Seth Herzog at Sweet. Sound effects by David Wain.


Okay call me Richard Beltzer, but after passing this crime scene yesterday, I deduced that some pretty sleazy shit had gone down. I could not however be 100% positive. All I had was a Lexus with a smashed rear window parked on the curb next to a fire hydrant. I needed better evidence that douchebaggery had been afoot.


So I peeked into the front window and lo and behold, hanging from the rear view mirror was the missing piece to the puzzle.


That’s right, it’s an Ed Hardy air freshener. Musta been a helluva meth binge.
(btw, what does an Ed Hardy air freshener smell like? I’m guessing coconut and sperm.)

Here’s a Hall and Oates classic. The opening keyboards pretty much sum up the 1980s. Melanie Samarasinghe described Daryl Hall’s singing style perfectly: “He just gets so into it.”

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It’s funny when you see a dog barking and the owner’s like, “Oh I know, Sparky, I know,” like they know. Truth…you don’t know. Right now your dog probably wants to dry hump a beanbag chair or shit out a spool of twine. Or maybe he wants to know why people keep talking to him like he’s a friggin’ idiot. Whatever’s going on in that pea-brained dog head of his, I’m sure you don’t know what it is, so don’t tell him you know. He doesn’t understand you. And If he did, he’d probably tell you why he’s barking.

This woman wrote the word “MUSIC” on her hand. I thought it was somewhat of a broad reminder. Like she was saying to herself,
“If you hear a strange noise coming from your headphones or out of a car or in a department store, DO NOT PANIC, it is just music.”
It’s like writing the words “DOGS WITH WIGS” on your hand in case you get sad during the day, you have a reminder that when dogs wear wigs, it makes you happy.

Ok, I know it’s been over a year since Obama’s game changing campaign for presidency. I also know it’s been over a year since every other prankster with Photoshop doctored the ubiquitous Shepard Fairey “Change” poster and made it their facebook profile pic. In retrospect, that shit was HILARIOUS. But I haven’t learned Photoshop, and my sense of humor has always been a bit out of date (4 REO Speedwagon references per stand-up set), so I ask YOU, the viewer, to travel back and imagine how knee-slappingly uproarious my face would have looked on that poster. Just imagine it. Close your eyes. Got it? Pretty good, right? Well I’ll up the ante. Imagine now that instead of the word “CHANGE,” it said “BALLS.” Really gotcha now, don’t I?
Here are some tools to help you with the imagination process..


I was wrong.


My once writing partner Albertina and I used to write a column called “Tooshay”. Kind of a smart-assy “he said/she said” thing. Here are a couple of them..

read more…

Saw this outside friend’s apartment.


Does your 1 1/2 year-old need a dose of discipline? Is he or she constantly muttering unintelligible things to you like “juice pweez” and “need go poddy”? How’s her confidence? Does she cower in the face of street danger? And how’s his focus? Is he constantly staring out the window when you’re talking to him about politics?

Well this poster I saw on 23rd St. for the Professional Tae Kwon Do School for Children might be the answer to your child’s problems. Time for Junior to start earning some respect in the sandbox.

Check out Matty B if you need a one-douchebag band for your wedding.


Gatorade had Michael Jordan, Priceline had Shatner, and now…..

BRAIN has this guy.

The strategists for BRAIN wanted Manson but apparently couldn’t negotiate a day pass, so after combing the audience of an Animal Collective show, BRAIN’s new poster boy was discovered. And boy does he make an impact. For me, after seeing what a 24-pack of whip-its for lunch can do to one’s general appearance, I went home and read Atlas Shrugged twice just to give the old egg a needed workout. Thanks BRAIN guy for reminding me that I like shirts. By the way, for those who disappointed their parents by not becoming doctors or lawyers, please forward them this picture to remind them that you didn’t become this.

BRAIN. Because the mind is a terrible thing to wear around your neck.

