Me: …Wish I had a date for this thing.

He: No worries, I’ll be your date!

Me: Hah, yeah, no.

He: Ca-mon, why not?

Me: For one thing, I don’t like blondes.

He: But I’m a dirty blonde.

Me: Not dirty enough, dude.

I pride myself on having delivered such a double-entendre killing stroke to this jokey exchange.

In the same goofy vein as HugeURL, here comes ShadyURL:

Don’t just shorten your URL, make it suspicious and frightening.

So that populationstatistic.com becomes http://5z8.info/stoleniphones_i7q8e_molotovcocktail. Randomly so, I should add — no real rhyme or reason to it. And as you can see, it doesn’t really do the job as a URL shortener. So yeah, it’s all purely for fun. And for a low/no impact way to make like a big, bad Internet hacker.

(Via http://5z8.info/peepshow_cgq Dustbury — and yes, I did steal that strikeout idea from him)

The following exchange between two food servers may or may not have really happened. Okay, here’s a hint: It didn’t. But I liked the concept and the conversational timbre that somehow came to me, so I’m posting it. Besides, I need to exercise my dialogue-crafting.

Waiter 1: I’ll betya that one’s a cheap-ass tipper over there.

Waiter 2: Nah, I’ll say he’s good for a generous tip.

Waiter 1: Whaddya bet?

Waiter 2: Make it however much he leaves for you.

Waiter 1: Eh?

Waiter 2: Whatever tip he leaves, that’s how much I bet ya. So he leaves a shitty tip, you’re right and I win little to nothing. He leaves a big tip, I’m right, I’m a big winner, AND you’re a big, wrong loser.

Waiter 1: Erm.

Waiter 2: What? It’s perfect. If yer right, you win and you only lose a pittance…

Waiter 1: Yeah…

Waiter 2: And if I’m right, I win and I beat you out of a big tip — that you never figured you would see anyway, cuz you wrongly thought the guy was cheap! Hehe.

Waiter 1: Well I guess so. But I hate to lose a tip…

Waiter 2: Even a shit one?

Waiter 1: Yeah.

Waiter 2: You’ve no conviction.

Waiter 1: Nah, okay, yer on.

Who won this fictional gratuity-dependent bet? You decide. I’ve already done the hard work to this point.

With apologies to Journey, the above photographic evidence of radio-station sponsored rackfuls of “free air guitars” should ensure that you (yes, you) don’t stop make-believin’.

I presume this public giveaway was sanctioned — and even encouraged — by the U.S. Air Guitar Association. And even if they didn’t, it was approved at Dustbury, which is all the sanction I need to start shreddin’ the void.

Ponder the inequities of existence, condensed into my Chinese-food dinner last night:

My fortune cookie had not one, but three fortunes tucked inside it. Meanwhile, the empty fortune cookie remains bereft of any paper-slip of wisdom (plus lucky numbers on the back!).

Then again, my triplicate-bearing treat was quickly gobbled up by yours truly. The EFC, though split in half, lives on. Plus, the restaurant where I was dining was almost completely empty. So lots of see-sawing on the apportionment scale for a Friday night.

Here’s one man’s reaction to a sneak peek of a CGI-rendered Smurf, from the upcoming animated feature film:

AAAAAAAA KILL IT WITH FIRE

A little extreme; I’d say the false sense of scale is making Prototype Smurf look abnormally large, and thus faux-monstrous. But anything that elicits such mock-horror doesn’t deserve any screentime around this blog, so I won’t inflict it on my audience. Let’s just hope the character designs are de-creepified by the time they hit the silver screen in 2011.

True story, via my tweetstream today:

I’m dealing with someone who’s dyslexic when it comes to Roman numerals. Yeah, really.

The catalyst for this backward-Latin enumeration: Saw VI, which my collaborator keeps mis-communicating to me as “Saw IV“. Luckily, we’re really only dealing with the later sequel, so no permanent confusion; but still.

I haven’t had a chance to ask her why she keeps flubbing that VI as IV. I wonder how common this malady was in ancient times — did Romans routinely mix up their numbering system, leading to massive daily miscalculations? Maybe that’s what led to the Empire’s ultimate decline and fall.

By the way, this post’s title is probably not proper Latin (this Latin translator was of little help). But it sounds good, so I’ll swap linguistic accuracy for artistic license. And it’s better than the inevitable alternative.

Maybe I’m not the one to criticize Demond Wilson when it comes to promoting “Second Banana”, his memoirs from his “Sanford and Son” years.

But if Wilson actually wanted this book to catch on, I think he should have gone with the far more obvious choice of title: “You Big Dummy!”. Having Redd Foxx’s signature catchphrase from the show front-and-center on the cover would bring the book instant pop-cultural recognition. Plus, the novelty factor alone would have ensured a few extra sold copies.

