenk writes, "How often have you seen a soccer game where one team completely outplays the other and the weaker side wins anyway based on a fluke goal? The answer is -- all the time." This raises the question as to how many matches this Neanderthal has watched over the years, in-between interviewing on-screen hookers? I suppose the blokes at Arsenal and Chelsea are laughing their arses off at that one, given the number of one-sided massacres they've initiated.

Sure, a fluke goal happens from time to time, just like baseball pitchers occasionally walk in the winning run or let a critical out slip between their legs (apologies to former Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner, whom I know must live with that sad memory). Gridiron football players occasionally fumble on the goal line or throw an interception in the last minutes. However, to claim that fluke goals regularly decide football matches is right up there with the "Jews didn't come to work on 9/11" tinfoiled hat nonsense.

Of course, Cenk says at the end that he "loves the World Cup," which of course makes it perfectly logical to entitle the piece "Why Soccer Sucks." I'm sure he must be a true romantic on dates. What does he tell girlfriends, "I really care for you, despite the fact you are a ratbag trollop!" Cenk should talk a bit more with some of the Turkish blokes he partially grew up with, who might explain to him the slide tackle in some vivid detail. Then he can tell us about his love for the game.

What Cenk really needs explained to him is that the goal in soccer means so much more than a run in baseball or a touchdown in American football. It's difficult to get goals. Footballers can't just OD on creatine or actual steroids and bash goals in from 100 metres. They can't pick up the ball and run into the end zone after smashing a quarterback into the ground. Scoring is difficult business in football, but that's part of the great charm of the sport. Goals are worth more than a pump of the fist and a run down the court.

Are there problems in football? Certainly. Divers like Cristiano Ronaldo and half the Italian national squad threaten to ruin the game with their cheating and ungentlemanly, incompetent acting. However, American sporting "purists" live in a glass house. What's fair about the designated hitter rule? The beanball or the payback beaner? The hellbent refusal to settle for a tie when two teams have been evenly matched in a regular league match? The chop block? The flagrant foul in basketball? Certain engine modifications in NASCAR? The threat of a floppy-bosomed dowager like Morgana leaping out of the stands to slobber on some hapless infielder?

No, the reason that diving in the penalty area is so foul is because scoring a goal in football is such a wonderfully complex and difficult thing for a team to do. Sure, sometimes a chap lucks into an easy touch into goal, but usually only after some real work by their team. Scoring a goal isn't easy. That why those of us who play football often go mental after we manage it, and why we value the blokes who do it with great finesse and skill (such as the great Dennis Bergkamp whose testimonial was in the new Emirates Stadium this week...just in case you think I forgot about it).

I once, in the U.S. equivalent of a Sunday League game, scored a goal from the keeper position. Now, we played seven-a-side on half a pitch, but I still had to punt the ball a good 50 metres to even reach the other net. The beauty of it though was that I was actually trying to put the ball on goal (mainly because it was a 95-degree Farenheit day in July and my teammates, including Stew, were knackered). I took a chance, had the sun behind me, a slight breeze, and the other keeper lost the ball in the glare and it bounced on the line and into the inside roof of the net.

I've never gone so mental after a goal I'd scored. One of my mates jogged the length of the pitch to shake my hand. The other keeper looked like someone had put rat poison in his porridge. There are very few things I can think of that match such an event in sport, a hole-in-one, the Hail Mary, or the full-court last second shot in basketball come to mind. The funny thing is, we lost 2-1. The "fluke" shot didn't matter to the outcome, but the beauty of it is that's my most memorable goal. That's football. Win or lose, there's beauty to be found in it.

What really sucks are commentators who try to get cheap attention promoting a row by running down a game billions love. Cenk should go back to asking "adult" film stars about their Oscar chances. Of course he's really just engaging in the old game of sucking up to his friends who are athletic and like the American games over the "non-American" games (even though "soccer" predates American football in the U.S. -which in fact was derived from Rugby, which itself sprung from soccer). I'm sure Cenk got a few pats on the behind and maybe even someone bought him a beer or two. Pity it was for this.

Simultaneous Posting...

...only on DOUI! Well, also on DOUI.

(Sigh. I may need to give in and hire a marketer. I just hate the idea of covering the mirrors and hiding all the crosses in the office though.)

Fluffy Toe seems to be online now. How goes the dog food business, Tuffy?

Yes, I am still peeved about this "Excremando" crap, no pun intended.

Still, I understand that Excreuffy (it just doesn't have the same ring, does it) is pitifully upset about the not-so-recent demise of Mark Northover. I myself have laboured over the question of who will play Spock's torso and have come to the conclusion that they will abandon the mad scheme and ask Kevin Spacey to play the whole Spock (except for the part that recorded The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins, which was about as logical as a Liz Taylor/Michael Jackson sleepover).

