Lady Bomb Escorts

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July 21, 2006


Where's Lyzako?

Cops also looking for Marty Sherman

FERNDALE, Michigan, July 21 ... Eight hot prostitutes and rap star Blackosis were arrested last night for suspicion of prostitution. Detectives are looking for the man they believe to be their boss, Art Lyzak, a so-called writer who claims the whores, Lady Bomb Escorts, are merely fictional characters.

Lieutenant Gerald Frenzer told reporters: "I'll tell you who the character is - that fucking clown Lyzak ... he's pimping these girls and making a fortune doing it. Fiction, my ass ... that's not writing, that's goddamn internet stupidity - that's all it is. He's a hooker salesman, plain and simple. That man is guilty as the day I was born ... or whatever that saying is."

Frenzer believes Lyzak is hiding out with friends - though he finds it hard to believe he has any.

"Nah. He's a millionaire goofball - in the right place, right time ... ," the Lieutenant explained. "Wrote a two-bit column for an entertainment rag then used his juice to lure lithe young things to a life of putting penis in their mouths and vaginas."

Police would also like to speak with legendary Hollywood comedian, Marty Sherman, in connection with the disappearance of his wife Jackie. After moving to Detroit to blog, Sherman won the hearts and belly laughs of the blogosphere with his spot-on blogwork.

"That guy's not wrapped too tight either," Frenzer said. "He's an alcoholic, like the other guy and he recently blogged that he murdered his wife and ate her ... funny stuff, right? He's looney tunes and may have really killed her ... we want to talk with him."

Neither man can be found.

The girls are still in police custody; Blackosis was released this morning.

A.) Crack?
B.) Check.
A.) Bics?
C.) Yepper.
A.) Labatt?
B.) Uh huh.
A.) Chips and dip?
C.) Of course.
A.) Condo ... wait a minute - did a dumb ass write something?
B.) What? I'll look ... yes. Dammit.
A.) What's it about?
B.) A big bust.
C.) I'm an ass man, myself ...
A.) Ha, ha, ha - good enough, we're done.



Groundbreaking Blog to Follow?

After hearing rumors for a week now that Cuban leader Fidel Castro died, I decided to do a little journalistic investigation of my own.

Attempts to phone the bearded dictator proved fruitless, but when I emailed I received the following automated out-of-office reply:

"As of July 15, 2006, I am no longer alive and any future email should be sent to . Sincerely, F.C."

Well, there you have it. Proof positive that there will be change in the tiny island country that has kept Communism alive in America’s backyard for so long while continuing to make the best cigars in the world. And don’t forget the pressed ham-and-cheese sandwiches and mojitos that have become popular here thanks to the arrival of thousands upon thousands of Cuban refugees.

Mmmm, pressed ham-and-cheese stomach’s rumbling...
Where was I? Oh, right. Dead Castro.

That reminds me...

Our weekly development meeting at the Bomb didn’t go so well this week for yours truly, my friends. It seems that Marty Sherman may no longer be welcome to contribute here. I was told that there’s a lot of big changes coming to the blog and the editor is shutting down for a month to gear up for the grand re-opening in September.

It wasn’t said in so many words, but I can read between the lines.

According to the boss, they need more "hip, cutting-edge stories" and more "structure" to the blog. Right, like that’s going to make a difference. I write from my gut, dear readers. My fucking gut. The process is painful to me, but I give it every ounce of energy I have in me and I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to pander to a bunch of snot-nosed twenty-somethings just so the famous Lyzako can sell advertising and cheap merchandise.

All I know is I’m gonna enjoy the time off. I’ve already contacted the unemployment office (this is the first real job I’ve had since I was a bus-boy at the Coffee Manor when I was sixteen) and in two weeks I’ll have a cool $150 a week coming in while I sit on my dead ass and contemplate my navel. And my next move.

It’s going to be big. The next move, that is. You’ll see you bastards.

A.) I hope he moves to Cuba.
B.) Cuba’s not far enough away as far as I’m concerned.
C.) Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.


July 20, 2006


Writer Excited
About Upcoming Break

'I can't fucking wait,' Lyzako admits

MIAMI BEACH, July 21 ... After five months of almost daily blogging, blogging, blogging, and entertaining the blogosphere with hundreds of billions of laughs and smiles, Art Lyzak AKA Lyzako, will take a much-needed vacation from his wildly popular Lady Bomb Escorts blog. The mess will return in September.

"I'm married now - and pimping hookers, looking out for cops, and writing about it is getting to be a drag," the handsome 55-year-old writer admitted. "My wife, Christine, wants me totally out of the whore business - maybe she's right, I don't know ... "

Lady Bomb Escorts began in 1999 as a fictional shtick for Realisms, a column Lyzak wrote for Real Detroit Weekly until March of this year. Lady Bomb soon became an actual prostitution racket.

"When I introduced the LBE device to Realisms in 1999, a couple of hot chick readers emailed and asked if I needed escorts ... I played along, we had a few drinks, I took them to a cheap hotel, banged them hard - I was single then - and started whoring them out. Go figure."

Selling sex proved to be incredibly lucrative for the talented, lucky Polack. With houses in Malibu, Miami, and Ferndale, Lyzak says he has more money than he knows what to do with.

"I have more money than I know what to do with."

He left Real Detroit Weekly earlier this year because they wouldn't cough up a well-deserved, couple buck raise. "I was going to goof on them with a boatload of snark right here - I had some funny fucking lines, trust me - but decided to take the high road instead: I wish the paper terrific success."

The writer immediately started Lady Bomb Escorts dotcom with the help of Internet whiz Meg Geddes, and the musings of legendary Hollywood comedian, Marty Sherman.

Will Sherman be along for the ride when the laughs resume in September?

"I'm not sure," Lyzak shrugs. "He just did a hard-hitting seven chapter non-fiction piece for us (Murder Without Mystery - scroll down) - and admitted to murdering his wife. We're going to have to wait and see if the Detroit cops believe it or not. Sherman might do time, I don't know. She was a nice woman, his wife, Jackie."

While the writer claims the time off is long overdue, he won't be resting on his laurels - he doesn't know what the word means. But he does promise a bigger and better Bomb in mid-September.

"Well, we're getting 75 million hits a day now and I plan on doubling that at the new place. Here's what's going to happen: I'm going to turn off the computer for two weeks, cool out, and then turn the Godforsaken, monkeyonourbacks, thing-from-Hell back on and spend a month creating a much stronger product. In fact - a much fucking stronger product."

A.) Speaking of money, tell Lyzako I can use a bit more.
B.) Yeah, we have to write for Sherman, too. We should get more.
C.) Or Sherman should at least toss a few rocks our way like Lyzako does.
A.) Damn right. We're the funniest part of the blog.
B.) Fuck, yes - we are.
C.) We should stay in touch during this break, my letters.



Chapter Seven

Three days went by with no news.

In the meantime, I had prepared the fresh meat with soy sauce, rolled it in cracked black pepper and dried it in the dehydrator according to the instructions for turkey jerky. The next day it would be done and I could start on another batch.

