House of WACHS

PEOPLE PEOPLE

I'm not a people person. I'm a person who is interested in people. There's a difference. The former is immersive, the latter is coldly observant.

That's why I read..."PEOPLE!"

A whole magazine filled with...PEOPLE! Pages and pages of....PEOPLE! doing stupid things.

Carrie Underwood has bad luck with guys? No, the problem is that guys have no luck with her. Put out, sweetie. In Oklahoma, serial dating will drop you on the social ladder. I get that. But not where you are, now.  Just do it.

Jeeeesusssss, take my leeeeeegs!

Spread them wiiiide a paaaaart.

Thank you.

Kanye's mom makes me weep. She just wanted to look nice without having to exercise and diet and all that bother, and she chose a quack based on the recommendation of Queen Oprah of Tennessee. Now she's dead. I don't think she chose wisely, but I don't think her choices demand a death sentence.

Even in the hands of a skilled practitioner, lipo is barbaric. All this medical technology at our disposal and we're still shoving vacuum sticks in people to thin 'em out like cavemen poking an ant hill. Lipo has encouraged the consumption of more calories, not less.

Celine Dion thinks that's her son? That's because she's a robot built in the 90s on an old operating system which had issues with gender recognition. She was about to be recalled and rebuilt when Titanic hit it big, and they let the recall slide because she was needed in Vegas by her anxious financial backers.

That is actually the world's first asexual childbot built by Texas Instruments. Excuse me. My fail. It is the first asexual childbot built on a LINUX platform, and it shares a plug with their golf cart at night in the garage.

I did a double take on this one. First, LACI Peterson was missing, and her husband was the suspect. Now we have STACY Peterson missing and her husband is the suspect.

I'd hate to be Kacey Peterson right now.

If that's your name, RUN, HONEY! Drive to Cincinnati on a snow white Christmas Eve and stay there.

YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK

Here's a real annoying comment on a previous entry here at the HOW from a couple days ago. This one.

See the picture of the chupacabra with the snaggle tooth? Here's what "Danny"--probably a clever alias--said about that photo.

That tooth on the right has Wachs written on over it.....ROFLMAO

First of all, it doesn't. I'll get to that in a moment.

Second of all, even if your comment was true, "DANNY," it is highly unlikely that it rises to the level of humor where anyone would roll about the floor as if he were consumed with flame, and laughing hard enough for his glutes to fail.

It's more like ROFTBMOA. Rolling On Floor Being My Own Audience, a.k.a .masturbation.

As for the first part, 99% of the Wachs Teeth Project is finished. Here are the results of that trial.

Yeahhhhh, ran out of budget before the nose hairs. Sorry. Next payday perhaps.

No photoshopping here, folks. Just 100% hand blown porcelain from Peru where orphan children blow on tubes as Mayan dwarf artisans shape the tooth. Not too shabby.

My wife tongue-kissed me...voluntarily...for the first time in 27 years! Now I will burn all prints of The Greenskeeper and erase all memory of my old teeth. Oh, happy day! There IS some joy in Yidville. Mighty Wachsy has glammed out.

PAPA'S GOT A BRAND NEW GRILL

In pain.

Took drugs.

Can't think for long bursts.

Teeth got done today.

Temps put in.

Before (w/special guest, corn)

During

Now.

Ahhh, much sexier.

Oh, I got a new job, too.

No, not with The Pogues.

I'll tell you about it later.

The new look mouth will come in handy.

I'm excited.

Read this to keep you occupied.

Be back soon.

In pain.

GUT INSTINCTS

I went to Quizno's and the line, already slowed by the language barrier and the sandwich maker trainee on the job, slowed even further by a request from the conscious consumer in front of me inquiring if the political refugee behind the counter might have any fat free cheese available?

Fat free cheese. On a sub piled high with smoked meats and secret sauces on a honey wheat roll, in a place where chips are a side dish and a juicy, meaty prime rib sandwich with au jus, onions, and cheese is a top seller.

Where do people get the idea that Quizno's is a healthy food place?

Just because something is assembled and toasted before your eyes doesn't mean it's better for you. It's just more recently assembled, that's all. What nutritional value that has is not known by man.

I'll bet if McDonalds started to let people see them fry the burgers to order, many people would come to believe that McDs is a healthier place to eat despite not changing the caloric content one tasty iota.

I know some people who are pissed that McDonalds doesn't allow them to buy rare burgers. Isn't there enough for your antibodies to do as it is? Is it even possible for matheticians to calculate the amount of time a McDonald's burger could be on a griddle and still wind up rare?

Subway is not a health food store, either. Let me explode that myth. Just because that fat-ass Jared says it helped him lose weight, don't be fooled. What Jared doesn't tell you is that he could have eaten just two pieces of Popeye's chicken every meal for a year and lost weight he was so heavy. Subway has some lean items, but it's not medicinal.

