Is This Funny?

Because I did a spit-take all over my monitor when I saw it.

Discuss.

Mr. Hoover

A good friend of mine, Stefano VanHoover, recently saw the He-Man post Dylan made a few months ago. It has caused tremendous marital difficulties, as Stefano will be the first to admit. He has slept on the couch since last Thursday. I feel bad that we have caused such a stir at the VanHoover compound.

Stefano recently forwarded this link to me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mPbzrhfjlmk

He said it has helped him get through his difficult nights alone. In honour of Stefano, please watch the video.

Look! It's Mr. Noodle's brother, Mr. Noodle!

Dylan, was that a true story, or did you make it up? I seriously cannot tell. I hope it was true, because as far as my memory can tell, we started this blog because we wanted to write nothing but serious, hard-hitting news articles.

I'm going to press on, believing that the noodle story is 100% accurate.

In other news, PBS&J, the company I work for, just hired a new employee. His name is Bat Boy, and he is an assistant public information officer. He will be helping me build Web sites, edit newsletters, and answer hot lines for various construction and environmental planning projects.

I like Bat Boy. He seems friendly. I really think he's going to make a name for himself in the world of public involvement.

And now for a fun game.

In less than 100 words, you have to tell me your first memory of a particular item. I'll go first. Guns N' Roses' The Spaghetti Incident?.

I brought it to guitar class. We had no CD player in guitar class. I'm not sure why I brought it to guitar class. Mr. Nagasaki was in his office with the technician. They were discussing something important, I'm sure. Anyway, Dylan saw the album and scoffed at it. Dylan has terrible taste in music. There was some kid playing the solo to"Patience" on his guitar, only it sounded nothing like the solo from "Patience."

Dylan, where were you when you got your first copy of Chaos?

The Shadow Of the Noodle

Once upon a time there was a guy who had a dream. That dream was to make a gigantic noodle. He had drafted plans of his noodle, which was to be roughly the circumference of a school bus and as long as three-and-a half football fields. He made t-shirts, hats, buttons, commemorative plates and belt buckles that all featured his amazing noodle. He even secured the rights to www.giganticnoodleguy.com as well as www.giganticnoodleguy.org, www.giganticnoodleguy.edu and, for some reason www.stinkyfeet.com.

The short-term plan was to build the noodle. After that was complete, he would air-drop marinara sauce and three boulder-sized meatballs and have it photographed from space and maybe put the picture on a postage stamp or a flag or t-shirts or something. Oh how he dreamt of that fine day. He could almost taste it, all garlicy and noodley.

He told everybody he could about his noodle plan. All day, every day it was "noodle" this and "noodle" that, "noodle noodle noodle." People thought he was a little weird, but hey, who isn't, am I right? So he liked noodles. So what? At least he wasn't robbing liquor stores or running for State Comptroller. At least he wasn't eating kittens or painting pictures of Mike Ditka oil wrestling Refrigerator Perry while cats played poker in the background. At least he didn't go around quoting Friends while wearing a Speedo driving all over town on a bobsled pulled by babies. At least it wasn't anything weird, y'know?

Then one day, he realized that this was a stupid idea, the noodle idea, and instead just invented the George Foreman grill. He lives on a beach somewhere where he just sits around with his pet spider monkey Chip and a bodyguard who is half robot and counts his money and occasionally buys small European countries and renames them for the fun of it. Have you heard of the nation of Yourbootiestan? He owns it. Poopoostia? That one too. Crappersburg? Hobotopia? Smellyelbow? All him. He also hired George Lucas to remake the Star Wars prequels so they aren't so, you know, not that good, really, no matter how much you try to tell yourself otherwise.

But still, there is a hole in his heart roughly the circumference of a school bus and three-and-a-half football fields long. A hole that can't be filled with money or go-go dancing ladies or 152 pairs of Chuck Norris Action Jeans or Fabergé eggs or solid gold Air Jordan's or 13 autographed pictures of Danny Aiello or the enchanted head of Engelbert Humperdink that sings and tells the future.

Sometimes he cries at night, wiping his eyes with hundred dollar bills, thinking of the noodle that could have been but never was.

So what's the point of all this? I guess the moral of this story is simply this: Never let go of your noodle. Hold on to it and never let go.

Why are you laughing? What?

Oh. I see. You're gross. Seriously.

