Obama, Oprah and Mandela on the Line

President: Get me 'O' on the phone.

White House Operator: Obama?

President: I'M Obama. Get me the other 'O' - Oprah.

White House Operator: Oh.

RING RING RING

O: Hello Barack, you been kicking anyone's ass this morning?

President: Very funny. You should be on television. Look, I need to get media off the BP thing. Any ideas?

O: Invite Princess Fergie to the White House. Get her all likkered up. Give her a briefcase full of cash. That ought to do it.

President: This is not very productive.

O: Rush Limbaugh would say that about your first year in office. What about soccer? Go to South Africa and meet with Mandela.

President: I like that. We can do live remotes to your show, right?

O: Sure. Just get Mandela. Or Justin Bieber. Or Fergie.

President. I can get Mandela. Not sure about Bieber. Can't afford Fergie.

O: Ha. You should be on television. Chow.

CLICK

President: Get me M.

White House Operator: Michelle?

President: Mandela.

White House Operator: Putting you through now.

Mandela: Hello Oprah dear. How are you doing?

President: It's Barack.

Mandela: silence

President: The other 'O'... President Obama.

Mandela: Of course. Barack, my boy, how are you?

President: In need of some good PR. Can we meet at the World Cup?

Mandela: No, I'm too busy meeting with Justin Bieber and Fergie.

President: silence

Mandela: Got ya! 'O' texted me before you called. She sends her love. Ha.

President: You should be on television.

Mandela: You, too. And judging by your approval ratings, you'll have your own show in 2012...


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Black Man or iMan in Black? Jobs Beats Obama

Barack Obama is a tall, thin, black man who controls our nukes. Steve Jobs is a tall, thin man in black who controls our iToys.

Obama is thin because the job is eating his liver. Jobs is thin because he kicked the hell out of pancreatic cancer and then got a new liver as well.

Why does the skinny, black man with the nukes wield less power than the skinny man in black with the iToys? Let's review a few case studies.

Issue: BP destroys the Gulf's economy.

Action: President Obama teleprompts hither and thither, eventually touches a wad of black goo on the beach and looks slightly miffed, then goes all Dirty Harry (lite) about "whose ass to kick."


Issue: An Apple staff member says the iPad or iPhone or iAnything will ship 10 seconds late.

Action: Steve Jobs eats his liver, burns his home, and sells his wife and children into slavery. Oddly, all iToys are shipped on time.


Issue: Those pesky Iranians keep developing their own nukes, thumbing their noses at the UN and the U.S.

Action: The UN has a really looooong meeting. President Obama gives a loooong speech and then goes to a concert, staying "involved and in charge" via his Blackberry. (Meanwhile, Israel is scrambling nuke-laden fighters toward Iran in 5, 4, 3...)


Issue: At least 114,000 i-Pad owners, including White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel, have their information compromised, thanks to AT&T.

Obama action: He texts Rahm: "At least my Blackberry is secure. LOL."

Jobs action: AT&T becomes known as "A", as Steve Jobs rips its T&T to shreds with his teeth. Unsatisfied, he i-diverts Israeli jets to headquarters of the former AT&T, which now looks like downtown Baghdad, but with more holes and sand.


Summary

Being black, or wearing black, is not the deal. Being i-smarter, i-ballsier and eating the occasional liver is what power is all about.

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Oprah and Fergie's Phone Tap Scandal

(May 2010)

Oprah: Sarah dear, what on earth were you thinking?

Fergie: Stand in line, Oprah. Go ahead and beat me up. I've been bagged by every journalist in the UK.

Oprah: And shagged by every sailor in Wales!

Fergie: Well, it takes a tart to know a tart... So what am I going to do now? My attorneys say I have to give back all the cash. That bloody bank transfer isn't going to happen. I have to move out of Andrew's house. And the only asset I have left is the ranch in Argen-freeking-tina. My sponsors have abandoned me as if I were a scandal slut like Tiger Woods.

Oprah: Not to worry, Sarah honey. Here's what we're going to do. You'll come on my show all fat and depressed. Really gorge and let your skin go. We'll start with your mea culpa and tears. Grab them by the throat at the top of the show. So wear lots of mascara, Sarah.

Fergie: Lots of mascara, right.

Oprah: After the first break, will replay your and Andrew’s Royal marriage and then show heaps of footage of you and Princess Diana. We'll really play on the public's love for Di, the skinny cow. I did NOT say that. After the second break we'll talk about your dire finances, how your daughters are such good girls and they're suffering so much. Boo hoo, more tears. More runny mascara. Think Tammy Faye Baker.

