House of Wachs

DRINKING IRISH PATRIOT BLOOD

Two dudes, Brandon and Brett, going by an outfit named BRTV, posted a video of an inspired performance by a young broadcaster exhorting the crowd to commence drinking Guinness on St. Pats. This occurred before drinking. Not too shabby. It's nice to know this is the floor of such behavior with room to grow.

TWEENER WEEK

OK. OK! I've gotten about 2 emails asking what I'm doing during the holiday tweener times, so while I have some spare moments, I thought I'd put up an update.

YESTERDAY:

-I figured out the Bluetooth in my car. Then I called people for the novelty of it.

-I unclogged two drains in my bathroom with Liquid-Plumr. I don't agree with the spelling or the use of the hyphen, but it sure works well. Just don't get any on you.

-I went to Super H to look at the weird Korean foods. I bought an apple, a yogurt, and some rice cakes.

-I called my bank to get another check register sent to me.

"It'll just take a minute to pull up your records."   Why does it take a minute to pull up my records? Don't they have computers? Is there a line to use the computer? Is it an old XT?

-I watched "The TV Set" because it's from the guys who made "Walk Hard" and "Freaks and Geeks." It proved they are human.

TODAY

-I got more face surgery today. Last week's went so well, I decided to get more. Right now I am a little high from anti-pain meds, and I've made a nice pillow fort in my bed from which to blog at y'all. I'm pretending that I'm a Pakistan person reporting on the Bhutto murder from under a table in a sanctuary that has Wi-Fi.

-I started to watch The Brothers Solomon starring Will Forte. It made me feel as if I could write a Hollywood script, too. Then a friend called to make me watch C-Span. They were having a debate called "Lesser Known Candidates Debate" where they had on candidates who were not as well known. It made me feel as if I could run for president, too.

There's no video up yet, but they may repeat it. It was held in a library in New Hampshire, and the candidates came across not so much as wackos, but average, unpolished soap boxers who, owing to the fact that they dominated the internet message boards where they hung out, felt they had a shot of taking it to the next level, which naturally is the presidency. Of the ones that made sense, they all either had a speech impediment or hair style that made them unelectable.

-I updated my Garmin GPS map. I've been getting lost with it lately.

-I'm eating Rice Chex now. They are good. 

TOMORROW

-I'm going to speak to my agent about a few things.

-Eat pills

-Lie down and watch "Chuck and Larry Get Married."

CHRISTMAS LATKES

Mmmmmm! Organic ice cream sandwiches for dessert tonight. Right off the tree. Thank you, God.

I think the word organic, as a marketing phrase, has officially jumped the cruelty-free mako shark fillets in a lime-basil butter.

It even fooled me into believing it was healthier when they just kept it to meats and produce.

"These tomatoes are organic! Grown in a sun-kissed valley from the rich and loamy soil, pulled gently from the vine and on your table that evening. It''l make your hair grow back, lower your heart beat, and make your pecker, ZING!! Ha ha!

Not like those tomatoes over there, the wretches. Grown between the cracks of gritty urban sidewalks, surrounded by chalk outlines, and noise pollution. Then cut down by a machine...a machine!...which takes them when they're still GREEN!

And they go to a factory, where they're spraypainted red, and turn your guts into cancer. GET THEM OUT OF MY FRICKIN SIGHT!"

There's no difference except price, the cost of vanity raising the price of the organic stuff. Oh, and the organic stuff has somebody's poo on it, usually.

But then the marketers got greedy. Now, every product has an organic cousin and it's become meaningless because there is no health benefit to wearing organic shoes, or wearing organic deodorant. That can't possibly work. Body odor is as organic as it gets, and a product that tamps it down is the definition of unnatural. The circle of absurdity is complete.

Ya gotta admire Kosher. It's kept it's integrity through the lo-cal, lite, natural, oat bran, fat free, lo carb, and clear crazes.

No ham means NO! DAMN! HAM!

NO! NEVER!

SOUTHERN COMFORTABLE

The hell with holiday travel. I haven't left my house in 3 days. That's what Thanksgiving is all about. A chance to be openly depressed. The only reason I've showered is to get in some slap and tickle.

This is my first Thanksgiving in my own home in a decade. That's it. No more Thanksgiving travel for me for the next 5 years. If people in my life really like me, they'll show up.

My parents were the only ones who came this year. Not attending my Thanksgiving feast was the first thing my brother and his ex-wife have agreed upon since 2001, if I could brightside it.

My sister went to Jamaica for her father-in-law's wedding, which is OK, unless you consider it part of a continuing pattern of excuses, dating back to the days when I would lure her into the bathroom after I took a huge dump and locked her in with the odor, as to why she can't travel to Georgia more than once a decade. Maybe not a lot of flights here from NY.

Well, more food and fun for me.

Here's our premium quality, tightly cooped, genetically modified, assembly line slaughtered, frozen turkey.

Here's our turkey frying rig out back on the lush green barely legal lawn.

Old Man Pickle Nose prepares a post-breakfast snack. He's a good cook. His secret is aging. He treats every meal as if it could be his last.

We engage in sports.

Happy hour! Fresh guac and chips. I missed out because I was busy

Back to involvement in sports, and the film industry.

The two turkeys! HA! Brown and crispy, the way they serve it in heaven

Crispy potatoes. Don't they look good? Yeah, well, they were.

Crispy asparagus. I actually enjoy the smell my urine gives off after eating these.

Crispy cornbread stuffing. Tastes like manna, photographs like hell.

From scratch pecan/choco pie with a crispy crust and homemade caramel sauce spooged on it. One bite of this delight can supply the caloric needs of 10 children in Darfur for a month. It sure takes the pressure off the job search when you have this pie in the house.

Home made cranberry sauce with crispy bits of caramelized fruit. Oooh, doesn't that look tart and sweet? Yeah, you bet it does. It tastes like an orgasm. This is my contribution. I made it 3 days ago in the slow cooker. My secret is vanilla extract, brown sugar, and a special raisin wine from Spain. That's all I'm saying because I'm thinking of going national with this one day with a franchise chain of cranberry-centric eateries.

Cranny's. We'll even have a play area for kids with a giant cranberry bog they can swim around in after eating their cran-burgers and cran fries, and wash it down with some cranberry soda. We'll have cuddly characters like McDonald's has. Urethra the Clown will play up the cranberry's role in promoting urinary tract health.

Let the feast begin with a crispy turkey wing. The skin is like eating bacon. Turkey that tastes like bacon. Score! It's a club sandwich without those other non-essential ingredients. Fuck off toast, lettuce, cheese, and tomato.

Time for more athletics. Even OMPN is surprised at the ease with which the Falcons take it up the ass repeatedly.

Tea...because it gives the illusion of health.

Good night.

MAKE ME WET

What is it Thursday? Only took me 3 days to recover from the past weekend in Las Vegas. Not bad for going to bed at 1pm last Saturday. After that refreshing nap/sleep it was off to the Palms Hardwood Suite for a 40th birthday party of a pal which lasted until 3am Sunday morning.

I've been to parties that had a basketball court, and I've been to parties in hotel rooms, but never to a party in a hotel room that had a basketball court inside it off the living room.

The entire hotel room is bigger than my home.

I think I did a pretty good job on attire for such a unique event.

The sporty sweater and tasteful jeans say: "I'm eager to have conversation and cocktails."

The sneakers and t-shirt underneath say: "But I'm ready to drain some 3-pointers if necessary."

What are the statistics on hotel rooms being broken into that have their TVs left on? I take it on faith that doing this deters criminals and degenerates, but I'd like to see the numbers to back it up.

I don't think it works if you leave it on any channel. A criminal is not so stupid to think that a Vegas tourist is going to sit in their hotel room on a Saturday night watching the hotel services channel or CNN when all kinds of funs are going on outside, so I put it on ESPN before I set off--LOUD--because it's more plausible that a degenerate gambler could be in the room catching up on college football.

Las Vegas, being a mecca for terrorists looking for a little fun before blowing up some building in the name of Allah, has some of the scrutiniest airport security in the US. The lines are snakes before they get on the plane.

I was detained at McCarren Airport briefly Sunday because the woman with the lip mole and heavy accent at the security bottle neck was confused that the "Lawrence Wachs" on my driver's license, and the "Larry Wachs" on my boarding pass didn't match up.

ME: Larry is a nickname for Lawrence.

HER: Yes, but they are not the same.

ME: It's like Bobby is short for Robert. BTW, you might notice that the face and the last name all match up.

HER: But one says Larry and the other says Lawrence.

LADY BEHIND ME: It's like Robert and Bob.

HER: Is this your wife?

ME: No. She's an American. Everyone knows this.

HER: I am American, too (but she said it like a vampire would).

...and zzzziiip....out comes the nylon barrier. Now, I've gone and done it.

She went to see her supervisor for some guidance on American nomenclature, came back with her tail between her legs, but no apology, and let me proceed for another 23 minutes of line before I could get out of Vegas.

Again, I must ask. Where's the danger in nicknames?

I must say a trip to the desert really gives perspective on the drought situation here in GA. I saw no one in Las Vegas praying for anything but a gambling victory or avoiding an STD. Water was not discussed at all despite the eternal drought outside.

I do believe in the power of prayer and faith. I don't know exactly the chain of events prayer touches off to yield results, but I have a notion that it's similar to the "monkeys with typewriters" effect. If you put enough minds to work meditating on a single problem, somebody's liable to stumble upon a solution.

But the Governor leading a prayer for water is really asinine. What are we?  Whoville? 

Praying for rain is the wrong prayer, too. I'd pray for grass and flowers that don't need rain or for the skies to open up and drop Purell and good red wine on us on Sundays. Maybe war on on Alabama and Florida. As long as we're throwing a Hail Mary, let's aim for the end zone, you people.

As a voter, I'm concerned when an elected leader uses prayer as a first resort to fixing a practical problem. Why vote? Just install gypsy fortune tellers or Creflo Dollar as governor. His rainmaking is legendary.

I could understand if we were being overrun with zombies. When that day comes, I will stand with the Governor, humble before the Lord. I promise you.

But water is everywhere. It's just trapped under regulation and politics. Is it that hard to make the case that an inedible mollusk in Florida is less important than a nice shower and shvitz for 25 minutes? That's what fighting is for. Prayer, in this case, communicates surrender to the obstacles and a neglect of reason.

Oh, wait! It rained a 10th of an inch last night. Sweet vindication from our Father! This drought will be over in just 7 quick years.

Hey governor! I'm tired of walking upright. How about another prayer?

PLANT A CHILD

The sign outside Jackson Elementary School in Gwinnett says "Congratulations to Teacher of the Year, Nozomi Wade."

I could not in good conscience let my kid have a teacher named Nozomi. What is that? It's a nefarious distortion of Naomi by the fo' shizzle crowd, is what it is. Just rename it Dogg Elementary, so people know what they're getting themselves and their kids into. Jezeebus!

She likely got the award by being the best witch in the coven, teaching her charges to mindlessly recycle, maintain a brown lawn, share everything with strangers, and rat out their parents for non-compliance with Marxist initiatives.

I suppose that with Democrats already buying their dresses for Queen Cli'ton's inauguration in 2009, we'll be hearing a lot more about children in the coming year and how they really crave socialized medicine, and higher taxes, and mass transit. Grandchildren love these things too, of course.

Oh, here come some lovely children to my door now, trick-or-treating for carbon offsets this Halloween.