Miami, Virginia, Hotlanta, Chi-town or CR?

Thanks, various animated anti- and super-heroes, for the encouraging words. I have been giving a lot of thought to getting back into advertising. I don't love working in public involvement. I do love advertising. Always have. So I've been looking at various ad schools. I'm having a hard time deciding what to do, so I'm opening this blog up to suggestions.

Here's my options:

Miami Ad School: One of the two best ad schools out there. They have locations in Miami, Minneapolis, San Fran, and overseas.
Pros: Amazing education, fantastic intern program with the hottest shops in the world.
Cons: Expensive (having quadruplets without insurance would be cheaper), intern program would have me away from home three separate times in a two year period.

UVC AdCenter: The other of the two best ad schools out there. Located in Richmond, VA.
Pros: Unbelievable faculty, outstanding curriculum, top-notch reputation.
Cons: Expensive (see quad statement above, add a heart transplant when including housing), time commitment (2 full, intense years).

Creative Circus: Located in Atlanta, this school is held in high regard by pros in the biz. Boyz in da hood also think it is a fine institute of higher learning.
Pros: Great curriculum, operates in quarters so I can start in Oct or Jan.
Cons: Never been to Atlanta for more than a layover, no connections whatsoever.

Chicago Portfolio School: One year program in the Windy City, one of the 2-3 best cities in America.
Pros: Relatively cheap, near family in Rockford, only one year, student sample work is pretty nice.
Cons: Near family in Rockford, only one year.

Castle Rock: Stay where I'm at.
Pros: Wonderful schools, weather and friends, steady-paying job, security.
Cons: Always wondering if I would have had what it would have taken to make it in the ad world.

Please forward a link to this blog to friends, relatives, enemies, cats, used car salesmen, and anyone else that would be able to add their two cents. I need help soon...it's time to jump or stay in the plane.

"Thinking Of Moving To the Big 'A,' eh?"

This Is EXCELLENT news!

Also excellent: I have tiny little wings on my feet. Pretty cool, huh?

"Ryan Might Be Going To Ad School In Atlantis?"

Freaking Radness!

"Ryan! You Might Move To Atatis!?"

AWESOME!

Remember what that chick from Poltergeist kept saying?

My dear, dear friend. You succeeded in posting the most amazing post of all time. Is it any wonder it took me nine years to reply? How can I follow that? Now I know how the headliner felt after warm-up act Allen Stewart Königsberg left the stage.

I concur with everything you said. Tabo is one mysterious punk. But to paraphrase our main man Neil Young, "I believe in (him)."

You know what would be whack? If he went to my ward and was married to a woman named Kristen and had a baby named after a Jane Austin novel and had a rabid pet badger with a scimitar tied to its tail, which I would love to be attacked by.

Sorry non-Vegas natives, if any truly exist, but I have to make a Fashion Show Mall reference. D-Love, remember the Centaur Gallery? I remember cruising by that crazy place on my way to "don't bother looking for anything not written by Tom Clancy or Danielle Steele" Waldenbooks (the pond would have a fit if it knew its name was used in vain), after having consumed a heart attack on a stick and having drank an orange julius irving, and just getting the creeps. There was always a painting of a buff blond dude standing beside various unicorn-like creatures in a universe that was not warmed by the sun, rather, it was warmed by a blue light. I often wondered who the heck bought that crazy art.

And then I met Chanel. She's got a storage unit full of those paintings.

Anyway, scimitar made me think of Centaur.

And I would much rather be attacked by a badger than a human, because badgers can't sue.

Here's a question for you, my friend. Who would be a better fit for lieutenant governor of the land of Centaur, Julio the Gardener or the Bird? It's a tough (and stupid) question, so I will allow you 24 hours to respond. Starting. Right. Now.

Postscript - I'm sorry about your boys going down in 4. LeBron truly fascinates me. Maybe next year.

Excerpt Taken From Volume 12 In the Time-Life Mysteries Series, Entitled "The Elusive Tabo" (or) Yeah, So I Have a Sasquatch Fetish. Deal With It.

Ryan, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad they passed that legislation that stated that all licensed Las Vegas poets needed to learn CPR as well as be able to spontaneously teach water aerobics if called upon by everyone's favorite elected nutjob: Lonnie Hammargren.

