CD Review: Christmas is For Ditzes! by Mariah Carey

Christmas is for Ditzes! by Mariah Carey (Audio CD) Buy new: $24.98 $10.99 67 Used & new from $7.97 Usually ships in 9 to 14 days Eligible for FREE Super Saver Shipping.  (213)  

 

“O My Freaking Holy Night!”

Christmas comes early for Mariah Carey fans with this collection of holiday favorites from the winsome chanteuse who is always well-endowed, even in this, the worst year for stocks since 1931.  Proceeds of the album, net of producer’s advances, producer’s royalties, and recoupable push-up bra expenses will go to charity, although Carey, who produced the album herself, can’t remember which one.

“All you want for Christmas is my two you-know-whats.”

“I get so sad when I hear of poor little kids stuck in the third world,” said Carey, who has sold more records than any female singer in history.  “I mean, why can’t they come to earth?  Can’t they at least let them go to the second world?”

Alfred Kinsey:  “Gall wasps are starting to get boring.  Maybe I should switch to the study of humongous ta-tas.”

Carey’s vocal range spans 8.5 octaves, which allows her to reach difficult notes such as Hi-C, a juice drink made by the Minute Maid division of The Coca-Cola Company.

“She is definitely a freak of nature, albeit a bodacious one,” said Alfred Kinsey, who abandoned the study of gall wasps when he first saw Carey perform “Vision of Love” on Saturday Night Live in 1990, thirty-four years after his death.  “My theory is that she can hit those high notes because her large mammary glands cut off the flow of blood to her brain, resulting in squeaky sounds like air escaping from a balloon.”

“It’s ‘The Emancipation of Mimi’–let’s get up and dance!”

The album is available in a “For Dogs Only” edition, on which Carey outdoes her normal vocal pyrotechnics to produce music audible only to canine ears.  “If you’re a fan of Christmas music,” says Todd Duntzge, assistant manager of Pet World in Natick, Massachusetts, “the dog version is really better.”

At the Viking Poetry Slam

A mastery of poetry was a must for any young Viking.  A few Viking poems dwelt on love, but the heroes often undermined their happiness by chasing adventures that separated them from their beloveds.  The Wall Street Journal

“Who’s got the beer cooler?”

It’s 1230, and I don’t mean by the hands of the sundial.  I mean it’s 1230 A.D., and me and my buddies, Gunnlaug Snaketongue and Hallfred the Troublesome Poet, are having our regular Sunday night poetry session.  We meet at Ericson’s, where they have 20 ounce King Olaf’s for only a clam, and pitchers for five clams.  Let me tell you, we usually set back the progress of Western civilization a couple of decades before the night is through.

Ericson’s:  Get there early for Monday Night Oxen Races.

We roll the bar dice to see who goes first, which is actually not the most desirable spot.  It’s better if your listeners have consumed a little mead before you start to bare the workings of your innermost soul.  Unfortunately, I roll snake-eyes.

“You go first Kormak Ogmundarson!” Hallfred says with glee.  I can tell he’s going to pounce on my handiwork like a blood eagle grabbing a baby chick.

“Okay, here goes nothing,” I say.  I take one last drink to wet my throat, then I launch the Viking ship of my verse onto unknown seas.

That night I dreamt of a maiden fair
  whose dress I removed with a flourish.
What I saw underneath was a navel and hair
  but a body that looked overnourished.

 

I looked up from my rudimentary parchment note pad to judge the effect of my quatrain on Gunnlaug and Hallfred.  “You say overnourished like it’s a bad thing, dude,” Gunnlaug says with a look of disapproval.

“But wait,” I say, anticipating twentieth-century cable TV pitchman Billy Mays, “there’s more.”

“There’s more poetry where that came from!”

“Let ‘er rip,” Hallfred says as he unleashes a belch that could be heard in Vinland.

“Okay,” I say, then compose myself and start in again.

She could have been my winter consort
  if I’d paid more attention to her
But I was consumed by televised sport
  and another Vike came to woo her.