The torso will instead be cast as William Shatner's ego. This means that it will need to enlarged to the approximate size of the nation of Bolivia.

So, how goes it Nuffy? Man, can that Steve Ballmer sweat!

Diego Maradona's Shame

Obviously, given the title, this could be a vast and epic post if I indeed focused on every shameful aspect of the Argentinian soccer savant's career. Indeed, a post only on the vile "Hand of God" deception against England in the 1986 World Cup Finals would necessarily be the size of the English version of Wikipaedia.

No, instead I have chosen to focus on one small humiliation Maradona suffered recently at the hands of a Berlin hotel pianist. Apparently, after Argentina were eliminated from this year's Cup by Germany, the aforementioned pianist had the temerity to play "Don't Cry for Me Argentina" in the presence of the talented volleyballer... erm...footballer.

Of course, getting upset over something like this is the equivalent of going to ground in a match after being pushed in the back with a hummingbird feather.

Maradona repsonded to the affront by calling his good friend and personal trainer Fidel Castro, who prompted sent 250 revolutionaires to the hotel, where they shot the pianist, sexually assualted the maids, forced the bellhops to migrate to Denmark by sea in a vegetable crate, and blew up the hotel bar when they said they didn't have any Guayabita del Pinar in stock.

Maradona celebrated his revenge by downing a handful of diet pills and curling into a fetal ball outside the Reichstag.

The funny thing was that Maradona didn't even attend the match in question, as there was some dispute over ticket allocations, according to the AFP article linked above. My sources (which may or may not include my own bitter imagination) inform me that he was ticked because they didn't have enough tickets for his entourage of 7,200 people, and also because, apparently, cocaine use is banned in the stadium.

Steve Ballmer is the Sweatiest Man Alive

I wander from room to room like a gray-robed decrepit field hare, looking for the elusive carrot that cannot be found. Yes, that's what I feel like, for my muse has passed skyward--->Mark Northover. I am not so willing to forget the man, though Excremando keeps insisting I must. I wrote a poem about him. Wanna hear it? Here it goes:

Mark Northover, The Best

Roundest of head, at the foot of my bed,

Shoes of darkest black, felt hat of red,

Prancing like a jester, Pinstripe suit,

Belts out show tunes, Lets out a poot,

Tender TV clown, with an aura of gold,

Rising from the moon, everlastingly bold,

He is Mark Northover, with a tie of purest green,

with socks of dankest orange, a man who must be seen.

You cannot look away from him. Look upon his face,

Smiling like a painted cloud, paragon of human race.

Mark Northover is he, Mark Better-Than-You is he,

Mark Better-Than-Us-All in fact, the man you must see.

You must look upon his visage forever, shoes on your feet,

With hats on, with satchel at your side, a plate of boiled meat.

Mark Northover. Oh, Mark. Mark Northover. Our Mark.

Dearest Mark. Our Mark. All of us. Ours. Mark. Ours. Mark.

end

*sigh* Well, that's the best and deepest poem I could manage in such a gray cloud of manure-ish disappointment.

On an unrelated note, Steve Ballmer is the sweatiest human being who has ever lived. Check it out.

Earl's Holiday - Funnier Version

I'm just writing to announce that me, the Missus, and the Littlest Fando will be hitting the road for our annual world tour. This will consists of stops in Las Vegas, Reno, Branson, and Blackpool, which will be difficult to reach by car, as there isn't much in the way of Atlantic ferry choices.

Our vacation plans include an Elvis impersonators convention (We don't participate, we just watch and make fun), the International Boiled Peanut festival (Flatulence is optional here, so we'll just get some to go), The Jim Stafford Theatre (Jim will be setting a world record for successive performances of his only hit Spiders and Snakes, by singing it 3 times in a row), obsessive candyfloss consumption, bungy-jumping from Blackpool Tower, and a lengthy stop at my mum's in [this information redacted by the CIA and the Grand Imperial Fleet of Geldafar (prounounced Keiraknightley)].

If you're on the road this week and happen to spot a Toyota minivan painted in the colours of the Partridge Family bus, be sure to tell Shirley Jones we said hello.

Cheers (Said in a funny voice),

Earl

Earl's Holiday

I will be out of pocket for about a week, starting tomorrow afternoon. Me, the Missus, and the Littlest Fando are off to see my mum, who lives elsewhere in these United States.

We shall travel by motorcar, and somewhere along the way I shall be blessed to enjoy a bag of boiled peanuts, one of the finer culinary delights available on the planet.