R-diggity, you are an astute questioner. Have you thought about a career as a question-asking person? Like the kind that could be employed by a magazine or newspaper to ask really good questions to people who would then answer said astute questionings and then have those questions printed in aforementioned newspaper/magazine? Someone who reported the answers of these questions to the populace at large? That would be a good job. Someone should make that job up. You could call it something like Astute Inquisitor. Or Imminent Answer Ascriber. Or Reporter, but that sounds kind of boring. Where did my pants go?

Anyway, this question, the one concerning the true identity of the mysterious Tabo, is one that has haunted me like, well, like the actual ghost of Abraham Lincoln that really does haunt me fortnightly (now you know why I always smell like garlic... keeps the Abe away). See, I am a truth-seeker. And a creative thinker. Where most people get truth from books or this cool little site I just discovered - Wikipedia, I think it's called - I... well, I make it up. So, brace yourself, dear internet, for the truly true and altogether honest and veritable story of... the origin of the tale of the mystery of the shadow-shrouded enigma known only as... TABO!

The legend starts off in Tibet, where all legends begin. It's said that the Tabo was a traveller who had angered a monk (something over who was a better Enterprise captain: Picard or Kirk... the tabo said Picard... whatever) and was cursed to roam the earth for millennia. Or three years. The translations are a bit muddied. In any case, the Tabo was cursed and began its wanderings as an outcast and a vagabond, popping up in legends in places as diverse as Thailand and the indigenous peoples of New Guinea.

While the substance of these legends vary, one thing is constant, the Tabo is always portrayed as a blurry, watercolored being with a taste for corn chips and a pretty decent bowling score. The Native American peoples refer to the Tabo as "Dances With Sasquatch," mainly because, well, the Tabo was spotted numerous times dancing with a She-Squatch. Apparently the Tabo is well-versed in ballroom, jazz, tap and "krunking." Here's a picture of the Tabo loping slowly through the Northwestern wilderness with its buddy, Chewbacca:

See him there, in the upper right-hand corner? If you relax your eyes you kind of can make him out. There's also a Magic Eye-style picture of a sailboat in there somewhere, too. And Waldo's been spotted by some especially sharp-eyed folks.

The Tabo isn't just a figure of ancient legend either, with over four international organizations leading the charge to further study this legendary beast in more detail. The foremost of these, T.U.!.R.,.K.!.E.Y.!. (Tabo Uncovered! Really, Kids! Everyone Yell!), holds an annual overnight camp out in hopes to spot the elusive beast. So far, nothing. Nothing except well... this:

Anyway, so there's the truth about the Tabo. Myth? Monster? Why not both? I mean, if a myth and a monster got together, put on some Al Green and, let nature take its course, why not? It's easier to swallow that that Loch Ness garbage (Seriously, a dinosaur?! IN SCOTLAND?! As my main man Gob would say, "Come ON!") or that business with Joan Osborne being Ozzy's daughter.

Either that, or he's one of the three people who regularly read this blog. There's only one way to be sure... "Read the Book!"

So, now, Ryan, Ry, Rrr, R. Methinks mayhaps I have a query to put to you, good sir. Which would you rather be attacked by: a rabid badger with a scimitar tied to its tail, or an irate hobo with hooks for hands? Please state your answer in 500 words or more. Preferably more. Until then, Make Mine Bigfoot.

Life or Deaf

Ah. CCR. One of my favorite nighttime addictions. Kids in the Hall, singles hotline infomercials, and CCR ruled the Vegas airwaves after-hours. And I miss them all.

Nice blog, RDT. I didn't realize you like pork so much. Do you like pork rinds? How about pet projects that senators get funded for their rich friends back home? Just curious.

There is only one thing I can't live without. And that thing is seaweed. I once went a whole week without eating seaweed. No seaweed and tomato sandwiches. No seaweed espressos. And no seaweed-flavored chewing gum. And at the end of that week, I died. Just keeled over and perished. Right in front of about one hundred people. Why was I in front of 100 people? I was about to give my acceptance speech at the Poets of Vegas Academy Awards and Bake Sale. I won "best poem by an albino" for my beautiful sonnet "Yes, I Admit It." Everyone was there. Harry Bush. That math teacher from Woodbury's son. Sylvester Stallone's brother Frank. Sam Donaldson. And of course, my parents' attorney.