Let's review. Quizno's. Not a health food store. Fast food. Not a health food store. It's fast. It's fun. It's comforting. But it's not a healthy lifestyle. Stop asking for fat-free cheese, you. It slows the line down and makes you look foolish. Go home. I'm trying to buy my family a snack.

Then my mother called to complain about my father.

"Your father almost burned down the kitchen today."

I'm sure.

"OK, I give up. Why?"

"He was making chicken wings."

I have to give my mom credit on this one. Their kitchen at the beach is tiny, and why the hell does he have to MAKE chicken wings there instead of going out and buying some from one of the 80,000 junk food merchants that line the beachfront highway covering 3 states, as any sane person would do?

It would be inaccurate to say that niether of them misses a meal. While it's true, it's more accurate to say that none of their waking minutes misses a meal. They're like a test couple for some misbegotten Ronco product that never saw a store shelf. Meal-A-Minute! The amazing new funnel that helps you eat every minute of the day!

Then George Stein called because my wife got a speeding ticket and it turns out that this is a death penalty case--Clayton County. They're cracking' the whip down there and I can't say I blame 'em---so we need his help. But I was on the bowl, so I called him back.

"Who takes a crap at 6pm?"

"I just did."

"I read an article in Prevention Magazine that says the best time to go is in the morning."

"What is that supposed to prevent?"

"I don't know. It said it's just a better time."

Well, my apologies to the poop schedulers at Prevention Magazine for being such a maverick, but I go when my belly tells me, morning, noon, or night. Here's an article idea for you. It prevents me from crapping my pants, and that's all the prevention I need.

STATE OF THE ART

I hate to state this publicly for fear of incurring the wrath of my hot-tempered and sexy dermatologist who reads this, but sometimes the risk of skin cancer is worth improving one's physical appearance. It happens so rarely for me to get positive feedback on my appearance, but now I've got a really nice glow to my skin after a week.5 at the beach and a couple of hours of being with a senior citizen in a porn shop. My neighbors are buzzing about my savage tan.

Side note to my hot-tempered, sexy dermatologist--the tan is only on my limbs. My torso and other clothing covered parts are still fish belly white as per your instructions.

I plan on pursuing a pro-tanning agenda that includes extending the current color level until at least the time my teethwork is finished about a month from now. Oh, how I wish it was done already. What a combo. I'm so excited.

Next time Aunt Bunny calls my parents offering to fix up a Wachs boy with actress Ellen Barkin as she did last week, it'll be me, and not the swarthy, Tunisian-inspired look of my brother Dr. Mike, who despite a weight gain of about 20 pounds in the last year, still can open doors with just a smile, while I still need the aid of attorneys and doctors.

Much to his credit, Dr. Mike kept his integrity by refusing the temptation of Barkin up her 52-year old Hollywood tree just because she's a movie star.

"I've already got a wife and girlfriend. It's enough," he explained to my mom, the pimp, who, by the way, has come up with a great cure for sciatica...leaning against the dishwasher! It really works.

Only 7 more days until Phase 1-Bleaching commences. By September, I'll be going to Kohl's to purchase my robe, pipe, and slippers at their annual Half Off Back-To-School Sale, and hosting wine tastings at my condo with a jazz combo playing in the corner. Look out ladies! I've been watching "Big Love" on HBO lately and getting some big ideas.

It is certainly an antidote for the frustrating act of trying to find meaningful work in the radio business circa 2007, where the idea that skillfully produced entertainment can compete for listeners and revenue hasn't quite caught fire just yet. Here's an interesting email I got from a very talented former colleague:

Wachs--

You still jobless too? I can't seem to find the right gig. In the meantime, I am getting incredibly muscular and I plan to use the muscles for good. My original plan was to use them for evil. Then I saw the new Harry Potter movie and good beats evil. How much can you bench? This is the part of the day where I usually send a half assed tape and resume to Idaho or some other Godforsaken place. But today, I am going to start an internet rumor about Lindsay Lohan. If you happen to hear on the streets that Lohan has seven nipples, then you know who the source is. I have pictures.

I work in a warehouse now. I'm a captain of industry.

Hope all is well,

**SENDER REDACTED**

My response:

I am not jobless. Recently, I helped my wife complete a slide show for our neighborhood swim team. The pay was minimal. Actually, it was zero. Actually, I have yet to be reimbursed by the homeowner's association for the $35 of materials it cost me. So, yeah. I'm not jobless. I'm paying to work. But it's still work, and that makes me a worker. It puts me, too, on the side of good, and not evil.

I admire greatly your work ethic and I will do my level best to help spread this fresh Lohan rumor. In fact, if you read about it on TMZ, Defamer, or Drudge, then you can smile knowing that the juice I have with my industry contacts is still flowing. Perhaps you saw the fruits of my recent work floating the rumors that Lance Bass is gay, and Paris Hilton went to jail, neither of which are true, but generally accepted as true by most people. And get this...I happen to know who Ellen Barkin is dating!!!