I will attempt to post a bit, if I can, but as Mum has no Internet connection at all, I will probably have to invade the local library there and fling something up.

All of this isn't really amusing or a joke or anything. I just though someone somewhere might care.

I know that sounds really desperate.

Anyway, I'm going to post a bit this evening and we'll see how the week goes. Stew and Nuffy are already on notice that as the other current regular bloggers on here, they must carry the load so that we don't fritter away into the cyberspace ether.

Cheers,

Earl.

*SHRIEK* The World Five Times Worse

Well, we've all heard the devastating news about our hero, our friend, our legend among legends, our very own Burglekutt. Yes, every sad thing you've heard is truer than any truth you've ever heard. Mister Mark "Golden Tones" Northover has left his earthy shell and ascended into the heavenly places beyond the stars. I commend Simon Thomson, the webmaster of his official site, for tracking down the truth, as bitter a pill to swallow as it is, and passing this information along to us on the official website, but, my stars and gravy, this is Five Times Worse than anything I ever wanted to hear. I might just have to set fires in my backyard to alleviate my disappointment. Oh, they won't be large fires, just small piles of torn up cereal boxes and old dried-out and crusty socks doused in kerosene and lit on fire with an antique Zippo. Don't worry, I will have an off duty firefighter on hand to make sure the fires don't get out of hand. *Sigh* Don't try this at home kids. Leave the fire starting to disappointed professionals.

At a time like this, we can only reflect on the fact that all the good guys are gone, and only bad people are left. We can also reflect that the new Star Trek movie is doomed. All this time, they've had Mark Northover cast as Spock's torso, and he's been gone from this broken old earth since 2004. Hmmm, just exactly who was portraying Spock's torso and pretending to be Mark Northover, I wonder? The name Danny Devito comes to mind, but talking about or thinking about Danny "Ostrich Egg Torso" Devito is Five Times Worse than staring at the poster on my wall of Mark Northover for several hours of deep and mournful contemplation and whistling of old show tunes.

There's only one way to alleviate this degree of diappointment, friends, and that is by watching Steve Ballmer, CEO of Microsoft, prance around, screaming, and being the sweatiest human being who has ever lived. You can find him doing this, as he does on a weekly basis, at this website. Please watch, please dance along with sweaty, sweaty Steve Ballmer, and please forget, if only for a few moments, that the brightest light in the United Kingdom has passed from the earth, leaving us in decay and ruin. Thank you and good day.

P.S. -- The Steve Ballmer video is also excellent if you have a strange obsession with the word "developers." You'll never hear the word "developers" spoken so many times in three minutes, so enjoy it while the enjoying is good. It's good to know Microsoft is in the hands of such sweaty, one-word-spouting persons.

That UFO Was a Weather Balloon!

According to the Associated Press, a Las Vegas real estate mogul has launched an inflatable spacecraft from Russia, which has taken photos of itself and beamed them back to Earth.

I don't know about the rest of you, but it seems like Pravda is up to their old ways again, planting stories in the minds of impressionable young AP reporters (or NY times reporters who are too lazy to fact-check their stories) about amazing Russian space exploits, when the actual truth is that the Russians have only managed to put a single chimpanzee in space, and that was accidentally, when a stunt explosion on a Russian version of Tarzan went horribly awry.

The real story, as Zimpter will tell you if you should by chance mistakenly veer off onto the subject, is that this "balloon" hoax is a complete cover-up by the combined military and political infrastructures of the United States and Russian governments who are being controlled by alien influences (How else could someone with the name "Dirk Kempthorne" get into government - the man is clearly a space alien!)

Inflatable spacecraft, my sphincter!!! This was clearly yet another attempt to cover up the coming invasion of Earth by extraterrestials from the planet Geldafar (pronounced "Lindseylohan").

These insidious and scantily clad beings want the Earth for only one reason and one reason alone. Beachfront property. Geldafar has only one tiny ocean which is completely surrounded by condominiums, hotels, Gyro shops, and cheap Monaco-owned casinos. They have completely run out of space for surfers, beach hippies, and dopers, which includes much of the previous two categories. In fact, the reason that so many UFO's look cigar shaped is because they are runaway surfboards from over eager Hang Twelve types (Geldafarians have six toes on each foot) who forgot to wait until the invasion force secured the surf for them.

The "inflatable spacecraft" was actually the mothership (don't get excited Reverend Farrakan - it's not THAT mothership) of the vanguard Geldafarian (pronounced "Camerondiazian") invasion force. This spacecraft has been implanting signals of despair in our minds of the last decade or so: Desperate Housewives, Cialis commercials with that idiot "Bob", N.Y. Knicks games, Dennis Kucinich campaign commercials, and anything with Paris Hilton.