Vinland, via the scenic route

I’m surprised to see a look of empathy on Gunnlaug’s face.  “That’s beautiful, man,” he says as he pretends there’s something in his eye in order to hide the fact that he’s wiping away a tear.  “Ain’t that always the way.  You’d like to have a relationship with a woman, but you want some freaking adventure with your guy friends, too.”

Hallfred, on the other hand, being the Troublesome Poet that he is, is unmoved.  “What the hell are televised sports?” he asks.

“It’s an anachronism I threw in for dramatic effect,” I say.  “This is a stupid blog post–you’re going to have to wilfully suspend disbelief if you’re going to get anything out of it.”

He takes this in slowly, and mutters a grudging “Okay–that was pretty good.”  He’s not the brightest shield on the battlefield, if you know what I mean, but he leaves a pretty wide wake at poetry slams because of his brooding good looks and primitive style.  Personally, I think it’s all a facade.  He’s so dumb his descendants will be going bare-chested to football games in Minnesota winters seven centuries hence.

“Show me what you got, big fella,“ I say to him throwing down the poetic gauntlet.

He pops a handful of squirrel nuts into his mouth, and washes them down with a gulp of beer.  “Here goes,” he says, and begins:

My old lady’s quite a dish
  if I do say so myself.
She don’t come along when I icefish,
  she eats tuna from the grocery shelf.

Gunnlaug emits a tepid grunt of approval.  “I sense the difference between your maleness and her femaleness,” he says looking off into the distance, “but you didn’t do much to establish a dramatic tension.”

It’s clear that Hallfred is hurt by this faint praise, and he lashes out, bringing his pickaxe down on the bag of Astrix and Obelix Pub Fries that Gunnlaug’s been munching on.  “Anybody can be a critic,” he fumes.  “Let’s hear some poetry out of you, blubber-belly!”

“Well kiss my ass and call it a love story,” Gunnlaug says with a withering smile.  “Looks like Mr. Brutalist has a sensitive side, too.”

“Your doggerel smells like two-year-old Swedish Fish.”

“Actually,” I interject in an effort to keep the peace, “Swedish Fish stay fresh forever in the patented Sta-Fresh resealable bag.”

But Hallfred isn’t letting his rival go.  “Come on, man,” he says angrily, as other patrons turn their heads in the hope of seeing a senseless killing.  “It’s Rhyme Time.”

Gunnlaug looks Hallfred up and down, then a frosty snort of Arctic air escapes from his nostrils.  “It ain’t bragging if you can do it,” he says, then clears his throat.  The silence in the room is broken only when he speaks in a low voice steeped in regret:

I once got a peek of a wench’s breasts
  that made me forget I was a Viking.
I’m telling you man, they were the best–
  I gave up my Harley and biking.

An audible gasp rose from the crowd.  The ultimate aesthetic error of Viking poetry–to succumb to the wiles of a woman!  How was Gunnlaug going to get out of the lyrical gulag he’d wandered into?

She had a big hat with horns festooned
  and said “Dear Vike, please impale me.”
But a friend had some tickets to the Wild vs. Bruins
  “Stay with me,” she cried, “Don’t fail me!”

Now it was Hallfred’s turn to snort.  “The first thing to do when you find yourself in a hole,” he said with a sneer, “is to stop digging.”

“Hold your freaking reindeer,” Gunnlaug said.  “I ain’t through.”

 He took a deep breath, then began again.

I looked in her eyes, both drowning in tears–
  Though watery, they still looked nice.
“Look,” I said, “I’ll make it up to you dear–
  I’ll take you to Smurfs on Ice!”

With the Federal Reserve at the Saturday Matinee

The Federal Reserve will run advertisements in movie theaters urging consumers to use credit cards wisely during the holiday shopping season.  Bloomberg News

Everybody makes a big deal outta Black Friday, but it’s the next day that’s more important to America’s economists.  I mean home economists, like my mom.

Because the Saturday after Thanksgiving is the day when moms have had enough of family togetherness and send kids like me and my friends Bobby Racunas and Tony Scaduto to the movies before we drive them crazy running around the house.  More kids go to matinees on that day than any other all year long!  That’s why the Bureau of Labor Statistics calls it Red Licorice Saturday.

“You’ve been underfoot for two days.  Go to a movie fer Christ sake, would ya?”