I saw that the program manager of our former hangout,**STATION CALL LETTERS REDACTED**, has posted a job for producer of **SHOW NAME REDACTED***, which is odd, due to the fact that they have no shortage of producers on that show, and even their producers have producers.

You may want to apply, but my experience tells me that this job is designed solely to be a conduit of information back to the PD on how to get rid of **SHOW NAME REDACTED**, and their negative return on investment. A mole, if you will, inside a show that lacks no producers. Once that show has been dismissed, you will be discarded. But it's probably worth a good 7 months of pay, not to mention the perks of being able to wear nipple clamps, eat freshly made host turds, and jack off into a cup and eat it, while the hosts whine to the press and their agent about what misunderstood victims they are....all on the air, in the name of great morning radio in **MARKET REDACTED**, the nation's number **MARKET SIZE REDACTED** market.

In the meantime, keep your pimp muscles strong.

So as you see, I have now become a haven of comfort for the similarly afflicted. It's like being a homeless advocate only with less odor. I will accept this burden, and invite other talented radio people in or out of the business currently to seek counsel. I will soothe you. Come bask in my glow.

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.

BENOIT BALLS UP

I noticed that most of the individually wrapped Lindt chocolate balls at the checkout desk of Borders have been squished by unsupervised hands. If I were the Border's manager, I would review the security video and match up receipts with the timeline, find the addresses of the miscreants, and throw all the coffee shop trash on their lawn after work. And I would put up a sign next to the candies outlining this procedure explicitly so they know what's going on when they wake up and find Seattle's Once Best covering their lawn jockeys. How do you think Giuliani cleaned up NY? Same thing. The idle hands which are permitted without comment to squish the chocolate balls, will invariably test the limits upward until someone is damaged. Laugh now, but save some of that energy for picking up all the knocked over bookmarks.

This wrestler murder/suicide outrage has got me so emotional I haven't been able to speak for days. The idea that a whole family is just wiped out in an instant.... Even a small one takes years of work to put together and maintain. Man, that's hard to take.

I was listening to the radio this morning on the way to the foot doctor as the local practioners of poorly prepared commentary tried to tackle this problem of rampaging wrestlers. The need to blame and make logic of just plain crazy is always a fun struggle to listen to.

The 99Xcrement morning crew took the position that the wrestler killing his family was a sick thing. I took the position that the sick thing is that they have jobs and I don't. The celebrity dirt journalism segment informed us that the son had a rare generic disorder. So rare, yet, so routine.

"Your son has a rare generic disorder. It's called "That Thingy." I'm so sorry."

"But doctor, is there a cure?"

"Yes, but not yet."

Those lads are in good company in the medical news business, though. This bulletin just flashed across my screen from no less an authoritative source than the Associated Press:

LOS ANGELES - Comedian Richard Jeni, who shot himself to death in March, had a history of mental illness...

How about that? You don't say? Well, I'll be. Right out of left field.

Serving suggestion: You might want to start institutionalizing people again before the streets fill with more homeless, and wrestlers and comedians start wiping out their families epidemic-style.

Alright...OK...I know...It would interfere with their rights to...to...be a danger to themselves and us all.  Ya don't have to get all snippy. Just a thought. Keep the borders wide open too while you're at it. What's the harm? 

"Hey. Bentwand wasn't crazy, he was on steroids."

Hmmm. OK, but aren't 102% of wrestlers on steroids? How many kill their whole family in a premeditated act? 

"He was anguished over his handicapped son."

Well, who isn't? It's not an easy thing, but this is not the 1400s. Plenty of people cope with severely handicapped children, and do so with less income, I might add. Last I checked, the government has fallen all over itself to make sure we live in a handi-capable world. Check your paystub and see how much is taken out for people who can't. I kick myself daily for not investing in the ramps and handicapped parking space contracting business in the late 80s when I had the chance.

Even in today's Wall St. Journal, (might need to subscribe, Ace) right in the middle of the front page.... 

Babes Among Elders: Nursing-Home Kids

COMMERCE, Ga. -- Ronnie Rivera, a 15-year-old in braided pigtails, sits in a wheelchair in a narrow hallway of Hill Haven senior-citizen nursing home.

Right here in the same state as where a high income narcissist and his apologists claimed his son's situation was so impossible he had no other choice than to flip the board and end the game, children and teens are using Medicaid to lawfully occupy space in a nursing home. 

It's not a great solution, but it beats being put into a sleeperhold at home by Crazy Calhoun at age 7.

Now as we go on, doctors will be arrested for handing out scary stuff in bottles, Roe V. Wade will be scrutinized for it's role in our filicidal culture, and your old friend, TV violence, will pay us another pre-election visit. Nowhere will people be calling for the building of more insane asylums. That's too crazy. Are you nuts? 

SCIENCE!