Alas, this lost opportunity seems like something that Lamont Sanford himself would have flubbed. Eliciting yet another “you big dummy!” from his Pop, Fred G. — perhaps followed by yet another in a series of “big one” heart attacks.

I totally get the point of getting a round tuit. Especially when it would, appropriately, take a good while to do so.

But, despite the apologetic note included, I really don’t see a need for getting a square tuit.

Get it? If not, you’ll come around to it…

For lack of a more colorful dish — or, for that matter, ethnicity — The Bloggess goes back to culinary basics to represent her down-South heritage:

For Hailey’s Multi-Cultural Day party at her school all the other parents brought food for the party indicative of their culture. I showed up with a plate of crackers. No one got the reference. The kids were all “YAY! WE LOVE CRACKERS!”

I just hope those crackers were rich in Vitamin B. Otherwise, they’ll accentuate a similar crimson-hued stereotype.

(Via dustbury)

No one else I’ve tried this on tonight thinks this is funny. Regardless, I’m pressing on:

In consideration of NBC broadcasting this year’s Winter Olympics, I think the network should rebrand one of its hallmark shows, “The Biggest Loser”, thusly:

“The Biggest Luger”. As in luge, the winter sport.

I’m thinking it would involve a big fat guy getting greased up to slide around a treacherous track. Artificial or natural track, either way. Riders optional. Hey, I’d watch it. I’d watch it instead of either an actual luge event, or an episode of “The Biggest Loser”.

Like I said, no one else sees the humor in this. But what do they know? I say it’s funny. Even Larry Sanders-quality comedy.

UPDATE, THURSDAY JAN. 14, 2010 - In fact, this joke is Conan O’Brien-quality, as he used it on “The Tonight Show” last night. “Obese people on sleds”, indeed.

I’ll give Conan a pass on stealing this idea from me. Mainly because a) he probably didn’t steal it, as it’s such an obvious pun; and b) he’s got enough problems lately.

Long-time fans of “The Simpsons” know this Homer-scripted jingle by heart:

Call Mr. Plow
That’s my name
That name again
Is Mr. Plow

Why mess with that simple perfection? Ask Moby, who feels compelled to apply his own spin(s) to that animated ditty:

If that song wound its way into your brain and parked itself there for nearly two decades, you’re not alone. In the documentary “The Simpsons 20th Anniversary Special: In 3-D! On Ice!”, which runs on Fox this Sunday, the musician Moby tells the filmmaker Morgan Spurlock he is so obsessed with the song that he created six different remixes of it.

And here’s one of those reworkings, the old-school hip-hop version, with clipped-up video:

The other mixes: Bossa nova, electro, Latin lounge, psychedelic and punk rock. The best I can say about them is that they’re all mercifully short. And while Moby is entitled to play around all he wants, I think he should find a different target for his musical obsessions. Maybe do a new, fresh-fly remix of “Do The Bartman”!

My just-wrapped trip to Los Angeles was mostly business, but there’s one after-hours moment I won’t soon forget:

Sitting in Yamashiro Restaurant’s main banquet room. Because, as you can tell almost immediately from the decor, it was the filming location for the Crazy 88s-versus-The-Bride scene from Kill Bill: Vol. 1. Almost as obvious was the central Japanese garden in the same room, which served as the outdoor winter scene from the same movie, when The Bride and O-Ren Ishii have their final showdown.

Actually, the banquet room came off as too small for all the action that took place in those two scenes. But that’s moviemaking magic for you. I haven’t bothered to verify that information — I was told of it upon entering the restaurant — but even if it’s somehow not true, I prefer to believe that it is. I happen to have just watched that movie again a couple of weeks ago, so the visuals were definitely fresh in my mind, and synced with my surroundings regardless.

Attached to that pop-cultural sensation — and weirdly extending it, even — is the impromptu spasm of song that gripped a tableful of my dining companions that night. Someone mentioned a weekend karaoke session, and next thing I knew, four or five of them started belting out their version of (what else?) Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody”, all around me. Acappella, of course. Which I found weird, even though it wouldn’t have been had the karaoke never been mentioned in the first place — it would have been just an ordinary sing-along.

Only had Quentin Tarantino sauntered by the table during the merriment, would the evening have been really complete. Maybe next time.

For Americans, today’s month-day-year timestamp works in reverse:

That’s because it’s only the second palindrome day of the 21st century, meaning that if you flip the day over it reads the same: 01/02/2010. (And, no, this is not another story about Sarah Palin, though it could be since “Harass Sarah” is sort of a cool palindrome…

The rest of the world, with its alternate (and, I think, more logically progressive) day-month-year method of dating, misses out on this palidromic sensation (even though they’ll get their version on February 1). Then again, they also miss out on having Palin on the poli-cultural scene for at least the next four years. So it’s an even trade-off.

I came across the final episode of “Monty Python: Almost the Truth – The Lawyers Cut” a few weeks back. It contained a quote by John Cleese that I haven’t been able to shake loose from my mind:

“As you get older, you laugh less, because you’ve heard all the jokes,” says Cleese. “It’s the real stuff that makes me laugh [now].”