So precious. Innocent, yet socially conscious. Yes. I will help them so they can grow into....

ADULTS!

HALLOWEEN ATE MY BABY!

First, good news regarding Halloween. Due to my new fake teeth, this is my first Halloween where I have not been mockingly compared to a Jack-O-Lantern, so, yeah. I'm happy. But now some bad Halloween news:

Minorities less likely to trick or treat

Minorities are less likely to do lots of things. That's why they're called minorities. They are in the minority. Thanks for the breaking news.

Two-thirds of parents say their children will trick-or-treat this Halloween, but fewer minorities will let their kids go door to door, with some citing safety worries, a poll shows. The survey found that 73 percent of whites versus 56 percent of minorities said their children will trick-or-treat on Wednesday.

For your information, 56 percent is a pretty good number. Do you really expect 100% participation by racial minorities in a holiday that encourages people to dress in white sheets?

I don't mind having minority children at my house on Halloween, just as long as they don't break anything, don't make religious dietetic demands (note to self: no Cow Tails for little Pooja), and don't trick or treat for asylum. Besides, it's really churlish and stupid to point out how many minority people are trick or treating on a night where everyone pretends to be someone else.

Thomas Link, 50, and his family are new to their trailer park in Palatka, Fla. He said he considers it unsafe because he does not know many neighbors, but had not decided whether to let his three young children trick-or-treat.

"I'm very particular about who I let my kids deal with," he said.

That's why he moved them to a trailer park. Only the best for his 3 young kids. Still, he's undecided on the trick or treating. Hey, ask your friend the bottle over there what she thinks. You guys are a team.

I understand the hatred of whitey. People are jealous of a winner. But what makes news and religious organizations bend over backward and twist themselves into rhetorical knots trying to find fresh ways to disparage the fun-filled American holiday of Halloween? I don't see anything wrong with having a day that makes death seem fun. Death is inevitable, make it enjoyable. Don't be a killjoy.

Is it so bad that people take with them to the grave the faint hope that they could come back as a ghost or a zombie and see all their friends again? If I come back as a ghost, I'm going to be a very effective one, I promise you that.

Not like the ghosts of today who communicate wimpily through TV static and dorks like John Edwards and make faint noises downstairs when you're trying to sleep. I would spend every minute of the day making my presence known, dispensing justice and having sex with sleeping women, and if I could dispense justice BY having sex with sleeping women, even better. I'd really like to be in the karma field in the afterlife, because whatever is going around, I want to keep it coming around. All the way back around. When I'm done, Halloween will be just as important as Christmas and Harry Potter will be more beloved than Baby Jesus.

Now, let's reiterate the rules of Halloween at the House of Wachs. By trick or treating at the House of Wachs you agree to the terms of this license.

No parents, no candy.

Have ID ready.

Trick or treaters over the age of 15 will be rejected.

Please remove masks at the door for security cams.

Do not cross the door threshold. That is a private area.

Do not grab. Candy will be placed in your bag for you.

All candy transactions will be monitored and recorded.

No trick or treating for UNICEF will be tolerated.

More than one knock or doorbell ring may result in termination of candy.

Any child not saying thank you will have their treats confiscated.

Trick or treating ends at 9pm sharp. No exceptions.

No pets.

Thank you. Have fun.

PHONE DUMP

Due to the Halloween being on Wednesday this year, What's Your Story will not be taping this week so that the staff can spend time sorting and eating candy with their loved ones, and harvest the crops at night.

I'd like you to get to know the staff of What's Your Story. I'm not trying to fix you up or anything, just say hey to the people who help me look sexy on internet TV. Here were the only people I managed to sneak up on with my camera phone.

Here's Scott. Scott's job is to make sure that things are funny. He does not have any infections, and always manages to find time to share a warm cup of soup with a friend.

This is Bonnie. Her job is to make sure the production runs smoothly and on time. I still have no idea what she looks like. She won't step out from behind her arms. I don't know how she eats.

Here's Lauren. Her job is to put everyone at ease. See the "L" she's forming with her hand? That's her gang sign. The 17th Street Laurens. Hang out, sip some sizzurp, yo.

While we're at it, let's do a cameraphone dump. It's been awhile.

George Stein recently invited me to his Jewdo matches at Gwinnett Center.

It was very exciting and inspiring to watch, and I left there wanting to grab someone by their lapels and throw them on their back.

This guy was a winner and a loser. Looks like he's dead, but he's not. He won his match, but broke his collarbone. The agony of victory.

Then they lightened the mood with some comedy matchups. Here's a real short guy battling a real tall one. The tall guy won and he got to take home the little guy and eat him for dinner.

Speaking of dining, let me remind restaurants that it's not cool to have reminders of disease around when people are trying to enjoy a hot meal. I know it helps your ego that you are part of something big, but I don't care.

Hey, I'm eating! Restaurants should be limited to one disease only. My vote goes for ALS, which is more appetizing then breast cancer, so go with that for this month.

"Oh, you ought to try J. Christopher's. They really are trying to fight breast cancer." No one recommends restaurants that way. Take it out back. When was the last time a cancer clinic was making flapjacks and bacon in the waiting room?

This truck has an almost Heroes symbol on it. I took this picture because I liked Heroes at the time. This was before it got pointless and hard to follow. I've watched one episode this season and it just wears me out. No rhyme or reason to what's going on. The Cheerleader can heal any wound she suffers and is played by a popular star. No way she ever dies. It's as exciting as the BCS.

The Heroes can do anything, but wind up getting nothing done. It's so frustrating. Are they really aliens? What happens to the world? Who's behind the company? Who gives a shit? It's like a sitcom for paranoids. It would be better if they picked one person with one power and gave him a show. Sure worked for My Favorite Martian.

Would someone tell the good people of Korean descent that words mean things in America? A genre is a category, right? Nail Category? How about Nail Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc? Anything would be better. Nail Wisdom. Nail Schadenfreude. Nail Nail. Nail Her.

Nail Genre? In a town where the women are prone to calling it Nail Jen-ray, anyhow?

Let me shake the phone. That's it. All empty. I'll take some rest now, and have more to say when I awaken.

WHAT I DON'T WANT FOR HANUMAS

Being a VIP, I got an invitation in my email to purchase one of these from the Google Boutique at a special price.

The Google Earth Trackstick.

The Trackstick records its own location, time, date, speed, heading and altitude at preset intervals. With over 1Mb of memory, it can store months of travel information. The Trackstick is the perfect tool for individuals looking for a way to track anything that moves. Use it for recording the exact routes you take when hiking, biking or vacationing. Record the location of everywhere you went, import pictures and other information into Google Earth™ to offer an entirely new perspective of your journey.

Isn't anyone who buys this just begging to be kidnapped or caught in a sting operation? Thanks, Google. No.

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '07--CHAPTER 6

I get very little rest when I come to the beach, what with all the activities plus the putting together of the Wachs Beach Diaries, and for that reason alone, I look forward to driving back to Atlanta for 11 straight hours with my daughter's non-stop Mika tunes on CD, just to be able to sleep in my own bed for 8 straight without the aid of slumber enhancers and anti-inflammatories. We do that tomorrow. Actually later this morning.

I was all set for another restless night, when a knock came at the door. It was my mom's friend, Miriam, whom I'd promised to take to the new porn store across the street. I had forgotten. My mom would kill me for teasing her. And she was all ready to go with her cute little incognito outfit and strong odor of alcohol.

And although I'll remain a little sleepy for the folks along I-85 tomorrow, it was worth it. Here are some photos from our fun time together.

She bought my dad a gift. A thing that looked like a lighter, but when you pushed the button down a small penis popped out. Miriam thought it was a real lighter at first until the Romanian clerk explained to her.

"No, no. Ees no lightair. Ess jus a deeck. See?" And he flicked the joke penis in her face a couple of times. What a nice man.

So we bought it, and the penis broke after one use. Ten dollars. One laugh. My mom swore she would take the thing back and get a refund as soon as she found the broken penis. Try sleeping with that in mind.

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '07--CHAPTER 4

House of Wachs faithful, and fan of the Wachs Beach Diaries, Andy Mele writes:

Larry,

Any chance of you posting a recent picture (from your current trip) of your sister?

As predictable as a drought-ridden Georgia summer, the Andys of the world come out of the cheesy wood veneer paneling every summer hoping for more glimpses of my hot, Jappy sister, Nancy of Long Island. You'd think she's a grunion.

To calm y'all down, I have taken some snaps of her for your enjoyment. If you can't behave with these and start doing stuff to them and spreading them all over the internet, OR the outernet, which is what dialup people have, then I will remove them.

Here she is cleaning a table....

Throwing something in the garbage....

Pondering her kitchen shelf strategy

Yelling at my nephew for being too wild...

See how wound up he is?

I'm thinking of selling this photo to anyone who's writing a book about ADD or spazism. "The Fractured Mirror: Cracking the ADD Code," would be a great title.

The other day, my nephew and I were having a game of Tickle Torture (I was winning), when he peed on me a little from laughing so hard. Not a lot. Just a wee (get it?) bit before I threw him to the sand. Right after these pictures were taken we got involved in a game of Titty Twister, and everything was going swell, until Old Man Pickle Nose chimed in.

"Just pee on him, Charlie. That'll stop him."

Hey thanks, pappy!  Why not just advise him to take a dump on my chest since there's no real moral difference?

Enjoy the snaps, pervs! 

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '07--CHAPTER 3

Even though the eyes roll when it's said, it is nonetheless true. Peace and quiet focuses the mind like nothing else. If you don't fear your thoughts, it's the only elixir for regrouping. There is a shortage of that here what with 13 people in our vacation group scattered over 3 buildings. One third of the group is teenage girls, which means our group rolls as smooth as a flat tire, and as noisily. Therefore, I have fallen behind in the Wachs Beach Diaries as the ridiculous conversations and multi-lateral bickerings continue well into 2200 hours.

My hot Jappy sister and Mee-Maw Wachs are having a heated discussion by the kitchen. Let's listen:

"Mom. How come you didn't answer your cell phone before? I called you like three times"

"I couldn't answer the phone. I was in a hardware store."

"Were you trying on welding helmets?

"Nancy! Their policy is no cellphones in the store."

"What? Are they landing planes in there?"

"No!....They just don't want them ringing in there."

"I don't understand. Who is incensed at cellphones ringing in a store that sells noisy things? And why would you even pay attention to such an asinine policy? And what are you doing in a hardware store? You can barely walk!"

"Naaaance...ya know what? I don't want to talk about it."

That means "I lost."

Dr. Mike is not a teenage girl, but just as disconcerting. He's becoming less conservative with age. It concerns me at his age that his ethos is still "Why wouldn't a guy?" and believes "because" is a reason.

However, his golf swing today didn't have the same fly-every-hazard, never-say-layup daring. The course we played was a little ridiculous. War Admiral was the name of it, the fairways formerly roamed and grazed upon by the famous racehorse of the 30s of the same name, who was later upset by the even more famous Seabiscuit.

It's a nice place with a Ruth's Chris in the clubhouse, but the course strikes me as the product of an ailment afflicting every sector of the entertainment industry--creating something more out of a desire to impress fellow professionals than the customer.

This course looked like it was designed by status seeking course architects trying to outdo other designers as the most gimmicky and clever. It had giant swales and pot bunkers in the middle of the fairway. It's corruption of principle pure and simple when you build a golf course for the middlebrow hacker that doesn't reward a fairway tee shot of 280 down the center. Worse, my brother-in-law bisected the fairway once, landed on some gimmicky eyebrow shaped ridge, and it kicked near a hazard. A good shot penalized. Ridiculous. We're not on the tour.

