You mess with Harpo Marx, you get the horns.

Friday, June 29, 2007

The New Seven Wonders

Since I have been away some knucklehead has decided that we need to do away with the old "Seven Wonders of the World" and come up with new ones by July 7, 2007. Great idea, instead of worrying about world peace, the poor and hungry, or what surprises the new season of Jericho will have in store for us, we decide the most important thing is to come up with seven new wonders. What is wrong with the old wonders of the world? I personally think that the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Statue of Zeus at Olympia were great wonders and since they're no longer around one must wonder about these wonderful wonders. No, instead we have to have wonders that we can see, smell, and get blown up by radicals to visit.

Since we can't bring the old wonders back and are hastening toward this misguided decision I thought I should bring forth some possible contenders for the honor.

Stew's New Seven Wonders of the World

1. Don King's Hair - Have you ever seen the stuff? It is a wonder to behold and I'm sure will last longer than the Colossus at Rhodes, which I hear took a ship's mast to the groin in 226 B.C. Don King's hair has been proven to cure planters warts and can survive a nuclear war. Don King's hair rules with an iron fist but is just when meting out its terrible wrath.

2. The Colossus at Flint - Michael Moore seems to expand everytime his obese form graces the silver screen. I don't know if I can really use the word grace since it usually has conotations of beauty and mercy. Let's say, abuses the silver screen, that might fit better. Anyway, I hate to call the guy a wonder but the joke name was too good to pass up.

3 Cameron Diaz - Yes, that's right, Cameron Diaz. Hey, she's alright to look at and it still boosts the hits on the site.

4. The Vacuum in Bel-Air - Yes, I'm speaking of none other than little Miss Paris Hilton herself. The absolute vacuum of talent created by her presence is enough to make Larry King seem like Robin Williams on speed. She has no talent like Paulie Shore has...more lack of talent. Anyway, her popularity certainly does make one wonder.

5. Jorge's Inconsolable Mourning - This guy has it bad. His sadness at the passing of Mark Northover is really starting to get on our nerves around here. I mean the guy has Mark's poster splattered all over the walls of his studio apartment. He has a small alter dedicated to Mark that he brings to the office and lights these stinking incence sticks while sitting at his desk and moaning only taking a break to make his famous carne de mono tacos. I kind of feel sorry for him.

6. The Rolling Stones - I mean, come on, who else should be considered a wonder of the modern world. Not really for their music it's more for the fact that they're still living, if they really are. I know for a fact that Mick Jagger has resuscitated Keith Richards on at least twelve occasions and it's a little known fact but Keith has been buried in error...twice.

7. Stew Miller Posting Twice in One Week - Truly the greatest wonder of our little corner of the galaxy.

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Does Court TV Know About This?

Horror director Wes Craven is suing washed-up comedian Pauly Shore.

This could make for the trial of the century. I'm sorry, I meant "trial" as in "ordeal." The last thing I want to see on telly is gore-maven Craven trading "witticisms" with Pauly's male Paris Hilton act.


Los Angeles Civil Court Testimony (excerpts)

Day 4: Plaintiff

Mr. Wes Craven: My back yard was completely savaged by the demonic Mr. Shore's bloodthirsty excuse for a pool and deck! Mud, and gut-like turf, oozed onto my property like the pus-swollen innards of an impaled diseased zombie, smothering my gentle azeleas with brutal, psychotic, murderous, slashing force. I feared to sleep at night, frightened that the undead Mr. Shore would put in a hellish second room and bury me alive in displaced, bile-like soil and wood-shavings like dried skin!

Baliff: You're just supposed to say, "I solemnly swear to tell the truth, etc."

Day 22: Defendant

Mr. Pauly Shore: Bud-dy!

Lawyer: Mr. Shore, I asked if your contractors had demonstrated that they had conducted a geological survey of the property to determine that the ground was stable enough for property improvements?

Mr. Pauly Shore: I like your tie, dude! Bud-dy!! (Passes wind) Oo-oooops!


Not to harp on the subject this evening, but this could be the only civil case in history that results in a double execution.

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Thursday, June 28, 2007

How to Die Laughing

Texas death row inmate Patrick Knight has determined that he should die laughing, and plans to do so by telling a joke at his execution. In order to prepare for his final words before facing lethal injection, he has solicited jokes on the Internet.

Texas Department of Criminal Justice spokeswoman Michelle Lyons stated that Knight wanted to "keep his execution light."

