My Time With Keith #20

Bach: Spenny Chadwick, Cow Feed Refresher and Soap Box Derby Runner Up

Keith: Wrinkles Jawcircle, Inventor of Waffle Fries and Three Time Badger Exterminator

Reverting to Papyrus

Screw this information superhighway thing! I don't need your carpel tunnel inducing keyboard and your retina searing LCD screen to instantly put my loony ideas and raving mad thoughts to a limitless audience. All's I need to get my thoughts out are good old fashioned pen and paper!

I'm gonna get published! GOODBYE MR. INTERNET!

Crap. The dog just finished eating the last pieces of my spiral-bound, and Rick the book-man keeps telling me to stop calling or he's going to hit me upside the cranium with an aluminum baseball bat.

Uh...

Forget what I said, Senor World Wide Web! I was just kidding!

Please let me back into your warm, sweet embrace. I shiver without you. I yearn to rest my head your soft, ample bosom!

PLEASE!

please?

Solutions

What do you do when your team loses their last home game of the season four years in a row? When you follow up a heartbreaking Game 7 loss to an inferior eventual champion with two soul crushing last-day collapses in your own park? When you haven't won your last game at home since Bush's first term in office? Do you figure out the root cause of these flamouts? Do you address those issues with smart scouting and wisely appropriated money?

Sure, you could do that. But, eh...

Let's just tear the whole place down. You kill the location, you drown the mediocrity, right?

Goodbye Shea Stadium! You were a place where dreams went to die and choke artists went to impregnate each other and multiply. Good riddance!

Hello Citi Field! You are a wonderful palace of possibilities where the Marlins can't possibly hold our dreams hostage and execute them on national television. Hail the new king of opulent, soon-to-be-renamed-because-its-namesake-is-oh-so-close-to-filing-bankruptcy, Ebbets Field inspired ballparks!

Here's to Opening Day! Nothing bad can happen anymore! Nothing!

Fuck you, Tom Glavine! Sure, a deaf, retarded squirrel could give up 7 runs in the 1st inning, but at least he'd have the decency to give a shit about it!

BAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

My Time with Keith #19

Bach: Switch Legs LaPresti, Failed Gubernatorial Assassinator and Talented Arm Pit Chemist

Keith: "Shinin" Diamond Rechant, French Foreign Legion Triple Stripe Mastermind and Known Jazz Dancer

My Time with Keith #18

Bach: Professor Thorwald von Moses, Gobstopper Swallowing Champion and Weekend Pheasant Conquistador

Keith: Plasticon Fairchild, Kenyan Botanist and Four Time Herpes Survivor

The Age Old Question

Which is more appetizing: shit-covered jelly or jelly-covered shit?

Shit-covered jelly seems like the obvious choice. Usually, the item being covered makes up the majority of the delicacy. With chocolate-covered strawberries, it is 80% strawberry, 20% chocolate. So, you would mostly be eating jelly, with just a small handful of shit.

On the other hand, enjoyable food is all about first impressions. With jelly-covered shit, the first taste is the jelly. So, for those few seconds, it would all jelly, all deliciousness. Only later would you discover the shit.

But then again, some might argue that enticing food is all about the after-taste that it leaves. Clearly, the winner in this category is the shit-covered jelly. The shit would be out of the way by the time the jelly had a lasting effect on your taste buds.

However, when it comes to appearances, another huge part of any delectable treat, jelly-covered shit wins hand-down. Something covered in shit looks repulsing. Something covered in jelly looks scrum-diddly-umptious. If you're trying to pick which one to eat from a box of sugary snacks while relaxing in your recliner watching Sportscenter, your eye is going to tell you to choose the jelly-covered shit.

The conclusion: there is no right or wrong choice. Together, no matter which is inside or outside, they make an unbeatable combination. Seperate, they are nothing. In other combinations, they are merely okay. Jelly with peanut butter is nice, but nothing special. Shit in the toliet makes too much sense. But, as a union, they have the power to surpass the hot dog and the hamburger as the American delicacy.

My Time with Keith #17

Entire conversations consisting solely of making up crazy fake people? Yes, that's My Time With Keith.

Bach: Ricky Pimento, Executive Throne Scrubber and Rabbi-by-Night

Keith: Henderson Steelfish McFly, Middleweight Predator and Tapestry Admirer

Mets Telecasts Will Never Be The Same

From this point on, Mets fans who yearn for the best way to cover up that ever-growing bald spot will have to wallow in their own ignorance. Sir Giuseppe Franco, Grand Duke of SNY Advertising, has left the building, and he is bringing his patented Procede formula with him. So, say goodbye to the only product you will ever see that works on thinning hair by only using it once every ninety days.

You were a good man, Mr. Franco. You will no longer have to put your name on the line for something that doesn't work. Or worry about Gary Busey cracking you open and drinking the minoxidil out of your skull.

WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?!

After 6 and a half years of saving America from political assassinations, nuclear threat, weaponized viruses, nuclear threat, nerve gas (but really nuclear threat), and nuclear threat, you would think people would give Jack Bauer a little more credence. A little more leeway. You would think people would say, "Man, this guy has been getting our asses out of hot water for the better part of one of the most tumultuous decades in American history. Maybe we should listen to him."

But no. Jack thinks terrorist A is withholding information and the only way to get it out of him before the nearest shopping mall goes up in flames is through torture. Nope, he's told us everything he knows already. Jack thinks CTU Grunt B is secretly allied with the enemy and is feeding them classified intelligence that could compromise national security. Nope, he's been nothing but loyal for the three days he's been employed. Jack thinks that the President is conspiring with Islamic Cell C and is behind the theft of the nuclear football. Oh god, he's an elected official, and we don't elect officials who betray their countrymen.

What these people need to do is stop and ask themselves why they're questioning this guy. Is it to stroke their own ego in the face of almighty badassery? To see if Jack will actually agree with them? To create conflict to keep the story entertaining? We may never know what these foolish mortals are thinking.

There's just too much of "Jack, you crazy asshole, what the hell are you doing?!" and not enough "You know Jack, you are the only soldier this country has ever needed, keep doing what you're doing, you wonderful piece of man." The guy has eighteen Purple Hearts, Seven Legions of Merit, Four Silver Stars, and about a half dozen Medal Of Honors. That's a fact. Check Bachipedia.

So, let's all step back and let Mr. Bauer do his neck-snapping, baddie-chopping thing. If we let him have his space, 24 could become more like 14, and I would be able to leave my dark, urine-soaked, heavily salted DVD viewing marathons sooner and reenter normal society with at least a modicum of sanity. The smell really gets to the neighbors around hour seventeen.

The Greatest Mind of Our Time.

He created clean, affordable reusable energy available to every human on Earth. He brokered a long-standing peace between the western powers and the Middle East. He figured out how to put pulp back into de-pulped orange juice. He even deciphered the labyrinthine cobweb of a plothole known as Lost.

I'm talking, of course, about...


THE RETARDED LLAMA!!!


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