I figured Dr. Mike was intimidated by the course layout.

"Nope. It was my back."

I had forgotten that Dr. Mike's club bravado landed him in the surgical ward, this time on the patient side of the scalpel. Last year, he torqued into a big drive and ruptured a disc. Even Tiger admitted on TV that his putting sucked this week because he couldn't shake the memory of the US Open's greens from three weeks earlier, which were quicker than a teenage boy with his best friend's mom. It's not surprising a ruptured disc on a golf swing would conservatize even the most devil-may-care amateur.

"I had this 23-year old nurse come in after surgery and ask me how my pain level was, scale of 1-10. I said 6. She shot me up with Dilaudid. It's the best drug ever invented. Then she petted my hand and said if it got above a 5 again, she would have to give me more. She comes back a couple of hours later and asks what my pain level is. It was about a 3 at that point, but I said 6. She's 23 and petting my arm and Dilaudid is the best drug ever. Why wouldn't a guy? If I could have, I would have had a drip of it in one arm and a drip of viagra in the other and pressed that call button until I came or went.

"Meanwhile, the room is starting to turn blue and a bright blue disc is closing around me. They had to revive me because I got so relaxed I stopped breathing."

"So, you started dying?"

"Yep," with that detached M.D. cool. "It wasn't scary at all like they say in movies. I really wouldn't have minded going at that point."

"Are you glad you're here now?" Somebody needed to pay the Ruth's Chris check, and if he didn't really care too much for life, why wouldn't a guy pick up the check?

"Of course. I don't want to die. I'm just saying it was very pleasant at the time. More pleasant than anything going on."

"Do you believe in god now?"

"No. That's bullshit. I just saw a blue disc."

"What if that was god's blue disc?"

"That was all in my mind."

"How do you know?"

"Because no one else in the room saw the blue disc."

"Who invented the mechanism that gives you one last moment of extreme pleasure before you die?"

"No one. It just happens that way. That's science."

Yes, brimming with inquiry. At least his golf swing is slowing down a bit. Perhaps the rest is coming. You just don't shake the blue disc.

WACHS BEACH DIARIES '07--CHAPTER 1

Fireworks were cancelled here in Ocean City last night. Authorities cited dangerously high winds and shut them down, and rescheduled for the 5th. It just wouldn't be a true Independence Day without reliance on our safety authorities to get us through it. And as excited as I am about celebrating something as huge as being free from England, I can wait another day for the explosions. I ain't do nothin!

Although empirical evidence shows it was very windy, I have a suspicion the postponement had something to do with this news item:

Jackson scouts Maryland vacation homes

Too many innocent children around.

WASHINGTON - Michael Jackson has been hunting for real estate on Maryland's Eastern Shore as he searches for a vacation home, a publicist for the pop star said.

The self-proclaimed King of Pop visited the rural peninsula last week "for about 24 hours," but has not made a purchase, Raymone Bain told The Washington Post.

Jackson, 48, is not limiting his search to the Chesapeake region. He has since "gone up the coast" to look elsewhere for a vacation place, Bain said.

"He's always admired the properties on the East Coast because they have a lot of land," Bain said in the story published Wednesday. "Neverland has 3,000 acres — he likes privacy. You can't find as many properties like that on the West Coast."

Yeah, the western US is sooo overcrowded. And there are no more large parcels of land for sale next to the Ronald McDonald House. Go east, young man lover. Besides, the West already has Al Gore the Younger endangering children in his souped-up Prius that runs entirely on drugs.  Of course, the drug and speeding offsets that come as a bonus from Toyota for purchasing the vehicle, will ultimately vindicate the lad. I also personally believe he should receive a lighter sentence for proving that a Prius can do more than 70MPH.

But I feel bad for the Gores because it's probably very embarrassing to them, especially coinciding with Al's kick-off of that concert protesting people who refuse to live like the Amish, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who's wondering if Tipper had an affair with a Kennedy to produce a boy with such a sizable fun gene.

Meanwhile, commoners such as myself without access to the elite markets of Morality Credit and Loan, must drive the holiday highways with nothing but wits and cruise control to fend off the 40 cop cars enforcing independence all along the route to the Beach.

George Stein will be mighty proud of me. No tickets. On the toughest not-getting-pulled-over-for-speeding day of the year. (July 3). On the tough, state-long speedtrap known as US 58 in Virginia, which I have been unable to beat for 3 summers straight. It was getting to a point where the law enforcement authorities of SE Virgina were offering to pay for my gas, just to entice me to drive through their cash traps for another season.

I have to say that listening to classical music during the drive helped immensely, so thanks to all those composers. It is soothing, yet inspiring enough to keep the driver's attention for the extra hour it'll be on the road due to the observance of posted limits. I don't know the names of the songs or the composers. I don't know what the music is about other than some vague notion of the way things were going down in the 1700s. All I know is that classical music makes me feel like I'm driving in the opening credit sequence of a documentary about me and my life as a Viking poet, and I like that someone is finally telling my story on the big screen. It's about time.

Here's the top story in Shelby, NC on the day of this historic drive north:

 

A 5-year-old boy grabbed a rabid fox by the neck and pinned it to the ground during a family cookout, protecting six other children before his stepfather could kill the animal.

"I wanted to protect my little brother," said Rayshun McDowell, who battled the fox in the front yard of his home Sunday in Kingstown, a town about 50 miles west of Charlotte.

What a brave young boy! Reminds me of the time I killed a dingo with nothing but a sock filled with pennies after it tried to eat my sister. This was before the laws were passed banning children from playing with socks and coins as a rider to the bill banning pre-pubescent smoking passed on July 4, 1973.

The fox bit Rayshun in the leg, but the 61-pound-boy held the animal down for more than a minute.

"I looked out the window and Rayshun had the fox by the neck and was pushing it into the ground," said his mother, Shinda Linder. "I couldn't believe what I was seeing."

Rayshun's stepfather, Ryan Thompson, pulled the boy off the animal and kicked it. A neighbor fired a handgun three times but the fox continued to advance.

Thompson, wearing a cast because of a broken leg, said he used a stick and his crutch to beat the fox to death.

Hey, Michael Jackson! There's some great land you ought to check out in Kingstown, NC.

RE-GRIFTED

What a pleasant Father's Day. Makes the pull-out method not so bad after all. I hope yours was swell, too.

My family procured me a massage table. Now I can fall asleep face down without fear of suffocation. It's really the best way to sleep. Better than hanging upside down, which I've tried. It made my back feel better, but such a headache! 

As soon as I find a qualified, non-threatening woman who will come to the house, I can really get the most out of this excellent gift. Thank Hashem I had the foresight to install that plasma TV into the floor months ago.

Looks like I have a new gig, too.

Mascot for IceBreakers^TM Gum.

Yay! Ha-ha. I'm suing those pricks on Monday for image misappropriation.

Speaking of fathers...my dad's wife is such a liar. I love my mother, but she lies. I've learned to accept her petty cover-ups, but now it's getting out of hand, and someone's going to get hurt.

"Happy Father's Day. Did you get my card?"

"I did. Thank you."

Thank you not for the card, but what was in it.

As for the card, I remarked to my wife, upon receiving it a couple days earlier, that it was an odd choice for me and the holiday.

"A picture of purple flowers? What does that have to do with Father's Day or me?"

"They're hydrangeas."

Oh. Well, that changes...nothing. The point is, they could have been a Venus Fly Trap and still sent the same message: "Hey! I'm busy."

My mother has a Strategic Gift Reserve (SGR) run in similar fashion to the way in which the US government stockpiles it's oil supply in case of emergency. Every so often she'll venture to local discount stores and stock up on cheapened ribbons, boxes, bags, cards, and other gift accessories in order to complete future hasty, obligatory gift purchases.

Sometimes the gift itself is purchased during these shady runs on clearance aisles so that more unsuspecting victims can be pressed into service of her ongoing campaign to build a legacy of largesse.

There was the puzzle of a ship purchased months, perhaps years earlier at Marshall's, and was given to Nettie the Housekeeper late one December 27th. I heard later from a mole that Nettie blamed my mother's puzzle gift for the bullet her son took in the shoulder as he worked on the puzzle in his living room as a drug turf war raged outside in their underprivileged community. He lived, but if it weren't for that damn puzzle....

Yours truly has been the victim of this as when I received for Hannukkah a couple of years ago, a set of old-time radio shows on cassette that had been in her basement since 1978. Not only was Fibber McGee and Molly so intensely not on my wish list, but there wasn't a single cassette deck to be found in my home or car, so, had I actually wanted to laugh along with The Goldbergs, it would have cost me money to do so. That gift went directly in the garbage while 60% of the wrapping was still on...a Wachs Family record.

"That was quite an interesting card you selected for me. Purple Flowers. Father's Day."

"Those are hydrangeas."

"Yep. Boy you nailed that one. When did you get that card?"

"What do you mean? Last week. I bought it and sent it to you. In the mail. Why are you acting like this? I put my life on a silver platter for you..all of you, and this is the treatment I receive."

"I see."

After a bit of uncomfortable silence, my mom started giggling like she had just farted in public.

"OK, I bought it a year ago somewhere. I just didn't have time."

I understand. It's a full life being the wife of a retired CEO of a small cole slaw manufacturing company. What with the sitting and the reading and the TV watching. The weekly People magazine crossword alone is two hours out of each week. Who has time to keep up? Why, just the other day she sent some carbon credits she had lying around to a friend who went into the hospital for a biopsy.

I don't mind in and of itself getting a generic card with purple flowers on it for Father's Day. The check inside had my name on it and it cleared. Good gift. It excuses the card. But to cover up the obvious as if I'm some day laborer in her yard...it's frightening.

The petty fraud perpetrated on son by matriarch is so unneccessary it makes me wonder if she's conspiring with an uncle to have me whacked soon. So what if I took home some of her pills once?...or twice...ish.

It hurts, Mommy. It hurts. Make it stop. Ditch the cards. Just send the check next time. Use the memo line if you must.

BLOWING SMOKE

It's an odd numbered year, so that's likely the reason my birthday went by smoothly this year. Last year--an even numbered one--I was in NY, on the upstate side, driving to my sister-in-law's funeral when I watched the car in front of me plunge suddenly into the canal running parallel to the road.

2005 was uneventful, but in 2004, my wife's best friend died in a car wreck on my birthday. I'm going to start pretending the even-numbered year birthdays don't exist, like some buildings omit the 13th floor on the elevator. They just don't exist by fiat and it seems to work. I haven't had bad luck in an office building for weeks.

My only concern this year was the smoke in the air wafting up from the South Georgia fires. That's a hell of a fire. That's some wind, too. Just enough to carry the smoke for several hundred miles without breaking it all up, and delivering all it's woody goodness right into my lungs.  As an anti-environmentalist, I don't usually whine about air quality, but now I've gotten bronchitis from it, and it will likely turn into cancer by birthday 2008....unless I pretend it doesn't exist.

Realistically, there's little anyone can do about temporary air pollution without killing jobs and prosperity, and this is no exception, but I have a proposal for the air quality elite to consider to make bad air days more tolerable in the future. Suspend all marijuana laws for as long as the air quality is in the red zone. As long as we are subject to breathing in smoke, why not allow us to at least enjoy it? It's immoral and backward to have laws against enjoyable smoke only. Wouldn't it be nice to turn on the TV one day and have the news anchors announce that today's air quality is in "The Hookah Zone?"