NBC is really making a mess of late night, no? Kinda wish Conan would bring it back home. Here’s his studio at 30 Rock after he cleared his things (btw it now belongs to Dr. Oz- sad). I snuck in and clipped this shot a few months ago when I was doing a job for Jimmy Fallon across the hall.


oh and also,
I was recently on vacation with my family where I played hundreds of games of Connect Four with my 4-year old nephew. Believe it or not, I beat him every time, and right before I beat him every time, I thought to myself, “Should I let him win? Might be good for his confidence.” But then the voice piped in like a Cobra Kai sensei telling me to “FINISH HIM!” and I’d drop the last checker. Selfish and cruel yes, but what about my confidence? How could I let a weak, barely educated nose-picker take me down in a game made out of yellow plastic? Which inspired this ad idea:
Because making kids feel dumb, makes you feel smart.
I’m still trying to sort out how I feel about Starburst tropical flavors, so how am I supposed to decide how to feel about your crappy gold Nissan Maxima?
Ok fine, hate it.
Picture 1


What if you were gang raped by theme park employees on a Friday? Wouldn’t you want it to always be Thursday? When everything was right with the world.


I’d scrape a dollar fifty out of my couch and go by one at the corner bodega.
Or blow an alpaca.
Pick one and get rid of that pesky white girlfriend of yours.




My mother used to be the sweetest woman in the world. So why in her sixties has she turned truck driver on me? Mom visited me recently from San Diego and I noticed behavioral changes early in the week. Spitting more. Whistling at construction workers. And when I took her picture one morning, she held up this mug with a sarcastic grin. Is she being passive aggressive or just downright lewd? Then when she returned home to San Diego, she sends me this disgusting phallic image taken from her backyard garden, writing, “Thanks for your hospitality last week. Look at the enormous squash I came home to.” Gross MOM! Keep it up and I’ll make sure someday your nursing home’s water heater “breaks down” every Sunday like clockwork.

Playskool’s Darth Tater is an homage to Darth Vader, the evil antagonist in George Lucas’ Star Wars trilogies. Lucas was excited with the toy’s release saying, “If Darth Vader was a potato, this is exactly what he’d look like.” Lucas denied selling out the Dark Lord claiming that Darth Vader was originally written as a potato but through time became a corrupt cyber-man to fit the rest of the story.
Star Wars fans were apprehensive to see their favorite ruler of the Dark Side in spud form. Hasbro claimed that Darth Tater “is every bit as menacing as Darth Vader because he comes with a light saber, cape and helmet. It’s just his torso that’s in the shape of a potato.”
Children’s focus groups indicate that kids will continue to live in fear of Darth Vader despite the big red lips, schnoz and a tuber-shaped body. Reports say, kids who dislike the taste of potatoes will be even more frightened by the toy.

New York City is a wonderful place for Halloween. There’s the parade, masquerade parties and the general lot of freaks in the streets. You can’t tell who’s in costume and who’s dressed as a silver cowboy for tips?

I saw some far-out shit last night. These were my favorites:

Sexy cat

Skanky hamster

Slutty Polyphonic Spree

The cast of “Who’s the Boss” minus Tony Danza and Alyssa Milano

5,401 Puerto Rican guys dressed as the killer from Scream

Rapist (didn’t see his costume last night but heard about him on the news)

Black John Tesh

A beaker of Eskimo urine (so clever)


Happy Halloween!

“Michelob Light for the winner!!!” An 80’s ad anthem encouraging yuppies to deny exhaustion and go all out for one more game of racketball, tennis or Wax-the-Porche 944, simply with the prospect of being bought a crappy light beer. I remember seeing those commercials as a kid thinking, “Why don’t they let kids drink that stuff? Maybe I’d be more inspired to GO FOR IT instead of playing Atari and eating Twizzlers all day. I could be a master of algebra or lead singer of my own Night Ranger cover band. It wasn’t until I was 19 that I had my first Michelob Light and realized that those commercials were lying. I didn’t want to kick ass at racketball for another one, I wanted to smoke a cigarette. Maybe I needed to hear that song while I was drinking.

Your move, Drew.


I have someone subletting my apartment because why not? I love couches.