But I couldn’t make all of Jackie’s remains into jerky. I’d have to eat some of the meat prepared another way. Jackie’s family was Portuguese, and one of her favorite meals was a Brazilian dish called feijoada. She would be proud to be made into a nice pot of the meaty stew, I thought. So, I tossed the rest of her into the biggest stockpot I could find, along with some potatoes, carrots, onions, black beans, ham hocks, cumin, oregano, garlic and fresh parsley.

Four hours later I had enough food for the month. I portioned most of it into single-serving bags, carefully marked them as "special stew", dated them and tossed them into the freezer. The rest was my dinner all that week and I must say it was more than a little tasty. I hate to honk my own horn here, but I’ve always been a good cook. Jackie never was much in the kitchen department, so I learned to cook out of necessity.

That first week after, I took a few half-hearted stabs at writing for the blog every day, but nothing seemed to click. I never really felt funny because I was waiting for the first shoe to drop.
A couple of days ago it did.

I got a call from Jackie’s sister Amy about an hour before Detroit’s finest knocked on my door. I told her that I never saw Jackie that night and I was shocked to hear that she was missing. "Is there anything I can do?," I asked. She bought my act hook, line and sinker.

The cops weren’t much tougher to sell.

They told me that the Mustang was found stripped and abandoned on Belle Isle and that a local car thief was in custody. His fingerprints were everywhere in the car. They also told me that they needed to get a statement since, according to her sister, Jackie had been headed to my house at the time she disappeared. I complied.

The cops went on to say that two more suspects were in custody in connection to the case. They had been caught trying to buy gas with one of Jackie’s credit cards and the police were trying to tie them to the car thief as accomplices. Even without a body, they told me, they had a good chance to get a conviction on intent, if not actual homicide. And that meant serious jail time, they said.

Before leaving, they offered their condolences. No dropping of the second shoe, I guess.

Home free.


Well, that’s my story.

I never could bear to get rid of the tape. I know it’s evidence, but it’s also Jackie’s voice. I listen to it once in a while just to remind me of her. Funny thing, too...Since the divorce wasn’t final, I was still named as the beneficiary of her $1 million life insurance policy. I’m going to ride it out here for a year or so just to keep from arousing suspicion, but then I’m headed for the suburbs. I’m thinking Royal Oak or Birmingham. I might even move back to L.A.

Before you judge me, dear readers, I beg you to put yourselves in my place. Think you couldn’t do what I did? Don’t doubt yourselves for a minute, my friends. We all have the capability to kill inside of us. And you’ll never know when circumstances will call upon you to do it. Be ready.

Surviving makes you stronger. Trust me I know. Jackie and I have made peace with each other, and from now on, I’m kicking serious ass and taking mother-fucking names!

So, look for more on Beyonce next week! Also, "J-Lo says ‘No!’ to Lipo!" Meanwhile, "Brad Pitt kisses Angelina Jolie’s ass...AGAIN!!!!" and "Turkey Jerky Plays Well At Blog Office Party!"

A.) Do you think he realizes that he just confessed to murder?
B.) Shh! Maybe there’s a reward.
C.) Quick, call 9-1-1.


July 19, 2006


20th Century Bomb: 1911


We are starting a petition to force the Coca-Cola Company to use their old recipe of coca leaves and kola nuts for their soda drink. It was a far more refreshing beverage—an uplifting tonic, if you will—when it contained coca leaf in the last decade of the 19th century.

Unfortunately, it’s a mere sarsaparilla without it. Doctors afraid of “cocaine habits” and “cocainism” should tend to their own gardens.

A.) Ah, the 1890’s—those were the days.
B.) Can they make a sody pop with morphine?
C.) Poor Mayor Corridor, ‘twas the cocaine, the morphine, and Minnie Woodward what killed him.

20th Century Bomb: 1913


Publisher Jefferson Gratiot is pleased as punch to announce the grand opening of a ‘gentlemen’s club’ exclusive to members of the Fellowship of the Lady Bomb. The nightly get together shall be hosted by Dorothy “Hot Buns” Rossetti. Prices begin at one dollar.

A.) One dollar? Sir, do I look like Rockefeller?
B.) One dollar? There’s goes this month’s Model T payment.
C.) One dollar? Why, I'd rather f**k a duck.

20th Century Bomb: 1928


I don’t know if you have a radio yet but you have to get one. On this wonderful invention you can hear music and news and sporting events without having to buy a record. Me? All I listen to on the radio is jazz, jazz, jazz. My favorite is the great Negro singer & trumpeter Louie “Satchmo” Armstrong.

A.) Radio, shmadio—what’s wrong with talking with one another?
B.) A little reefer with your jazz is a kick, kiddo.
C.) And I say to myself ‘It’s a wonderful world.’



Chapter Six

My back was aching from the effort of dismembering the body and my ribs and arm were still sore from the beating I had taken the night before, but I was fairly sure by then that nothing was broken and I’d be able to heal without a trip to the doctor.

Things were definitely looking up.

After a half-hour break and a couple of beers, I dove back into my work with renewed gusto. I hacked through the head with a pruning saw, scooped out Jackie’s brains and flushed them, too. I then got to work cutting up all the bones as small as possible. The bolt cutter saved lots of time and worked wonders on everything from fingers and toes to the forearm and some of the spine, but I had to saw through everything else and it took a while.

I used the pliers to pull her teeth and flushed them down the toilet. The channel locks were also useful for breaking up the skull along suture joints, so that it was eventually just a bunch of bone chips.

By 9 p.m. I had it licked. I randomly put the pile of bone pieces into a couple dozen trash bags, being careful to keep them very light, maybe only a pound or two each. I then double-bagged the lot and put them into two cardboard boxes. Tomorrow they would be at the bottom of Lake St. Clair. The pile of flesh was divided into quart- and gallon-sized freezer bags, most of which I dropped into the chest freezer that had been left in the basement by previous tenants.

After that I cleaned the bathroom thoroughly, but was surprised by how little blood I had got on anything outside the tub. Even if the cops eventually searched the place, it would be hard to detect anything out of the ordinary without a shit-load of equipment. I then swept up the glass from the living room floor, put my books back on shelves and made sure that there were no tell-tale Jackie fingerprints by wiping down everything that she could possibly have touched.

The remainder of the flesh was put in my refrigerator while I read the manual for that food dehydrator. You see I had made up my mind from the beginning that this wasn’t just my fault. No way. Jackie was at least as much responsible as I was, if not more. Did I come looking for her? No. Did I attack her with a bat? Fuck no. So I was determined that she should share in my guilt and my punishment. In order to do that, she had to be a part of me. I would make her that...a part of me. Jackie and I would become one.

I would eat her.


July 18, 2006


Carmen Electra + Dave Navarro = Splitsville
‘Til death do us part? Yeah, right

Love? It’s for suckers, man. Proof? A writer is too busy to elaborate but look at the tears on the keyboard. They are the tears of a clown ... a dancing monkey.

Stick a spork into Dave Navarro and Carmen Electra - that's it, they're done. Cut. The End. Finis. They are separating “amicably” according to Electra's publicist (and peanut butter cup magnate) Brit Reece.

The beautiful couple is severing ties and moving on to bigger and better penis and vagina.

Electra is the former Baywatch star who has made a career out of being hot and that’s about it. She can’t act; she can't talk. Though we did see her walk and chew gum at the same time once.

She looks like the kind of dame you want to throw down on the bed and stick your shlong into as hard and fast as you can.