Anyway, there was I was, under the bright neon of the Boardwalk, an anxious crowd eagerly awaiting to be enlightened by the speech I plagiarized from an old episode of It's a Living, when all of a sudden, BAM! I'm on the floor, in the process of falling crushing to death that monkey that collected quarters. My pulse was 0. My heart stopped beating. My fingernails continued to grow. In other words, I was toast.

Thank goodness all the poets in Vegas know CPR. 42 of the finest rhymers in SoNev brought me back to life, not with life-saving CPR maneuvers, but with their collective body odor, which would resuscitate the deadest of dead people.

So yes, I literally can't live without seaweed.

I suppose it's my turn to ask you a question. Here it is: Who is Tabo? He randomly comments on our blog, and quite frankly he's starting to scare me. Is he a friend of yours? Is he really a watercolor? Does he eat seaweed?

Getting High Off the Hog

Ryan, you are crazy. You're like that Emeril guy, only with some strange mental condition or something. Lemon juice and eggs? 1/3 cup milk instead of 1/2 cup? Ryan - you so crazy. I mean, sausage jello, that sounds... well, kind of good.

See, something strange about me is as follows: I love pork products. Bacon, sausage, ham, Canadian bacon, pork chops; if it had a snout, a curly little tail and oinked, I am totally down with it. We took Sadie to see Charlotte's Web yesterday and I kept getting a little mad at that uppity, yet adorable, little pig. I mean, somebody's got to be bacon! Who cares if you're nice to spiders? What makes Wilbur so special that I can't put a couple of slices of him on my turkey sandwich? Seriously. That movie made no sense.

I often imagine what my life would be like if I had to keep Kosher. Had I been there when Moses was talking to the Flaming Shrubbery and it was telling him that there would be no more ham sandwiches, no more bacon for breakfast, no more [gasp!] sausage dip (mmmmm... sausage dip... oh man, sausage dip!) I would have probably asked for a plague of locusts or something, anything else. Maybe an outbreak of hemorrhoids? A flood? Whatever it takes, just pleasepleaseplease don't take my bacon away. I mean, have you had pulled-pork tacos? They're amazing. "I promise," I would have begged, "We'll be good. No more wandering in the wilderness or golden cows or anything. We'll even cut out the murmuring. Please?" Then I'd try pouting. If that didn't work: tantrum.

Wait. Is this sacrilegious? And if so, how sacrilegious? Am I going to go to the hot place for this? Because I burn really easy. Seriously, you put me in direct contact with the sun and I burst into flames. I am a white person, people. Like, white white. Oh man, I hope I don't go to the hot place.

Anyway, this whole pork issue is most likely why I wasn't born a Hebrew in the time of the Exodus. I probably would have said, "What? No pork in the Promised Land? Naw, you guys go on ahead. I guess I'll stay here. I mean, these pyramids aren't going to finish themselves, right? Right?"

So, anyway, I guess that... doesn't answer your question at all, does it? Hmmm. Do I do anything sneaky? I can't think of anything off of the top of my head. Well, except for the shoplifting that I do like, all of the time. And the income tax evasion. And the stealing of Girl Scout cookies. And that time I rigged the Superbowl. And that whole Lee Harvey Oswald thing. Or the time I hit a Sasquatch and just left it there on the side of the road and drove like heck. I am not going to jail over no Sasquatch.

So, Ryan, my question for you is this: what do you love so much that you just can't live without it? And no mushy stuff like love or air or anything like that. It has to be something sort of stupid. Like pork. Or that blanket you carry everywhere. Or existential dread. Or that autographed picture of Count Cool Rider you have hidden in your closet behind all your clothes that you wink at every now and then.

Anyway, I look forward to your response. Also, this:

"Ryan, It was great being in Geometry class with you. Pythagoras rules! Stay cool. Have a great summer. K.I.T. B.F.F. Your pal - C.C.R."

secret ingredient

Thanks, man. For the history lesson (I googled Shakespeare and learned he was madly in love with Gwenyth Paltrow), for the warning about the oompa-loompa sounding dudes (too lazy to bring the blog back up and reference the correct name), and most of all, for the chicken pox vaccination. Though, you didn't mention that gingivitis is a side-effect.

Hey, I loved that post. It was excellent. As always, you love to play anti-limbo with me.

I thought of something funny I do, and I wonder if you or our legion of fans do the same. Whenever I make a meal for the family and its bodyguards, I always mess up the recipe. On purpose. Like, if I'm making eggs, I'll throw in some lemon juice or something equally crazy. Who knows? What if I invent the next great American meal by experimenting?