Currently I’m sleeping on a grayish green sectional in Dumbo. It’s the perfect length for my toboggan-like physique and firm like the buttock of a California governor. The best part is the disgustingly cute Burmese cat named Fredo that lives there. He wakes me up by licking my nose. “Hee hee, stop it Fredo, that tickles, okay okay, I’m up, jeez.” Every morning.

My last couch was a pull-out in Carroll Gardens. No cat but a free NY Times delivered every morning in a blue plastic bag. Nothing like photos of angry Iraqis first thing in the morning to get your blood flowing. And who gives a shit about the Metro Section? Am I right New Yorkers?

Before that, I was staying with a good friend also in Carroll Gardens. While there we slept in the same bed. She’s a girl! We slept in the same bed! AND she slept bra-less! But with a sweater. Nothing happened. We were like two spoons on opposite ends of a silverware drawer. Me a soup spoon and her a spoon without a bra.

Before that, I had a Queen-sized bed and my own room in a paid-for luxury apartment. It was okay.

Thursday, I move back home after four long months. Back with my cat who doesn’t lick my nose in the morning but has soft stripes and a pink nose. There really is no place like home. Except for the places that aren’t your home.

BTW, I’m glad baseball season is over.

My mother lives in Southern California and was forced to evacuate her house last night because of the wildfires. read more…

My friends find my constant name-dropping to be annoying, but I just can’t help it. Halle Berry. I really can’t help it. John COCKSUCKING TRAVOLTA!! I have NDT: Name Dropping Tourette’s. I don’t even like half the names I drop, but I DANE COOK drop them anyway. I hate this stupid FISHER STEVENS condition. KATIE Crrrrackhead C-C-C-COURIC! Sometimes when I legitimately try to drop a name, my NDT will kick in and I’ll end up dropping the wrong Harry shhhhitballs Connick DOUCHEBAG JR. name, which makes me look like an idiot. FLEA! For instance, I went to Peter Dinklage’s wedding. For Randy Jackson real. When I tell the story of the wedding, and how Peter married BRUCE VILANCH a very lovely girl named Rosie O’O’O’O’Beeatch ..Erica, I don’t tell it coherently. I end up shouting other PHIL friggin’ MICKELSON names out, which totally confuses the MITT God Damn ROMNEY listener as to who the famous person getting married was and who he was SONUVA b-b-BATMAN marrying. I hate this Sting Sting stupid Sting condition. Joey Fatone. Sting.

A couple years ago, a provision in an unresolved spending bill by Congress gave legislative aides access to individuals’ income tax returns. Who was responsible for writing this insane provision, and how did it almost go unnoticed? I do not have the answers to these questions, but one of my Washington sources recently came across a copy of this 3-thousand page spending omnibus bill in a Congressman’s dumpster, and I read it. Let me tell you, Congress peeking at your tax returns should be the least of your worries, America. Take a look at some of the other unsettling provisions I found in the bill:

-“Members of Congress may enter your home and fiddle with your thermostat.”

-“U.S. Senators may cheat at solitaire and take credit for a win.”

-“Congress has the right to determine defense spending ironically.”

-“Every four years, Republican Senators will lead the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade with their balloon: ‘John Murtha in a Bikini.’”

-“Education will be funded with loose change from illegal immigrants’ couches.”

-“Senate Majority Leader decides who will be the Last Comic Standing!”

-“Congress has the right to veto rock with scissors.”

-“The last Eggo always goes to the House.”

I want to congratulate Ashley Bellingham, a sophomore at Auburn University, for winning the “Write the Last Scene of The Sopranos” contest. read more…

Some of my favorite phobias:

(these are all real)
Cathisophobia- Fear of Sitting. “Window or Aisle?” “AAAHHHHH NEITHER!!!”
Lutraphobia- Fear of Otters. “1 bdrm avl. Aug 1. Non-smoking, single, male. Must hate otters.”
Ithyphanllophobia-Fear of Seeing, Thinking about, or Having an Erect Penis. “Lap Dance?” “Not unless you want me to shit my pants.”
Consecotaleophobia- Fear of Chopsticks. “I’ll have the hot & sour soup and…a fortune cookie.”
Metrophobia- Fear of Poetry. “Roses are red, violets…” “You say another word, I yell rape.”