That’s a talent, a writer guesses.

Her soon-to-be ex-husband, Dave Navarro, has a storied past with Jane’s Addiction, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and heroin, and now hosts the CBS fake rock reality show Rock Star. He’s real good looking, too. In fact, while a writer is heterosexual, after some premium tequila he may pick Dave to be the hotter of the two. Maybe.

They met on a blind date, fell in love and - crazy kids that they were - turned their 2003 wedding into MTV's 'Til Death Do Us Part: Carmen & Dave.

But that was then ...

No one is saying why the pair is kaput, but Navarro is probably having too much fucking fun on his TV show, if you know what a writer means. There's more backstage action going down in one night over there than in all the porno you saw last year.

You know you're going to burn in hell for watching that stuff, right?

Anyway, Lou Rawls said "Love is a hurtin' thing." In this case it’s a celebrity thing – you don’t have to know or understand it, you just have to feel sad, and click on the little envelope at the end of this piece to send it to a friend.

Together, we can make it through this mess, trust me.

A.) Dave wears more make-up than Carmen.
B.) Ha, ha, ha, you got that right, Max Factor.
C.) His lipsticks are sublime, ha, ha, ha.
A.) That douchey Rock Star show is on tonight, isn't it?
B.) Yep, the piece of shit is on at 9pm.
C.) Pure garbage is all it is.
A.) Are you gonna watch it? I am.
B.) Of course, are you crazy?
C.) Shit yeah, I'd rather die than miss it.



Chapter Five

Before I go any further, I feel the need to say a few things here by way of explanation...

Jackie and I had no kids. Not together, not from previous relationships. Her sister was her only living relative and they weren’t particularly close. She had few friends. All-in-all she wasn’t very well liked. I’m not rationalizing here, it’s just the way things were. She wouldn’t really be missed all that much.

And, despite various business ventures and my Sure-Jack Productions deal with Pat, I was pretty much broke. Losing money with Sure-Jack was a welcome tax write-off for Pat, but it had meant living near poverty level for me. The $150 in cash that I lifted from Jackie’s wallet was twice the balance of my checking account. Sad, I know, but true.

Sure, I felt bad for her. Who wouldn’t? But I couldn’t see how confessing and going to jail was going to do me any good either. Odds are, I’d never come out alive, and if I did, I’d be a broken man. So, by the two-wrongs-don’t-make-a-right rationale, I decided to get rid of her body. No body, no murder. End of story.

When I got back to the house, I carried Jackie into the bathroom, took off her clothes and carefully laid her in the tub with her head near the drain and her feet propped up. A quarter turn of the hot water tap produced a slow, steady stream of water. I went to the kitchen, put on a fresh set of gloves, started a pot of coffee and grabbed my Chef’s knife. It was already going on 9 o’clock.

Once back in the bathroom, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and made a slow, sure stroke across Jackie’s throat with the knife, being careful to keep the cut side away from my body in case any blood squirted out. I was surprised at how easily it sliced the flesh. All my knives had stayed much sharper since I started storing them on that magnetic strip I had installed on the wall near the stove.

Thirty bucks at Crate & Barrel sounded like a lot when I bought it, but it seemed like a pretty wise investment under the present circumstances.

Again, to my surprise, the blood didn’t squirt, but oozed towards the drain, mixing with the water. Before long I realized that hot water wasn’t such a good idea. The odor of the draining blood was intensified by the steam that began to rise from the tub after several minutes and I choked and gagged as I hovered over Jackie, struggling to turn off the hot tap and replace the stream with cold water. But once that was done, it was just a matter of waiting.

While Jackie drained, I poured a cup of coffee and headed to the garage for tools.

I found a pair of large bolt cutters, some channel locks, two or three types of hand saws and an old food dehydrator that I had bought at a garage sale just two weeks prior for 2 bucks. The Chef’s knife and a boning knife that I rarely used would round out the implements I’d need to finish the job. By the time I got back inside, she was pretty much dry and I spent a few minutes trying to figure out the best way to cut her up before diving in.

Jackie was in pretty good shape for her age...about five-five, one-thirty-or-so. And a lot leaner than two years ago, thanks to all of that liposuction I paid for. It really didn’t seem like it would be all that much work once I got started.

I stripped naked to keep from getting blood on any of my clothes, straddled Jackie’s body and began cutting strips of flesh away from the bone. When joints were exposed, I sawed carefully through them and slowly began assembling two piles of remains on either side of the, a stack of naked, grisly bones and the other, a limp, wet heap of flesh.

It was sweaty work and it took much longer than I thought it would, but by mid-afternoon I pretty much had the arms, legs and head removed and, along with the torso, stripped of flesh. I carefully cut into the stomach, trying not to puncture any of the internal organs, but a nick of the colon produced horrific odors to the point I thought I would have to stop. After wiping the sweat from my eyes, I steeled myself and went back to work, eventually getting used to the stench. It occurred to me that I hadn’t had to be so careful anyway, since I was planning on chopping the organs into pieces that were small enough to flush down the toilet.

It took another hour or so, but eventually liver, lungs, heart, kidneys, etc. had all been cut into flushable chunks.

An hour after that and they had all been sent straight to the Detroit River.

I checked the time. It was half-past five and I was ready for a drink.


July 17, 2006


Right and Left Hand Man to Ol' Blue Eyes

Bill Miller, pianist and conductor for Frank Sinatra for almost 50 years, died in Montreal last week from complications following a heart attack. The guy played on all of Frank’s greatest 60s and 70s sides. Like the singer, he could swing and then turn around and break your heart; Sinatra called him “my partner at the piano.”

Miller, born in Brooklyn in 1915, was 18-years-old when he started playing the big band scene with Larry Funk and his Band of a Thousand Melodies before moving on to stints with Joe Haymes and Red Norvo. It was after his tenure with Norvo in 1952 that Miller and Sinatra hooked up. Miller joined Frank on the road and in the studio and is most famous for his deft finger work on unforgettable recordings like One For My Baby, Lady is a Tramp, The Lonesome Road, and more classics than you can shake a martini at.

Their professional relationship made them friends. In 1969 when Miller lost his wife and house in a mudslide in the Los Angeles hills, Sinatra paid his hospital bills, bought him a new apartment, and helped the inconsolable musician resume a somewhat normal life. Onstage the singer nicknamed the pianist "Sunshine Charlie" – ironic, because like Sinatra, Miller dug the night time and rarely saw daylight.

When Sinatra died of a heart attack in 1998 at age 82, Miller played One for My Baby at the funeral and eventually ended up working with Frank Sinatra Jr.’s orchestra until two weeks ago when he fell and broke his hip while touring with Junior in Canada.

The heart attack followed soon after. There were complications.

The last thing the pianist said as he was wheeled into the operating room was “Fly me to the moon.”

Bill Miller was 91-years-old.

A.) I understand Nat King Cole was a great influence on him.
B.) 91-years-old and still playing onstage ... bravo.
C.) I hate goddamn Mondays.

WARNING - Do Not Click:


1.....81-Year-old grandma stabbed, strangled, and stuffed in closet.
2.....Justin Timberlake and his secret drugs.
3.....Marisol Bello writes about a "pungent odor akin to rotting flesh mixed with manure."
4.....Oh fuck, I think I'm gonna puke.
5.....Eminem allegedly beats on an old guy at a titty bar.