That in and of itself is not the funny thing. The funny thing is how I hide my experiments. If I decide to use 1/3 cup of milk instead of 1/2 cup, I quickly dispose of the measuring cup so as to not bring attention to my experiment. If I decide to add soy sauce to the brownie mix, I put the bottle back so fast it would make your bobble head spin. And bobble.

So, do you ever do something sneaky and cover up your tracks? That's what I want to know.

Now if you'll excuse me, my sausage jello smells like it's burning.

Easing the Swelling in the Brainal Canal

Ryan, you should really have a doctor look at that blockage. It ain't healthy. I'm sure there's a creme or ointment that you can rub on your brainal canal to help ease the swelling and help that flowage get back to normal. Have you tried Funnymucil™? It tastes like chalky black licorice pork rind pickle juice hash browns old rubber bands elmer's glue, but I've heard from some pretty reliable sources (among them a certain former writer on Saved By the Bell, no less. A certain Gregory Miller. Yeah, I name-drop. So what?) that it will keep the funny a-flowin'. And that guy should know. He wrote that episode where Zack, trying to make money for the dance, sells Screech's zit creme but it really makes everybody's faces turn red - just before the dance! Ha! Man, how do they come up with that stuff?! Oh man, I am so laughing! If only there was an internet shorthand for this, like Laughs-Out-Loud (LOL? That looks retarded. Who would type that?) or something, then I wouldn't have to explain in such detail the nature of my laughing over how funny that episode of Saved By the Bell is/was! Ho ho! Hee Hee! I just peed a little!

Personally, I think writer's block is a myth, not unlike the Loch Ness monster (not, I repeat not Bigfoot - dude is for reals!) or the rumor that Paul from the Wonder Years was really Marilyn Manson (geez, where'd that guy disappear to? Marilyn Manson, that is. Did the Dumb Police finally track him down? Let's hope so. If not, why are we paying taxes? I mean, besides to pay for that giant super-laser-firing satellite to stop the Martians when they finally get up the stones to attack. Do you hear me, Martians?! We're ready for you and your hordes! Bring it, my red friends! Bring it! Let us bathe the stars in blood!).

I mean, do you think George Washington got writer's block before he wrote the "Gettysburg Address"? No. Did Angus Young, Malcolm Young or Brian Johnson (Seriously, it took three people to write that song? Hmmmm.) get writer's block before writing "Back In Black"? Aw, hecks naw. Did Shakespeare get writer's block before he wrote the script for Bio-Dome starring Pauley Shore and the blond Baldwin? No. He sat down at his time-travel typewriter and wrote it, knowing that the finished product would arrive safely in the year 1996 and be made into a movie with immense social and comedic impact. I mean, that's some Sword of Damocles to have hanging over your head, there, but did Billy Shakespizzy shirk? No. He wrote the heck out of that movie.

So there you have it... errr, types something inspirational. THE END. Cue the credits, turn up the house lights, get the kid in the vest in here to sweep up all this popcorn. I've got some Valentines candy to steal from my daughter. Peace in the Middle you-know-where.

P.S.: Ryan, your basement is cold. Watch out for Wampas. They will smack you across the head and fasten you to the ceiling for eating laters. You'll have to summon the power of the Force to get your lightsaber out of the snow and then chop its arm the heck off and then run like the dickens only to hallucinate, pass out and then get shoved into a tauntaun carcass to be kept warm. I'm just sayin': be careful. Those tauntauns are some smelly beasts. I've been told they smell worse on the inside than they do on the outside.

Still blocked

I still have writer's block. I don't think it's anything serious. Instead of writing funny stuff, I'll write what's on my mind right this instant:

- I have to pack for my little trip to Las Vegas. I have to include my basketball so I can get a pick-up game going with my brothers and Jamie "Mad Dog" Mattern.

- I have to go to the Rockies box office on Saturday. I have two gift certificates for tickets that can only be redeemed at the box office, and Saturday is the day the Yankees tickets go on sale. You know those are going to go faster than my finger upon the remote when I hear the opening theme song to American Idol.

- Julia just climbed out of her bed. She sleeps in a top bunk.

- My basement is cold.

Well, I guess that's all. Sorry about the serious tone. But sometimes a brother's gotta recharge his funny batteries.