Here are some more hilariously sad conditions…
Defecaloesiophobia- Fear of Painful Bowel Movements
Arachibutyrophobia- Fear of Peanut Butter Sticking to the Roof of your Mouth
Zemmiphobia- Fear of the Great Mole Rat
Dextrophobia- Fear of Objects at the Right Side of the Body
Aulophobia- Fear of Flutes

And of course Panophobia- Fear of EVERYTHING. Guilty!

Here’s to a healthy state of mind.

I found what I call a “cinnapretzel” (pretzel with Cinnabun baked into center) at an AMC 12plex concession stand in Escondido, California.

I’ve waited a long time for this. All I want to know is what was the hold-up?

I want to know why in-house chefs at movie theaters don’t exercise creativity like this on a regular basis. I mean, popcorn with butter, nachos with cheese, Milk Duds with box. I’m over it! When I’m watching Will Smith shoot alien rat-donkeys, I want both sweet and salty sensations together in one god damn bite. I’m an American god dammit!! I don’t have time to alternate popcorn, Twizzler, popcorn, Twizzler. What do I look like, a friggin’ snack juggling clown?? I want salty dough and frosting- BAM! in one shot. Is that so much to ask?

More suggestions for great salty/sweet combos at the movie theater:

-Glazed Salmon and Caper Donut
-Curly Fry Ice Cream
-Raisinette Chowder
-Cinnabun baked into Pork Chop
-Jock strap Cupcake

There’s a new asshole in town. They call him the Douchebag and he’s here for the long haul.
Some people think that assholes and douchebags are one and the same. Not true. The word “asshole,” becoming prominent in the late 60s, refers to a person, typically male, who intentionally behaves like…well… like an asshole. Whether he’s the guy cutting you off in his Beemer, your delinquent ex-husband or Donald Trump.
The word “douchebag,” employed by sophisticated linguists since the early 80s, is fairly new to the mainstream and casts a wider net than the word “asshole.” A douchebag is by nature an asshole but takes being an asshole a step further. A douchebag can also be someone clueless of his own douche-y behavior. You’ll see him singing along to Mony Mony, attaching a spoiler to his IROC-Z or starring in The Real World: Denver. Basically, all assholes can be considered douchebags, but all douchebags are not exactly assholes.
It’s time for everyone to accept the word “douchebag.” The earth is packed too tightly with idiots to be limited to only one major pejorative moniker. And I realize that some of you are uncomfortable saying “douchebag” because of its literal definition, but think of what “asshole” means literally. You don’t have a problem throwing around that expression at a hockey game. We’ve gotten used to the term “asshole” and we’ll get used to “douchebag.” Our modern-day vocabulary demands it. Join me in utilizing it to its full potential.

I’m calling for the Bloggers Guild of America to strike immediately. It’s time we as bloggers unite as a people and demand compensation for the posting of our daily reflections. Three, sometimes four times a week we blog to a vast audience consisting of ourselves, parents and bored friends at work all over the world (wide web). Literally tens of hundreds of people skim over our half-thoughts every year and we’re not given a dime! I’m tired of being on my computer every other day, slaving over personal musings for a measly 2 comments per month (thanks Randy). Comments aren’t worth shit! Can you pay your gas bill with comments? Ever buy a lap dance by remarking to the stripper, “You’re writing really brightens my day (-:”??   NO!

Bloggers should not only insist upon base compensation, but residuals for content reuse as well. How often has someone repeated something from your blog to a co-worker for a good laugh? At least once! The blogger should be reimbursed for that laugh. Even if it was a nervous laugh because the co-worker had just stolen a case of binder clips from the supplies closet. A laugh’s a laugh. Bloggers are being cut out of a very lucrative equation. And what about DVD royalties???