The idea is to depress the human race so much, that we will retreat to our farmlands, our cities, our suburbs, our deserts, and other non-beachfront residences, leaving them open for phalanxes of large, purple-green, Speedo-wearing aliens to inhabit with their foul body-surfing and sordid wet t-shirt parties (Geldefarians have twelve nipples).

Even now they are subtly buying up stock in sunscreen (SPF 260 - as the Geldafarians are quite pasty) and really tacky beach chairs. Soon, they will be packing the shores of Malibu, Wakiki, Brighton, Cannes, and Abyan Beach, Yemen.

Enjoy the rest of the summer while you can. Next summer it will be "No humans allowed" or "Beachfront closed for alien invasion!" or even worse "Nude Alien beach - eat swimsuits here."

Mark Northover is Dead

We regret to inform Nuffy that according to http://www.eluk.co.uk/mn/index.html, Mark Northover died in Upton, Dorset, June 6th, 2004, or about 7 months before this blog came to life.

Of course, this could all be a very clever hoax to protect Mark Northover's privacy (like Andy Kaufman).

Just the same, our belated condolences to the Northover family and to the legions of Willow fans who must be still weeping.

Man, what a downer...and I was all geared up to write a letter to Mr. Thomson, too.

A Bewitching Festival

I want to begin by apologizing for the delay in bringing this wonderful news to our readers. However, if you catch a plane early today you might be able to make it to Salem, Massachusetts for the last day of the Bewitched Festival. When I heard the news this morning during my ride to work I was taken aback as I thought the festival was in August, the more bewitching of months in my opinion. I have actually never been to the festival but had hoped to make the trip before I was too old to enjoy it. I've heard that the Gladys Kravitz mosh pit can be a really exhilarating experience with its mixture of hardcore and ska-core dancing.

I sent an e-mail to the event coordinator Skandar Flutewhistle who was nice enough to send me an event schedule. I'll post it below for all of the Bewitched faithful who hit Next Blog today.

*****************************

BEWITCHEDAPOLOOZA XIII

That time is here again when all our witches and warlocks descend on Salem, MA for fun and frolicks. Just like every year we ask that black magic be kept to a minimum and please deposit litter in the waste recepticles provided. Please browse the events list below to decide what you'd like to do while here. Have a great time!!!!!!!!!

-Skandar the Mystic

The Aunt Clara Symposium - Was she simply the addled witch that we know and love or did her confused musings have deeper meaning? Experts in this field of study have spent countless hours reviewing tapes of the episodes to find an answer to the question. Please join Dr. Gluteus Minimus and Ted Blastfurnace as they discuss the results of their research.

The Gladys Kravitz Mosh Pit - Get down with your hardcore self as you enjoy moshing with your friends and relatives. Featured acts include:

Monday - Endora's Posse
Tuesday - Dick Ska-rgent
Wednesday- The Tabitha's

Who Was the Biggest Dick? - The records show that Dick Sargent was 1/2 inch taller than Dick York but their is scarce evidence of which Darrin weighed more. Experts from MIT have used a new spectral analysis system on the episodes to determine by light wavelength which Dick was larger. You'll have to go to the lecture to find out, we're not going to let the cat out of the bag!

Where are They Now? - Well, actually they're mostly dead now except for the two Tabitha's so that's really all this event concerns. What are they doing now!!! Porn stars, models, or analysts for medical device firms in Santa Barbara? The answers may surprise and disappoint many or you, especially those who spend a lot of time in your basements wondering about such things.

Calling Dr. Bombay!!!, Physician or Fraud - Just what kind of doctor was Dr. Bombay? He claimed to be a witch doctor but was a complete failure when practicing his art. He did like to get his freak on though, we'll have to give him that.

Please visit our sponsors: Bombay Gin, Clara-tin, and Cialis

Gha aghoi vbplkaighagha waiwaiwaixko gha woghoi o.

You probably think the title of this post is just garbage and random letters, but you are terribly and sickeningly wrong to think so. Recently, overwhelmed and emotionally ruined by the disappearance of Mark Northover, I have taken to finding new hobbies to cloud my mind and distract me. The first hobby I found was learning another language. Another language learning can be exciting, a thrill bigger than finding Michael Jackson sleeping in your bathtub with your mom's bathrobe draped delicately over his tree branch-like body. Of course, there are many silly languages in the world, and most of them sound ridiculous and make no grammatical sense whatsoever. Examples I found include French, Spanish, Xhosa and Gullah. But there is one particular language I found that has a beautiful simplicity, a wondrous ability to unite all the peoples of the earth under a banner of inter-cultural communication.

