Tuesday, July 7, 2009

I Have No Idea What to Make of This

From Jesus Miguel Hernandez

Ladies and gentlemen, I rarely post without a clear idea what the poast means, but I'm baffled. Make of this what you will.



With Respect,

Jesus Miguel Hernandez
Former US Ambassador to French Indo-China

Father Vic: Cap'n Adam's Deist of the Day

From Cap’n Adam Hoden

I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot in my brain for the Holy Roman Catholic Church. Like me, Catholics are fans of antique and obscure language, they are second only to Judaism in bringing us quality entertainment, and their traditions involve the regular ingestion of the flesh and bodily fluids of their own deity (I’ve always said that I’d resort to cannibalism at the drop of a hat).

I’d never consider joining their church myself—I enjoy spending my Sundays indulging in a different sort of meditation. I now can say with some conviction, however, that I will now recommend Catholicism to all my friends and family thanks to this ad:



Being unable to stomach those interminable ShamWow commercials, I am delighted when anybody lampoons inexplicably litigious shill Offer "Vince" Shlomi—being particularly amused when the headset-wearing buffoon was arrested for assaulting a prostitute. Knowing that a Catholic priest is hip enough to make fun of him in such a spot-on parody gives Catholicism just a bit of extra credibility in my book.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Of Dreams and Tennis

From Shamus “Inches” O’Toole

Loyal readers know that I am what some would call a fan of the noble sport of tennis. Obsessive readers know that I am what the Metropolitan Police Service calls a “dangerous, unstable hooligan.” Those faithful readers have recently asked how it is that I became the only tennis fan in British history to be charged under Margaret Thatcher’s Football Spectators Offences Act. I am only happy to share the story of that proud day with you!

In 1989, I was fortunate to be attending Wimbledon, and seated near enough to Centre Court to smell the sauerkraut on Steffi Graff’s breath. Being a patriot, and a self-taught history buff, I felt it was my duty to show support for my American allies and their esteemed representative: the comely Miss Martina Navratilova. I gathered all my courage, and leapt over Johnny Carson and onto Center Court.

Having enjoyed a number of fine spirits with some distinguished friends earlier in the day, I can be forgiven for a bit of confusion. You see, in a show of support for Miss Navratilova, I striped my clothes off and preformed a traditional Maori war haka. It was later explained to me that, although it was one of the best naked, drunken, one-man renditions of “Ka Mate” ever seen, Martina Navratilova is Czech, and not from New Zealand. I’ve never been good with accents.

In the following skirmish with security, I allegedly threw a racquet into the royal box, and—long story short—now use an assumed name when traveling through Europe.