One Final Nugget

I was about the completely wipe my hands of blogging for the next week -- but then I remembered something... something I saw on the news a while ago in Miami that, at the time, had me crying with laughter. So I Googled it, figuring I'd come up with little to nothing.

But God delivered today.

I'd like to introduce you to Candy, the cockatoo with artificial legs.



Read all about Candy here.

I have shed many tears of laughter and sorrow for Candy today and in the past, and it doesn't look like it's going to stop any time soon.

LOOK AT THE BIRD'S FACE! IT IS SO PSYCHED! It LOVES it's LOLLIPOP FEET!

Happy New Year.

Ohhh I-Hiii Ohhhhh I'm Still Alive Yeaa-ee-yeah

Here's the deal:

I've had a rough week including illness, lots of professional duties to take care of, and planning my upcoming vacation. The result being, of course, that those 4 of you unlucky enough to be in the office this week have been pulling your hair out at the maddening lack of information on the web this week. Really -- it's been SO SLOW. Have you ever been fucked by a snail? SLOWER. But less painful. (It was a black snail.) (I went there, for no reason.)

OK! So here's the story: I'm leaving tonight on a 9-day journey to Budapest, my favorite city in Europe, the city I studied abroad in. Budapest is tops: If you ever wanted to get tanked for $1.47, it's one of the last places you can do it and still not get raped. (Fingers crossed, gentlemen.) It's also quite beautiful. You can read all about the Hungarian happenings at the well-informed and often hilarious blog, Pestiside.

Rumor has it a snowstorm is blowing through Europe, so there's a possibility I might be spending some time at the "Non-Shtop Internet Kah-Vay Has", which translates into "Overseas Blogging" for you and me.

Have a wonderful New Year's! I'll be back, pasty and full of winter stews before you know it.

p.s. This made my cry.

p.p.s. While I'm away, I'd really appreciate it if someone would create a James Rebhorn fansite. I'm on a real "Rebhorn Kick" these days, and I believe this fine actor deserves a little personal attention. Let me know how the site is progressing next week. Thx.



p.p.s. I've also been on a major Independence Day movie kick. Read the quotes here and the trivia here. Favorite trivia?: As is the case with many 20th Century Fox Films, the film cans for the advance screening prints and show prints had a code name. Independence Day was "Dutch 2".


Oh, how I wish ih-twere true.

From This Blog To The New York Times

First of all, hope everyone's having a Merry Christmas!

Just wanted to point out that my friend Marykate was contacted by a reporter at the New York Times who saw her nightmare cab ride tale on this very blog. So, while "apparently" the Times won't give me any "credit", just know that, for the first time in history, MY BLOG scooped the NEW YORK TIMES.


Will you excuse me? I have some tap shoes that need affixing.

Read the article here: Hey Stranger, Share A Taxi? Not Today

Or: The Printer Friendly Version

OK enough self-indulgence on this selfless holiday. Christmas! Hooray.

Riding the Train: Almost As Good As A Montel Reunion

It's strange... getting to work today was almost TOO convenient. No shinsplints, no sweaty layers, no smiling at strangers regarding how "crazy" it is to "walk" everywhere. Just people invading my personal space and touching me inappropriately, two things I've grown used to and have almost learned to enjoy on my daily commutes.

But perhaps my elation went a little overboard this morning when I boarded the downtown 2/3 train at 96th street.

As I was reading the Post (their political cartoons kill me -- a-literally), I caught glimpse of the girl standing next to me. God, she looks so familiar. Staring at people on the train can be dangerous territory. There's only so much side-glancing one can do before they end up with a mouthful of fist that is likely laden with various fecal-and-pube-ridden germs. I didn't join a sorority in college for a reason, and I wasn't planning on joining one now.

I turned back to Page 6, but really -- I know this woman! I slowly shifted my gaze to my right. Oh my god... it's Rita Ciccarello! My best friend from middle school! "RITA!" I shouted in my brain. "RITA IT'S ME! MICHELLE! RITA, LOOK OVER HERE!" Silently, I returned to my paper, barely able to contain my exuberance.