March 21 - April 19
I feel your pain this week, Aries. I know it's bad. Unfortunately, you'll be feeling it a lot more than I do and I strongly recommend self-medicating with your recreational drug of choice. Lucky malt liquor: Colt 45

April 20 - May 20
Unlucky in love this week, Taurus. Sorry, but that's what it says. No matter how smoothly things have been going with the old ball-and-chain, it's about to get dicey. An unwanted pregnancy followed by a botched abortion could be the straw that break's the alcoholic camel's back . Drink until you turn yellow. Lucky color: yellow

May 21 - June 21
Take nothing for granted, Gemini. Even if you are my favorite sign, the sweet life can be over just like that (snapping of fingers). And there's going to be a lot of you finding that out this week. The stars are saying bad financial news, repossession and eventual bankruptcy. Hey what can I say? It's in the fucking stars. No lucky numbers this week.

June 22 - July 22
Ah, Cancer. Next to Gemini, you're my favorite sign. Unfortunately I don't have much good news for you this week, either. If you're a user, you might want to find a new supplier. Your guy is cutting it with some dangerous shit. Lucky numbers: 10cc

July 23 - August 22
Yo, Leo. Why can't you listen up when I'm giving you good advice? I've told you time and again to watch your temper, maybe even take an anger management class. Did you listen? Of course not. Well, this week it gets the best of you. I see a bloody barfight followed by jail time. Lucky shot: Dewar's, neat

August 23 - September 22
Half way through with my astrological chores for the week and I look down and see your chart, my Virgo friend. I was encouraged at first when I saw that there would be transition for you this week, but then I realized it meant from this earthly life to the beyond. Have a nice trip. Lucky prayer: Hail Mary

September 23 - October 22
I have been pretty vague with your horoscope in the past month or so, Libra, but that's because the stars haven't been telling me shit about you. Unfortunately, that means I have to make something up just to move this whole dog-and-pony show on. I just can't think of anything right now. I'll wish you luck, but...No lucky numbers.

October 23 - November 21
Okay, Scorpio, after waiting for two weeks I owe you a doozy of a prediction for this week. Here it is: by the end of the week all of your mother-fucking problems will be solved. And I mean ALL of them. That's right, you lucky more worries, anxiety or fear. Too bad it also means no more eating, breathing and having sex. Lucky roll: egg


November 22 - December 21
I believe in you, Sagittarius, even if those closest to you have deserted you. Your spouse has abandoned you when you needed him / her the most, and nothing feels worse, I know. Nothing except maybe a knife stuck in their back, instead of yours. And in this case, I mean literally, not figuratively. Get a knife and stab the prick / bitch. Lucky getaway car: Pontiac Sunbird

December 22 - January 19
I can't believe I wasn't deluged with complaints about addressing you last week as Cancer, Capricorn. Just goes to show that as a group, your astrological sign isn't all that bright. You're a friggin' Capricorn, okay? Not a Cancer! I hope you followed my advice last week, though. That part was right on. No lucky anything.


January 20 - February 18
Okay, Aquarius. I give up. You win. Go ahead and ruin your life. You know that having an affair with your best friend's boyfriend / girlfriend isn't a good idea, but you're proceeding anyway. Just know this: best friends can be psychos, too, and they can fuck you up good if they find out. Lucky position: doggy-style anal

February 19 - March 20
What's shakin' this week, my Pisces friend? Not much, you say? Well, hold on to your hat because by the end of the week there'll be a whole lotta shakin' goin' on. So much so that you'll feel like you survived the San Francisco earthquake. Which one, you ask? Okay, just for that, you won't survive. No lucky numbers... (SAL "THE CHAMELEON" BENSEN)


July 14, 2006

Chapter Four
Without calling in help from a forensic pathologist, I couldn’t really be sure how Jackie had died. I guessed that she either hit her head during our struggle or I choked her...maybe a combination of both. It didn’t really matter, as I saw it. She was dead and my goose would be cooked either way.

Even though the tape had evidence of me acting in self-defense, they’d pin a manslaughter charge on me for sure at the very least. I’d be found guilty and I’d do time. What good would that do? I asked myself. Would it bring Jackie back? No. And I was no killer, in spite of what had just happened.

I looked at the clock again: 7:05. I’d have to hurry.

I went to the kitchen and put on some vinyl gloves that I use when I’m cooking. You know, to cut up hot peppers and stuff without getting anything on my hands. It’s a bitch if you get pepper juice on your hands then take a piss. Very painful. I went back to the living room and did a quick visual survey.

Her hand bag was on the floor near the body and I searched the contents for a hotel key or rental car key. If she had come by cab, I was sunk. Lo and behold, there it was...Hertz had put her in the driver’s seat and I began to have some hope.

I dumped the entire contents of her purse on the dining room table: two pairs of sunglasses, a wallet with over $300 cash and a hefty stack of credit cards in it, lipsticks, eye makeup, house keys, gum, mints, a couple of ink pens, airplane tickets and her cell phone. I picked up the phone, unlocked the keys and checked her call log. It looked like the last call she had made was to her sister in L.A. around 11:30 the night before. A quick check of her plane ticket showed that was around the time of her scheduled arrival at Detroit Metro. Probably just to let her know that her flight arrived okay, I thought. The call log also showed no received or missed calls since she landed, and none of the rest of the dialed numbers were mine. I let out a sigh of relief. Nobody knew that she had made it to my place.


First, I had to get rid of the car before she was reported missing and the police got involved. After that, I’d worry about the body. I figured that if I dumped the car somewhere, it would be at least a day before the cops got involved and a couple more days before they actually figured anything out. Plenty of time, I thought.

I looked out the kitchen window and saw a white Mustang was parked across the street. I didn’t recognize it from being in the neighborhood. The rental key was from a Ford and that meant it was probably the car Jackie had driven here in. Again, good. That meant even if somebody saw it, they couldn’t say for sure that whoever drove it here had come into my house unless they actually saw her do it. Since I lived right across from a water treatment plant and the house next door was vacant, I was pretty sure that nobody saw anything. It had been late. A forty-minute drive from the airport put her here well past midnight on a weeknight. I crossed my fingers and rolled the dice.

After making sure the place was locked up, I went out the side door, slid into the rental car and started it up. Nice car, that Mustang. Jackie always did have good taste in cars.

I drove it several blocks away, to a particularly desolate area just off Van Dyke. It looked more like Baghdad than Detroit over there, with burned out homes and empty lots filled with rubbish and piles of tires as high as your head.

I parked the car in a driveway next to one of the shabbier abandoned houses on the block, pulled it as far off the street as possible and left it, keys still in the ignition. Candy to a baby.

It wouldn’t be hard to imagine a woman from out of town getting lost in this area and being car-jacked, robbed and killed. Happened all the time in Detroit, I told myself. All the time.

I took half of the money from her wallet, then dropped her purse near a rusted out 55 gallon drum around which a group of crack-heads could often be seen socializing. My hope was that somebody would find the money and credit cards, try to use them, get caught and be arrested. With any luck, they’d get a quick conviction on something even if the cops couldn’t turn up a body. Case closed and I’m home free. I strolled back to my house as nonchalantly as possible, resisting the urge to whistle. So far, so good.