I am personally striking the moment I finish this hilarious entry. I’m sick of being taken for granted. My friend Albertina doesn’t feel the same. She thinks blogging is just a way to familiarize the public with your work and become more disciplined as a writer. I think she’s naive. I’m an entertainer, like Dane Cook or Paula Abdul. I do the same things they do, but they drive Porsches and I get carpal tunnel syndrome? No more! It’s time for change. The blog stops here.

I’m OUT!!

My cat can’t talk. So she finds alternative ways to tell me she loves me.


JunkiesOkay I know it’s not nice to take pictures of people without their permission but these two people were asleep so what was I supposed to do, wake them up to sign a release form? Okay I also know it’s not right to make fun of addicts but hear me out.

I saw this Wonder Duo in Union Square Park at 1:30pm on Tuesday nodding off in between potato chip bites. Obviously whacked out of their minds on crack or heroin, they were just puddles of people. At one point, a friend of theirs approached them to say hi. The couple woke up and languidly shook hands with him. The friend then began telling them a story, about what I do not know, but he was really delivering it with passion and vehemence.

As he spoke, the couple kept nodding off. Jeez, that poor guy. He probably spent all day crafting that story. He’s also probably a guy who’s self-conscious about how people respond to his presence. Like it’s something he discusses with his therapist every week. In fact he had probably just come from a therapy session where his shrink was giving him pointers on how to make a splash in social situations- “make eye contact, be excited about telling your story, speak with confidence, use physical gestures to drive home a point..” etc. So for the first time, he was out trying these suggestions on people he knew, and those two crack heads fell asleep on him five seconds after he started talking! The damage that must have done. He’ll probably never talk to another person ever again. Poor fella.

So my lesson here isn’t to not do heavy drugs. It’s to not be friends with people who do heavy drugs. They’ll make you feel bad about your people skills. Then you’ll probably go do heavy drugs.


After seeing this t-shirt in Urban Outfitters, my friend Albertina and I came up with some other ideas, keeping with the theme.

“I’m With Palsy”

“My Parents Went To Cancun and All I Got Was Multiple Sclerosis”

“Epileptics Do It Better”

“No Shoes, No Shirt, It’s Malignant”

“If You Can Read This You Have Hep-C”

Happy Birthday.
You never hesitate to tackle the most difficult problems.
33 14 18 15 46 37

Still not married? Oy. Happy Birthday.

Feliz Birthday!
I’ll ship you a gift when I’m across.

Ess-a-Your Birthday!
Fresh ground pepper?

Happy Birthday even though you live in Turkmenistan.

Thank you Speak, for saying/rapping/wailing what I couldn’t find the courage to.


60 Minutes did a story on Sunday about the government’s “No Fly” list. It’s supposed to be an intelligence document used to prevent terrorists from boarding planes. The list however contains so many names (over 44 thousand) that it seems as if someone was trying to cover his ass by bulking it up rather than creating a comprehensive record of potential threats. I went online and found this 734-page document, randomly chose one page and transcribed it here for you:

-Mohammed Faisal Abdul
-Mohammed Paula Abdul
-Guy who sang “Moon Shadow”
-Freddy “Boom Boom” Washington
-The Terminator
-The Yankees (Go Orioles!)
-Amanda Johnson (and all dick-teases)
-People traveling with small, loud children
-Ugly flight attendants
-People who don’t like Dr. Pepper.
-People who think they’re the shit for solving high-difficulty Sudokus quickly
-The Dave Matthews Band


Don’t Let IMPOTENCE Ruin Your Sex Life? Tell me then, what is impotence going to do to your sex life? “Honey I’m limp again! Let’s have some sex!” Let’s be serious. Your sex life is ruined.

This ad is like saying: “Don’t let STARVATION ruin your appetite.”


Joey Billings was the last American to take advantage of Cash for Clunkers before the $1 billion govt appropriation tapped out on July 30th. Mr. Billings traded in his 2007 fart guzzling Big Wheel for a fuel efficient, 2009 Big Wheel equipped with GPS (Girl-Proof System), satellite Speak-and-Spell and juice cup holder. In light of the program going bust, the Secretary of Transportation expressed his regret for making Cash for Clunkers available to people who eat boogers.