I'm a little peeved at one of my birthday cards. It's from my dentist. It reads...

You deserve nothing but the best.

...and there's nothing in the card. Not even a free check-up coupon.

It's just monumentally lazy that someone should acknowledge that you deserve the best, but leave the delivery to others. If I deserve it, where is it? What is it? I deserve the best dental care? That's a little self-serving, don't you think?

"Hey, what did you get for your birthday?"

"Flattery."

"Nice! Who gave you that?"

"My dentist. And my aunt emailed me a golf tip."

"Well, you deserve it."

The card really should read, "You deserve the best of nothing." The greeting was on a nice card stock. It's the best nothing I've ever gotten.

Perhaps doctors, dentists, lawyers, accountants, and anybody with access to your private records should just not be sending out birthday greetings at all. The implication of their birthday wishes is that, with all they know about you, it's a miracle that you made it this far.

Happy Birthday!!! With your family history? WOW!

Dr. Glick's office

Let's rethink this bit of marketing, okay professionals?

If a radio station is going to change format, I don't mind, but why can't they tell you before you prepare 3 hours of material for the next day? Thursday, I had some important things to say, but they never aired because I wasn't told until 45 minutes before show time that it's over, Johnny. What was the huge rush to play rock music on FM again that they couldn't wait another hour so I could tell people what I wanted for my birthday?

Of course, I got nothing I wanted for my birthday because no one could hear my list. So before someone cancels the internet, here's my list of what I want for 2008. You have a nice head start, and I deserve it, or so I'm told.

1. Health insurance. I have some, but it's not company paid, and it's expensive as hell. Here's what I propose. Someone who runs a company hire me for benefits only. You don't even have to pay me more than a nominal salary, and I'll send that to charity or something. I just want the health insurance. I'll make copies, coffee, sweep, make funny in the break room. It doesn't matter. I don't have a lot of marketable skills, but I'm good at tasks, and can make it worth some executive's while to assist them for some company-paid health insurance.

2. Sharper Image Massage Chair. I've been asking for this for 3 years. Come ON!

3. Front row tickets to a Carrie Underwood concert. I want it to be at a venue where the seating is at an angle to the stage so that I can see up her skirt. It must be heaven in there.

4. The rights to a hit song. This could get a little pricey, but I'm not looking for an expensive smash like "Start Me Up" or "Bad to the Bone." That would be cost prohibitive even if the current owner would be willing to part with these musical cash boxes. I'm looking for something a little more modest that can still keep me comfortable, like "Tarzan Boy" or "The Curly Shuffle."  I'll bet you won't even need a partner to buy "Life in a Northern Town."

5. New teeth. Because, as you know, I deserve nothing but the best.

FINE BY ME

A big holiday just passed and most Americans missed it, me included. No, not Shavuos. I'm on top of that one. Got me some cool cargo shorts with a picture of Moses receiving the tablets on the ass. Old Navy had a sale.

I'm referring to National Seat Belt Day, the only holiday in America where people are punished for not celebrating. Woe to those who disobey the Cones of  Patriotism.

Let me stipulate for people with sensitive sensibilities who worry that other points of view and insights might cause others to do something foolish such as decide for themselves what's best, that I do think seat belts are a valuable weapon in the fight against going through a windshield. But there are some valid reasons why NOT to wear seatbelts that every individual should consider. These don't get the press or airtime that they should.

-Seat belts DO crumple clothing. You should ask yourself before buckling, "Is it worth covering the <1% risk that you'll die in a car wreck on that trip, and exposing myself to a scuttled business deal or a soured engagement to a wealthy divorcee, because I show up looking like a used towel?" People who wear nice clothes rarely flip cars and drive recklessly. That's what people in T-shirts with crazy sayings do.

-Seat belts keep the black man down. Literally. Not in my America, I say.

-I don't feel like it. Probably the best reason of all, because it thoroughly rejects the notion that one has to have an excuse to exercise personal choice.

Maybe next year festive-minded safety authorities will see reason to make May 5th National Border Control Day, checking all the vans and helping those who have become untethered from from their native land to buckle up and avoid going headlong into our treasury.

MOTHER OF A DAY

Once again screenwriters and reality show producers, you are missing out by ignoring the Wachs saga. Just 7 months ago, I was up to my ears in legal fees, weighing the pros and cons of chapter 7, and visiting jail for the perfectly legal act of recording two men saying sweet nothings to one another in a public bathroom.

Today, the guys I'm filling in for here in NY, were just dropped altogether by CBS for the crime of pranking a Chinese restaurant to make a point about...uh...dunno, but the first amendment angle doesn't have the power it once did.

Suddenly, I'm number 1 on the depth chart for a high-profile job in NY radio. I've put the UP back into screw-up. Lesson learned: If you are going to be a screw-up, make sure it's up.

Predictably, the loyal 17-year olds and adults of arrested development who adore the previous show, all 1.1 percent of the available audience, are in high dudgeon. I understand your boys got screwed, and have empathy, but my point is this. When you start having an income and an interest in something other than the adventures of your cock, and what mom is making for dinner upstairs, perhaps your voices will be taken seriously.

Until, then, I can only offer you this killer burger recipe to give to your mommy upstairs to make for you on this Mother's Day. Let me warn you though. If mommy changes one thing in this recipe because that meeskite shrew thinks it's OK to switch to lean beef due to obesity fears, then she deserves the son she has. Warning given, now let's get underway.

You or mommy should purchase the following:

1lb. ground chuck (aka 80/20, 80% lean)

garlic salt

ground black pepper

english muffins

swiss cheese

A-1 Thick and Hearty

1. Shape beef into patties slightly bigger in diameter than the muffins, and about a 1/2 inch thick. Just eyeball it. Don't put the raw meat on the muffin. I know you were thinking that.

2. Sprinkle generously with garlic salt and the pepper and stop before you've put on too much.

3. Slice and toast english muffin so the nook and cranny side is brown and crispy. Brown is a couple/three shades before black. Here's what it looks like.

4. Grill burgers at at least 400 degrees. Use a wood, gas, or charcoal grill. Grilling on Foreman or a pan is not grilling. It's frying. It doesn't cut it. Get rid of it. Grill 4.5 minutes per side. And keep the damn grill closed while cooking.

5. One minute before taking them off the grill, add the swiss to the charring flesh.

6. Spread a layer of A-1 on bottom muffin. Add burger. Add muffin top.

7. Eat already.

That's it. If you think for one second that lettuce or mustard or tomato or a different bun will make this hamburger better, then you are an idiot and an infidel.

YOU'RE LUCKY TO HAVE A JOB DAY

Another Secretary's Day has passed, and not only did I miss the occasion because I don't have one, but I didn't know it's now called Administrative Assistant's Day. I take this to mean that the word "secretary" is somehow demeaning to people who are secretaries. What exactly is wrong with calling someone a secretary? Is it the new "ho?" Just because a lot of people associate the word with females making interoffice coffee and desktop Russian mixed with light typing and message taking, doesn't mean it's true or wrong. To each his own assistance. Quite frankly, when I hear "administrative assistant" it conjures up images of people like Smithers on the Simpsons, or Lloyd on Entourage, or fussy little people who own cats and live alone. I'd rather be called a male nurse.

What do they call the gal who keeps the schedule for the CEO of a porn store chain? I hope she's still called a secretary. That would be a sad thing if the CEO of a porn store chain had an "administrative assistant." It's so unsexy. It would be like rebranding their dildos as dog chew toys. Dildos would lose all their integrity.

US government has a Secretary of State, Secretary of the Interior. Not Administrative Assistant of State or Administrative Assistant of the Interior. They don't blow the president just because they are called secretary. That's what interns are for, and there's no changing that one because it's already a euphemism for "unpaid exploited laborer" (see bikini picture, top right).

We already watered down the birthdays of two of the all-time great Americans, Lincoln and Washington, by lumping them in with embarrassments such as Carter and Nixon in the catch-all "President's Day." The government had to turn that into a long weekend so people would observe it even for a half second while making their plans to get drunk on a Baja California beach

Here's a fact. Some jobs are suited to women and the other 90% are suited to men. How about a compromise? We don't have "Parent's Day." We don't have "Caregiver's Day." No. We have "Mother's Day" and "Father's Day," as it should be for these vital institutions that keep America uniquely strong. So bring back Secretary's Day for women only, and the next day have "Administrative Assistant's Day" for males. Then, roll them into one happy week called "Subordinates Week" so that all the helpers out there can forget for just a little while that they are largely replaceable.

APRIL FRESHNESS

Happy Easter! It's almost done, but, ya know what? I'm gonna extend the festivities into Monday because I feel like it, and I can. My ancestors started this holiday by being accused of killing Christ, so if I want to extend it one more day, I can. I like Easter because it lets all the Jews off the hook. Several thousand years later the Christian religion is still thriving.  Jesus was resurrected, so it turned out good. We can all look back at that crucifixion and laugh now. What was everybody getting so worked up about?

I enjoyed a nice round of Easter golf with my specially painted Easter Balls. Have a look.

If you'd like one, take a walk in the woods at Eagle Watch in Towne Lake when you get a chance. They're all there.

That camera phone takes a whale of a flattering shot. If it weren't for this sudden global warming skein we've been having here in the south, I'd look more golfy, I assure you.

I enjoyed watching the Masters this year mainly because no one looked happy most of the time. It made the pros look more like me. I particularly enjoyed watching Tiger break his 5 iron against a tree, something that I enjoy doing and do well myself. I'm trying to raise my game a bit and I'm working on uprooting a bush with my driver. It's not as easy as it sounds, given the complex root system.

Another update on finding Kosher for Passover Coke: In response to my postings of last week, I received calls and messages from several mid-level Coke and Publix people who had gone to the trouble of obtaining the precious beverage.

Here I am, enjoying a 2-liter bottle of it at my home this evening.

As I suspected, it has the crisper, bubblier flavor of yesteryear, instead of the flatter, vegetable noted flavors of today's HFCS Coke. But boy am I cramping from 2 liters of gas-filled sugar water. Haven't done that since I was 23.

If Coke was smart they would bring back Coke with sugar as a niche brand since demand is so high. They could call it Nu Nu Coke, for the hip and semi-literate text messaging crowd, and do commercials with John Sununu. Or Coke 3, Coke Shoulda, Ye Olde Coke, Coke Before It Got Screwed Up, Coke This Is The Flavor of the Government Not Subsidizing Domestic Sugar Growers.

Enough about soda already. The vernal holidays of rebirth and redemption have passed and it's time to get on with the new year already and get down to business. In case you are interested in listening to radio on the internet at night, catch the stream all next week (4/16-4/20, dude), Monday-Friday from 9pm-midmight, as the House of Wachs returns to NY and 92.3 FREE FM. Watch your mouth, Imus! I think I'm being groomed.

UNLEAVENED SODA UPDATE

Hey Wachs:

There is a bottler out of Texas that still makes Dr. Pepper with cane sugar instead of HFCS. It’s in Dublin, Texas. I’m leaving Austin Wed with an RV full of them heading back to Atlanta on Friday night. Happy to bring you some.