So me and Tony and Bobby got dropped off at the MetroWest MegaPlex 16 by our moms, who then made a bee-line over to The Rat Pack Grille on Route 9 for Cosmopolitans or somethin’.

“Mrs. Scaduto–yer killin’ me!”

“Whadda you wanta see?” Tony asked.

“I wanna see ‘A Christmas Carol’ with Jim Carrey,” Bobby said.  I should tell you that Bobby is kind of a goody-goody.  He’s won first prize for the highest grade in Catechism–a plastic statue of the Virgin Mary–for three years running.  He volunteers to stay after school to wash the blackboards and bang erasers together. 

 First prize

“No way,” Tony says.  “We at least gotta go for a PG-13.  Sumpin’ like ‘New Moon’ or ‘2012′.”

“I think that would be a venial sin,” Bobby says.  You could almost see him praying inwardly:  ‘Dear God in heaven, please forgive me if I am exposed to impure thoughts whilst watching Sandra Bullock’s knockers in ‘The Blind Side’.”

Rated Go-Directly-to-Hell, Do-Not-Pass-Purgatory by the Catholic Legion of Decency

“You make the call,” Tony says to me.

I make a show of doin’ eenie-meenie-minie-mo but you can always massage the end–”My mother told me to choose the very last one to wash a dirty dish ra-ag”–to land on the one you want.  “‘New Moon’ it is,” I say, and we buy our tickets and go in.

After loading up on over-priced candy, soft drinks and popcorn we take our seats in Theatre 13 and just in time too, ’cause the lights are already going down.  We sit through the obligatory self-promotional folderol–MetroWest MegaPlex, Your Best Family Entertainment Value!  Ha–not at $3.50 for a box of Jujubes.

Then comes the Courteous Filmgoer Guide–no talking, no feet on the seats, please remove hats, turn off cell phones.  To quote Tiffany Ducharme, hottest girl in our sixth grade class–as if on that last one!

“I wanna see the previews,” Tony says, and I’m with him.  You can usually see a lotta skin in the 45-second trailers for the adult films, unless they’re all weepy chick flicks.  You know the kind–a woman’s husband drowns or cheats on her in the first reel and there’s a hopeful, redemptive conclusion in the third reel.  When you walk out all the damp Kleenex tissues on the floor stick to your sneakers.

“We just have the fire marshall’s instructions,” I say to him, counseling patience.  After being told not to smoke and where the exits are, we’re ready for an afternoon of fun when on comes–Ben Bernanke, chairman of the Federal Reserve System?  There must be some kinda mistake!

” . . . and then Ronnie the Repo Man hooked a log chain up to the car and whoosh!  It was gone!”

“Hello boys and girls,” the bearded economist intones warmly.

“What da hell is this?” Scaduto screams along with about a hundred other pre-pubescent boys.

“You know, the holiday shopping season is a lot of fun for kids, but when January comes around, mommies and daddies have to figure out a way to pay for all those wonderful toys,” Bernanke continues.

“I thought toys came from Santa,” a little girl behind us says, obviously troubled.

“Tell your parents to use credit cards wisely,” Bernanke drones on.  No wonder Congress gets mad when he comes to talk to them–he’s boring!

“Pay your bills on time, and stay below the maximum credit limit,” Bernanke says with a look that has turned serious.

“I ain’t gonna stand for this,” Tony says, and begins the age-old chant that has rattled many a projectionist since Steamboat Willie, the first Mickey Mouse cartoon, hit the silver screen.

“We-wanna-show,” Tony says, and others around us join in.  “We-wanna-show, WE-WANNA-SHOW, WE-WANNA-SHOW!”

After a while it’s real loud, like a scene from those old prison movies when the inmates have finally had enough of the sadistic guards and the crappy food and start banging their tin cups on the bars of their cells yelling “LOUSY-*BLEEPING*-STINKING-SCREWS!  LOUSY-*BLEEPING*-STINKING SCREWS!”

But unlike in the movies, our uprising has no effect on the bearded man on the screen.  Barring some kind of Riot in Cell Block #9, the Federal Reserve isn’t going to back down on its mission to curb the out-of-control consumer spending that resulted in our current economic crisis which has generated calls for a new Consumer Financial Protection Agency that would–horror of horrors!–eat into the Fed’s jurisdiction.