Yes, as you may have guessed, it is Clicky McClick's Clickuage. Now, you could go over to the only Clicky McClick website on the whole entire internet and read all about it yourself, or, being Five Times more efficient than a horse with constipation, you can just keep reading this post and I will give you the relevant information. The website, by the way, was created by me. I wrote down all the information I gathered from Clicky's language manuals and programmed the HTML myself on a TRS-80, thank you very much. The address is http://nuffynoe.tripod.com/clickguage/index.html should you be inclined to go there.

Here is what Clicky tells us in his book: People of the world have sought a simplicity in language. People of the world have wished to communicate one to the other without the difficulty of wretched differences in language and grammar....Now we have Clicky McClick's Clickguage, a language of few sounds that is easy to learn, simple to use, beautiful to hear, and better than you.

VOWELS: There are only five vowel sounds in the Clickguage. They are...

A as in father
E as in wet
I as in it
O as in note
U as in under

CONSONANTS: There are only five consonants in the Clickguage, making for a terribly simple and fun language unlike any noises you've ever made. These consonants are interesting and involve unusual sounds not present in the English language, or, for that matter, most of the languages that have ever existed in the history of humanity. They are represented using English characters. Here they are, along with pronunciation guides/helps. Please practice these sounds long and hard, for you must needs learn them...

gh -- a click in the back of the throat, like a swallowing noise
gft -- a popping noise made by pressing the lips together and forcing air through them
xk -- a harsh guttural hiss made by in the back of the throat by restricting the
throat while breathing out sharply
vbplk -- a heartbeat-like sound made by closing the mouth and producing a thumping sound in throat.
w -- pronounced like an English "v"

Subject Pronouns:
first person singular -- gha
second person singular -- gfti
third person singular masculine -- gho
third person singular feminine -- xka
first person plural -- ghagh
second person plural -- gftighi
third person plural masculine -- ghovbplki
third person plural feminine -- xkavbplki

Object Pronouns:

first person singular -- ghai
second person singular -- gftoi
third person singular masculine -- ghoa
third person singular feminine -- xkai
first person plural -- ghagha
second person plural -- gftighoi
third person plural masculine -- ghovbplkai
third person plural feminine -- xkavbplkai

Except for a few irregular verbs, Clickguage verbs are comprised of

VERB ROOT + APPROPRIATE ENDING

here are the verb endings for each pronoun:

1st person singular -- oi

2nd person singular -- ai

3rd person singular -- vbplki

1st person plural -- xko

2nd person plural -- xkai

3rd person plural -- vbplkoi

Most verbs can be conjugated by adding the appropriate ending to the verb infinitive. Sometimes, especially with 1st and 2nd person singular, the final vowel is dropped before adding the ending. With a few irregular verbs, like woghoxki, most of the infinitive form of the verb is dropped in conjugation.
This is a list of verb infinitives which can be conjugated by simply adding the appropriate verb ending.

gftoigftawo -- to sniff

ghuwavbplki -- to alleviate

oiwoi -- to associate with

xkoghow -- to receive

oixkaw -- to know (person)

xkowoigh -- to know (thing)

aiwaiwaiwaiwai -- to suffer

vbplkoighu -- to bring

oiaoiaw -- to put (or move)

gftowoxka -- to infer

aixkogfto -- to hear

wugftogh -- to punch

gftigftogfta -- to give someone a dime

gftigftoghogho -- to give someone a disease

gftiovbplko -- to pass wind in polite company

ewuighaw -- to stumble (to fall)

gftixkiwi -- to poop

aigftoigft -- to believe

xkuxkoigh -- to dream

vbplkuigh -- to hope

uigftughu -- to hate

oiw -- to love

awaighaivbpl -- to laugh

ugft -- to scream (in pain)

ivbplkigfti -- to live

ioiaow -- to die

auaiau -- to go to South Africa

wauwaiaw -- to go

Sample Sentences

Gha aghoi vbplkaighagha waiwaiwaixko gha woghoi o.

(I have toast because I am beautifully smelly)

Gfti woghai xkaxkaxko oxkaigho!

(You are an ugly liar!)


MY STARS, this crap is revolutionary! The WORLD is changing before our very eyes! Soon, we will all be as one! Do your soul a favor, LEARN CLICKUAGE!

*Warning: Graphic Descriptions Follow

Heeeere's Stewy. That's right, I have defeated in mortal combat the cyber-punk Mr. West Lile and returned to my rightful place at the Dictionary. It was an epic struggle not unlike the "The Gamesters of Triskelion" episode of the original Star Trek, only we were forced to sit down and solve Sudoku puzzles while wearing those Jiffy-Pop bikinis. The first person to fall asleep won and that crap puts me to sleep faster than Extra-Strength Nyquil with double the codeine. Anyhow, I was the winner and I've been told that Spanish Lottery International will be depositing my winnings of $1,000,000 quatloos into my bank account as soon as I send them my account number.