How is it that it takes a film studio about 3 hours after a premiere to determine whether a movie stays or goes, a TV network knows within 3 weeks the fate of their new programs, but it takes a radio company 3 years and then maybe just one more quarter to determine whether something DOA will suddenly catch fire? The head. It is on auto-shake.

If that is not enough necksercise for you, CSPI, the Center for Science in the Public Interest, the research and development arm of the Center for Cash Hungry Attorneys With No Discernible Plaintiffs has successfully threatened Kellogg's to back off of using Shrek and other cuddly characters in their ads for cereal.

Science. That's a word that means when you figure that cereals with sugar and cuddly characters endorsing them have been around since before the word obesity was invented, then maybe cereal characters should be thrown out as a suspect in child obesity cases. Science. It can tell you exactly how many households have obese children with incomes over $10 a year make purchasing decisions for the family.

Meanwhile....

If you doubt for a second that porn is completely accepted in the mainstream of American life for people under 30, catch the next ad for AXE Body Spray, or, if you're not a fan of "Adult Swim," "Scrubs" or "Kyle XY," as I am, click here to see.

Their current marketing campaign is summed up by the simple slogan, "Bom Chick a Wah Wah," which is the phonetic pronunciation of a classic guitar lick played during porn scenes. Does this work at all if the target audience doesn't know much about porn?

Big Cologne has always marketed it's products as lady magnets. But they drew the line at what would happen after you got the ladies by the nose. Hai Karate showed adult men fending off (and punching!) horny women in the 60s. Even Hai Karate men had traditional ethical and moral boundaries and they were enforced with a haymaker, if necessary.

The Old Spice Guy attracted women hanging about the wharf, but even they went off into the soft-focused distance, perhaps to a cozy chowder restaurant with a fireplace for some romance. He had a shot, but not a certainty.

"Bom Chick a Wah Wah." Whoa! The Axe people are betting the sex farm that their target audience of 16-30 knows plenty about porn, even it's musical conventions, thus guaranteeing them an encounter with women so sexually aggressive that one sniff of AXE will overcome any gestures of romance or self-defense by the wearer to create a real life porn scene. The floor may even sprout shag carpeting.

Keep chasing Tony the Tiger. He's a problem.

PALM OF HAND-APPLY DIRECTLY TO THE FOREHEAD

Oy! As a top weekend athlete and big fan of pain relief, I was sad to see this news story that one of my favorite products has been unfairly charged in an overdose.

Girl Ben-Gays Self To Death

New York — A 17-year-old track star died in April from a rare toxic dose of sports cream, New York's medical examiner said Friday. Arielle Newman, a cross-country runner at Notre Dame Academy on Staten Island, died after her body absorbed high levels of methyl salicylate, an anti-inflammatory found in sports creams such as Bengay and Icy Hot, the New York City medical examiner said Friday. The medical examiner's spokeswoman, Ellen Borakove, said the teen used "topical medication to excess." She said it was the first time that her office had reported a death from using a sports cream.

Still, hysterics will call for endless legal tribunals to solve this burgeoning epidemic. Hundreds of morning radio shows will now have to cancel their "Sit in a tub of Absorbine Jr. to win an XBOX" contests, and the price of Icy Hot will surely rise as the legal fees and assorted crisis management costs are passed along to the achy consumer forcing millions of senior citizens to turn to the streets where shady figures are more than happy to addict them with Oxycontin.

Her mother, Alice Newman, said she still couldn't believe her daughter's death was caused by a sports cream. "I am scrupulous about my children's health," she told the Advance. "I did not think an over-the-counter product could be unsafe."

Um-hmmmm. Somebody's gonna have some sore muscles after laying the foundation for that lawsuit, and don't expect me to lend you any of my sports cremes that I've horded for the coming inquisition. No way. I keep them in a bunker in my backyard with supplies of duct-tape and Sudafed. You can easily take my sports cremes from my sore, tired hands, so I keep them locked tight.

I'd like to address the mother, and I want to select my words carefully and sensitively because she is experiencing grief and greed, either of which is very stressful alone....THE PRODUCT IS SAFE YOU...YOU...STUPID PERSON!!!! ...Forgive me. I am sorry. Wash my mouth out with hexachlorophene-free soap. What I meant to say is that the product is safe when used as directed...dumbass.

This may seem a minor point--in fact, it is a nit, but I feel compelled to pick it. It's creme, not cream. Creme is cream without any dairy origins. For example, Oreos are "creme-filled" because the filling is not made with any cream. But whipping cream is dairy hence the spelling. Right off the bat, the use of "sports cream" in the first sentence indicates the writer of this story is a sloppy half-wit. If you want to get your medical news from sloppy half-wits, well, go right ahead, but not me. And is something that has never happened before "rare?" The correct word choice would be "unprecedented." Rare implies precedent.

The night before her death, Arielle returned from a party and spoke with her mother for hours before going to bed.