Well, why go out in a haze of gloom and remorseful depression? (You know...unless of course he really did it.) We here at The Dictionary of Unfortunate Ideas are always happy to help people in search of a jape, a jest, or a real clunker for when the audience is too drunk or too full of anticipation at your imminent demise to care (or as we're speaking of Texas, possibly both). Here are some suggestions*:

  • I'd just like to remind the witnesses tipping the executioner.
  • Are you going to put some alcohol there before you stick me with the needle? I don't want to get an infection.
  • Good thing this isn't the electric chair. I burn easily.
  • There! In the second row! That's the guy who really did it! ...No, I'm just kidding. It was me.
  • Could I get some heroin with that?
  • Anyone want to place a bet on tomorrow's game?
  • Two nuns walk into the death chamber to witness an execution... oh, sorry, Sisters. I didn't see you sitting there. Thanks for coming.
  • Now, would you believe that! I just remembered where that exculpatory evidence was! Undo me here and we can drive out there right now.
  • How many executioners does it take to kill a guy in Texas?(Points and starts counting officers in the room) Well, that was easy!
  • Whoa! Man is that needle cold! Can someone warm that thing up first?
  • Man, this is nothing like The Green Mile.
  • I was really hoping they'd have one of those black hoods for me. I always wanted to go out dressed as a Mexican wrestler.
  • If the Governor calls, tell him he'll have to wait. I'm busy right now.
  • I'd just like to thank my lawyer...for being a total, useless prat. Way to go, moron!
Update: I see from the article that the execution was schedule for Tuesday, so I'm a bit late, I'm afraid. Sorry about that.

Mr. Knight apparently skipped the joke and did have some somber, appropriate words for the occasion. Well, if there are any other death row inmates in need of a laugh, by all means...

*Yes, we know this is in appalling taste. My sincerest apologies on behalf of the staff. It was all Mr. Knight's idea, though.

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Argentina 4, USA 1 = Depressing

I watched the whole thing online on Telefutura's web site and I don't really want to talk about it now. The US sent a B team (aside from Keller) and it showed in the second half. It would help if someone in this squad could take a free kick, and if Eddie Johnson would run a defenders a bit more. (C'mon Eddie! On your horse and at 'em for good old America!)

Did I mention that I really can't stand Hernan Crespo's annoying goal-poaching efficency. He's much too effective for a big, plodding, Chelsea reject.

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Was that Stew I saw?

...Nah, couldn't be. I shall have to consult with my general staff and decide whether to send a military attache' to greet him and then throw him in a dungeon.

Office... I mean his office.

~Generalissimo Earl Fando~
Dictator for Life,
Dictionary of Unfortunate Ideas

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Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Sneaking back in...I hope.

Yes, I've been away. I really don't want to go into the whole thing and am wondering why my office now resembles what I would imagine Fidel Castro's hall closet looks like. As I stated, I really don't want to go into the myriad reasons why I have failed to post in the last three or four months. (Has it been that long?) Anyway, I don't want to talk about it but since I know inquiring minds always want to know I'll make it a top ten list.

10. My dog ate my computer. (Which is entirely possible if you've seen my dog.)

9. Riveted by the Paris Hilton prison coverage.

8. Hanging out with my new pal Prince William and his money.

7. My failed Mao bag shop in Lima, Peru. I hope they can forgive me.

6. Three words: Pirates of the Caribbean (wait a minute...) yeah, three words.

5. Inventing the iPhone. Don't believe a thing Al Gore tells you.

4. Chinese toothpaste wiped out my memory.

3. Bummed by Rosie's departure from The View.

2. Addicted to new Starbucks flavor: Whisky Mocha Frappacino.

and the number 1 reason I've been missing,

SuDOKU, SuDOKU, SuDOKU!!!!!!!!!

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Monday, June 25, 2007

The Silence of the Doughnuts

The Silence of the Doughnuts
(As read by Orson Welles)

Orson sat there at the table, looking at them in all their glazed innocence. They lie on the table, on a bright bone china plate festooned with blue lilies, golden buttercups, and a never-ending circle of ivy. He had taken care to stack them into a crude pyramid, being ever so careful not to brush off as much as a crumb of sweet sugar from their delicate skin. He watched them, gazing out over his massive girth, his eyes slowly filling with wonder as he beheld this tantalizing sight.