-kb

Hey Larry,

Every year, as I fill my shopping cart with dozens of yellow-capped two-liter bottles, I think of all the thirsty Jews, gathered around their passover trees, forced to drink bland, old-timey beverages by my maniacal hoarding...and I feel a twinge of guilt. I hope that revealing this location to you will somehow settle my karmic debt. Pay a visit to the Toco Hills Kroger and you will find what you seek. Supplies are limited.

By the way, if you don't like interacting with moderately retarded bag boys and surly, old cart-retrievers, then you may want to make your purchase by proxy.

Enjoy,

Scott T.

I called Publix corporate office back to inquire about the yellow-capped Cokes and where they could be found in my area to no avail. I might as well have been speaking in tongues.

"Where can I find Kosher for Passover Coke?"

"You want kosher Coke?"

"No. Kosher for Passover Coke."

I'm well aware that all Coke is kosher for general Jewish use the rest of the year. It's not like it has pig gel in it or anything. How do you have people answering your phones that are not trained or well-versed about product lines and brand extensions? Jesus! Are they all in Bangalore?

"I'll have to have one of the local stores call you."

I gave her my number, but received zero calls.

Passover is done as far as retail is concerned, so a trip to the Toco Hills Kroger is just not worth it at this point, but thank you, Scott T., nonetheless. I don't drink much soda anyway, so there's no urgency to go there and find disappointment that the lucky Toco Hills Jews have scarfed it all to slake their pious thirsts for the next week. Year 'round, I can just grab my keys and a switchblade and go to a nearby Gwinnett carniceria and pick up a liter or two of MexiCoke to satisfy the cravings for such a beverage that I typically get in the spring after a course of home allergy remedies. I suggest you do the same, thirsty, organic people.

HEY LARRY!!!!! IT'S TIME TO HIDE THE MATZO CRACKERS FOR THE KIDS TO FIND... DONT GOT NO EASTER EGG DIE---I TRIED WINE VINEGAR! IT DIDN'T WORK, TOMMY!

SAVE THE LAMB'S GLANDS FOR ME

Happy Pesach, ever'buddy! Didn't know that Passover was today? Snuck up on ya? Still recovering from April Fool's partying? Hey, tell me your best April Fools prank and I'll publish it...no, don't! I won't. I'm out of my mind.

Well, it is Passover, and one of the reasons you don't hear much hype about it is because a significant portion of mainstream Americans hate Jews, and Jews don't whine about their long ago enslavement nearly as much as certain peoples in this country bitch about theirs and hog all the attention.

So I was shopping in the Jewish ghetto aisle at my local Publix for all my Passover needs, except they ran out of kosher laundry detergent for my devout wife who converted and is more Kabbalist than me now. And the aisle is really just a big bookshelf they bought from a shut down Harris Teeter and store in the back for holiday use.

It's just stuck out there in the middle near the cash registers, branding anyone within it's two foot radius with a giant "JEW" stamp in the minds of Publix onlookers, managers, baggers, waitresses, and shoppers. I know some people who would rather go into Love Shack's gay porn aisle at noon on a busy Sunday here in Georgia than stand in the Jew Food aisle at Publix and be religiously outed.  Some people even fill their buggy with extra jars of mayonnaise so people will think they are just buying matzo for a friend. It may be Atlanta's suburbs, but we're still in Georgia, and we can pick up the Gainesville country station 'round here.

A person's religion is very private information for a lot of people, so to draw it out of them under the guise of helping with their holiday needs is just damn unethical. It's like starting an aisle for people whose net worth is over a million, or an aisle for the guy with Social Security number 347-24-0989. I don't care, personally, because everyone knows I'm a proud Jew from the way I walk and steal small items from the candy shelf, but not as many people are as secure in their being as me.

At least an Easter shopper can hide behind the many aisles of Easter baskets, basket supply, candy, plastic grass and bunnies. I don't know why they would since Easter is widely respected as a holiday, and I don't see the logic of a store offering so much cover for people with so little to hide. I'm out here on Passover Island, naked and going gefilte fishing for survival. This is the same Publix I praised a few weeks ago, and the manager called me to thank me as I guiltily shopped at Whole Foods. But now? I don't know. I'm going to have to see some dollars off coupons in my mailbox or free subs for a year.

Even some non-Jews are getting pissed at the retail bungling of Passover. I received a puzzled email on this holy day from a goy follower of the House of Wachs:

Larry,

Any idea where I can get some Kosher Coca-Cola? Last year when I tried, my local Publix was kind enough to order something that they said was Kosher Coke, but it had high-fructose corn syrup as its ingredient instead of cane sugar. Your help on this would be greatly appreciated.

Miss the show.

Tom

Tom, my possibly uncircumcised friend, I too have failed to find any yellow capped Passover Cokes for two years straight at my local outlet, and I'm mad.

That local Publix either misunderstood you or is lying, because if it has HFCS in it, it may be a lot of things, but it ain't kosher for Passover. Here's more some information courtesy of  The Accidental Hedonist, a man who stumbled upon pleasure some years ago and has made quite a name for himself in the world of pleasure. According to him, Coke doesn't use pure cane sugar anymore in their Pesachic Cokes, but uses sucrose instead.

I'm going to investigate this further. Right now the switchboard at Publix is closed due to the fact that there aren't many grocery emergencies going on from 5:30pm-8am, but I will try tomorrow to find the exact location of the yellow caps. It truly does resemble the trappings of a real drug deal, and that gets my adrenaline pumping.

"Yeah, I'mo find out who's hopping the Yellow Caps tomorrow. Word."

The number, if you would like to try, is: 800-242-1227. Be polite and tell them House of Wachs sent you.

Also, you may want to search for information in back issues of "Kosher Today."

In the meantime, it's MexiCoke for my family.

This is the start of my new career as consumer investigator. I call this segment: "Wachs In Your Ear."

Perhaps not.

YELLOW SUBDIVISION

Yay! It's March Madness in my head! Look at me. I'm wearing a yellow shirt in celebration!

Even I'm telling people, I Can't Believe It's Only March! And I'm not usually one for such inane small talk.

The Enemies of Wachs will be happy to know that I have been quite miserable lately. Today was probably the worst day yet, and no signs of bottoming out.

So there I was last week, on Memorial Drive. It's 91, and the natives are already restless and angry here at the DeKalb Traffic Court, but I still am convinced global warming is a good thing. Life is adaptation.

Your favorite petty criminal, me, was nailed doing 89 in a 55 a few months ago on 85. I'm sorry, is that too many numbers? I was going fast. Safe, because I'm a great driver, of course, but fast.

89 over the 55. Only 34 over the limit, just 1 under Governor Sonny's proposed "Super Speeder" category, so no trophy for me. And I was actually doing 94 as I recall, in one stretch of that soon-to-be criminalized journey. Must have been going up a hill at the speed gun.

I did not know this, but sometimes enterprising traffic court judges run what they call "courtroom specials." Today, the judge made note of all the speedy customers in his courtroom, and decided it was time for the wheels of justice to at least achieve the minimum speed.

"If you wanna skip your trial, just pay a fine, and have it changed to a non-moving violation, step forward, tell me your name, and go see the cashier downstairs."

But, speed kills, your honor!

"If you'd like to stay and get some points or go to jail, you are welcome to do so."

Bye!

I've never seen so many people move so quickly to throw cash at the government. We all piled into the narrow stairwell to the cramped cashier's lobby downstairs, where makeshift security equipment is crammed into the foyer, no more than 10 yards from the cashier window. Very little security advantage as I see it. A dude with a decent shot could rob that place from the front door, it's so close.

Well, anyway it is still a great deal this judge had going. Even for me in my "Up and Coming Super Speeder" category, it's worth it. No points!

I called my wife.

"Hi! I got fined $295, stood in line in 90 degree heat for an hour with overweight, impatient 3rd worlders, and sneezed my head off. But good news! I saved 15% on our car insurance.

She wasn't thrilled, but women rarely see the long view of finance.

I aborted my 3.5 mile walk/run today, so, I guess I am pro-choice after all.  I passed a car down the street that has been parked for 4 days and someone with really neat handwriting had written"pollen" in the pollen parked on the hood. Today, the letters are nearly filled in so you would have to look carefully to see the word "pollen" on the car. The fates were sending me messages in the spores, but I kept going, which was a huge mistake. The bubble boy and those photo-electric kids, who explode if exposed to sunlight, have it easier going outside. Sangina Malinkar feels more virile. So I shut it down after just 2 miles.

The big problem with allergies, besides the anti-social fluids running down one's face, and smelling like egg salad, is that the only sure cure is temporary dehydration. Even with a good antihistamine, the sufferer is too dehydrated to run well, and then more pollen gets all inside everything with a hole in it as exercise continues, sucking more moisture from the victim. Then comes the loginess as if one was running through a field of poppies, and...can't...go on.

Claritin is no match for these days of the Chartreuse Menace. I take three at a time because the recommended OTC dose may do wonders for the drug companies' legal fees, but it doesn't stop my allergies for more than 2 hours indoors, 8 minutes outside.

Now that I have a lot of freer time, I long for the days when allergy pills were big and beefy and they knocked you down like a taser and put you to sleep for 16+ hours. I remember being dragged to dog owner's houses by my parents when I was a kid for Passover Seder. They tanked me up on in the car on anti-histamines...70s-style anti-histamines...and I would fall face first into the bitter herbs before I could utter another word of the 3rd question.

Now they have pills for adults that once were the realm of mere children.  They dry you out and keep you wide awake to enjoy the parchiness of it all. We are forced to sacrifice health and happiness all in the service of preventing a few White Trashians, and Hillbilly-Americans from getting meth mouth and giving BJs on Craigslist. I've taken the initiative in finding alternatives for all of you sufferers out there who need a knight in yellow armor. My research indicates that the cannabis plant is a terrific anti-histamine. Not only that, it's legal when used for medical purposes such as this.*  Plus....just pennies a serving.

Thinking quickly before the total apathy that accompanies a rough sneezing jag kicked in, I captured the aftermath of today's aborted jog around MILFville for your listening pleasure, recorded live in my restroom. That's a shower droning in the background. Sorry.

Pollen: Seeds of Destruction.

*_{Check your local laws. Not all jurisdictions participate in this program.}

STANDARD TIME

Another great day at my folks’ basking in 17 degree temperatures. This is the first non-entertainment oriented snow I’ve seen in 5 years. I couldn’t be more unhappy about the weather, especially since it’s 70 at home, and we came here after a week of golf and 65 at home everyday. I feel cheated, like I went on Spring Break to watch the filming of “Girls Gone Mild.”

Everything is cold. I’m eating my way to warmth. I have no motivation to exercise. There is no mealtime. Just a series of feedings that blend together until I collapse for the evening. I am a true southerner now.

The upside to all this is that my parents have a lot of great pills, and I readily partake. All the top ones that younger people enjoy. In plentiful supply. Courtesy of your government. Ready to help me sleep off a few extra hours that would otherwise be spent dwelling on my physical discomfort.

My dad has been a libertarian sort for most of his life, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t leap for joy when he gets his walking around money from SS every month, and takes whatever free meds the government will pay for. Fuck it. He paid into the system.

When I was 7, I vowed never to touch a girl, but that was broken.

When I was 11, I vowed never to participate in TV or radio commercials that interrupt my favorite shows, but I skipped out on that one, too.

When I was 17, I swore that I would never pay for a show-offy car or anything but good, reliable transportation. Yeah, right.

And when I was 30, I vowed never to accept anything from or get involved with the government.