What happened at the party? I saw "Grease" a few times and I know that some girls like to get together and eat snacks and apply anti-acne treatments while gossiping about boys.  It's not out of the question that there could have been some sports creme passed around at the party. My college buddies used to have Robitussin get togethers quite often. Perhaps a DVD of "Jackass" was being shown influencing the kids to eat some balm as a crazy stunt. Kids these days.

No one seems to be curious what exactly happened at the party. Attack of the sloppy half-wits.

Let me also point out that, whatever the toxicity possiblities that lie within topical sports cremes and gels, this kind of incident could never happen to men. Men have a built in safety valve that naturally curtails the excess use of sports cremes. It is alternately referred to as "the sack," "the brain," "the silk purse," "the tea bag," "the jewel pouch," "and the doodaddangler." Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the venerable scrotum!

All sports creme application stops at the point when creme touches the cream factory, and automatically limits the cavalier attitude toward sports cremes that may have gotten this young lady in harm's way.

Sloppy half-wits with penis envy. Is that who we want running America? At least we have this soothing balm to comfort us this weekend.

NOT WITHOUT MY HYMEN!

This is on the cover of the latest People magazine:

In my view, People has lost all it's journalistic integrity.

There are so many stories of great importance to the predominantly female audience of the supermarket check-out magazine that don't get covered, like this controversy that is raging--and throbbing--in France.

Doctors split on hymen repairs

Doctors in France, that morally superior outpost of odorless, hardworking people, are being intimidated by the Myth of Islamic Morality to deny giving hymenoplasty to Muslim women afraid to death of being caught without their virginity. Only in France is Islamic hymen enforcement officer a legitimate occupation and do car exploders have their own union.

Jacques Lansac,(you just can't make it up, peoples) chairman of the French National College of Gynaecologists and Obstetricians, is leading the campaign against what he describes as "an attack on the dignity of women".

Let's look up dignity in my English to French dictionary. Ah! Here it is:

dignity (n)

Whatever our Islamic overlords say it is.

Having your teeth kicked in for losing virginity.

Being forced to wear woolen hoods in the middle of summer.

Getting one's genitals removed to please a ghost.

Call me a feminist, but I'm going to have to go out on a limb and say that killing a woman for losing her virginity before marriage is a tad extreme. There are a lot of reasons to be for the war against Islams, but let me throw one out there that most people don't think much about. Muslims treat women with about the same regard as Ralph Cifaretto behind the Bing.

Honestly, women are shrill, annoying, and needy.  But they can be quite arousing and useful in fields such as nursing and entertainment and need to be cared for, given an allowance, and guided into their proper roles, not killed because they rode the pony during an illicit tryst in the back room of the hookah club. That's not civilized. I can understand the men who are anti-war on Islam. They're cowards and fools and don't like women much, so they support the terrorists. I'm baffled, though, as to why any woman who cares about her own gender would lead the charge to excuse these animals of the Muslim faith.

He has also issued advice against hymenoplasty – a surgical operation that involves reconstructing the membrane usually broken during the first act of sexual intercourse.

"We get more and more women coming in and saying that their brothers or fathers will kill them if they find out they've slept with a man. But it's important to say no, because if we don't, we're giving in to the fundamentalists," Professor Lansac said.

So, It's wrong to help women lie so they won't get killed by their male relatives, but it's OK to lie so YOU won't get killed by their male relatives. Dan Rather would be proud to wear your sweater.

If I could offer a solution to this deeply complex moral dilemma...um, maybe if the Professor's country would just fight the Islamics for a change instead of accomodating their 6th century behavior, there wouldn't be a need for such surgeries. Maybe you could make some real money giving boob jobs to newly liberated Middle Eastern women who don't give a damn about what Muslim men think about their camel's toe. You might be able to make enough money to not have to work a grueling 35-hour work week.

"Ms. Basheera, for $5000 you can have the Cat Stevens' Mountains of Light."

What a mean country. What a repulsive culture. Millions of Islamic women run to France, and Europe for that matter, hearing of it's reputation as sophisticated and progressive, and then they get there and find out it's just another nest of mental cripples devoid of morality and principle. That stinks worse than their terrorized triangles.

Until this controversy is settled the only hope for these women is that French Cosmo has a great article this month on how to blow a guy using ice cubes--"Blow Away Your Hymen Fears/Great Ways to Get Him Off Without Becoming Undone."

PRY IT FROM MY WARM WRAPPED ARMS

My wife and daughter are playing Battleship in the bedroom, and I've got my eye on a nice cinnamon bun with cream cheese icing on it (no actual cheeses were hurt for the frosting). I've been pretty good this week at attempting to preserve my reasonably athletic figure, so I'm gonna let loose this evening, before getting up tomorrow and strapping on my new favorite product...

...the Therma-Care heat wrap! God Bless them. I'm going to write a nice letter to them and get some free ones, just like I did with Shower Soothers, but not as nice because I still have another 8 months worth of Shower Soothers left in my closet.