It’s a somber outlook on the prospect of aging. Who wants to reach 80 or 90 with a diminishing supply of chuckles? Especially when it’s due to lifelong repetition.

Cleese’s observation sticks with me because, despite being several decades younger than him, I’m experiencing that same been-there-done-that dynamic. Not so much with comedy — I still enjoy a healthy amount of laughs, both through presentational comedy and the “real stuff” everyday interactions. But in a wider cultural sense, I certainly get the sensation that advertising, movies, TV, sports, politics, and a range of other interfaces are serving up the same themes I’ve seen earlier in my life.

It’s occurred to me that this is, in fact, by design — there really is a finite amount of truly original ideas out there, and it’s just a matter of repackaging them. The killer is that they just get aimed at a whole new generation of audiences/ consumers/ constituents, who are experiencing those things for the first time. The subtext, of course, is that the older generations who recognize the rerunning don’t count as much in terms of the reactions — again, a somber realization that aging comes with not only less original stimulation, but also with increasing irrelevance.

I suppose I should cherish the jokes that tickle my funnybone, while they still are hitting that target. As for the real stuff, there’ll be no shortage of that.

Christmas gathering with the extended family yesterday inspired a semi-clever quip by yours truly. It was triggered by my little nephews, who were busy clobbering themselves in a weird four-man version of Monkey In The Middle. After watching them all chaotically dive for the ball one time too many, I blurted out:

“Monkey in the middle? You’re all monkeys, and there is no middle!”

Not bad; even tweetable. I’d say it applies to society in general, in fact. Not to get overly philosophical during the holiday season…

I’ve hardly made a habit of mentioning Festivus around here. But maybe I should. Because more than a decade after the airing of the famed Seinfeld episode that ushered the fake holiday into popular consciousness, Festivus has taken on a real-life life of its own:

The Festivus faithful have gathered across the globe and have come together in places as various as seedy bars, campus squares and corporate boardrooms. Citizens, with varied degrees of success, have petitioned to raise Festivus poles beside public nativity scenes. Social networking sites and holiday-specific venues — like festivusbook.com and festivusweb.com — are go-to places for those who want to share the cheer, or jeers.

For at least eight years, Julianne Donovan, 35, has been hosting Festivus parties in the Kansas City, Missouri, area. The graphic designer and illustrator said she was drawn to the holiday when her then-company department, which included people of various faiths, decided to trade in the traditional Christmas party for something more inclusive.

“It went over well except for one person who thought it was blasphemous and tried to knock over our Festivus pole,” she said. “He refused to come to the potluck, was forced to, came, ate all the food and left without saying thank you. Grievances were aired about him.”

Chances are good that Ms. Donovan was employed at either Vandelay Industries or Kramerica. Because if any companies out there are going to observe Festivus, those would be the locks.

Frank Costanza would be proud of the spread of his brainchild. He even would have challenged that recalcitrant employee to the Feats of Strength, just to instill the true Festivus-for-the-rest-of-us spirit into the non-believer.

Speaking of wintry weather, I guess this is as good a time as any to present this corny scene from W.C. Fields‘ classic short film, The Fatal Glass of Beer:

That hoary vaudeville joke, “And it ain’t a fit night out… for maaaan nor beast!”, followed by the on-cue shot of (fake) snow right in the mush, never gets old.

My workplace buddy Ken recently shared this little gem with me… His mother sent out her annual holiday letter (do people seriously still do those?), and dropped in the following status update on her children:

Ken and his sister are doing (a qualified) well.

Never has passive-aggressive maternal guilt been so succinctly expressed. The fuller sentiment behind that qualification probably goes something like this:

“Ken and his sister are doing well — that is, as well as can be, without being settled down and married and making me a grandmother, and building a solid career so I won’t have to constantly worry about how they’re going to end up, because they’re in their 30s already and after all, I have a right to be worried, don’t I?”

Tis the season for such familial pressure-plays. Not that I know anything about a mother’s qualified love.

As nerdcore is to rap, scientific comedians are to the comedy-club circuit.

Here’s a sample of the brainiac humor:

A biologist walks into a comedy club. How does the story end? That stumped [former biologist Dr. Tim] Lee, and he said he would think about it.

A couple of days later, he sent an e-mail message with this response: “A biologist walks into a comedy club. The owner asks, ‘Why’d you select this club?’ Biologist says, ‘Well, it was the natural selection.’”

A thinking man’s joke, to be sure. So long as things don’t get all Bill Nye The Science Guy up on stage.

Last night’s faux-insightful exchange:

Fellow Traveler: …I need an enema.

Me: Thanks for sharing that.

Fellow Traveler: No man, I mean, like, a soul enema.

Me: Again, thanks for sharing.

Good thing I was soused on my second Kill Divil, or else I don’t think I could have handled this.