Rita C. got me through some hard times in middle school. I had just come out of probably the most traumatic years of my life in elementary school (which, once again, I'd like to thank my Mom and Dad for allowing their overgrown daughter to practically shave her head, wear huge Benetton glasses, and have braces at the same time, especially when "Pat" was such a huge hit on SNL), and was looking for a new group of friends once middle school began. Seventh grade wasn't easy either. But I'll save those stories for my upcoming book "Why People Turn To Comedy Instead Of Suicide."


An artist's rendering of me in 6th grade.

But Rita & Co. were the "cool" girls in my "cool" gifted program. For starters, they were the "non-Jews", making me the "Jew mascot." Also, they didn't punch me in the face at the busstop, like the other kids. These girls were way ahead of their years, experimenting with drugs, alcohol, and boys while I stood on the sidelines shouting "Oh my God, you did WHAT in the library? Under the table?? With a DONKEY?!" These girls, including our friends Jessica and Christine, still to this day rank as some of my favorite people, even though I haven't seen them in so many years.

Rita was one of my closest friends in the bunch. Growing up in a very Catholic home, I was the friend her parents encouraged her to hang out with. I've always been that girl: The "good" friend. Up until 17, when I started huffing whippets, that is.


Did I say "huffing whippets"? I meant HUGGING whippets. (sung) And whooo can blaaame meeee!

Our friendship came to a sad ending on the last day of 9th grade (the last year of my middle school, I know, don't get me started!). Rita's family was moving to Pennsylvania, and I had to start high school the next year (10th grade) sans a best friend. I remember that day so well: The bell rang and we walked out front and started BAWLING. Just crying so hard. We gave each other a farewell hug, and that was that: No more Rita. We kept in touch for a couple of years, and then somehow fell out of touch. Whenever I think of her now, I picture her as a successful wife and mother for some reason, which is certainly not meant as an insult. But I always wonder -- does she have kids? Is there an anonymous god-child out there I've never met?

So you can imagine how overwhelmed I felt on the train when I thought THE Rita Ciccarello was standing next to me. Same curly hair, heavy eyelids, skin tone, height, weight, everything. Even her fingernails were the same -- bitten to near extinction.


Montel: Bringing adopted fuck-ups and their biological redneck mothers together for 25 years strong.

Had she seen me? Wouldn't she recognize me? Is it weird to ask a strange woman on the train "Excuse me, is your name Rita? No big deal really..." as I slowly pull out the 14K Gold Best Friends half of my necklace from my coat, a sparkle in my eye. Then she would pull out her half of the necklace, and we would embrace and cry, then Montel would board the train and the entire car would clap and sing "This Little Light of Mine." Rita! It's ME!!!

I couldn't help myself. I slowly turned my head as the car approached 42nd Street, and "Rita" turned to let someone by.

Oh dear. Oh God no.

Not standing profile anymore, the girl turned to me directly. I saw her face head on. And it was not Rita.


I had the wrong person. Although she was still much less constipated than Harrison Ford.

A little raincloud formed over my head, small cartoonish lightning striking above. Here I was, thinking the strike is over, the subways are running, and my long lost friend was RIDING THE TRAIN next to me -- and alas, it's just some girl in an Ecko puffy coat going to work.

So no tearful reunions this morning. But Rita Ciccarello, if you're out there Googling yourself (as I would expect any old friends of mine to do), and you come across this, DEF get in touch. I'd love to know how you are.

And if you're the girl who rode next to me on the train: Stop biting your nails. It's a bad habit.

Taxi Cab Aggressions: The Most Violent Strike Story Ever

While the strike looks to be nearing its end, my friend Marykate e-mailed me with her disturbing story of returning home last night, from 42nd Street to Brooklyn. It may seem long, but it DOES include a cabbie with a bloody nose... so I suggest setting aside some time bitching about your feet and reading this:

"You will not believe my strike story.

After a harrowing trip to 42nd street yesterday afternoon, a coworker of mine, John, and I decided to leave together at about 4 pm and split a cab to Brooklyn. He lives in Bayridge. We walked down 42nd towards the FDR and were lucky enough to catch a cab that was going off-duty to Brooklyn. I said I needed to go just over the bridge; John said he just needed to get into Brooklyn. PS, John's a bit odd...maybe a bit of a...loose cannon.