Fergie: After all those tears, I’ll be dehydrated. Can we drink champers during the show? That would be a big help.

Oprah: Nope, the FCC would have a cow. Besides, you need to be distraught, all pitiful and hugg-able, not a drunken sow. We'll get sloshed after the show, don't you worry about that.

Fergie: Oh, very well. But what about money? How much will this net me? We're friends, Oprah, but this is business, and I’m really in the schtuck.

Oprah: Plenty. My people will work out the details. Let's just worry about you being pathetic - tears and mascara and blotchy skin. My viewers will forgive anything if you are fat and have blotchy skin!

Fergie: In honesty, O, I still don't see the big deal about selling an introduction to Andrew. I've been doing it for 20 years. I didn’t do anything vulgar, like outing Andrew as a poof. I'd never do that… Should I do that on your show? Out him? Would that rate? How much would that be worth?

Oprah: Let me think about that. We'd gain big in the 18-49 demographic. We'd pull a 5.9 or 6 and sucker punch Judge Judy! Cow. But the Queen would have our guts for garters. No, let’s not ‘out’ Andrew. But maybe in a few weeks he could come on my show and out himself. No THAT would rate! Sarah, how much would you need to arrange that with old Randy Andy?

Fergie: At least $50,000 in cash, and then a wire transfer of half a million, I mean a million. That's sort of my going rate. And, O, you've got to promise that you won't do any secret filming about the money, OK?

Oprah: Sarah dear, of course we'd never do that. So, I'll see you next week. Eat a lot of chocolate and really blob out, sweetheart. You need to be Princess Pathetic. See you then. Mwah.

Oprah hangs up and calls in her assistant.

Oprah: Make sure the surveillance cameras in the green room are HDTV. No wait! Install the new 3-D gear. Just imagine Fergie and her briefcase full of cash in 3-D. Now that would blow Judge Judy right off her bench. Cow.

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Top 10 Cures for Insomnia

1) Lie in bed and count Larry King's ex-wives as they leap over his industrial strength hair.

2) Turn on the Glenn Beck program. On second thought, tune in this guy. Same programming.

3) Men, try to think of a single female politician that you'd like to have insomnia with, if you catch our drift, other than Sarah Palin. Women, try to think of a single male politician who would NOT have insomnia with you given half the chance.

4) Tivo the last episode of 'Lost' and try to 'get it'. Your mind will race like a Cray supercomputer, begin to smoke, and then gently switch off.

5) Lie perfectly still. Balance an Oreo cookie on your nose.

6) Mix Tobasco and Tiger Balm. Put a big dollop directly into your eyeballs and onto your private parts. After the paramedics get you out of the tree, they will give you lovely meds to help you sleep.

7) In your mind, create claymations of Oprah, going back and forth from "little pixie Oprah" to "Moby Oprah", and then back again. And again.

8) Place a baseball bat between you and your partner. Start singing "100 bottles of beer on the wall" or the theme from Batman (nunna nunna nunna nunna nunna nunna nunna nunna nunna Batman!" It will soon be lights out.

9) Think of the most boring teacher you ever had. Imagine being in his classroom. He is leading a panel discussion about taxation. On the panel are Paris Hilton and Joe Biden.

10) Tivo the final of American Idol and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

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BP 'Top-Killed' My Aching Back

I'm typing this with my feet because my back has gone all Quasimodo. Well, that's a slight exaggeration. I'm typing with my nose and one finger, because they have the greatest flexion. Everything else is locked up.

I feel like BP tried to "Top Kill" me, pumping 20 million tonnes of concrete, drilling mud, golf balls, tires, and broken beer bottles down my neck. But, I can't honestly blame BP, although, clearly, they suck.

Primary liability lies with our electric company. We now have to prune our tree limbs away from power lines. This means one has to look UP for two hours while lugging around a 20-foot lopper with a rope that's just slightly too short to grab when the lopper is at maximum extension, which has to be all the time. Middle-age people should not do this.

Oh, I could blame the man cub, because the tree trimming was preceded by cleaning the church, washing the car, picking up 9,000 pounds of moosedawg poop, and mowing the yard - all his duties. But since Junior is gainfully employed today, I shan't blame him. Maybe.

And I can't really blame the 100-pound moosedawg. He is a freak of nature who poops - volume-wise - five time more than he eats. He produces more sludge than BP, plus his special "Good morning!" stomach bile puke and an infinite amount of barks. (Don't EVER ask me to adopt another dog from the pound).