I'm really feeling 46 in the past week, what with the stress of the job hunting, driving long distances, eating tons with no exercise, auditioning on the radio, more driving, and then pitching 3 innings on my men's little league team. It really knocked me out. I was sore until yesterday. My masseuse almost separated her shoulder trying to knock out the knots in my shoulder and neck.

She also revealed to me that she does it with her eyes closed because she can focus on the muscle problem better, which is a nice way of saying that my back and body are too old and gross for her 25 year old senses, and have an ipecac effect on her, so she has to close her eyes and pretend she's massaging the dude on Smallville.

"No, really. There's this blind guy who does massage around here, and some of my clients say he's good because he's blind, and I kind of borrowed the technique."

A blind masseur? I don't know how I'd feel about patronizing this mythical beast. Yeah, he's blind so you could easily gyp him out of payment, but he's still a guy. Even if it moves and he can't see it, it still moved. No one disputes the fact that if a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it....it still fell!  Well, if a tree trunk rises and no one can see it, it still rose. But, a blind masseuse... Now that is an innovation I welcome.

For Sunday's ballgame at Chamblee HS at 4:30pm (good seats still available), I will be wearing the Thermacare patches in select places under my uniform so my muscles don't tighten up on me. It's a great plan. I bought about a two weeks supply worth of Thermacares and will apply them before all games on my shoulder, lower back, and elbow for long lasting warmth through all 9 innings. You would think in a 38+ men's league, they would make the games 7 innings like in kid's leagues, but it probably follows too close to the diaper arc of a man's life. When you start appeasing your body with child's portions, it's close to the end. Next season, I'm thinking of wearing adult diapers on the mound so I can drink more rejuvenating Capri Sun juice boxes between innings.

God bless anyone in the pain relief business and anyone that can keep an aging population physically motivated, be they the ICY HOT people, or the neighborhood pill and dope merchant at the corner pizza shop. We need as many able people in this country as we can muster. And you young'uns better start getting married earlier and get to work on your breeding. This country faces huge challenges, and we need more people, period. We're currently outnumbered by jealous maniacs from other lands, all of whom wish to drink our blood in celebration of our conquer.

Our 300,000,000 doesn't seem like such a big number vs. their 2 billion, and probably as many as 40% of our 300,000,000 is actively rooting for the other team. I gotta be honest, I've become as uninterested in the party politics going on than I ever have, but when over half of our Congress votes to quit a war, it's an eye opener. They've just voted for the certain sacrifice of someone you may be standing next to right now, in order to hold office and enrich themselves for a few more years.

Anyone still a Falcon fan? How did you feel when, in 1999, Eugene Robinson was busted for picking up hookers the night before the Super Bowl? I was at that Super Bowl and, amongst the press, most wanted to go home, seeing a Broncos victory as a formality at that point. Everyone from Atlanta felt sick. It was over. That's what this is. It doesn't matter that the President is going to veto it. The damage has been done. The play book has been given to the other team at halftime, and everyone knows what's likely to happen now.

The United States will ultimately not lose this war. After the next attack on our soil, there are quite a few people around who will dust themselves off and make an immediate appointment with the local Islamic center to have a sincere and very personal discussion about what the future holds. Despite the seeming millions of people who vote with their guilt instead of any coherent moral code, I think they are outnumbered by people who truly do not take for granted the value of living in the US and the system that allows it to fix it's many flaws. Oh, and I do believe that the US military is working on some time travel technology that will enable us to spy on the future and stop our enemies. We will win, but this kinda business just makes it longer and bloodier.

The Democrat Party makes it's living off of people who really feel bad about having more happiness and comfort than others and have giant egos that drive them to dream up all sorts of superhuman plans to assuage their guilt, through attempts to control the weather to cover up their vain and wanton hairspray use over the years, or control people's appetites to hide their own cinnamon roll addictions. 

"I drove a car today. Tax me before I kill again."

That's why American Idol just can't accept it's fate as a simple entertainment icon and has to go and ruin it with that awful African beg-a-thon last week. As long as the $50 million they raised was not intended to go down the toilet, that's all that matters.

Truth is, only Africans can really help Africans to get out of their messy situation over there. However, if an outside party is truly interested in clearing a path for them, here's a household hint. Guns and bombs do a lot better job of making the world a safer place than all the money and John Lennon-inspired candy wishes and hot-buttered popcorn dreams that that spiky-haired dimwit was singing about on American Idol last week.

Imagine there's no heaven? Dude, what do you think helps keep motherfuckers in line? Imagine how many more young boys would have been porked by priests had there been no heaven. Hey, imagine no one putting on pious TV shows because there is no God to impress. Maybe the song isn't the worst ever after all.

It doesn't really matter what your philosophy or your politics are when you're dead--unless your philosophy is that death is preferable to life on this unfair planet. Still, you are dead, and the birds and trees and catastrophes will continue their party without you. I'll give you that dead people don't feel much pain or guilt, but wouldn't it be a selfless act to move to Mecca or just swallow a bottle of pills and leave the rest of us out of it?