So we're driving along and John says he needs to go to Bayridge. The cabbie says "No, I'm going off duty to Coney Island. I have to give this cab to my partner." John says "No, you're not going to leave me 7 miles from my house." They argue and the cabbie points at John and says "You can't change your destination, I am not going to Bayridge!" John says "Don't point your fucking finger at me or I'll break it off!" They keep yelling and John grabs his finger and bends it backwards and says "I'll break your fucking finger off..." yada yada. (Ed: Way to "yada yada" the action there, friend.)

The cabbie pushes him off and John fucking PUNCHES THE CABBIE IN THE FACE while we are driving. The guy slams on the brakes and John jumps out and opens my door for me to get out. And I'm like hell no, I don't even fucking know this guy and he just punched a dude in the face! So I stay in and he says fine and walks away. The cabbie is sort of shocked and keeps saying "I don't know why he punished me in my face! This never happen to me!!" And I'm sympathizing and explaining I don't really know John and I'm sorry and he's bleeding a little and does he need help.

So we're going down the FDR and suddenly the guy's like "I'm out of control! I'm driving but I'm out of control!" Then he's like "What just happened? Where am I? Where are we going? I'm out of control! Out of control!"

(It was at this point I ask her why she didn't get out of the cab.)

"I was on the FDR! I couldn't get out!"

(OK! Relax. Finish your story.)

"So he calls 911 and tells them what happened, but his English sucks and he's, you know, out of control. He hands the phone to me and asks me to talk to them and i'm just thinking "What the fuck?" We get in the lane to pull off and we're in it for a good 20 minutes, and the whole time he keeps asking where we're going and what happened and if I called 911 yet.

He keeps saying "I'm driving but out of control! God sees, or else we'd be dead right now! He's driving the car or else we'd be in the water!" He calls his partner and talks to him in some chadian language that sounds like "Njofhoj jopfjpewk out of control! Jiojwiojio out of control out of control!" Finally he says "Forget it, I'll take you home, your time is important."

Anyway, he takes me somehow to the West Side Highway and somehow through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and leaves me in Red Hook, I have no idea where I am, and I find a guy in a DJ equipment truck who gives us directions to a street I can walk home from. I tell the directions to the driver and he says oh that's too far and I'm so exasperated I just get out and slam the door and start walking. The DJ equipment guy honks and says he's going that way; he'll drive me. I take the ride since I have no idea where I am, I'm in the middle of warehouses and desolation.

So he drives me for like half an hour and he's super nice. Nigel, from Trinidad, two kids... he dropped me on Atlantic Ave. and I walked the rest of the way, getting home at about 6:30.

Now, John just called me to make sure I got home ok. and I was like uh...yeah. THANKS."

No, thanks to YOU Marykate for relaying your alarming and emotional journey.

I really hope that John kid gets what he deserves in life, which is a swift kick in the vag.

Transit Strike, Day 3: The Fur-real Life

"Gotta have 14 to a car, seeee? It's the rule, mmyeah. Gotta hang on to the door like this, seeee? Hey kid, pay attention, K? Mmyyeaahh."

I'm a walker. I love walking. It's what I do. Long strides, gaining "real estate" on those ahead of you, matching your footsteps to the beat of Britney Spears' "Toxic" remix. My name isn't Michelle "Puttin-One-Foot-In-Front-Of-The-Other" Collins for nothing.

But you know what I don't like?

I DON'T like having to wake up on a strange couch at 6 in the morning, not being able to shower, and having static electricity coursing through your hair. I DON'T like having to shlep my huge weekender bag 3 miles, while walking in huge, furry snow shoes that turn your feet into two pools of misery. I DON'T like the feeling of somehow being freezing cold while at the same time sweating your ass off. I DON'T like coming to work and having to peel off soaked layers of cashmere and other exotic fabrics sold at Target. I DON'T like spending $10 at Starbucks in the morning because you rationalized that you "deserve it." I DON'T like arriving to work at 8:30 am only to discover you're the last person to come in.