Well, I wish my 30-year old self good luck with that one, because with pills like this awaiting me when I’m in my sixties, I’d vote for Chelsea Clinton if it meant getting more of them. In fact, looking back on my track record of keeping principled stances, I think my last voting will occur when I’m 59. After that, who cares what judges and policies and laws are put into place? They won’t have any impact for decades, and I’ll be gone. Let the grandkids pick up the mess. That’s what they’re there for. I tried.

I didn’t know it until I left my hometown and went to other cities and got perspective on the situation, but everyone in Baltimore is ugly. I haven’t seen one woman I’d like to bone yet. It’s got to be the weather. It’s a sex chaser for sure.

While I’m feeling like I’m 80, I called the Weather Channel about a job over there. Last weekend, I applied for the position of “graphics spell checker.” It’s obvious they don’t have one, but they do need one.

They didn’t post the position. I made it up myself after seeing an outrageous spelling blunder on one of their teasers, which is doubly infuriating because I’m already not a fan of even correctly spelled weather teasers. Tell me the goddamn weather. Don’t give me this “coming up” crap. It’s unethical to play ratings with people’s lives. And it’s not like I can’t find the information from 20 other sources.

The teaser graphic said:

“Coming up-Tempertures Today.”

I called their station programming voice mail, told them of the gaffe, and the good news that I’m immediately available for future service as a spell-checker for the WC. Haven’t heard back yet, so if anyone over at the Weather Channel listened to me on the radio, please put in a good word for me.

“Guess who’s the new guy at the office, honey?”

“Who?”

“Larry Wachs of the Regular Guys Show.”

“OMG! He’s so sexy.”

“Yeah, and he’s a great guy, to boot. He’s gonna make our company a lot of money someday.”

It would be cool to work with Larry Wachs, and have that exact conversation happen to you. And you can make it happen. Think about it.

Standards are ebbing for sure, but I’m only curdled by it because they’re my standards that are being ebbed. The people eroding my standards are setting new ones, most of which I think are horrible, like lip piercing and not spanking children, but at least I am comforted in knowing someday they will get their just desserts and die of hepatitis or patricide by their self-esteem laden offspring, and their methods will be discredited and targeted for ruin as well.

What are my standards? What’s Larry’s America like you wonder? Well today, I was intrigued by the storyline of a Leave it to Beaver episode.

It seems that Wally and Lumpy were getting set for the big track meet that weekend. Of course, with Wally being short and having carefully arranged hair, and Lumpy, with his double chin and body fat percentage teetering on the brink of triple digits, both would be counted on heavily to carry Mayfield to a victory over their arch-rivals at No Negroes Academy.

The coach tells the boys in the locker room that they need to buckle down and concentrate and ....absolutely no horseplay would be tolerated.

Well, wouldn’t you know it but here comes ole’ Haskell strolling by and that seductive and wily rascal Haskell starts a towel fight with Wally and Lumpy, and only Wally gets caught by the coach while the others roll him under the bus.

“I’ll bet you had a gay old time throwing that towel,” says the angry coach, who promptly tosses Wally out of that week’s meet despite the huge loss to the team. Well, at least they have Lumpy in the 500yard hurdles.

I don’t know how the story turned out because I had to go eat something because I felt cold, but I ask you: What is wrong with that era in American life? I’d sure like to go back to it. Except we should keep all our current technology. I’m not a lunatic.

I’m sure people watching that show when it first aired were uniformly disturbed by Wally’s ethical predicament and uniformly unaroused by the use of the word gay. They had standards. That’s what I want. Get back to some standards. Life is too short to be this confusing.

Now, no one gives a shit when the Weather Channel misspells “temperature,” one of their bread and butter words, and they giggle until they wet themselves, as I did, when someone uses the word “gay” wrong. And why should people care when they’ve eaten so many boxes of Krispies and sat in millions of La-Z-Boyz?

Feh. Pass me the pills and build a fire, would ya?

CARVE YOUR ENTHUSIASM

Hey! Happy Valeween's day!

I just got done eating a pound of crabmeat in celebration. It’s not as fun as it sounds.

I love crabmeat, and the prospect of eating my fill always excites me, but I always forget, in my gluttonous zeal, that the crab-onset diarrhea is sure to follow. Must be allergic to something in the crab, but as long as it doesn’t make me itch or sneeze, I’ll continue eating it.

I don’t actually mind diarrhea because it’s easy to get rid of and feels great when it’s done. And, of course, I love farting. Who doesn’t?

I’m celebrating because I just got a new job that I’m very excited about. I’ve been hired by an outfit called “Turkey Lifters.” It’s a great business. What we do is, when a call comes into our offices, we rush out and help the subscriber to our service lift their roasted or fried turkey out of the roasting pan. For an extra charge, we’ll even pour the pan juices into a saucier for gravy preparation.

Turkeys can be very heavy, and some people, particularly hungry seniors, have miscalculated the weight of that hot bird and have been crushed and scalded to death. With the population aging, I think I’m getting in on the ground floor of what I think will be an amazing cash cow. I tell skeptical people that it’s like Geek Squad for poultry, and that usually turns ‘em.

More about my celebration tomorrow, but right now, I want to warn the rude, selfish, and snotty people of Vail, CO, that the Ski Avenger is back in town. If you snowboard, it would be wise to take a break from the slopes this week, because the Ski Avenger has been on quite a roll of late in dealing with hotshot pricks who think they can put one over on Jew Daddy.

The Ski Avenger has vowed to resolve conflict with the overbearing personalities of the Rocky Mountain West in a more mellow fashion this year, but it is difficult to maintain one’s composure where the douchebaggery  exhibits as often as the snow falls. When it comes to self-important assholtion, everyday is a powder day here.

Case in point:

Lunch at the top of the mountain for the world famous Vail Cream of Chicken and Wild Rice Soup. Not only does it look tasty, but it looks the same going down as it does up later on the mountain when the altitude starts to swell the brain.

About 20 oversized picnic tables line the walls inside the two-mile high eatery. Space is at a premium inside because outside, the wind and snow make it hard to hear your cell phone.

WACHS: Hey, fellas. Any room at this table?

VIP Skier: Yes, on the inside of the table. We cannot move down because we are important. We must sit on the end of the table. You must sit on the inside.

WACHS: O.K. We’ll sit on the inside of the table. Thank you.

(Half-hour later)

VIP Skier: Hey could you hand me my jacket hanging on the wall behind you?

WACHS: Oh, you mean the one on the hook on the wall next to the INSIDE of the table? Get it yourself.

End scene, but not really.

This after we had the good fortune of experiencing the world’s first ever real estate deal and, even more exciting, witnessing the use of a cell phone! Admittedly, it would have been more thrilling to watch him use his Bluetooth headset so we could hear him shout the actual dollar figures, but it was still fun.

I don’t hate white people at all, but the ones here make me avoid them for the next two weeks. These are people who think that Tears For Fears is a good band.

I think Old Man Pickle Nose has it just about right. For some reason, many people are under the impression that, because they are on vacation, it means that they are “off.” The normal rules of behavior don’t apply.

Move down so others can sit without climbing all over everyone? Sorry. I’m on break.

Throw away the trash from your lunch? Sorry, I’m on vacation.

Make your adjustments off to the side so you don’t block people getting off the chair? Sorry, I paid a lot of money for this vacation. Send an email to my smartphone.

The Ski Avenger is here people! Shape up, because I can’t hold back much longer.

WOULD SOMEONE BUYOUT MY SNARKY BLOG ALREADY?

I'm eating a bowl of Kellogg's NEW! Cocoa Krispies Choco-nilla flavor cereal, where they've gone and mixed the Cocoa Krispies with some Vanilla Krispies.They didn't have the Rice Krispies with Strawberries so I settled for this combo. Not bad. They've done an excellent job of busing the Krispie races so that even an experienced cereal eater such as myself is stunned at the harmony of the flavors and how they form an entirely new flavor which can only be described as choconilla. I hope that scientists right now are working the DNA on a hybrid cacao / vanilla bean plant so that we may never run out of this marvel.

Here's a press release for the strawberry version entitled, After Nearly 80 Years, Snap!^TNCrackle!^TM & Pop!^TM Welcome Company to the Bowl. Maybe I'll hold off until I get clarity on that.

My wife asks if she can just have the Vanilla Krispies, which are not sold separately and, therefore, are highly-valued for their distinct and delicate flavor when eaten solo. Unfortunately, my gas chromotology skills have eroded over the years and I sold the machine that separates cereal bits on Ebay to a small police force in Idaho for $87.

Now my wife asserts that her brother has the skills to make such a machine, due to the fact that he led a top roadbuilding crew in Iraq safely and underbudget.

"He's a swell roadbuilder and soldier, honey, but that's not the same skill set."

"Bet me." Which I declined, because my wife has no cash and I'd only wind up taking stuff I bought her back to the store, and I don't have any of the receipts handy, and I don't feel like looking for them. It's a classic error of time management, collecting a bet from your wife. What does she have that you're not gonna get anyway? If her brother was that talented, he wouldn't be living in Upstate NY on a houseboat. No way.

But I do have projects in the works these days in addition to my continued work in the legal field of extricating myself from the October Surprise of 2006. I am happy to announce on that front, the great Barry Scheck has agreed to take my case as part of the Project Innocence he's founded.

In addition, I've been trying to devise a system that allows you to eat a nutritious meal while you jog. I'm not talking about a Power Bar kind of thing. That's not nutritious. It's candy...with some protein mixed in. You're better off having a Snickers and steak sandwich.

I'm talking about a well-cooked, nutritious, sub-gourmet meal as a Rachael Ray would present, in just a skimpy diaper and brassiere of course, to her admiring fans. Soups, salads, sandwiches, stews, entrees, dessert, with no needles, that could all be consumed while one is getting in his miles on a track or trail.

I'm also busy putting together a drive to make March Black Future Month. I think it sounds more positive. Speaking of pandering, here are my three favorite Super Bowl commercials:

• the one where the guy looked like he was gonna puke
• the one where the guy got hit in the balls.
• the one where the dog did human-quality stuff.

They made me forget that I lost every single bet I placed on the Super Bowl. So did the beer. Yesterday's Super Bowl taught me one thing. Never bet on the team with the Jewish QB. And don't eat things you can't identify, even if it's on a plate and hot.

BEARS QB REX GROSSMAN

-------------

Update

The G-man is NOT Jewish. The G-man is NOT Jewish!

Still, don't bet on the QB with the Jewish-sounding name.

Don't put your money on a team led by Jay Fiedler or Sage Rosenfels in the SB.

I am not Jack Bauer's brother, either. Carry on.

THE DANCING KING

On the way to golf, I'm sitting behind a cliche at the light. A small lady in a visor driving a magnificent Ford Expedition. The back seat TV is showing "Finding Nemo," to the gender neutral children Bailey and Bryson, as noted by the stickers on the back glass of the vehicle showing each in caricature with their names. Nothing says you care more than advertising your children to the public.

"Mommy, do fish talk?" asks the little boy/girl Bryson.

"Mommy, why do men that smell like Uncle Fred keep looking into our car?" asks the boy/girl Bailey.

And Mommy drives slower to answer the children's questions while chatting with cell phone pals, and I arrive later, rather than sooner, at the golf course.

On the 15th tee today, I actually heard these words flow so easily from my lips, to the ears of the children loudly chasing a dog through the trees behind the teebox:

"Kids. People are trying to golf here. Now go inside and think about Dr. King like you're supposed to."