He had bought them at the local Krispy Kreme earlier, although it had taken every single bit of energy he could muster to shamble his six-foot, one and one-half-inch, four hundred pound body the half a block to the doughnut shop. He slid sideways through the doors and slowly approached the counter.

"Give me a dozen of your finest glazed!" he growled at the short, vaguely attractive, blonde doughnut woman behind the counter. She smiled vapidly, did a small, insincere curtsy, and dove her head into the magical doughnut case to retrieve the shining trophies.

She handed him the box and the change from the twenty he'd slapped on the counter, not so much out of anger or impatience as from general weariness.

"Come again," she chirped as he slowly navigated the front door. He looked back at her, ran two thick fingers through his graying beard and said, "I'll be back when I'm ready, you doughnut tart!"

The journey back seemed twice as long. It always does, because the anticipation of gaining the prize is only half as titillating as the feeling of holding the mystical green and white box under your arm, knowing that inside were twelve of the sweetest morsels known to consumerist civilization. He held in his heavy mitts treasure that would drive some men to fateful distraction. Cops would mercilessly beat jaywalkers, just to get to them. Homer Simpson would've killed him, Marge, Maggie, Lisa, and gutted Bart alive for them. He clutched them, but not so strongly as to bruise the luscious pastries inside.

And now, here they were, sitting on the table, stacked with as much geometric precision as his tired, massive fingers could muster.

This was always the most difficult part. Should he eat them one at a time, every so often, letting them gently wash over him the day or two before they became stale? Should he devour them in a single sitting, becoming dangerously intoxicated with their sugary, bleached flour and hydrogenated vegetable oils? Or, just perhaps, should he resist the awful temptation of these wicked, circular, artery-blocking devils, as his doctor repeatedly warned him to, and settle for the healthful benefits of a fine Paul Masson wine, sipped in temperate moderation?

He looked at them again. Their perfect circularity reminded him of wide, staring eyes. They were not ordinary eyes. They were not the slightly closed eyes of the jaded, grass-mowing, middle-class suburbanites that he passed on his trek to the shop. They were not the olive-shaped, longing eyes of the bikini-clad young woman, staring past him and at the young delivery man across the street, as she slowly tanned in the sweltering July sun.

These were eyes without lids, without pupils, without souls behind them. They were wide, uncaring, soulless, sugar-encrusted, eyes. They were windows into the dark and empty recesses of his own soul. They gazed at him and he at them in an endless, over-sweetned circle of energy, like a videocamera pointed at a monitor displaying the image that the videocamera is actually taping and getting that really annoying repeated effect. You know what I mean.

That wasn't the worst of it though. In the back of his mind, just over the hum of the central air and the light whirr of the oscillating fan in a corner of the kitchen, he thought he could hear singing. "Do doughnuts have voices?" he asked himself. He laughed out loud at the thought of it, but his laugh was followed by the same eerie sound. There were voices in the room. They were calling to him, calling him by name and crying for him to embrace them in all their nectareous fullness. They sang like sirens, small, round, toothsome mermaids without tails or heads or really any part of what you would find on a mermaid, including the ridiculous sea-shell bras.

He tried to resist. He tried to think of something else, to turn away from the sugar-glazed temptresses.

"Ignore them!" he thought, desperately. "Turn away from their hell of glaze and sweet-bready caloric torments disguised as sugary delights! Embrace life!" he muttered to himself. "Embrace a life without doughnuts!"

He turned to the nearby refrigerator. He reached out and easily opened the door. In truth, he had chosen a home with a kitchen so small that he could sit at the table in the centre of it and reach the fridge, the stove, and the table without so much as inching towards the edge of his chair or even fully extending his arm. He reached into the refrigerator and, momentarily refreshed and strengthed by the jolt of cool air enveloping his arm, grabbed at the first thing he could get his hands on.

Unfortunately, it was a jumbo pizza, with pepperoni, sausage, olives, anchovies and extra-cheese. He harriedly pushed it back into the door, desperate for something healthful, for something worthwhile to free him from the purgatory of the doughnuts. His brow beaded in sweat, he clasped his hand around something made of cold glass and he drew it from the fridge. It was a large jar of kosher dill pickles.