To all the people who think the war was a bad idea and Bush is a craven liar who just wants to make a lot of oil money so he won't have to live the pauper's life of a president anymore, I say, Otay!. Let's stipulate the war is wrong and Bush is a murderer of innocent, humble people and simple farmers. But he's still the coach of the team you are on. We still have to play the game, because the other team is committed. Putting Coach Clinton or Coach Obama in won't change the fact that when you don't show up to play, you will lose. Even the special needs T-Ball leagues operate on this principle.

Anyway, God bless anyone who makes products that keeps an aging population moving. One day, we'll stop sitting there with birth control balloons hanging off our wicks, devising new ways to couple up non-breeders, and get to patching the people filter, AKA, our borderline.

See you in the duct tape line, amigos.

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?

IDEAL OR NO DEAL

Friday, I was very angry all day and ready to quit my job, divorce my wife, and force sexual attention on attractive women. I did none of those because a quick trip to my friend, the internet, told me that the cause of my rage may have been the cortisone I had injected on Tuesday so I could entertain the partial crowd at Turner Field with a limp 72 mile an hour toss.

"But more likely, Larry," said the Internet. "You have Niacin rage."

From the cover letter my doctor wrote after a recent checkup that revealed my HDL (good cholesterol) was at the low end of normal: 

"Basically everything here except the cholesterol levels looks like a 19 year-old Marine including his long and thick penis, tight abs and well-sculpted buttocks with a clean, smooth shaven anus. The only thing in the cholesterol package that is not "ideal" is that the HDL is a bit low. You cannot be too rich or too good-looking and your HDL can't be too high..."

He recommended some Niacin pills to take daily to acheive this ideal. Ideals are swell but steeped in "if." That'd be swell if my HDL was higher into the normal range. It'd be swell if I could pop some blood pills for a while and be done. It'd be swell if I had a job that required a low-grade buzzing sensation in my head and chest, plus heartburn for 26 hours a day. But I don't.

My brother, the handsome, wealthy, and soon to be single and not as wealthy, Dr. Mike, thinks that everything we read in popular literature about medicine is either hysterical or absolute horseshit.

"That's horseshit," said Dr. Mike from his cell phone as the wind swept through his thick head of hair while driving through San Diego where he was either golfing, speaking, or entertaining females. "Your cholesterol is fine. What you want to do is drink some wine and get a handjob. Don't be so hysterical."

I skipped the Friday night dose and took the Dr. Mike therapy. I don't know if my HDLs are up, but I soon felt like not killing anyone. This will come in handy the next time a manager at Clear Channel tells me the show was funny. I won't respond with my immediate resignation anymore.

THE SOUND OF ONE HAND WRITING

Is it possible to offend oneself? I think so, because I just did. I had a dream that was just wrong, and lack of courage like the truly great writers possess prevents me from re-telling it here or anywhere. Boy, am I hot under the collar. I'm going to have to sit down and write myself an angry memo at some point. Where's my Delorean pen?

Dear Me (and Oh, My)--

May I remind you that dreams are the work of the Night Crew. The Night Crew is a wholly owned subisdiary of You, which also owns Me, and the Lifetime Cable network. The Night Crew  will do anything for fun, and they kick around ideas and post them on a big corkboard with blue cards for the Day people to come in and sift through. Most of them are rejected.

"Try to fly off a cliff tomorrow."

Pass. Some do get accepted.

"Do not show up for work in just your underwear or you will be embarrassed."

And some have raw promise.

"Try to have sex with women who are showing you real estate."

But once in awhile, these idiots go over the line, like last night during nocturnal reboot. And I'm mad. I don't know if the Day people are going to reject it.

Sincerely,

The Mind

WALK WITH PROZACALITY

New word added to the Regular Guys lexicon this week: Adderallitude. That's when someone takes the ADHD medication, Adderall, for good instead of evil. Think "Wessonality" but with psychotropic drugs.

The Porn Czar, Tim Andrews, has it. His daily dose has helped him achieve great things on the show of late such as tomorrow's Homeless Karoake segment. Wachs leads Von Haessler by 10 points going in.

American Idol sucked tonight. Everyone was bad. The only saving grace was the revelation that Kellie Pickler and Katharine McPhee, the two hottest girls on the show, are roomies off the set, and they showed a soft core short video of them rolling in the bed together wrestling and putting on makeup together. That, and Simon fantasizing out loud about Paula falling off a roller coaster.

And I've figured out who Paula is bedding down this season. Everyone! Whoever gets thrown off each week gets a late night visit from Paula to "help them pack." She looks tired from servicing 4 last week and the prospect of another quartet this week. I'll bet she hopes that the 16 and 17 year olds get the boot this week, because they come quicker.

Good night! WWEC tomorow. Must rest.