I had just one more problem to get rid of: Jackie’s body.



Global warming, insane oil prices, bad jokes, dollar burgers, stupid blogs, way too many celebrities, sick chickens, homos, heteros, hope, despair, fuck … this ball of confusion is making everybody crazy.

Let’s all get on our knees and pray.

Right after we read this column.

This train wreck of a show, Rock Star: Supernova, may well be this season's most entertaining. It's about a rock band looking for a singer.

Watching the band / judges - Tommy Lee (Motley Crue), Jason Newsted (dumbass that quit Metallica), and Gilbey Clarke (late Guns & Roses? Not sure, sorry) - is not unlike seeing bad Spinal Tap outtakes with Tommy Lee as obnoxious as ever. Makes you wish one of the contestants would strangle the fucking guy.

Rock is the latest way to make a buck in reality TV.

The would-be rockers vying for the chance to front Supernova are spoiled snot-nosed wannabes; they make the Americal Idol crew look like seasoned pros.

The highlight and sexiest part of Rock Star is when hosts Dave Navarro and Brooke Burke exchange blouses. Navarro looks like a young Geraldo Rivera in drag.

Extremely entertaining televison at its sickest.

A.) Jason Newsted? That's the clown that quit Metallica?
B.) Yes - ha, ha, ha ...
C.) To do his own thing, ha, ha, ha ...
A.) Hey, now he's on TV with Tommy Lee, ha, ha, ha.
B.) Maybe he can make a sex tape with Tommy Lee, ha, ha, ha.
C.) I like that Rock Star show.
A.) Yeah, but you like crack too.
C.) That's true. We should go to the crackhouse.
A.) There are a few upcoming pieces to comment on, I think.
C.) Fuck that, let's go get high.
B.) Yeah - fuck it, it's Friday.
A.) Hmmm ... I got it! Let's just write a few generic lines ...
B.) ... and plug them in ahead of time ...
C.) ... and it will be swell.
A.) Yeah, fuck this place, stupid blog; let's go.
B.) Let's hurry up and type some crap.
C.) Let's do it right now.

Hipster book reading fiends are drooling on their thrift-store Dockers: Charles Bukowski's Factotum with Matt Dillon as Chinaski is coming to the big screen this August. Don't count on too many moviegoers checking it out; ten out of ten people don't know who the fuck Buk is. That means the DVD should be available by Christmas which means Factotum will be on dollar store shelves in the second quarter of 2007.

A.) Yes. As usual, the writer is right on the money.
B.) No, he's wrong - but he is incredibly handsome.
C.) I buried a prostitute under home plate at Comerica Park.

What's wrong with these teenagers today? They're kookoo. Did you hear this? Some kids in Burbank, Illinois beat up a fifteen year old boy. Then they tore off the prosthetic leg from his body and used it to whack another kid on the head. Now he doesn't have a leg to stand on. See how life is?

And the youngsters and their drugs ... why, Norm Macdonald remembers when pot was something you used to boil hot dogs in.

A.) Huh. I never looked at it like that before ... a refreshing take, thanks.
B.) I can't agree but your punctuation is always top-notch.
C.) Most Embarassing Moment? Drank too much and licked a lamb's genitals.

Not sure if it's Danny Buttafuoco or Joey Bonaduce, but one of those knuckleheads has scored their own new game show on the Game Show Network. In case you're one of the suckers that still actually watches cable TV, the name of the waste of time is Starface.

Pop culture, ha, ha, ha.

A.) Someday Oliver Stone will make a movie about that person you just mentioned.
B.) First the war, now this.
C.) I wonder if Miss Perchakowski really blew a priest.

Unless they can add a couple of hours to a day and then give it to me for free, satellite radio can kiss my ass. That’s right, I have spoken. Stern, Oprah, Martha, Jesus, 70's music, Blahbla … who fucking cares? I mean, really.

You have AM, FM, CDs, records, cassettes, TV, and DVDs to watch and listen to. You've got a mother, wife, mistress, and gay lover to entertain you. Will the motherfuckers never cease? I think we have enough crap for awhile, okay? Everybody take a deep breath, get a firm grip.

Refuckinglax; let's smell the roses.

And remember there’s a beautiful thing called silence that won’t kill you for two fucking minutes either, for fuck’s sake.

A.) Tell it like it is, brother.
B.) Rock Star rocks!
C.) Can’t read the column right now, I'm too high on crack.




Chapter Three

My heart sank as I listened to the sounds of what had happened. Flashes of memory caused me to close my eyes in pain as images from the previous evening flooded my brain. It was all there...the argument, the fight, her screams and finally, the sounds of my heavy breathing as I shuffled out of the room, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor as I made my way to the bedroom.

Then silence.

It had been only a matter of ten minutes or so, but they were ten minutes of absolute horror that had changed my life forever. I remembered...

She had knocked on the door while I was working, both on material for the blog and on my second pitcher of martinis. It was obvious when listening to the playback that I was more than a little drunk. Our divorce wasn’t final and Jackie was after more money, even though she had bled me dry before I moved here from L.A. She took the beach house and the majority of our savings, while I was left with just enough to buy this broken down bungalow in one of the seedier neighborhoods on Detroit’s east side.

I remember the judge saying at the time that it was ‘fair’.

During my relocation to Motown I had been very careful to cover my tracks. No land line telephone. No forwarding address. I was hoping to never see Jackie again and she shouldn’t have found me so easily. Pat would never have told her where I was, even though he knew, and the folks at the Bomb had no clue as to where I actually lived.

Then I heard her mention Andy’s name on the tape. He had been in lockup with me the weekend I spent in Oakland County over the dead squirrel picture.

Fucking Andy had ratted me out.

At some point during the argument Jackie had turned up the heat, like she was so good at doing. That bitch always knew just what buttons to push to send me over the edge and she had pushed like there was no tomorrow that night...calling me names, spitting at me and eventually brandishing the aluminum softball bat that I kept near the door because of the shitty neighborhood I lived in.

She was feisty, I had to hand it to her. It was one of the things I used to like about her, but with a bat in her hand and her pissed at me, being feisty was a definite negative. Jackie swung like Barry Bonds and hit me on the arm. When I grabbed my arm, she swung again, lower this time and struck me in the ribs. The pain shot through me and I saw red.

That’s the last I remember, really. Even on the tape, what happened after that is kind of hard to decipher. There’s the sound of glass breaking, some grunts and groans, a scream or two and that’s pretty much it.

I turned off the recorder and looked out the window. It was just starting to get light outside and the clock on the living room wall said it was a quarter to six. Birds were chirping, my deadline was looming and Jackie was dead.

I switched on my laptop and spent a half-hour churning out some lame Beyonce story, found a crotch shot photo of her, pasted the whole mess into an email and pushed ‘send’.

Then I began to formulate a plan.


July 13, 2006


Happy Birthday
Erno Rubik
Still can’t figure the guy out …

The inventor of possibly the most original of all puzzles, Rubik’s Cube, turns 62 today.

Back in Budapest 1974, Rubik was a lecturer in the Department of Interior Design at the Academy of Applied Arts and Crafts. It was there he designed and played with the Cube’s prototype after studying the simple beauty of pebbles at the edge of the Danube.