Illegal downloading. Unethical? I’m still torn. Part of me is the broke music fan who enjoys his eclectic mp3 collection made possible in-part by shady file sharing sites. Yes I download music illegally, but I rationalize my actions based on the idea that music will always be available for free on one site or another, so why pay? It’s practically an obsolete concept. It’s like why people smoke pot- we know it’s illegal, but the risk is low and the return is high (no pun intended) so why deny ourselves the pleasure? I would certainly pay if I had to. I’m a true fanatic. Not because of its availability, but because I can’t live without it. And if the music industry (not the artists) were smart enough, they’d come up with alternate ways to make us shell out money for their precious hard materials. Instead they go around busting kids for ripping Justin Timberlake tracks off Limewire. The music industry is wasting its energy. Put it towards something productive like offering us new services that we’re willing to pay for. Trying to shut down all illegal downloading sites is like trying to cure gay people.

The other side of me is an artist. One that has struggled for many years to get paid for his work. When I was younger, I would create art for myself. It was very personal. Writing was a way to express myself without denouncement from the outside world. As I grew older (and realized that waiting tables was no longer a sane approach to making money), I began to accept the fact that my art had a dollar value and that it was worth trying to sell to the public.

So how would I feel after years spent polishing my craft, arriving at a point where my art was my livelihood, and suddenly people decided they didn’t want to pay anymore (but still wanted to see the show). I think I’d feel used. Maybe I’d feel differently if I’d already had a bunch of money. Most bands don’t. Their art is how they pay for food. They must feel gypped. And obviously I’m aware that illegal downloading can be great exposure for young musicians who would otherwise not have it, that many of those doing the free downloading will eventually pay the price of admission, but I can’t help thinking that there are still artists who feel snubbed by our cavalier behavior. That their generous offerings of sound are being bandied about recklessly without compensation or regard for the source.

I guess my real question is, what would Radiohead do?

I get annoyed when friends call me from rock concerts and hold their cell phones up to the band so I can listen to what I’m missing.

Because I’ve always wanted to hear the Verizon Wireless version of ‘Sussudio’ – embellished with static and call-waiting beeps. And what song’s complete without you singing along drunk to the chorus? AAAAND who needs a song to fade out when your crappy phone will just drop the call.

Seriously though, next time you decide to rock me out through your mobile, save your minutes. You’re only torturing my eardrums and reminding me that I’m too broke to be there myself. And I’m trying to watch So You Think You Can Dance right now so tell Phil I’ll call him back.

We can be sure that all hipsters share two constants: they all wear dirty, ripped jeans two sizes too small and they all worship Lou Reed. I’d like to add a third: they’re made of rubber. It’s a theory.
Let me try to prove it. On Saturday, I was at a Television concert in Central Park (an epic hipster event), and saw a pasty young lad sitting shirtless atop the five-foot metal barrier separating the crowd from the stage. This particularly rebellious hipster was trying to figure out how to swing his feet over the fence, hop down to the restricted side and retrieve his hip sunglasses. After four or five seconds pondering his dilemma, he decided “what the fuck” and took a backwards swan dive off the thing landing neck first onto the barrier’s metal base. Ouch, right? Wrong. Young Iggy Pop bounced right off the metal and, like an Olympic dismount, landed squarely on his Chuck Taylors without emoting so much as a grunt. Anyone else would have easily been paralyzed for life. Hipster dude didn’t lose the cigarette dangling from his lips (a rolled Drum of course).
After witnessing this physical feat, I concluded that hipsters are made of rubber. It also explains their general apathy towards life. The reason hipsters’ emotional levels rarely exceed those of a garden hose is because they’re both made from the same material. Rubber. And what about all the tattoos and piercings? I probably wouldn’t be afraid of needles either if my skin was made of a tough elastic polymeric substance.
Anyway, it’s a theory. What theories have you come up with lately?