I HAVE A DREAM OF BEING ABLE TO BREATHE THROUGH MY NOSE

Hey it's Wachs back at the mouse! We were supposed to do a show today but failed. The reason:

I have not been arrested. As you can plainly see there are no coke cans and small children laying about. No, something far worse has happened to me. I am living a 5-part Eyewitness Action News Alive I-Team Investigative Report. 

Is your home killing you?

Sunday night, yes, when my head swelled up to epic proportions not seen since Southside Steve left the building, and the fever raged. I keep in pretty good shape. Decent diet, exercise, bathing, ear hair trimming, the whole deal. We rarely miss a show because I'm sick. 

People think I'm 35 when I'm really 63. I don't have the best body in Atlanta radio, that honor goes to that little queer Bert on Queer 100

well, technically since Bert is clearly trying to pick up men, I have the best body in Atlanta radio designed for attracting women.

So the last three months of feeling chronically shitty had me puzzled. Bird Flu? weather changes? cancer? Is it really my time?  Good news: No. Bad news: The dust and paint fumes emanating from the downstairs construction will be with me for at least 2 more weeks. These builders are good, and meticulous and the downside to that is a full body allergy for me, on and off for 3 months.

So I went out and bought Michael Jackson/Hong Kong masks for the home. My whole family is wearing them. We love them! It keeps us from talking to one another and it beats shelling out $1500 for hotel space. I'm going to wear one to work tomorrow, and I'll bet you within 3 months everyone else will emulate Wachs, as they always do.

Not an Update

Here's an update, seeing as how I haven't put anything up in a couple of days:
There is no update.
There's your update.

It's all I can do to get to work these past few days. Maybe it's balmy out, but it's still winter as I'm reminded every two weeks of late when sick co-workers (Andrews, a human petri dish), and family members hack their friggin lungs up in my face. I've had every lung pandemic that has hit Fulton County in the last two months.

People don't realize that every breath, no matter how healthy or innocuous, emits millions of drops of water into the air, each of which contain entire planets of organisms, each of which easily get into the eyes, noses, ears, and mouths of others.

And now, there are maniacs out there killing people with handshakes! and tossed hibachi shrimp!

If we mandate seat belts for cars, maybe it's time someone started encouragment toward a society of face mask wearing citizens. I'm that desperate and weak these days that I'm coming up with stupid government solutions to simple problems.

This is what it must be like to have your period. I'm so happy to be male. If I were a woman, I  know I'd be a dyke, saving money to get an addadicktomy.

More on the weekend after rest. FU lines updated, sound bites for the week up, The RG Prom Photo Contest, and the debut of Fin's new RG cartoon series on these pages after I get at least 7 consecutive hours of sleep.

Remember the Johnson

There is a preview currently in theaters and on TV for the latest Bruckheimer (the people who brought you the forgettable Remember The Titans) formula film about 40 year old social issues.

This one is about how Texas Western University, the current UT-El Paso, the future University of Mexico-El Paso, was integrated in 1966 by coach Don Haskins and came from nowhere to win the NCAA championship.

It was a great moment...then. But I ask the marketplace of ideas, is anyone really fascinated, in 2006, with how blacks are really good at basketball and don't enjoy racism? We'll see.

Also, note to Hollywood: Please subtract $25 from the box office tally of "Walk The Line" and add it to "Chronicles of Narnia." I bought tickets to "Walk", but my family changed it's mind and we went into Narnia instead because it was starting immediately instead of an hour and 15 minutes later. Sorry for the mix-up.

In this the season of donning gay apparel, here is a shirt for sale at Barney's Co-op at Phipps Plaza:

No, this is not Team America merchandise. According to the display, it's to "create solidarity with AIDS sufferers," for the everyday Barney's low price of $35, of which perhaps 2 cents will go to "research."  It only took most of America about 10 minutes of "research" to figure out that the best way to minimize AIDS was to manipulate yourself instead of the public's emotions. The shmata trade still is stuck in the 80s. Can a timely Bruckheimer film about Magic Johnson be far behind?

The Electric Toothman

I bought one of those disposable electric toothbrushes at the store. It makes me nauseous all the buzzing in my head. What is the point of this gadget? To recreate the fun of going to the dentist in the comfort of your own home? If this thing could make me wait in a chair for a half hour and have me fill out forms that give it immunity from malpractice, it might have a shot.

Teeth should be cleaned with old-fashioned elbow grease or very expensive professional equipment affordable only to Tom Cruise to go with his home sonogram machine and his home en-gram machine. A $7, battery-operated, disposable gum dildo from Publix is a joke. Your teeth are not getting cleaner. They are in the dental version of "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride."

A real teeth cleaning leaves your mouth all throbbing with the pain of an irritated gumline, stabbed, jabbed, and nabbed with picks, floss, suction, and off-flavored prophy paste that is grittier than an Agnes Scott College Women's Studies professor. And if I'm wrong, I'd rather have cavities than vertigo.