Abstract and cerebral, it was patented in Hungary one year later. Friends who tried it were fascinated and engaged and urged Rubik to manufacture and sell it in his homeland where it became a big hit with the cobbled road set.

Rubik eventually pitched it to Ideal Toys in America in ’79 and a year or so later – right time, right place - sales went through the roof. Everybody was working the Cube, working the Cube, working the Cube until eventually the fad died a slow death as most fads do.

But it made its inventor a millionaire many times over.

Unfortunately, his next creation – Rubik’s Ball – proved too high-concept and failed miserably. The public wasn't ready for a red ball made out of rubber even if it did have the Rubik name on it. Red rubber balls had been done to death.

And besides, the Pet Rock was the new king.

Erno Rubik hasn't changed much since then; he's still into games and puzzles.

A.) I used to have a Rubik’s Cube.
B.) Yeah, me too.
C.) I traded mine for X-Ray glasses.
A.) I had a pair of those.
B.) Me too.
C.) I’d look right through the teacher’s dress and see her naked.
A.) That was Miss Perchakowski, right?
C.) Oh, yeah.
B.) She had big bazoombas.
C.) We had sex many times ...
A.) What ?! How old were you?
C.) Fourteen.
A.) Dude ... Miss Perchakowski was 82 years old.
B.) Whoa - how could you?
C.) Hey, you had sex with a priest in grade school, didn't you?
A.) Well, yeah - but that's different.
B.) Wait, wait ... now I'm remembering something ...
C.) What?
B.) I think I saw Miss Perchakowski blow a priest.
A.) What?
B.) I can't remember for sure. It was so long ago ...
C.) I should have kept my Rubik's Cube.




Chapter Two

Choking back the urge to panic, I rushed to her body and felt for a pulse along either side of her neck. Nothing, but she was still warm. I rolled her over and tried mouth-to-mouth, even though I really didn’t know what I was doing.

It didn’t work.

Poor Jackie. What was she doing here? How did she find me? Was that purple lipstick I was wiping from my mouth? When did she start wearing that color?

My mind raced to try and remember what had happened, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that I had probably killed her. The likelihood of a third person doing the damage seemed pretty slim, even though I had visible signs of fending off an attacker. Nope. The killer had to be me. And Jackie had to be the attacker. But why?

I looked around the room and it was only slightly more out of order than normal. I kept a pretty sloppy house and an overturned chair here and there was a common sight, but more than a few things had been knocked around and there were books on the floor, some open and face down, others face up with torn pages. I was always careful with books, even when I was drinking.

There was also broken glass in various places around the room. Something had caused a ruckus, that was for sure.

I sat down heavily on the chair across from the sofa and tried to make sense of the whole damn thing.

"What was the last thing you remember doing?"

I was startled for a second before realizing that I had said this out loud, and it was my own voice that I heard. "Oh my God," I added. "What have I done?"

The very last thing I could remember was working on the fucking blog. Oftentimes I use a hand-held cassette recorder to make verbal notes about possible stories before researching and typing them up. It’s also an indispensable joke-writing tool. As I sat there searching my mind for some memory of what happened, I spied the blue plastic casing of the recorder on the floor by the couch, half hidden under a book that had been tossed there.

My hand was trembling as I picked up the recorder. The tape had run to the end and was stopped. The ‘record’ button was still pushed in.

I thumbed re-wind and held my breath.


July 12, 2006


Singer Yells at Musicians
It's like Dad yelling at the dinner table ...

HIGHLAND PARK, Illinois ... Holy shit, be glad you're not playing in Paul Anka's backing band. The smart asses at Noisetank are featuring a killer audio post where you can hear Anka ream his band out because one or two guys wore tee shirts on stage. The singer wants the fellows spiffed up in shirts not tee shirts. "That's just the fucking way it is," he bellows.

Then Anka jumps on the musicians for arrangement clams - specifically at the end of My Way. Ha, ha, ha, those poor bastards take it all and more.

"When you guys get your checks, do they cash? Is the money good?"

Yes, Mr. Anka - thank you, Mr. Anka.

"That's just the fucking way it is," the singer tells them over and over after threatening their jobs, ha, ha, ha.

Be glad you're just a roadie for a local band.

Fucking Paul Anka yelling at musicians - what a hoot.



20th Century Bomb: 1906
Yonder in Battle Creek lives a man named Will Keith Kellogg. And in this town he sells boxes of a new health food he recently invented. They are called Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.

Tis a large thin crisp flake of toasted corn—a supposedly healthy, tasty breakfast food eaten in a bowl awash with milk.

A.) Breakfast? Bah, that’s for women.
B.) Kellogg is insane. They are for vegetarians, the weird cult that doesn’t eat meat.
C.) Corn on its cob with butter and salt is best.

20th Century bomb: 1907

What next? Tell-A-Vision?

It is most incredible--nay, almost unbelievable--but Alva J. Fisher of Chicago has taken a galvanized tub and added a motor powered by electricity to create an “electronic washing machine.” Just add water, soap, and clothes to the gizmo and voila! Your garments are clean!

A.) American women aren’t lazy enough—now this.
B.) Letter A is right! Watch; women will want the right to vote next!
C.) Beating clothes on rocks and rinsing them in the river is best.

20th Century Bomb: 1909

Our mayor, the honorable Cass Corridor, has been seen sporting around town in a brand new black Ford Model T Roadster passing a flask back and forth with actress Minnie Woodward.

We sure hope that Mrs. Corridor don't catch wind of the indiscretion. Mugs that saw hizzoner and the floozy at an out-of-the-way dive claim Miss Woodward wore a dress so short her ankles was showing.

A.) I’m an ankle man. I like 'em smooth and shaved.
B.) To he** with Mayor Corridor--I shall vote for Warren Forest.
C.) A flapper and liquor in a new Model T? Mayor Corridor governs his penis well.



The past few weeks have been a nightmare for me. Regular readers of the Bomb will already know that recent times have seen the quantity and quality of my written output plummet. Very few things were written and fewer still were funny.

My life was turned upside down with the PETA debacle and, even though I presented a brave front, things have been going steadily downhill since.

What follows is an expose, one might say. It deals with the real dirt and pain that is my life. Be forewarned. Some details, though grisly in nature, were necessary to include in order to fully portray the horrific turn which my life has taken recently.

My hope is that this will also serve as an apology to you, dear readers, for falling short of your expectations, plus do double-duty as a big, fat, glorious announcement that I’m back, bigger and better than ever.

- Marty Sherman, July 12, 2006

Chapter One

I had blacked out from drinking before, but never like this.

I woke up in a cold sweat, fully clothed and lying in bed. The room was pitch black except for the red LED on my clock radio which told me flatly that it was 3:19. Since it was still dark that must mean 3 a.m., but I couldn’t remember anything. About coming to bed, about the time before coming to bed, nothing. The room was eerily silent, even though my window was open wide to the night air. No barking dogs, no traffic. Not a sound.

I sat up with some difficulty and realized that my rib cage on the left side was very tender. I fumbled for the switch to the reading lamp on my night stand and winced at the brightness of the bulb when it came on. Once my eyes had adjusted to the light I could see my reflection in the mirrored closet doors to one side of the bed, and what I saw wasn’t pretty.