And, above all else, I DON'T like it when you realize that you're sitting in a cubicle, 10 miles away from your cozy-ass apartment, with no plan on how to get home after work.

There is, thankfully, one glimmer of hope in all this.


RAT PARTY!

You Didn't Hear It From Me...

But when did the Pope get so.... nightmare-y?



I mean, THIS is the NEW Pope? NEW?! John Paul II seriously must STILL look better than him. Too much time in the water, big guy. Too much TIME in the WATER. Who's next in line??


The creepy pharmacist from "Desperate Housewives" maybe?


Now, there's a Pope I could get behind. A Pope who doesn't wear Gucci Glasses and Prada Shoes. A Pope's Pope. The kinda Pope who keeps a Werther's Original tucked into his robe-pocket, and smells like a sun-drenched infant.

Tick-tock, tick-tock I guess.


Merry Christmas... chilllldrennn.

Danzas Like A Little Girl

This has kept me laughing pretty much all morning.


Thank you Thighmaster.

As Dong put it: "If Peter Jackson directed a movie called "Tony Danza Falls", it would take 4 hours and come on 9 DVDs."

Oh God that second picure. Put it in a museum, and call it "Stroke Survivor", I swear.

Transit Strike, Day 2: Awesometown, NY

Nothing like jamming to Earth, Wind & Fire and riding your Razor to work. (via The Apiary)

Still loopy from the various meds I'm on, I ended up striking generosity gold this morning, scoring a ride from all the way uptown to City Hall in a deliciously warm, friendly, NPR-tuned Camry, with two amazing couples. The driver wouldn't take a cent from me, so I told them next time, bagies and shmear on me.

It's kind of weird... but I'm in an AWESOME mood this morning. It was just so much easier to get to work than expected. And tonight's plan involves staying with a good, hilarious friend in Chelsea, seeing King Kong, and then sleeping balled up on his loveseat. When you see a puffy faced, hunchback tomorrow holding a black-studded weekender and a trough of Starbucks coffee, make sure to rub my hump for good luck.

Also, if this strike lasts for more than 30 days, I'm pretty sure New York is going to look and FEEL fabulous. You better stock up, "5 7 9"!


"Looking good, Billy Ray!" "Feeling good, Louis!"

Transit Strike: Live!

Ah, City Life. As you may know by now, the Transit Strike is underway in New York, meaning no subways, no buses, and millions of freezing, bitchy assholes stranded. Here is my story.

Last night, 12:15 am, The Dove on Thompson: Me, under the weather, drinking with my friend Lang. "Is there a transit strike?" I asked the bartender. "No, I don't think so." "You know what that means?" The entire bar in unison: "Another round!"

Cab, 1:30 am: Why, God? Also, I have a cold.

7:45 am: Pitter-patter of roomate feet in the hallway. "How are you getting to work?" one asks. A kettle goes off, the microwave beeps, a rooster crows: It's morning.

7:47 am: I turn on NY1. Oh dear god, the strike is on. It's mothafuckin on!

7:48 am: My lungs desperately want to pull air in through my nostrils, but it just is not an option this morning. I'm all congested, much like the traffic in the city, and my mind feels cloudy, like a 5th grade simile. I continue watching the news.

7:53 am: Fuck. This.

7:54 am: Call in sick to work.

8:02 am: I see my roomates off and wish them luck.

8:33 am: I fall back asleep feeling stressed for my fellow New Yorkers.

11:15 am: Oh no! I've already missed 15 minutes of the Price Is Right! Great. Now I've got to figure out which California state school the current players are from. Groan!

11:17 am: Oh shit, the strike. I turn to the news. Man, it looks cold outside. Do I have anything to eat in the house? I think I have some Akmak crackers. Sigh. My stomach hurts. I wonder what I'd be doing at work right now? Probably live blogging the strike. This transit strike is really exhausting. Nevertheless, New Yorkers forge ahead -- nothing can get in our way of accomplishment!



12:05 pm: MoPo is on (Maury Povich). Today's topic: "I am a prostitute our baby may not be yours".