It needs to be said, and I will. I've had it with this useless holiday where white people allow their children to run loose in the suburbs.

Hey, time to play....WHO SAID IT? Winner gets this fun holiday t-shirt:

Ready? Who said this?

"When you go to the middle of our field and you start doing the dance that Shawne Merriman is known for, that's disrespectful."

If you guessed Kirsten Dunst in "Bring it On," no shirt for you. Sorry.

It was LaDainian Tomlinson. Yes, a man. A man who plays in the NFL, where it is now officially disrespectful to disrespect another player's dance of disrespect. The NFL should turn the Pro Bowl into a season-ending dance off, with real grass skirts, and a big finale where the winner gets to duet with Emmitt Smith.

So as not to upset the joy of this holy day, may I humbly suggest that maybe if Shawne Merriman was practicing his football moves instead of his dance moves, perhaps Nora, the privileged ballet dancer from the right side of the tracks, would be dating him instead of Tom Brady. But instead, Baby is left standing in the corner, shoved aside like a common camera man in the path of Flashdance-outfitted Bill Belichick looking to hug a guy named Mangina.

LARRY'S MEDIA NOTES

As soon as I receive the discs from CBS, I will podcast my solo shows on Free FM/NY from the past two weeks for your listening pleasure. It was a tremendous opportunity and I didn't have a weak outing in the bunch.

Also, attention Fox 5, CNN, FNC, and others. American Idol starts tomorrow night. I am available for insightful commentary on Wednesday morning. Already, it's off to a disappointing start because, according to my sources, this Billie Holiday-singing tartlet that the producers have been teasing us with in the promos...

...didn't make it past the Hollywood groupings. Intrinsic proof that singing is more than just powerful lungs. I am buoyed only by my faith that there are more Hollywood groupings in her future should she desire.

T'KEEYA, T'ROOAH, AND PETEETONG!

YAY!!! Happy New Year(s)

Starting the year looking like an asshole. What a great start!

An update to "Whiskers of Fate." has been posted.

THE ROLE OF SOUL

Today is the first full day without James Brown. He lived a very soulful life, from what I'm told. I understand he was the Godfather of Soul. I did not know that. Thanks, TV news. You're always there for me. I just had no idea.

Who will replace him? I vote for Eddie Murphy, but I think I'd be happy with Jamie Foxx. I don't think either one would accept, to be honest. It's not that they wouldn't want to seem like they were trying to disrespect James Brown. It's just that the winner has to get it on with Aretha Franklin.

Godfather of Soul. I think the overwhelming majority of people in America believe, and I count myself as one of them, that black people are more soulful than the rest of us. Maybe they are, but what does that mean? They have bigger souls? Better souls? Deeper souls? Souls that make them fly?

While it may be true that the music of people such as James Brown is rooted in gospel and church and is wildly entertaining, it is also true that soul has it's downside. Soulful people are some of the worst decision-makers the world has ever known. Jimmy Carter was a soulful, caring, hand-wringing individual, but he was a loser and now Iran is all soulful about nuclear confrontation because of him.

George Bush wanted to be a compassionate conservative and he messed up a winning thing because he had too much soul for the people of Iraq.

The Commodores are not together anymore.

Even James Brown, could not master his soul completely given his numerous run-ins with the law and odd hair choices. But there was no doubt he had soul. Deep soul. Big soul. And he was nuts.

I was cheered up today by receiving a lovely box of sweets in the mail from a Christmas well-wisher. In the box were some delicious coconut haystacks. Why do we name holiday foods after the most unappetizing objects on earth? Haystacks, logs, bowls, balls. You wouldn't eat these. Yet, put a bunch of chocolate and nuts on them and place them in a pretty box and all of sudden people are all, "I'm eating balls, man. Awesome."

IT'S THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

I may be off the radio, but that is just such a small part of my influence in this town, that the noise of Wachs is still being heard unabated by all efforts to silence.

BEHOLD!

This ridiculous DOT sign that I pointed out to you a couple of days ago in front of Atl. Athletic Club facing southbound motorists on GA141:

Has been changed to simply..."NO U-TURN AHEAD."

The INS must have raided the crew after getting wind of that earleir sentence structure. Hey, amigo! Why not just send up a flare that bursts into the sparkly letters of "ARREST ME" next time?

The new sign guy left this one up, though:

It's soothing to know that when the DOT seeks to upgrade their personnel these days, they turn to your average American public school numbskull and it's amazing how today's immigration patterns have made our domestic mediocrities seem highbrow.

Nonetheless, the sign was changed immediately after your #1 Hebrew Milkman exposed it to the world thereby notching another in what will soon prove to be the beginning of a string of victories in 2007 for decency and for Wachs.

Oh, and while I'm besotted with my re-ignited media power, let me just remind many of you out there that, from here on out, anyone using the song "The Final Countdown" by synth-metal poodle 80s band Europe, as a hip comic reference...Knock it off. That free laugh coupon has expired. That also goes for anyone who says "Good times!" "not so much" and "threw up a little in my mouth." No more. People fear me. Stop it. I can make you disappear.

You can laugh if you want at the shabby-looking array of candles we selected for the Hanukkah Closing Ceremonies tonight at our home, but you'd be laughing at a genuine miracle, my most likely uncircumsized, pork-eating friend.

We ran out of candles and had to scrounge around the house for old candles so we could wrap up Hanukkah for another 10-13 months. Hence the bent one that we had to weld with a match to get it at an angle where the insurance adjuster could ethically pay our claim, and the Earl Anthony Shamesh riiiigght down the middle, Chris! Just like in the old country, our 6-day house supply of fuel for irrelevant energy lasted us 8. Thank you, Jesus...uh...I mean...the other one.

It's a miiiiracle! (miiiiracle!)

A true blue spec-ta-cle the miiiracle is YOU! (whoo!)

"It's a Miracle" by Manilow...It's the new "Final Countdown."

YOU GOTTA PARTY FOR YOUR RIGHT TO FIGHT

I just heard on the phone, for the third time today, another condescending earful of, "How's your Hanukkah?" from another non-Jew.

Listen, it's been OK. Don't worry about it so much.

I'm getting more worked up and passionate about moving Hanukkah to August as the evidence continues to mount that it would be the wisest move in the history of religion. Today was Exhibit A, entitled:

People Treat Jews Like Cancer Patients During Hanukkah.

"So is your Hanukkah doing okaaaaayyyy? Hmmm?" Like Hanukkah's a piece of circumsized flesh I keep in a jar of formaldehyde in my cedar closet. Hey man, I hear the sense of obligation and dread in your voices, as if you were asking me, "So how's that neck tumor coming along?" You want to know, but not really. I get it.

Think about this, sayers of "nay." You put that Hanukkah right up there in the first week of August, you have a kick ass summer festival the first week of every month of the summer season.

CURRENT SYSTEM

JUNE--Memorial Day Week

JULY--4TH of July Week

AUGUST--

SEPTEMBER--Labor Day

Two entire months in party season go by without a festival of some sort. Ridiculous.

WACHS SYSTEM

JUNE--Memorial

JULY--4TH

AUGUST--HaNuKkAh!!!

SEPTEMBER--Labor

And how is this good for America? It's not. It's great for America! Here come the politics:

First, for those of you who hate Jews for whatever reason; keep in mind that many of you celebrate Cinco De Mayo and St. Patrick's  with great vigor and aren't spics or micks. A lot of ladies go to Super Bowl parties even though they hate football. Right? Hypocritical don't you think?

Also, may I remind all of you what holiday does take place in August but not in America. The dreaded Ramadan. Right now Ramadan has all the good publicity because the news media thinks Muslims are peaceful givers of life and even their farts are pious.

But you watch. Install Hanukkah in it's own condo on the first of August, and those miserable, dour cavemen of the Middle East will be exposed as the depressed mopes they really are. Nobody will want to hang with them after the giant electronic statue of Hanukkah Harry drops his balls on some hoochie's chin in the middle of the Diamond District kicking off 8 candle-dripping nights of consumption and high stakes dreidel.

"Hey fellas, now that Hanukkah's over, want to join me and my wool-wrapped friends for 20 days of fasting and beating yourself in the head with a rock while lying prone on a dirt floor in 115 degree heat? Hey, where'd everyone go?"

I've even written a little holiday song for Ramadan. Wanna hear it? OK.

On the first day of Ramadan my true love game to me...

NOTHING!

AND HE'S DEAD!

We might even get that Kim Jong-Il on our team if we give him a stool and some Craiglist whores for Hanukkah.

Come on, America! Let's put Hanukkah in it's place. We don't need Hanukkah to be competing with the American Christmas. It's like the Green Party. They'll never win, just piss people off. Let Kwaanzans have the crumbs from the winter solstice holiday tray. They have no compass. We need to get Hanukkah squaring off against the evil of Ramadan. Who can party heartier? The world is watching.

THE ART OF CHRISTMAS

Best Christmas song of the year.

Worst Christmas song of the year. Maybe of all time.

BRAND CANCER

Happy Hannukah and welcome home Holocaust Deniers! How was the convention in Iran? Get any autographs from Prussian Blue? How was your hotel?

Oh! Top notch!

Another year has passed and the head rabbis have once again ignored my emailed suggestions to help boost the sagging popularity of Hanukkah, a holiday that is kept afloat only by because there are a lot of guilty Christians out there. It's tough to survive, perennially scheduling Hanukkah between Thanksgiving and the Grandaddy of All Holidays, and starting it on a different date every year. Ya gotta move this thing back to August, man. It's in the way.

I can understand the desire of the top Jews everywhere to adhere to the calendar that says it's the year 5767. It's a vital part of the "Ignore Jesus" strategy which is the core of all Judiasm. And I understand, intellectually, that the advent of the wheel, fire, and upright pedestrianism puts humans closer to the 7th millenium than the the 3rd. 

However, Jesus deserves credit for for clearing up a lot of the divisive controversies of his era, such as, "should I have sex with my dog?" and generally helping mankind to start getting it's act together. So give him his due, and quit stepping awkwardly in the Christmas spotlight.

August is virgin territory for gift-giving holidays and I would suggest moving it back there starting in 2007 or 08 before the presidential conventions get rolling. November and December are just booked solid. The message is not getting out. I know all about the Maccabis being hassled by the man, and the drop of oil lasting 8 miraculous days and all that, but there's no reason to be believe this cherished miracle didn't happen in August of that crazy year.

Re-brand Hanukkah as a sizzlin' summer holiday with a funky candle show and friends on the beach for eight consecutive nights of Hanukkah hoedown. You got your best girl, finger-bangin' under a blanket, while a friend with an acoustic guitar leads the gang in Rock of Ages. Alllllriiiight.

The sidewalks are hot enough to fry a potato pancake, the girls are playing volleyball in their bikinis and we've got a cooler filled with Brewed in an Ice Cold Mountain Somewhere, Coors Light...it's Hanukkah, baby!

Also, stop insisting that holidays start at dusk. It's too confusing.

I'm not just a talker, I'm a doer, recently nabbing a part time job at Menorah Factory Outlet, and...thank you....and I've boosted sales by 12% through my clever promotions, such as booking local celebs for in-store menorah lightings. We've had Dominique Wilkins, Usher, and Jeff Dauler of The Bert Show this year. After Hanukkah is finished, it's balls to the wall to prepare for our Annual Purim Noisemaker Blow-Out Sale with up to 70% off the top names in graggers.