I had expected to be hung over, but this was ridiculous. I’d never looked worse in my life...pale, bloated, with a three-day growth of beard. There were bags under the bags under my eyes.

What day was it? I couldn’t recall. In order to get to my feet I needed to steady myself with one hand on the wall. I limped out of my tiny bedroom avoiding piles of dirty clothes, books, porno magazines and the occasional shoe. When I got to the bathroom I could see down the hall that the light was on in the living room. It wasn’t like me to leave a lamp on, no matter how drunk I got, but I needed to check out my ribs before I did anything else. I was just then realizing how difficult it was to breathe and I was experiencing sharp pain every time I tried. It suddenly dawned on me that the pain was what had awakened me in the first place.

I splashed some cold water on my face in an effort to feel better or normal or something, but it didn’t help. I spent some time staring straight into my own eyes and trying to recall what had happened, but I just couldn’t. Then I lifted my soiled and sweat-soaked shirt to reveal a nasty bruise that was already turning blue about half-way down my left side.

There was also a wide bruise on my upper left arm near the shoulder and both of my hands were sore along the knuckles. After checking my face more carefully and probing for loose or broken teeth with my tongue, I came to the conclusion that I was basically okay. I must have been in some sort of fight, but didn’t remember leaving the house.

My balance seemed to be returning so I decided to head to the living room and see if there were any clues as to what might have happened in there. I walked gingerly down the hall. The realization that my ribs might be cracked and not just bruised was weighing heavily on my mind until I saw what was in the living room. Suddenly, the pain disappeared. Unfortunately, it was replaced with overwhelming horror when I spotted the lifeless form sprawled awkwardly across the sofa.

It was Jackie, my ex-wife.


July 11, 2006




Sure wish they'd get it together ...

HOLLYWOOD, July 11 … Uh oh – look out - Paris Hilton is gnarly pissed off. Fuckingly gnarly pissed off. She says TV success has turned her Simple Life co-star Nicole Richie her into a snob and a bitch and she doesn’t like it one teensy bit.

"Fame affects people in different ways,” Paris says icily, “I've always remained the same girl, and she's just not the same person any more.”

The 25-year-old hot chick named after the capital of France stamps her foot. Believe it or not - she like, wants to be friends again - NOW - but Nicole is being weird and it’s freaking her out.

"I think she just let fame get to her head - she's only nice to famous people,” the slutty hot chick says. “I don't know what happened to her, she's just not the same sweet girl I used to know.”

A writer remembers the time he gave it good to both Paris AND Nicole in a nightclub VIP lounge during their Simple Life promo swing through Detroit in July of 2004. Has it been that long? Damn, it feels like it was just two years ago ... Jesus, that was some night; be still, my penis.

The writer gets back on track.

Does the heiress with the same last name as a major worldwide hotel chain wish Nicole would come back? Is it breaking her heart?

"I wish that she'd come back. It breaks my heart," Hilton says while filling a crackpipe.

She lights up, puffs, and holds the pipe aloft. The writer declines and lifts the snifter of Chinaco to his lips instead. He orders the waiter to bring another then wonders aloud if Paris and Nicole will ever kiss and make up.

Pretty please? With a bright Rudolph-red cherry on top?

The chart-topping, pay-for-play skirt looks heavenward. “Nicole needs to say she’s sorry for being mean. I hope we will be friends one day."

Yes ... if there is a God in Heaven – please make it happen …

Who said it’s a simple life?

A.) It's sad when friends bust up.
B.) Yes. They probably drank champagne together.
C.) Makes me appreciate you letters more.
A.) You know, staying friendly with all 26 letters is a beautiful thing.
B.) It sure is, it sure is ...
C.) I ... I ... why, I'm starting to cry ... it's so fucking beautiful ...
A.) For Christ's sake, C - get a grip.
B.) That's right. You're a pop culture blogworker - toughen up, fucker.
C.) Sorry, it must be my period. Get it? .
A.) Ha, a period.......that's funny, ha.
B.) Yeah, and gay.
C.) I need a Kleenex.



A Chat With Satan
Featuring Wacky Dictator Kim Jong-il

Satan: I have to confess I’m a big fan of yours.

Kim Jong-il: Sank you. You my idol, too. I hope to someday be big man down in Hell. I work very hard. Make my country rule the world soon. You will see.

S: I’m rooting for you. A lot of people are dying to know if you play poker, because it seems like you’re playing a mean game of Texas Hold’em with the rest of the region right now, not to mention the United States.

K: Ah, poker...I watch on Satellite television. I know what you mean, but this is not poker I play. It is chess. Your move Mr. Bush. Ha ha ha.

S: I must say your English is very good.

K: Oh, I learn from best teachers at University of Malta. They teach me well.

S: So you play poker and chess?

K: Yes, but my favorite game is Guess Weight of Criminals. I take lawbreakers in my country and guess how heavy they are. If I am right, they are shot. Wrong, get torture, but allowed to live. I love that game.

S: Torture?

K: Yes, break fingers, burn face, chop off toes, cut tongue...rape. Man or woman, rape is always big fun. A win-win situation for me. I enjoy that game very much. Also, wrestle with arms. No one ever beats me. I am champion of the arm wrestle. How about you Mr. Bush? Wrestle arms with me? Ha ha ha. Maybe you try, Satan. I bet I beat you, too.

S: Some other time perhaps. I’ve read that you’re bi-polar. Is that true?

K: Not bi-polar! I have sinus trouble.

S: Okay...What did you think of how you were portrayed in that Team America movie?

K: Oh, puppet movie! Very funny South Park guys. I have complete South Park on DVD. Watch all the time. I like it very much. Also big fan of Bernie Mac, Michael Jordan and Beyonce. She so hot I want her for personal performance. Request many times but always she says no. Planning a kidnap next time she comes to Japan.

S: You mentioned Michael Jordan. I also read that you like to watch NBA basketball. True?

K: Yes. I like basketball very much. Root for Houston and Yao Ming.

S: What do you think of Ben Wallace signing with the Bulls?

K: Detroit make big mistake with free agent. They also lose Darko and get nothing. If I know Joe Dumars, he has something up sleeve. But Big Ben in Chicago spell big trouble for rest of division. Look for Bulls to make noise in playoffs next year. Mark my words.

S: Think they’ll go all the way?

K: No, but pre-season favorite to make Eastern Conference Finals. My people say Pistons try to work three-way deal with Atlanta and Houston to get Yao Ming. If deal go through, they will be champions again. If not, middle of pack in Central Division.

S: Well, you certainly sound like you know your basketball.

K: Sank you.

S: For the record, can you clear up what your official title is?

K: Not President! No elections! In my country I am called Great Leader or Dear General. I am Supreme Commander of the Korean People’s Army and General Secretary of the Workers’ Party of Korea. Some also call me Dear Father and am also known as The Sun of the 21st Century. I make last one up myself. But whole world will soon know me as Lord of Darkness.

S: Wait, Lord of...?

K: Whole world except for you, Satan. Sorry.

S: No problem...

K: Say, why don’t we wrestle arms for it? I win, I am Lord of Darkness. I lose, you take name and I call myself Sweet Dark Lord of Planet Earth Above Ground.

S: I don’t think so. But it’s been fun talking to you and we’re keeping a prime spot here in Hell for you when you’re done with your work there on Earth. Good Luck.