He sat it on the table besides the doughnuts. He tried to look at only the jar, as though it were the only thing in the room. He concentrated on the condensation forming on the jar, then on the briny cucumbers inside. It was to no avail. The neatly stacked doughnuts hovered brightly in the background, plain to see and drawing his vision to their tempting, crusty booty. "Damn my superior sense of mise'-en-scene!" he thundered, and held his head in his hands, sweat gathering between his gargantuan fingers. In the background, the doughnuts continued to mercilessly sing, to endlessly torment him with their lure.

It was then that he suddenly saw a way out. He realized that there was only one hope, only one chance. He must destroy that which tormented him. He quickly thought of how to do it.

"Toss them to the floor?"

No, no, he was a firm advocate of the three-second rule, and in a moment of weakness might snatch them up again and in a frenzy of hunger devour them and any lint on the untidy kitchen floor.

"Dump them into the rubbish-disposal?"

This was also too risky. It would take too long, leaving him precariously exposed to the temptation of scarfing down a doughnut or two, perhaps triggering an avalanche of doughnut devouring. Plus, the disposal might throw up crumbs and hit him in the mouth, driving him insane with the fleeting taste of the lost morsels.

His mind was a torrent of desperate, quicksilver thoughts, all backed by the incessant sound of the doughnuts' pleading chorus. The room seemed to swirl around him and the doughnuts as he sat there, torn between morbid desire and reasonable dietary planning.

His heart was racing now. The song of the doughnuts reached a crescendo. He raised a massive hand over them.

"I'll crush you, then!" he cried, over the doughnuts chorale. "I'll crush you, my cruiller antagonists!"

This last, awful pun surprised him. Despite himself, he laughed out loud. At first it was a blurt of laughter, but then it began to flow out of him like a happy river. He laughed and laughed and laughed. He chortled and guffawed, chuckled and howled in belly-aching laughter. Then, to his amazement, the awful singing of the doughnuts gently vanished back into the whirr of air-conditioning.

He sat there, his hand looming over the doughnuts, and thought at how absurd his situation was. "They're just pastries! They can't stare at me! They don't have voices or sing!"

He laughed again. He began to wonder if it had all been some fever-dream brought on by his anticipation of a sweet, midday snack, or perhaps the torrid imaginings of a body, weary from a trudging half-block pilgrimage to the doughnut shop.

He suddenly realized that he was very tired. This thought amused him also, but then it began to steadily and rapidly panic him, as he suddenly realized that he was so weary that he could not withdraw his hand from above the donuts. Not only that, but his massive paw was steadily dropping, from exhaustion, towards the glazed pyramid below. In horror, straining to redirect his hand, he watched it unremittingly gather speed, summoned by the antipathetic clutch of gravity, until it finally crashed into the doughntus, crushing and scattering them into unrecognisable pulp and crumbs, across the kitchen table and unto the floor.

No three-second rule would save them. They were obliterated into inedible nothingness. They were gone... destroyed. He sat there, looking at the sugary desolation with immense sadness. Then, in the back of his mind again, he could hear the voices from before, but there was no song for him now. They were not calling him, nor tempting him with sweet music.

The doughnuts were screaming.

He sat in shock, his ears full of this new terrible noise. He looked again at the awful disaster before him. A tear gently tricked down his enormous cheek and into his grey, sweaty beard. He shuddered at the dissonant shrieking that echoed through his troubled head.

Finally, after a seeming age, it ended. There was nothing but silence ...fearful, penetrating silence. He sat there for a long while, his eyes misty and his hand unpleasantly caked with doughnut muck. Then, with dreadful resolve, he at last did the only thing left to him, the one remaining thing he knew he must do.

He ate the entire jar of pickles.
And the pizza, too.


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Sunday, June 24, 2007

The next 30 rounds are on William!

Prince William has acquired the inheritance bequeathed by his late mother, Princess Diana.

William came into his share of the inheritance upon reaching his 25th birthday on Thursday. (Which reminds me.... On behalf of The Dictionary of Unfortunate Ideas, Happy Birthday, Your Royal Highness... no, no, I'm not sucking up for handouts, although the readership would most definitely go up here were we to receive some sort of royal sanction or seal. Give it some thought, Your Royalness. We could put a nice picture of you somewhere prominently on the site.)

The total amount William now has, after payments on estate tax and investment gains, is around £9 million. That's about $18 million U.S. and around $200 billion Canadian, or at least will be by the time I finish this post. I'd need a small supercomputer to calculate the value in pesos.