“We can’t let them do this to us!” Scaduto says, standing up and turning around to address the kids–it’s an unlikely leadership role for a guy who repeated third grade.  “If we let the Fed play a larger role in the realm of consumer credit,” he says, his voice trembling with outrage, “that means fewer toys at Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or what have you.  I don’t know about youse guys, but I’m not gonna wait until the black helicopters land on my front lawn to take my Guitar Hero away from me!”

Elizabeth A. Duke

Tony’s been so successful whipping the kids into a frenzy that management has to act, and who should step out of the wings but Elizabeth A. Duke, the only woman on the Fed’s Board of Governors.

“Everybody please quiet down!” she says calmly but firmly, and the tide turns against our little mutiny, if only for a moment.

“You guys better listen or you’re gonna get in trouble,” Bobby says.  Nice kid, but a real suck-up.  He wants to go to heaven when he dies, but I’d rather be with my friends.

“The Federal Reserve has bought and paid for these announcements as a public service,” Duke begins.  “If you kids ask for too much this December, next year you might not get anything for your birthdays!”

We begin to compute the marginal costs and present value of future toys in our heads, using a dynamic model that takes into account stochastic variables and the possible decline of the dollar against the Chinese Yuan.

“She may have a point,” I say to Tony.  “If we Americans don’t increase our savings rate, we’ll eventually become a debtor nation beset by runaway inflation while . . .”

Before I can finish, I feel the slender hand of Bobby Racunas on my shoulder as he hoists himself up and stands on his seat.

“People have declaimed against luxury for two thousand years, in verse and in prose,” he shouts, and everyone in the theatre is stunned into silence.  “And . . .” he continues, his voice lower now, and pregnant with meaning, “people have always delighted in it!”

“I don’t think you made that up, young man,” Duke says, her eyes narrowed into skeptical little slits.

Voltaire:  “This tricked-out jacket was a loss leader at Target!”

“I never said I did,” he snaps back at her.  “It’s from Voltaire, who was a pretty smart guy.”

For once, the class weenie has come through.  I look at Scaduto, and he looks back at me, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“You know what to do, right?” he says, as he empties his Milk Duds into his pocket.

“Ab-so-lutely,” I say, as I do the same with my Black Crows.  We place one end of the empty boxes in our mouths, and begin to razz the seventh woman to be appointed to the Fed.  Soon the other kids have followed our lead, and Duke is drowned out by the sound of a hundred candy-box farts!

“Stop it!” she says, covering her ears.  We relent for a moment, allowing her to speak.  “Perhaps the Fed hasn’t provided consumers with sufficient notice in advance of this year’s holiday shopping season, but what do you propose to do about the problem,” she asks, fixing her gaze on the newly-rebellious Racunas.

Keynes:  “That’s right, Bobby!”

“Kick it down the road to our grandchildren,” he suggests, his voice a model of dispassionate cynicism.  “Just like Keynes said–in the long run, we’re all dead!”

Don’t Throw Out Those Thanksgiving Leftovers!

Tired of staring at lumps of starch in your refrigerator left over from Thanksgiving dinner?  Don’t throw them away!  Here are six great recipes that will turn Turkey Day rejects into December treats!

 

Stuffing Puppies:  Roll stuffing into 3″ balls, sprinkle with flour and paprika.  Heat oil in skillet and brown.  Place in freezer until solid.  Remove at Christmas time and hurl at carollers.

Get off my property!

Turkey Hokey Pokey:  This “comfort food” is great and easy to make!  Melt 1/4 cup butter, add 1/2 cup flour and whisk.  Add 1/4 cup sherry, 1 cup cream, 2 2/3 cup chicken broth, 1 cup grated Parmesan cheese, 3 cup chopped turkey and 1/2 lb. mushrooms-salt and pepper to taste.  Place 10 oz. cooked spaghetti in baking dish and top with mixture.  Put your right foot in, take your right foot out.  Bake at 325 degrees for 30 minutes.

 

“Tastes kinda gritty to me.”