I'm glad that I was able to return in time to warn our readers of something so terrible that it makes Mark Northover's disappearance pale in comparison. Yes, I'm talking about the return of Ted Danson to network television. Please refrain from the compulsion to run screaming from your computer, upsetting the cup of Sanka on the side table and causing a rather difficult to remove stain in your carpet. It is times like these that we need to be strong for each other and hold on to thoughts of goodness and beauty.

Many of us remember with fondness the days that Cheers ruled the Thursday night line-up of situation comedies. We remember it with fondness because it was an ensemble of quirky characters of which Ted (as the affable Sam Drucker...sorry Malone) was only a small and forgettable part. The success of Cheers convinced normally sensible movie producers to foist Danson on film going audiences in Three Men and a Baby. The fact that this was a remake of a French film should come as a surprise to no one, as the French hold up Jerry Lewis as a comedy icon. This film, the stomach upsetting sequel Three Men and a Little Lady, and the unreleased Three Men and a Drug Addled Skank form the trilogy known to fans as Three Dog Night.

Next up for Ted was the single season sitcom Ink, in which he starred with his wife Mary Steenburgen. (Yes, I had to do my research for this part as nobody in their right mind actually remembers the show or wishes to dredge up the foul memories it brings.) Yes, people could not get enough of Ted (extreme sarcasm) and not even Mary Steenburgen could save the show from the network waste basket. Many (mostly misinformed) people will laud Becker as Ted's magnum opus, and who am I to disagree with them. I'm Stew Miller, that's who. Nobody remembers Becker, at least not in a meaningful way. Did it have any redeeming value whatsoever? I would like to meet the person who could tell me what the plots of five episodes of Becker concerned.

Now, it is come again. Some sadomasichist at ABC has decided to unleash a new barrage of Ted into our homes in the form of the sitcom Help Me Help You. I am not sure of the premise but one thing I can gather from the previews is that Ted Danson is NOT aging gracefully. This fact and the propensity of middle-aged writers to try and frame him as a sex symbol are extremely disturbing to the ordinary citizen.

Ted, help us help you. Please consider retirement and maybe move into another line of work. You were a pretty good bartender some years ago.

Excremando?

I supposed that's an insult to my good name. Well, my name anyway.

I'd be insulted if I didn't have a second cousin with the name Excremando (Excremando Bando Fando Jr....don't ask about the "Jr." His father was smart enough to change his name. In case you're all wondering, we all called him "Poopy Jr." Except for his grandfather, who referred to him using a word that begins with "s" and ends with "head." I'm sorry you had to read that.)

Still, I shouldn't feel too bad, given that such abuse is coming from a person whose name rhymes with a dog food product. Ha!

I do plan to correspond with Mr. Thomson, if only to find the mysterious and falasqueist Mr. Northover and get Nuffy to post on something else for a change.

Update: Apparently there is some confusion over what Poopy's grandfather called him. He called him "snorklehead." I didn't mean to suggest otherwise. Still, I can't imagine what some of you people were thinking.

The World in Crisis

The mystery and the nightmare continues, even though some (including persons whose names rhyme with Spando and Prando and Excremando) prefer to look the other way. I have never been one to hide from the world's true problems, never been one to hesitate in staring right into the very rancidest orifice of the universe's stinkiest dilemma. For those of you who so quickly sluiced back into the dampness of everyday life, let me remind you (in all caps, no less): MARK NORTHOVER IS MISSING. And as if that weren't enough to make the giblet gravy gush from your nostrils, he has been MISSING FOR SOME YEARS! My dearest stars and everloving garters, how can people go about their sandwich eating regular schedules knowing that? It boggles the mind of normal humanity.

Some of you, I know, care about the future of the world, about the hope and happiness of the world's innocents. Some of you want to help those who have sunk into the filthiest brown pit of intestinally-scented unfortunateness. Now is your chance! Hear me, NOW is your chance. You can rise up from the butt-worn rut of inactivity and do something of purest and noblest good. Yes, my fellow citizens of the world, you can help me relocate Mark Northover. I know you want to, tenderly in your deepest red heart, you want to find him, and that, above all else, is why I love you, each and every one, and daydream in the night of shaking your hand and tenderly weeping as I whisper your names, one by one. Oh, my dearest compassionate fellow humans, you truly, madly, deeply want to help locate our missing hero, Mark Northover, torfivious entertainer of our generation and, we hope, we dream, we pray, generations to come.