So, the question that's out there amongst the royal-watching public is - just what would a highly popular, world-famous, regal 25 year-old do with suddenly acquired vast sums of money? Oh, I'm sure Buckingham will tell the media that HRH will invest the sums frugally with Britain's finest banques and financial institutions, but we here at DOUI don't believe that for a second.

Having said that, here are our predictions for a royal spending spree.

  • £200,000 for that Lamborghini he's always wanted, the one that comes fully loaded with CD player, GPS, On-Star, and an Italian actress with legs long enough to strangle a giraffe.
  • £60,000 for Bill Clinton's private seminar on picking up "American chicks in the line of government duties."
  • £1,500,000 for a huge do with all his friends, hangers-on, and several birds he met down at the local pub. This will mark the 3rd one this month.
  • £10,000 for a year's supply of Scotch Eggs.
  • £350,000 to reacquire John "The Elephant Man" Merrick's skeleton from Michael Jackson. Not only will this bring Merrick's remains rightfully back to his home nation, but it will save them from all the repeated "sleepovers" at Jackson's estate, NeverNeverLand.
  • £1,000,000 donation to HRH's favourite comedy blog, The Dictionary of Unfortunate Ideas. (It's worth a try, although I'm not holding my breath after the Michael Jackson joke.)
  • £250 for unpaid parking violations, from parking in the Queen's space at Windsor.
  • £15,000 to have Camilla surreptitiously sterilised...just in case.
  • £500,000 to appear in the next Harry Potter film as himself, though he will request that his credit read: "Mysterious Royal Babe Magnet."
  • £50,000 to have Prince Harry locked in The Tower if he ever dares put on that Nazi costume again (although The Queen has actually volunteered to do that for free).
  • £20,000 to have Britain's Got Talent Champion Paul Potts sing at his Christmas party. An extra hundred quid if he performs the "Numa Numa" song.
  • £2,000 to have all the "I'm a Prince, Fancy a Shag?" bumper stickers, the ones that Harry put there as a prank, peeled off all his cars.
  • £100,000 to HM Queen Elizabeth to pay off all his croquet gambling debts.

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I'm gobsmacked

Thierry Henry is leaving Arsenal for Barcelona.

Stupid git.

You may think that's a rather cruel and thankless thing to say about the player who has been Arsenal's best player of all time. To be sure, I'm thankful for the time the Gunners have had the amazing Mr. Henry prowling the pitch at Highbury and Ashburton Grove, the 2 league titles, 3 FA Cups, and Champions League Finalist run (losing to the aforementioned club from Catalonia) and all the fantastic goals he's scored.

However, I don't think he realises that he's no longer going to be the focus of the team he's on. Barca are Ronaldinho's team. He's their undisputed leader, so much so that when he and Samuel Eto'o had a bit of a row earlier in the year, it was Eto'o's name that was immmediately floated out on the transfer rumour mill. Henry's going to be one of 4 highly regarded attacking players (Ronaldinho, Eto'o, and Messi being the others) and given how he occasionally struggled in the French side with the focus being on Zidane, I'm not sure he won't chafe a bit at being the number 2 man at Barca.

On top of that, he gave as his reason the departure of David Dein, Arsenal's longtime Vice-Chairman. Dein was forced out after some disagreements about a takeover bid by American billionaire Stan Kronke. The rest of the board were against the bid, and Dein was for it. Well, as it turns out, Chairman Peter Hill-Wood and Managing Director Keith Edelman met with Kronke a few days a go and said that they could work with him. You'd think such a pronouncement might open the door for Dein's return, especially considering that he remains a prominent shareholder in the club.

So, Thierry's rationale and explanations ring flat as a Cristiano Ronaldo dive.

He's a great player, and all Arsenal fans, including this one, will dearly miss him and wish him well personally (just don't expect me to pull for Barca, the filching blaggards), but his leaving now will only hurt the club he professes to love. I also predict that Barcelona will struggle to find enough time and touches for all four of their offensive stars. Like the "Galacticos" of Real Madrid, I rather expect they will underperform instead of taking La Liga by storm.

Even more troubling is that Henry suggested that his leaving was prompted by Arsene Wenger's refusal to commit past next season. Arsenal cannot afford to lose "The Professor." He alone, amonst all the club, is irreplacable.

At least the U.S. won the Gold Cup today. Benny Feilhaber's winning volley was world-class, as cracking a shot as I've seen from someone in the red, white, and blue. Now, if only England can turn around their fortunes in European Championship qualifying.

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