Mashed Potato Mortar:  Add 1 cup gypsum, 1 cup sand and a dash of allspice to two quarts leftover mashed potatoes.  Using a trowel, spread between gaps in exterior brick walls and allow to dry.  Garnish with parsley.

“Y’all about ready for lunch?”

Turkey Piazza:  Strip dark meat from drumsticks and thighs.  Spread with linseed oil and flatten with a meat mallet.  Spread generously over patio.  Flatten with a sod roller and coat with extra virgin olive oil.  Children on “boogie boards” should wear helmets while sliding across the finished surface.

“I’ll have the white meat, thanks.”

Cranberry Shells:  Add two packages Knox’s Unflavored Gelatin to cranberry sauce and stuff back into cans.  When mixture congeals, stuff down barrel of howitzer and fire.  Caution:  May be considered a violation of Geneva Convention in some upscale neighborhoods.

 

“Cranberries incoming!”

Turkey Terza Rima:  Add mayonnaise to turkey scraps.  Mold mixture into three-line stanzas using a progressive rhyme scheme such as a-b-a, b-c-b, etc.  Submit to high-toned literary quarterly along with a self-addressed, stamped envelope and wait.  When rejection letter is received, launch cranberry shells and stuffing puppies at editor.  Repeat until satisfied.

Pardoned Turkey Kidnaps Chick, Goes on Rampage

DUBOIS, Indiana.  “Courage”, the turkey pardoned by President Obama as part of traditional White House Thanksgiving Day festivities, led Indiana State Police on a high-speed chase over narrow state roads before holing up in a corn crib at the farm where he was raised, accompanied by a young chick he seized at an all-night convenience store in nearby Jasper, the county seat.

“If I let you go, will you promise to stay out of trouble?”

“There is enormous risk with any pardon,” said Greer Nilson, a professor of political science at Indiana University’s Muncie campus.  “When Bill Clinton pardoned Marc Rich in the last days of his presidency all the other fugitive commodities traders who cut deals with Iran during the hostage crisis were outraged, asking ’Where’s mine?’”

Patty Hearst, in full revolutionary regalia

Police believe the chick is unharmed, and that she may have succumbed to “Patty Hearst Syndrome”, a malady named after the newspaper heiress who grew sympathetic to her kidnappers, a left-wing radical group of the 1970s known as the Symbionese Liberation Army. 

Duns Scotus:  Not relevant, but I thought you’d enjoy the cool hat.

“Victims of Patty Hearst Syndrome tend to be art history majors whose fiances are graduate students in philosophy,” said Milo Houston, an expert on obscure stuff other people don’t pay attention to.  “The constant droning on and on about their dissertations can cause their mates to seek refuge with undesirable characters–anything to get away from thoughtful discussions of Duns Scotus,” a medieval philosopher.

Weed and Hearst:  Constant whining about his dissertation drove her mad.

Hearst was pardoned by President Clinton without incident, but the escape of Courage may or may not cause future presidents to be more cautious in handing out pardons.  “You can do psychological profiles and background research and still have somebody turn out to be a real turkey,” noted Nilson.

President Declares Friday National Day of Leftovers

CAMP DAVID, Md.  President Barack Obama declared Friday a National Day of Leftovers after a Thanksgiving Day Dinner that included a dish prepared by Marian Robinson, his mother-in-law, that he pushed around on his plate but did not finish.

“What exactly is this?”

“Our enemies abroad deserve to eat this stuff,” said Obama’s prepared text for his traditional Thanksgiving radio address.  “We are going to wrap it up and send it to them along with 34,000 additional troops.”

Obama and mother-in-law:  “Just because I didn’t eat it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate all the hard work you put into it.”

Obama’s daughters also refused to eat the dish, saying it smelled of onions and tuna.  The President will place the remains in an unmarked chafing dish at the Tomb of the Unknown Casserole in Arlington, Virginia.

President Obama placing leftovers at Tomb of the Unknown Casserole

The President typically “pardons” two National Thanksgiving Turkeys but  declined to do so this year for fear that he would be accused of being soft on crime by Republicans.  “These two turkeys were responsible for identity theft, carjacking and intimidating a witness,” said U.S. Attorney Karl May.  “They will be deep-fried and served as Popcorn Chicken at a KFC franchise in Washington.”