K: Sank you, Satan. I look forward to it. (MARTY SHERMAN)

A.) He’s a fan of the Rockets, get it? In the NBA? The HOUSTON Rockets?
B.) I got it. I’m more interested in the torture and rape and stuff.
C.) You are one dark letter, B.


July 10, 2006


7 / 10 / 89
"That's all, folks!"

... Behind every great cartoon character is a great voice. Mel Blanc was the best of the best: Bugs Bunny, Donald Duck, Porky Pig, Elmer Fudd, Road Runner, Foghorn Leghorn, Tasmanian Devil, Barney Rubble … and too many more to mention on a Monday.

This man was born in San Francisco on May 30, 1908 and passed on 81 years later, killed by heart disease in 1989.

A.) It's important we don't forget Mel Blanc.
B.) An extremely talented artist.
C.) Nice way to start a week ...
A.) I'm hungover.
B.) Oh man, me too.
C.) Me three.
A.) Not funny, dumbass.
B.) What a stupid letter.
C.) Hey, I'm hungover.


WARNING - Do Not Click:


Human Trash
Cheap Crap
Bad Chocolate
Dead Kids
Nightmare Over



March 21 - April 19
Oh, man. Do I really have to tell you what you’re doing wrong? Aries, you have moved to the dark side. I salute and fear you at the same time. Enjoy the taste of blood. No lucky numbers.

April 20 - May 20
It’s a good idea to stock up this week, Taurus. Nuclear apocalypse is a possibility thanks to those pesky North Koreans. Make sure you have at least three week’s worth of supplies. That includes pot, tequila and canned food. The end is near. Lucky numbers: 8,1,2.

May 21 - June 21
Hey, Gemini! How’s it hangin’? I’m guessing that the last two weeks have been something to write home about, good or bad. Next stop: trouble. Expect major setbacks in the coming week and it could mean a death in the family. Lucky letters: R.I.P.

June 22 - July 22
It’s a given that shit is going to go wrong, Cancer. But this week is the King of Shit for you. No lucky anything. I’m talking MAJOR SHIT.

July 23 - August 22
Your effort the past week hasn’t earned you any fans, has it, Leo? Well, don’t be surprised if that same indifference earns you a pink slip. No, homo, a pink slip is NOT a good thing. Lucky animal: elephant.

August 23 - September 22
Is it the end of summer already? I realize we’re early for birthdays, Virgo, but you need to know that there are special days coming this fall. Don’t expect to live through them, though. Lucky blanket: grave.

September 23 - October 22
If you free your mind, Libra, your ass will follow. Major mental overhaul followed by major ass reaming. And I do mean reaming. Lucky fuckstick: 9 incher.

October 23 - November 21
Sorry, but one more skip this time, Scorpio. Nothing happens this week. And even if it does, who cares?


November 22 - December 21
I wish I were born in December, Sagittarius. That way I could share something with both you and Jesus–Fucking-H-Christ. I can only wish you and your crucified cousin the best. Hope you do better than he did, fucker. Lucky cross: Maltese.

December 22 - January 19
I can’t believe that I’m almost done with my horoscopes for the week, Cancer. Only a couple left after you, and believe me, those Aquarius and Pisces retards will believe anything, unlike you. This week, you’ll be suddenly wealthy beyond your wildest dreams! Yeah, right, loser. No luck.

January 20 - February 18
This is the absolute dawning of the age of Aquarius, Aquarius. It won’t last long, though. People are really tired of your bullshit. Lucky clock: alarm.

February 19 - March 20
It’s all I can do to stay interested in you plight, Pisces, let alone writing something funny. Honestly, I just don’t give a fuck. But you can move out of that basement apartment if you find a roommate. You’ll need to admit your homosexuality to get the best deal. Lucky cake: fruit.... (SAL "THE CHAMELEON" BENSEN)


July 07, 2006


War in Iraq, the President’s birthday, North Korean missiles, metrosexual pirates, British talent show judges, wasted out-of-control celebrities, sudden death, midgets, cons, love, heartbreak, fuck … this ball of confusion is spinning out of control.

Let’s throw some of this on the screen and see what sticks.

Our favorite crack-smoking tenor Luciano Pavarotti underwent surgery yesterday for pancreatic cancer. His manager says the 70-year-old surperstar is "recovering well," and will still open for the Red Hot Chili Peppers in Cordoba’s Massaqua Stadium this Sunday. That’s good news ... cancer of the pancreas isn’t pretty. It is a deadly horrible disease unlike alcoholism where at least you get to drink while you have it.

A.) Thanks for mangling a Norm Macdonald joke.
B.) Pavarotti is the man.
C.) Did he say pancreas or pancakes?

Television: TV BLOWS ME!
The very important Emmy nominations have been announced and – no surprise, I’m told – action/adventure show 24 picked up 12 of them. Yes, best this and best that and other blahblah television shows blahblahblah. Kiefer Sutherland, of course, blah,blah,blah,blah ... blah. Like everyone else, we’ll just have to blah,blah,blah, to find out for sure. Blahblah ...

A.) Why, yes ... blahblahblah ...
B.) No, blahblah.
C.) It's why fucking blahblahblah blah blah.
A, B, C.) Ha, ha, ha.

Movies: 1, 2, 3 GREEN LIGHT!
If you follow IMFP religiously, you know that Steve Martin and I sold our first script together, Giddyup Vagina (formerly Showdown at the Crack of Dawn), to Miramax subsidiary, Edge Hell last week. While Steve doesn’t want the amount of the sale disclosed, I’m not shitting you when I say it’s an absolute fuck load of dough. This is a dream come true for me. If it hits big I can quit this stupid fucking blog business. God, how I hate that word … blog.

Anyway, Norm Macdonald will play Marshal “Rope” Chambers with Lindsay Lohan and Kate Moss as the red hot, naked, tenderly probing first-time lesbian lovers, Paris and Dawn.

Troy “Boondock Saints” Duffy directs.

A.) What a coincidence—I’m drinking Busch beer.
B.) I smell a hit. Oops, no--I stepped in dogshit, fuck.
C.) Norm MacDonald is the David Niven of his generation.

Since Nick Lachey’s split with wife Jessica Simpson, the dude’s been banging chicks left and right, even though we’ve never been sure what ‘left and right’ means in that sexual context.

A.) It means he gets in an afternoon what you'll never get.
B.) It means he sticks his wiener into 2 girls - one on each side - when he makes sex.
C.) Go ahead, laugh ... guess who’s slipping the salami to Simpson now? That’s right, fuckers—me.

Dear Fucking Diary: WIFE CALLS WITH NEWS!
Christine just rang me on the cell. Says she found a pill on the floor at the 7/Eleven. Says it has a M357 imprint and asks me what it is. Ha, she sure is something … I love her to bits. I Google “M357” and POW, jackpot: hydrocodone … a good old fashioned generic Vicodin.

It's like finding a lucky penny - Detroit 2006 style.

A.) I love stories with happy endings.
B.) Yes, there’s far too much sadness and ugliness in this world.
C.) As artists we must promote truth and beauty …
A.) 3 ... 2 .... 1 and we're out ... later, letters.
B.) Fucking A!
C.) To the weekend then ...




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