Hey, everybody! It's my Saturday Blog. This is where I get to do what I want and no one is the boss of me and I get to win all the arguments. Sound fun? Let's proceed to watch me examine. But first, my announcer.
LADIES AND GENTLEMAN....LARRY WACHS!
Thanks, loser. Ya know, you'd be a lot thinner if you lost weight.
A DC area home renter came back from his law school classes to find the Comcast technician he had summoned for a bad modem was in the grips of slumber on the good, rented furniture. Brian Finklestein, one of those rare Jewish consumer advocate filmmakers, posted a video of the non-event on YouTube and the resultant wildfire got 'er done as the cable guy was demoted to unemployed by Comcast before he woke up.
The technician claimed he was waiting for the main office to come back on the phone after they put him on hold for about an hour and had dozed off. Seems to me that all Comcast employees were performing their core duties to the letter, but it's easier to fire a guy than come up with a better system and rewrite the manuals.
Good news for the fired technician. Mr. Finklestein checked off "somewhat pleased" next to the question "Did your Comcast technician refrain from snoring?" on the comment card.
Advocates of the Earth continue to get it wrong. It's not the SUV that's killing us. It's the hearse. Hey, if we're going to save lives we're gonna have to break some eggs over some inconvenient truths. We need to ban hearses.
The hearse is a gas guzzler that transports our least productive voters--the dead--on a greenhouse gas emitting parade through the streets before going away for good. And to make matters worse, they go into the ground where they eventually turn into fossil fuels that choke our children and our chickens.
And while we're in smog alert season, the least we can do is combine dead trips. Funeral homes should be required to have buses that can take 50 caskets at a time. Drop them off at the county furnace with all the busted drugs and guns. Put them on a giant claiming carousel like at the airport and let the families say their huzzahs in the corner one last time before the body is released into the arms of Allah.
Big Death will fight it because they only care about money, but let's do something soon. Here it is, July in Georgia, and it's gonna be 94 degrees today. This is getting ridiculous.
That girl, Marlo Thomas was on a radio commercial for St. Jude's Children's Hospital saying, "We can't imagine a world without children." Interesting take from a pro-abortionist.
My parents, already well into their 30s in 1973, and anxious not to get left behind in all the exciting cultural revolutions taking place, snapped up a copy of "Free To Be You and Me" for my sister who was about 5 at the time and desperate for some good information on sexual role playing.
"We're all about helping children," chirps the woman who wrote the kiddie "Communist Manifesto." Help them be what? Unproductive narcissists? Any parent who subjects a child to Mel Brooks and Marlo Thomas talking in baby voices to each other about mutual masturbation should be registered.
Marlo Thomas should celebrate the day her father threatened to go Lebanese on her ass if she went to a sit down with the Viet Cong, like Hank Fonda's kid. What a disgraceful loss of control that was.
Go Agassi! He's on for his final Wimbledon hurrah. My wife claims that he moves the same way I do and it's like watching me on screen. The fact that she's rooting fiercely for him is a good sign for the marriage. A little later I'm gonna go down to Turner Field and say hey to another sports old-timer, Hall of Famer Jim Palmer, now an Orioles broadcaster. He lived in my basement in the late 70s when I was in high school. Times being what they were, people always used to ask me what it was like having a major leaguer living in my basement. Times being what they are now, far more people are interested in hearing what his perspective was on living in MY basement, and I hope he cooperates so I can bring that to you when the show returns on Wednesday.
He wasn't there. At least the fried turkey in the pressbox was good.
I feel strongly that he owes me words of wisdom after not giving me a single piece of advice when I was in high school and despite the largess of my parents for giving him a place to rest his Cy Young Award winning arm with his wife in our laundry room. I believe that had he taught me then what I've only figured out recently on my own, Bobby Cox would not have dismissed me as the clown prince of baseball as he did.
Gotta go wash the car while we're between droughts. See ya.