Deep-fried turkey

The first American leftovers were produced as a by-product of the Thanksgiving celebration held in Plymouth, Massachusetts, in 1621.  Uneaten butternut squash and jellied cranberries were given to members of the Wampanoag tribe as they left the feast, touching off a bloody two-year conflict that claimed the lives of nearly a hundred people and depressed retail sales during the first Christmas shopping period.

“You’d better eat some–we brought that stuffing with us from England!”

The children of the Plymouth Colony were especially grateful to Squanto, a Native American and former British slave, who taught them to bury fish to fertilize corn fields.  “If you hide the food you don’t like,” he told them, “you don’t have to eat it.”

Bo Dollis is the Best American Singer You’ve Never Heard Of

As the first decade of the twenty-first century comes to a close, MSN Music has memorialized in photo album format a litany of Brittany and other innovators of the past ten years who will forever hold the sort of secure place in artistic history currently occupied by Patti Page and Rudy Vallee.

Rudy Vallee

What’s that?  Who’s Rudy Vallee?  Surely you jest!  He was the most popular singer of his day, a ground-breaking crooner who dominated popular music in the 30’s, hosting The Fleischmann’s Yeast Hour–sort of an MTV for radio.  He had a nasal voice and boyish good looks–just like Eminem!

Vallee, in a thoughtful mood.

Near the end of his life in the 80’s, a half century after the pinnacle of his popularity, Vallee was looking for a dignified repository for his papers and personal effects.  He approached his alma mater, Yale, but his star had fallen so low in the firmament that they turned him down, and he had to settle for Boston University.  The indignity!

Louis Armstrong

This brief excursion into the history of popular music is offered as corrective to snap judgments made in haste upon momentous occasions such as, say, the end of a decade.  Colored by public relations specialists, the fashions of the moment, and the transient beauty of the young, they inevitably turn out to be wrong.  As we look back on the late 20’s and 30’s now, it is Louis Armstrong, the vacation stand-in on Vallee’s radio show, who is recognized as the genius, and Vallee the mere footnote to musical history.

Bo Dollis:  Note lack of boyish good looks.

So here’s a prediction; long after Marshall Mathers, Justin Timberlake and other current white imitators of black musical styles have been forgotten, people will still be listening to Bo Dollis.

Who, you may ask, is Bo Dollis, and why haven’t you heard of him?  Simple; Dollis is a black performer in a regional musical style–that of New Orleans–and he’s sixty-five years old.  In other words, he’s not going to knock the Jonas Brothers off the cover of Tiger Beat.

Dollis’s voice has been described by John Swenson in OffBeat as “full of passion and intensity with a rasp that gave him a wild edge.”  I can’t say it any better; he is the Platonic ideal of which the Rod Stewarts and Mick Jaggers of the world are only pale imitations.

Dollis’s power flows within traditional banks, like the Mississippi River that runs through his home town.  He grew up in the company of Mardi Gras Indians, men who sew elaborate costumes that mimic Native American dress and wear them as they march through the streets during Mardi Gras festivities.

Dollis in his Big Chief outfit

The Mardi Gras Indians are a unique American manifestation of mummers, that is, disguised performers who go merrymaking during public festivals.  Like other examples of mummery around the world, the performance of Mardi Gras Indians is at the same time ridiculous and pretentious. Indians divide themselves into heiratical ranks by function; there are lowly Spy Boys, who scout for rival gangs, Flag Boys who relay the information thus secured, a Wild Man whose role is to scare people away and clear a path for the procession, Red Indians–the ordinary working men of a tribe–and a Big Chief.

Dollis had stood out as a Red Indian of the White Eagles, but in that role he could only answer the calls of his Big Chief.  He moved on to the Wild Magnolias and was swiftly promoted to Big Chief from Flag Boy.  He says he wanted to be Spy Boy–”I was young and could move around” he told Swenson in an interview–but his voice was too exceptional to be ignored.