Here is what you can do. It is very simple. Even simpler than tying your shoes, painting a horse, or slapping a mime. You can write an e-mail. Yes, that is all you have to do. Simon Thomson is the man most likely to locate the missing Mark Northover. I truly believe he holds the glistening silvery key to unlock this puzzle and redeem our joy. He is the webmaster of Mark Northover's official website, and, more importantly, the last person on earth to have seen him face to face before our tiny icon disappeared into the British hills, ne'er to be seen again. Please, write to Simon Thomson and beg him, tenderly and desperately beg him to locate the missing Mark Northover.

His e-mail address is eluk1@eluk.co.uk. If you are noble and kind enough to write him, feel free to tell him that Nuffy Noe of the Dictionary of Unfortunate Ideas begged you to e-mail him. Feel free to remind him how important Mark Northover is to all of us, how we love his tender smile and precious sport coat and slacks, how we loved his portrayal of the villainous "Burglekutt" in the classic motion picture Willow, and, most of all, how we weep in the dark hours of the lonely night at his vanishing.

Won't you please join me, this very hour, yes even this most ludicrous hour of the night, and write to Simon Thomson and beg him to find our missing hope. Oh I love you even now more than ever at the thought that you will do this. Oh!

I'm Not a Winner.

It occurred to me about 15 seconds after I posted my last post that this whole lottery thing might not be on the up and up. I think it was the line "We hope with part of your winning you will take part in..." That and the original message said that it was confidential and not to be disclosed to anyone. So if I've messed up my chances, I might as well have a bit of fun.

I sent the following message to Dr. Sanchez of Spain:

**********

Dear Dr. Sanchez,

I just received notification that I have won "1,000,000 Euro" from your lottery. I hope this is the same as "1 million Euros," because I would hate to wind up on the cheap because of an unfortunate typo. I'm sure it is though because being a Spaniard, English is not your native language. That's OK, as I don't speak Dutch either. Also, international lotteries are notoriously lax in the spell-checking department, so this is bound to happen repeatedly, as it did in my letter.

I am writing to ask if I can recieve my payment in clams. The reason I ask this is because the Euro is notoriously shaky, what with the French, Germans, and Belgians using it all at the same time. I would much rather receive my prize in a more stable commodity. I understand if this is a lot of extra trouble, but I would be happy to take the Euros and then we could go down to the local seafood wholesaler and cut a bargain. To be fair, I'll be sure and give the Spanish lottery half of any profit I make on the resell the next time I'm in Pismo Beach (after taxes of course... ha, ha!)

However, if you can deliver my winnings in clams entirely and right up front, that would save me getting double taxed on the VAT at the seafood market.

Also, I would like a t-shirt made up with the words, "I am the big winner of the big international lottery and now am worth 1,000,000 Euro(s)." I know it's a lot, but if you go with small enough print you can fit it in. Or you can split the phrase in two and put one half on the front and one half on the back, like those novelty t-shirts with the risque messages.

Please let me know about my clams as soon as possible. I may even invite you to the clambake!

My best to Comfort and the Jose Family.

Interoggatively,

Wee Willie Woopenfringer
(E. Fando is just a pseudonym)

**********

Let's see if Dr. Sanchez responds. The interesting thing will be that I made a point of not including the Lottery numbers. I wonder if he'll try to give me the award anyway?

I'm a Winner!!!

That's right, yours truly, Earl Fando, is the big winner of 1,000,000 Euros according to Mrs. Comfort Jose, a fictional character living somewhere in a portion of Spain that resembles Nigeria. I know Mrs. Jose is fictional because I happen to know a person with Jose as a last name, and his wife's first name isn't "Comfort." Also, according to the Jose Family Genealogy Forum, there are no Comforts listed at all. There's a Faustine (Faust's daughter perhaps?) and a Haveline (We at DOUI love your motor oil, maam) but no Comfort.

Anyway, I'm a big winner and am already making plans to fund my first motion picture, which will not be based on a Jorge Carlito Vega script, because Danny DeVito won't work with me.

Just see for yourself. I received the following letter in my Inbox recently. I've only posted an excerpt below, because the letter goes on and on like a BBC production of The Mill on the Floss. I did leave quite a bit in, because with Stew and Nuffy not posting this week yet, we need to fill the space.