And now, back spasms and shooting neck pains are replacing the Top Kill achey stiffness. So it's either take two .357 bullets and call the doctor in the morning, or swallow OTC meds and take an uber-hot bath... And the bath wins, but this requires blame to be placed. Save us from women on economy sprees.

Bar soap is now out, and the pump thing is in. The first one was actually OK. It pumped a soap-like product, but of course that could not last. The bottle was not pretty and the soap-like substance was not NATURAL.

Now we have natural exfoliating body wash WITH KIWIFRUIT. It is green and filled with 10 billion little black exfoliators. They look too small to be kiwifruit seeds, and none are stuck between my teeth. Honestly, they look like fleas. Floating, dead fleas. That would be the ultimate irony. After spending hundreds of dollars last year to nuke a flea invasion, we are IMPORTING dead fleas in natural body wash to exfoliate away our flesh. Naturally.

So to review:

o my neck and back feel like BP gave me a Top Kill
o the pain is directly traceable to the electric company, the moosedawg, and Junior who, alas, I must blame.
o a crippled middle age man should not have to soak his Quasimodoed body in a three-quarter size bathtub (wife's fault), or scrape away his flesh with kiwifruit seeds or dead fleas (also wife's fault).

Alas, industrial strength Ibuprofen has replaced mother's milk and adult beverages as the chemical of choice in our home. Middle age tends to suck.

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10 Things to do on a Crappy, Rainy Day

It's dark and rainy and crappy outside. What to do?

1) Watch "how to be a blog millionaire" videos on the internet until you want to nuke all internet Wunderkinds.

2) Use your Swiss Army knife to try and scrape off that bump rash thing behind your knee that will NOT go away, despite visits to the skin doctor and buckets of high-cost creams.

3) Go to Facebook. Keep clicking on friends' friends' until you find someone who is a friend of Brett Favre. If you do it in less than 20 clicks, you are a sick person.

4) Listen to the Dean the Stream radio interview and learn everything you ever wanted to know about the mentality of TV sportscasters. (Really, listen to it all.)

5) Google 'Larry King ex-wives', ponder why blondes are dumb as rope, and then understand all by reading this.

6) Entertain yourself by putting the names of former girlfriends into an internet anagram website until it kicks out 'slut' or another dirty word.

7) Brainstorm painful things to do to BP execs, starting with 'A' (annihilate arseholes) - bonus points for two words with the same letter -- and ending with 'Z' (Zip them up in large oil spill bags and drop them into the ocean, still dressed in their $2,000 suits).

8) Google 'Will Rogers Quotes' and try to hold your breath until one of them makes you smile. Then wonder how come you don't know more about him, and how on earth he could be from Oklahoma.

9) Spend 5 minutes trying to think of ANY WAY POSSIBLE to make the American Idol final WORSE than it was this year. This is, of course, impossible, but a way to stimulate your brain that's as effective as playing with a Rubik's Cube or scraping your bump rash thing with a Swiss Army knife.

10) Start the clock. See how long you can go without touching your computer, cellphone/Blackberry, TV, IPod, stereo, or scratching your privates. If you can't last 5 minutes acknowledge that your life REALLY NEEDS WORK.

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We Will Not Stand for 'Man Heels'!

OK, we admit it. I speak for all men in admitting that, as men of the male gender, we have done a few bad things.

War, mullets and making toe lakes while standing up and peeing come to mind.

And 10 cent beer night, fart noises and golf.

OK, maybe add to the list large bore paintball guns, remote controls and really big breast implants.

We accept that women have grounds to feel some resentment toward men. Possibly even to retaliate a little.

So, as a gender, we men did not complain when our world was subjected to abuse or ridicule. No, we bit our tongues till they bled.

In our atonement, we, as men, publicly testified that having a baby is the WORST PAIN IN THE UNIVERSE - way worse than banging your thumb with a ball peen hammer, or even taking a fastball in the goolies (well, it's worse than the thumb banging thing, anyway).

So we've done our mea culpa. We've slept on the couch. We've eaten your Jenny Craig meals. (Lawsy lawsy lawsy).

But there is a point where female retribution against men must cease. Torture must stop.

Yet there is a dark brooding force surrounding us. This malevolent force is attempting to foist the most horrific torture on us that mankind has ever seen.

And we simply cannot stand for it. Our ankles just won't take it. Have mercy...

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