Mardi Gras Indians

Dollis grew up singing gospel, and when he became a Big Chief he was able to impart a new sense of religious ecstasy to the traditional repertoire of the Mardi Gras Indians.  Both genres of music include a call-and-response feature–a sort of R&B Greek chorus–and Dollis often plays the role of a gospel preacher in the hybrid music that he’s created.

Wild Magnolias album

Dollis has opened up the music of the Mardi Gras Indians to a new audience, recording formerly secret liturgical song such as “Handa Wanda”–an eerie, ritualistic rumination–for public consumption, and developing a non-peripatetic sub-genre of their parade music.  The Crescent City version of funky R&B is polyrhythmic, with a three-beat second line often serving as the underpinning and embroidery on the standard four-beat measure.  You can walk and rock at the same time.

A half-century from now Bo Dollis will be dead, but so will the music of Brittany Spears, Justin Timberlake and other former Mousketeers.  They’ll still be marching in Indian costumes on Mardi Gras, however, and you’ll hear Bo’s music as they pass by.

BCS Computers Traded Rankings for Sex, Memory

INDIANAPOLIS.  Indiana State Police say they have arrested two computers assigned to Bowl Championship Series details following a “sting” operation in which undercover agents offered to trade sex and additional memory for improved BCS rankings.

 

“Oh yes, that’s it, right there . . .”

“This is a direct assault on the integrity of the Bowl Championship Series and the NCAA,” said NCAA Interim President Jim Isch.  “And by the way, I do not like people who say ‘jimisch’ sounds like an adjective.”

Eat your heart out

According to investigators, BCS computers were approached by “cheerleaders” from slumping Division I schools who offered to “service their hardware” and “give them some memory”.  A transaction was arranged in which the computer’s four kilobyte random access memory would be expanded to 48 kilobytes by an ”Expansion Interface” in exchange for the creation of loopholes comparable to the “Notre Dame Exception” for big college teams on the bubble.

“This baby’s hot!”

A complicated set of rules is used to determine which teams compete in the BCS bowl games.  Certain teams are given automatic berths depending on their “bad” cholesterol, average miles per gallon (highway), and SAT Biology test scores.  After the automatic berths have been granted, the remaining “at-large” berths are filled from a pool of teams whose alumni reserve the most hotel rooms in BCS bowl cities.

“Can’t you do something about Penn State?  My mother-in-law went there.”

Computer-generated rankings are supplemented by human polls, which are viewed as immune to the sort of sexual favor-swapping that was the downfall of the BCS computers.  “If a guy’s really into college football,” said Sergeant Dan Hampe of the Indiana State Police, “he won’t be interested in sex until after the National Championship Game.”

Big Book of Presbyterian Humor Due Out Friday

BOSTON.  Molly Yardnal is a temporary stocking clerk at the Borders book store in downtown Boston who’s finding it hard to do her job in preparation for the crush of Christmas shoppers.  “I guess people are buying books because big-ticket items seem too extravagant this year,” she says as customers squeeze by her.  “Either that or they’re cheap.”

Today, Molly is working the humor aisle as she rips open cardboard shipping boxes filled with copies of “The Big Book of Presbyterian Humor”, the latest in a series of similar titles by Minoz Press.  “Next to the Big Book of Jewish Humor and the Big Book of Catholic Humor, it looks kind of small,” she notes.

“If I told you you had a nice body, would you hold it against–never mind.”

“It’s really intended as a stocking stuffer,” says editor Morris Korkin of his latest release, which runs to 24 pages, the last of which is blank and can be used for taking notes during sermons.  “Actually, you could fit two copies in your typical Christmas stocking.”

 

“I’ll be here all week.  Be sure and tip your elders and deacons!”

American Presbyterians have been known as a humorless bunch since colonial times, when Founding Father Thomas Jefferson first noted a dour streak in the Scottish immigrants.  “The Puritans put a man in the stocks this morning,” Jefferson notes in his diary at one point.  “The Presbyterians came by later and criticized his outfit.”

“He hath not got those breeches at Brooks Brothers!”