**********

EURO MILLIONS SPANISH LOTTERY INTERNATIONAL.
FROM: INTERNATIONAL PROMOTION/PRIZE AWARD DEPT.
REFERENCE: 67/80/IPD
BATCH: EGGS-541-623-782:
RE: WINNING NOTIFICATION / FINAL NOTICE

Sir/MadamWe are pleased to inform you of the result of the Euro millions Spanish Lottery Winners International E-mail programs held on the 4TH OF JULY 2006 and result where release on the 7TH JULY 2006. Your E-mail address attached to ticket number 653-908-321-675 with serial main number 345-790-241-671 drew lucky star numbers 34-32-90-43-32 which consequently won in the 2ND category, you have therefore been approved for a lump sum pay out of 1.000.000.00 Euro.(One Million Euro) CONGRATULATIONS!!! Due to mix up of some numbers and names, we ask that you keep your winning information confidential until your claims has been processed and your money remitted to you. This is part of our security protocol to avoid double claiming and unwarranted abuse of this program by some participants. All participants were selected through a computer ballot system drawn from over 100,000 company and 50,000,000 individual email addresses and names from all over the world.

This lottery was promoted and sponsored by Spainsh European Lottery board in order to enhance and promote the use of Internet Explorer Users and Microsoft-wares around the globe. This promotional program takes place every three year. We hope with part of your winning you will take part in our end of year 50 million Euro International lottery.To file for your claim, please contact our fiducial agent: DR.ROBERT SANCHEZ (SANCHEZ SECURITY COMPANY ESPAÑA) CONTACT CLAIMS AGENT ON
TEL:0034-699-752-404
Email: sanchezclaim@netscape.net

**********

I knew I was right to choose my lucky numbers 34, 32, 90, 43, and 32. I love number 32 so much that I chose it twice! I'm also very lucky because "this promotional program only takes place once every three year."

They got the part of "Sir/Madam" wrong though, as I've never even considered such surgery. I could never get used to sitting down in the loo so much anyway.

I'm not sure I like the whole deal of promoting Internet Explorer and Microsoft. Don't get me wrong, as I've gotten a fair amount of use out of these products as part of Bill Gates master plan to take over the world (If you don't believe me, visit Redmond sometime. Every person there has been turned into a zombie by implanting a part of Bill Gates soul in them. The zombie part was actually unintentional, but unfortunately Bill just doesn't have a whole lot of personality for a megalomaniac billionaire. BTW, if Bill ever decides to fund the blog I will deny this entirely.) I just don't like seeing such wasteful marketing. For this kind of money they could have bought a Super Bowl or Oscars Ad.

Be sure to sent a letter of thanks to Dr. Sanchez for me. Tell him what a charming bloke he is and how you too would like to win a million Euros for no work and without actually entering a contest or letting the organizers know what sex you are, and without being able to spell "companies" correctly. Ask him if he can travel to America, as I'd like to visit him in Leavenworth.

Anyway, I promise not to let being filthy rich go to my head. I just plan to make the movie. It'll have to be a low budget indie production, because a million Euros is pocket change in the film industry, and because I'll need to hold a bit back for golf, an British/Irish vacation, and that Porterhouse steak I've had my eye on. Oh yes, I'll need to buy that FT-3 driver Stew's been demo-ing.

If he posts a few times tomorrow, I might just let him borrow it.

It looks like we had one of those weekends again...

...meaning there is a dearth of posts, which does make it hard to keep up the readership (all 4 of you).

I know I was picking up the Littlest Fando from church camp. She returned home tired, except for the occasional war cry for her camp tribe, and informing us that they did an activity called "blobbing" that involved a huge inflatable bouncy pad, water, and a large tower to jump off of. More to the point, she informed us that the key to successful blobbing was the use of one's buttocks. Apparently "bum" is not in frequent use at the camp.

I also mowed our garden (lawn for many of you). I did have to use a machete to get through part of the back. I found an old driver's licence for a J. Hoffa and some bones, if anyone knows what that's about.

I did see "Mr. West Lile" on the golf links yesterday, disguised as Stew Miller and smashing 300 yard drives with the ease most of us reserve for scratching our buttocks. "Chico y Jose" was there also and played fairly well. He's about to begin an Abe Lincoln specialty tour of Upper Illinois with several family members. He didn't mention whether there would be any "wrasslin'" or not.

No word from Nuffy Noe, who appears to be hot on the trail of a certain Mr. Mark Northover. Mark, do yourself a favour and come out of hiding. Otherwise, the infamy will be more than one man can stand. Plus, Nuffy has a world tour planned.

Zimpter remains an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, wrapped in a press junket. You'd think he could at least e-mail the blog.

Jorge Carlito Vega is still either incarcerated, or in the Witness Protection Program. We are trying to make contact but they are changing his name and address frequently. He's checking into various hotels under the code name of "Brad Pitt" these days, and asking if "Jennifer" has been snooping around. Some sort of practical joke I expect.

I also expect that posting will pick up around here. If only we made enough money to where I could hold a paycheque over people's heads. Well, I could, but it'd be mine, from my real job, which would hardly inspire any fear in anyone.