Who listens to a crappy morning radio show? Who doesn’t feel they have a choice? Me. Next to my bed I have a clock radio alarm clock radio alarm (I have trouble ending that word). I can either wake up to a blaring, high-pitched buzz or to Hawk and the Morning Douchebag. Basically, Hawk and the Morning Douchebag are the same two deplorable, obnoxious personalities shared by every morning disc jockey duo in America: Gary and the Morning Goofball, Dick and the Morning Dick, etc. They’re all schmucks.
Unfortunately NPR doesn’t come in clearly in my bedroom. I’ve tried touching the antenna to everything within its two-foot radius: the bedpost, the lampshade, my nuts. Still static. I just can’t listen to static, even if sophisticated talk radio lies beneath it. And I’ve tried classical music stations, but they just lull me back to sleep. I need to get out of bed in the morning. Morty and the Morning Retard seem to be my only salvation.

To get a job as a morning disc jockey, you must answer yes to the following questions:

1. Do you annoy everyone you talk to?
2. Do you believe that a story about the war in Iraq is told better with fart noises?
3. Are you homophobic?

I need to invent one of those contraptions where my clock strikes 7am prompting a chicken to lay an egg that rolls down a ramp landing on a balance that flicks a switch on a fan that blows a toy sailboat across some water hitting a button triggering a pair of scissors to snip a string releasing a mallot smashing me in the head.

That would be way more satisfying than listening to morning radio.

My friend Ted just became the drummer for the Meat Puppets. In case you don’t know who the Meat Puppets are, go to iTunes and download the songs “Backwater” and “Lake of Fire.” The Meat Puppets, in addition to being Kurt Cobain’s favorite band, were my friend Ted’s favorite band as a teenager. Now he’s their drummer. Heavy. I mean think of your favorite band growing up, then imagine yourself on that poster from your bedroom wall, posing shirtless, twirling a drumstick, spray-spitting Jack Daniels into the atmosphere. That’s Ted now.
And he didn’t audition. He was sound-engineering a documentary about the Meat Puppets in Austin, and one day the band’s delinquent drummer was a no-show for rehearsal (again) and Ted, a proficient drummer as well as being familiar with the Puppets’ full songbook, offered to sit in. They gave him the job.
Last time I hung out with Ted, he taught me a term that I fell in love with: MICROWAVING. In the dating world, microwaving is when you call up an ex-girlfriend (or boyfriend) for sex. Ya know, like you’re heating up an old dish. I couldn’t believe I’d never heard the expression, especially because the existence of my sex life had relied on it for the past year. I had always called it “ex-sex.” One weekend, an ex of mine and I had sex 22 times in one weekend to the song “I Need You Tonight.” It was ex-sex in excess to INXS.
Anyway, discovering “microwaving” made me think of Sniglets. A singlet is a “word that should be in the dictionary, but isn’t” (ex: Furnidents: The indentations left in carpet after moving heavy furniture. Blivet: to flip your pillow looking for a cool spot. ARG (Audio Retinal Gyration): The act of trying to read the label on a LP record while it’s playing on a turntable.) Sniglets were invented by Rich Hall, a comedian and cast member of SNL and Not Necessarily the News back in the early eighties. Sniglets cracked me up when I was a kid. I watched Not Necessarily the News every week just for Rich Hall’s Sniglet segment. They were brilliant observations delivered by this quirky guy with a funny lisp. Rich Hall paved the way for Jerry Seinfeld.
I’ve performed several times with Rich Hall over the past few years and have become pretty good friends with him. We try to book dates together at the Riviera Comedy Club in Vegas when our schedules allow.
So I was thinking, Rich Hall is my Meat Puppets. He was an icon of my childhood and he’s now part of my adult life. Funny how that happened. I guess what it says about life is that passion and doing what you love eventually puts you on a poster or marquis with your hero. I don’t know if that’s always the case. It’s just a theory I came up with via the word “microwaving.” Certainly, determination to copulate with someone other than an ex-girlfriend does not always put you in that position. I’ll have to come up with a new theory for that one.