The book is being hailed by the denomination’s ministers as a helpful tool in defusing the tensions that naturally build during the frantic holiday season.  “Say the two daughters get in an argument over whose David Yerman bracelet was more expensive,” says Rev. Scott Lee of the First Presbyterian Church in Duxbury, Massachusetts.  “Nothing gets people in a good mood again like a joke that begins ‘A priest, a rabbi and a lady snake charmer walk up to the Gates of Hell’.”

David Yerman bracelet:  “Haven’t you got something a little more expensive?”

The age-old question–Is there such a thing as a dirty Presbyterian joke?–is answered with an emphatic “Yes” by the collection, with a knee-slapper involving a first-class airline passenger who “poops his pants” after a particularly bumpy flight, notes Korkin. 

“But seriously, folks.  Our annual Osgood-Schlatter telethon raises hundreds of dollars to fight this dreaded knee ailment.”

“That’s the only one we found,” he says.  “For years we’ve heard rumors there’s another, about a grandmother who farts when her family visits her at a nursing home, but like Bigfoot it may turn out to be a hoax.”

Stung by Critics, World Series of Poker Increases Charity

LAS VEGAS.  As the World Series of Poker has grown from a small-scale event to a nationwide phenomenon with a top prize of $12 million, it has attracted critics in the non-profit sector who say it does much less than other major sports to assist their work.

“Where is the WSOP at Christmas or Thanksgiving?” asked Ted Synnar of the Dream Come True Foundation.  “In the past, we never saw them.”

But tournament organizers say they’re determined to change that, and are encouraging the big players in the no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em tournament to give back to those who are less fortunate through a program called “WSOP Kinda Kares for Kids”.

  

Raymer:  “Beat it kid.”

Greg “Fossilman” Raymer, the 2004 champ, appears to have taken the WSOP’s mandate to heart as he sits down for some high-stakes poker with five terminally-ill children referred to him by the Dream Come True Foundation.

“Lot of these kids, they can barely pull the arm on a slot macine,” says Raymer.  “Poker’s a job for me, but for them, it’s all they think about once they get bored with Old Maid.”

Across the room Cyndy Violette, who busted out of this year’s tournament early, is playing a hand of Texas Hold ’Em with a group of testicular cancer survivors.  “Guys,” she says as she deals two cards face down to each of them from the “button” chair, “I’m living proof that you don’t need balls to be good at poker.”

Meanwhile, Johnny Chan allows little Tiffany Germond, who is confined to a wheelchair, to try on one of his ten diamond-encrusted WSOP championship bracelets.  “Mommy, look what the nice man gave me!” she squeals as she wheels off towards the blackjack tables.  “Hey–come back here!” Chan yells as Tiffany finds a hole and breaks through the crowd of fans that surrounds a table of nine top-notch players.  “Aw, let her go,” says Phil Hellmuth, Jr., but Chan calls for security and Tiffany is escorted off the premises.  She will be banned from Harrah’s Casinos world-wide for her impulsive act.

Back at Raymer’s table, the Fossilman is trying to steal a hand by brow-beating his younger opponents.  He is sitting on an ace and a jack, and the flop produces two jacks and a five.  Raymer raises.  “Daddy, that man’s glasses are scaring me,” says Billy Nobles, Jr., and the boy’s father asks Raymer to drop his trademark protection.  “No way,” says Raymer, “the eyes are the number one poker ‘tell’,” or physical sign that reveals the strength or weakness of a player’s hand.

“Please, Mr. Raymer–he just wants to win one hand,” Nobles Sr. pleads.

“No can do,” Raymer replies.  “I’ve got an endorsement deal with David Steele Sunglasses, Newport Beach, CA 10937 to wear the Greg Raymer Cat Eye Sunglasses throughout the tournament.”  Billy Jr. folds, and Raymer rakes in a pot of 3,500 chips.

As the charity event breaks up, a little boy on a respirator approaches Johnny Chan with a special request.  “Mr. Chan,” he begins weakly.

“Yes?”

“Could you–could you hit a home run for me.”

Chan considers the request for a moment.  “You mean go all in before the flop holding a pair of aces?”

“Y-yes,” the little boy says with difficulty.

“And have somebody beat me with a 7-9 off suit when they hit their straight on the river?” Chan asks incredulously.  “I don’t think so kid.”