Really, let's get with it, Judaical braintrust. Let's make a committment to acclimate ourselves fully in this new and strange land called America.

Speaking of questionable brand loyalties,  I'm watching the coveted Jim Mora's ex-team, the Falcons, enjoy another rudderless, undisciplined ass-whipping at the hands of Dallas. It's a tough chore to out-alienate the team that owns Terrell Carcinowens, but Junior gone and done it by telling his Seattle friends on the radio that he would abandon the Dirty Birds even as Morten Andersen was swinging his left leg into the Super Bowl winning field goal if it meant a dream job with Washington Huskies football. He said he was just joking..all three times he mentioned the idea.

"Wow," said the Seattle radio host. He was obviously laughing on the inside.

What compels people with top dollar jobs under much public scrutiny, to blurt out their business and resentments without filter or regard and to the benefit of absolutely no one? Did it feel good for, what? 20 seconds? What do you think the Washington Huskies football team will give you first? A job or a restraining order?

The game is now ending, almost poetically, with Vick's "groin" preventing him from finishing the game and another chance to "be Mick Vick," as that elitist pussy with the girl voice, Bryant Gumbel, so originally puts it. Well, I beg to differ. I think Mike Vick was being exactly like Mick Vick tonight. Another chapter in the how-to guide on being a physically blessed, but IQ-challenged QB in the NFL. And saying a groin problem is keeping Mike Vick out of a game is like saying a Democrat senator has a brain problem that keeps him from being effective. Get yer ass out there and stop being such a museum piece!

As predicted here and on the airwaves owned solely by the public back in August, the Falcons are closing in on a 7-9 season, and as beseeched here a year ago, to much hootery and derision, Jim Moron, will likely be shown the exit. Even Michael Richards phoned him and called him a dumb n******.

I felt kind of sorry for Mr. Mora out there at the end. Standing on the sidelines, down 10 with 2 minutes left. Camera in for the dramatic closeup. Playoff hopes gashed. Painful lesson learned. Pretending that he was not thinking about anything but winning this hopeless mess of a football game with players who aren't sure he's on their team.  Not thinking about selling the house in Sugarloaf. Not thinking about who would hire a coach who creepily stated he was stalking an entire college. Not thinking about how he was gonna get out of this mess what with the radio jock-u-larity coupled with the whimpering loss the next day....oy! Vat vill Artie say? I've ruined his Hanukkah!

I'm not insensitive. It does suck what he must be going through. I know how it feels to be suddenly thrust in the world of male homemakers when it's not your fault and you're not ready to be unproductive. But nobody died and maybe he'll get a job coaching UW Intramural Powder Puff Football. That would be the best of both worlds.

As a newly-minted homemaker myself, part of my job is to see to it that we have a steady supply of Flintstones ^TM Vitamins (w/ iron) in the home. Why Flintstones^TM  Vitamins (w/ iron)? Why it's the vitamin recommended by our family doctor to keep the gals in the household fit and lively! What kind of doctor recommends Flintstones^TM  Vitamins by name? The kind you get when paying for your own health insurance. Sigh! I bought the Publix house brand called "Public Domain Animal Shapes" for two bucks less per bottle because it's the same damn thing and they don't give kickbacks to money-grubbing doctors.  It ain't worth two more bucks to eat Fred Flinstone. Betty Rubble Vitamins on the other hand....

Another part of my job as homemaker is cooking nutritious meals for my family. Look! Tonight we're having a roast turkey breast that looks like Courtney Love's vagina. ^TM

"Give me some money, bitch!"

"Oh daddy, you're so funny when you use our dinner to make those crude sexual assault jokes," squeals my youngest. Everyone nods in agreement. This is gonna be the best Hanukkah ever!

SELL ME, LARRY

I think I just avoided a good rogering on this Tickle Me Elmo deal. I bought two of them for $70 each back in September after reading of scattered incidents of violence on the Drudge Report. As you know, since then, the market and holiday violence levels for Tickle Me Elmo have been disappointing, and the big markups are being taken by the PSP and Nintendo thugs, like my mom. I am just one of hundreds of people trying to unload their Tickle Me Elmos this Christmas.

What to do? My heritage-based grasp of economics says the solution is easy. Hold the mother of all Tickle Me Elmo auctions.

My philosophy is simple. Most of the other people selling Tickle Me Elmo are unclean and vile people who don't care much about you...just your money.

The difference with this auction is huge. This is what's known in Ebay circles as a "premium auction." I've gone all out to make sure that your bidding experience is worth every penny.

First, I want your child to have a great Christmas, so I'm starting the auction at just $1. This is for a new, never opened Tickle Me Elmo (TMX) 10th Anniversary Edition. No reserve, either. That's for greedy people.

Second, since the Christmas bidding/buying season is very busy and tumultuous, I've thrown in an 8-pack of Publix spring water in addition to the Tickle Me Elmo. Publix water is famous for it's triple filtering and reverse osmosis procedures that make it crisp and refreshing every single sip. That's right, win the doll, get your drink on.

Third, shipping fees will only be $10.

And finally, I'm throwing in a pitcure of me, the seller, to remember the good times you had here on Ebay, Christmas 2006.

So let's recap. Tickle Me Elmo + the 8-pack of delicious Publix spring water + a picture of me, your seller + cheap shipping fees + good times and memories. Beat that other sellers! You can't and you know it, you loathsome animals.

Click here for a very special Tickle Me Elmo Ebay Auction. You won't regret it.

THE MAYONNAISE SCION RETURNS

What's remarkable about the past week away from the scene is that people still give a damn what Kramer thinks. It's even more remarkable than the fact that anyone gave a damn what Kramer thinks to begin with.

Let's repeat for the remaining people who can't put this together. Blacks will be outraged everytime you say the dreaded "N-word." They are obligated to do so. This will not change for another 10 generations. Now throw that heckler in jail, and let's be thankful that Jason Alexander and Julia Louis-Dreyfuss are still with us.

I've missed y'all during the holiday week but, it's been a really fun week. I've gained back 5 pounds from exercising solely on a Nintendo Wii. Got stung by a bee while sleeping at my hot sister's house. Sued my hot sister for getting me stung by a bee while sleeping. Sued everyone who ever got on my nerves. Went to my nephew's school for show and tell as the uncle who went to jail.

Went out to dinner, just me alone with my parents, the way it was in the good ole days of 1961/1962, before my brother, Dr. Mike, came along and started siphoning all the attention away and ruined my life. But Bliss has been the name of the past two nights. Two nights of alone time with the folks. Just like it used to be...minus the booze, veal chops, and bickering. I'm thinking of moving in again. It'll be great now that my mom has retired from her stair-climbing career.

The only real disappointment was the cancellation of OJ's confession. I think it's because most people understand that he got away with two brutal murders, and aren't in the mood to rehash it absent some legal mechanism with which to vent their rage. Constitutional protections against double jeopardy prosecutions were never meant to favor serial taunters who flaunt their victories over morality with impunity. Ironic that the NFL, which routinely gives 10-15 yard sentences for such taunting behavior, gives OJ his Goldman-free income every month.

My laptop won't connect to the screwy encrypted network my dad has set up in his home because, of course, he must not allow unauthorized viewing or leaking of the very sensitive recipe searches he conducts on foodtv.com from his basement outpost.

"Dad, can I reset your router?"

"No," he says, but in a tone that suggests he thought I said, "Dad, can I Roto-Rooter your anus?"

"But I need to use my laptop."

"No," he says, but in a tone that suggests he thought I said, "Dad, can I beat off on your face?"

So here I am, writing to you, my adoring fans and spite-filled jealous enemies, after cleaning up from a nice adult website session at my mom's desk. It's wrong, but I did make an effort to swerve.

I've had two meaningful audition/interviews at radio places this past week in between givings of thanks, and my timesheet is starting to fill up for this week as well. I will not say where and with whom until I contractually consummate with one of these fine suitors. To do otherwise always results in confusion, so just recognize for now that your helpful Hebe is doing OK, and getting better on the fronts.

I'm going to keep this short so I can go finish unclogging my parents' toilet and taking the wet towels down the basement while they're sleeping because, even though I'm 45 and own a house myself, I'm not sure they will resist giving the hoary old "how to fold the toilet paper properly" lecture and I don't want to hear it because it wasn't the toilet paper, but the extraordinary amount of calories that a caring, doting parent will dangle to their offspring during a holiday visit. They also have some pretty weak toilets if you ask me.

It's back in the ATL Monday. I will only be available for free/discount golf on Friday this week. The week of 12/3 has more avails. When I get back home I will resume the uploading of more great segments in The Regular Guys Podcast. I am also planning a Watch Wachs Eat Club meeting before year's end. This one will include shirts. Also, a new YouTube video from Wachs Productions and Peteetong! Films on the way.

While I'm still in thanksgiving mode, I'd like not to forget and thank everyone who has donated money to the Regular Guys Legal Fund. Special thanks to the people who donated over $50 each. I know who you are and if you email me back with your address and shirt size, you can get a free shirt from the Regular Guys Store. And that goes for anyone who does that in the future. Boy, I love talking to people from the future! The button to donate is at or near the top of the left column.

HOSTILE FOR THE HOLIDAYS

Since September, when I bought two Tickle Me Elmos to cash in on Ebay holiday mania, I've been looking for headlines that told of violence in retail outlets as a bellwether of the Christmas black market. Good news is there were about 5 reports this weekend.

Some mental plegic in Milwaukee got his face smashed into a pole as a horde of toy scalpers rushed the doors of a local Target.

In Tyson's Corner, VA, police pepper-sprayed Circuit City customers who got unruly. Not to criticize the cops, but I think it's more appropriate to taser unruly Circuit Citizens.

Then in Kentucky, a rapist was caught in line at a Target there. Idiot. Everyone knows Xbox has all the good rape games.

The bad news in all this is, for me, that none of these incidents were incited by Elmo. It's all the PS3 idiots. I missed the market. What a horrible year I'm having. As of this writing, PS3s are averaging $1150 on Ebay, and TMX is topping out at around $80. My profit margin on TMX, if a gullible wind blows my way, is going to be about 1%. PS3, had I pitched a tent, would have yielded 110%. Niiiiice. At least I can say I gave 110%....up.

I'll wait another week to put up my Tickle Me Elmo auctions. That'll give me time to go out and start a fight at a Walgreen's next Friday in the name of Elmo. Start generating some profit-making headlines. I miss my new friends at the jail.

From what I can gather no one actually plays with the PS3. They just use them for this nationwide ponzi scheme until someone is left holding the bag on December 25th, and that poor schmuck really has no choice but to use the thing. Doesn't matter how many rapists they catch in line, someone always gets it in the end.

Another skill I wish I had. I could make a lot of money or meet wealthy chicks if I could do this.

BEG AT YOUR OWN RISK

We’re all geared up for Halloween at the Wachs home with some of Big Candy’s top products. Local costumed sugar addicts will not be disappointed.

However, in order to access these treats, visitors to our door must, as is custom, sign any and all affidavits of indemnification, waivers of responsibility, and agree to have all transactions photographed and recorded for our protection. This year, an agent of the Nation of Islam will be stationed outside at all times to insure that only costumed youths under the age of 13 gain access to candy door. You’d be surprised at how fun Halloween still is after all that.

The competition for best costume will be fierce this year.

Look out, Kid Dressed as a Tampon. This young man is ready to flush you.

Ethical question: If his sister dresses like a piece of shit, is that considered incestuous or just damn cute?