12:29 pm: Transit strike update: Trains still not running, 25 degrees outside. Oooh, it is kind of chilly! I turn my space heather all the way up, and pour some water on the coals by the foot of the bed. Better.

12:59 pm: I don't want to give any Maury plot points away... but: Not the father, father, father, not the father. I just saved you an hour.

1:04 pm: Oh my god, I just saw a commercial for CHIA CAT GRASS. GRASS. YOU GROW. FOR CATS! Oh, a-ha. A-ha ha ha. Love it.



1:30 pm: You know what would probably piss a lot of people off? Liveblogging the strike FROM BED.

2:10 pm: Strikes still on. Sigh.

2:32 pm: Bloomberg's on. He looks pretty good. Sounds like someone's preeeetty pissed at the Transit Worker's Union. I'm kinda into this new, pissy Bloomberg. I'm gonna go drink some Theraflu and think quietly. More mayhem to follow.

Life Imitating Shlock

I woke up yesterday to another "Lazy Sunday" (which, if you missed the SNL rap video from... Saturday night... see it here, I beg of you.) I turned the light on in my room, and something seemed strange. My light didn't seem to be as luminscent as usual. The bathroom light cast a dim and weary shadow over the porcelain confines of my morning dew.

I went to the basement to do my laundry. Picture the boiler room in Heathers, with 3 machines circa 19-Fifty-Castro, and you're there with me. One machine was emitting a buzzing noise, and the digital read out was flicking on and off, on and off: 5 minutes, over and over again, and not spin-cycling the non-designer clothes left inside, leaving them to rot in their own Tide-spiked punch.

I returned to my apartment, and everything seemed "less than." My stereo was playing my music a little too slow (and if you've ever heard the down-syndromed nightmare that is the slo-mo Kelly Clarkson remix, you won't question the blood coming out of my eyes). I went to straighten my hair. As always, I set the flattening iron to "Ike Turner", for that natural, straightened look. Relaxed: That's me. But the usual bacon-in-pan sizzling I was used to made not a stir. My hair, instead of burning to a cajuned crisp, looked... healthy. No, this wasn't right at all.

I expressed my concerns to my roomate. She, too, noticed a lack of sparkle in the apartment that day, but what could we do? All we could do was wait... until 4:45 that afternoon, when the sun had already set, and blackness descended over Apt. 2E (or, affectionately, "Two-ey").



Panic ensued. Me, half-dressed, searching around frantically in the kitchen drawer for anything that would produce fire (since quitting smoking a few months ago, I tossed out all of my matches, save for some limited edition "T.G.I. Friday's" books). Then it hit me: When did I become the lead in the hit musical "Rent"? There I was in my shitty apartment in the DARK looking for a fucking CANDLE. I mean, really people, where is my stash? Where is my stash! Won't you light my candle, and then shove it, wick-end and lit, into my face? Because, of ALL the musicals to find oneself caught in, let it NOT be Rent, please, for me. I'd much rather wake up one morning a missionary in Havana (Guys & Dolls), or a robo-turd on skates (Starlight Express), or a psychotic child-molester in striped pantyhose (Douche-ical! The Musical!). Also I'm not good at shrugging my shoulders and then kicking my leg out angrily, a staple move for any member of the Rent cast.


Fake Anthony Rapp, I'm looking at you.

I should also add that coming from some strange corner of my apartment was this crazy sounding digital demon noise... like a killer robot cricket holding a tiiiiny chainsaw. Awww... tiny chainsaws. I could file my nails with one!

Anyway, there is really nothing worse than getting dressed in the pitch darkness, especially when everything you own is black... trying to feel necklines on shirts ("vee, vee, crew, turtle, turtle, turtle, vee, johnny collar, turtle, fishnet hoodie, vee...), finding the right pair of jeans ("crotch hole, ass hole, thigh tear, ass-to-crotch-tear")... I had to feel practically every article of clothing strewn on my chair and in my drawers, doing a pretty great impersonation of Stevie Wonder at the Barney's Warehouse Sale. (Blogs don't come in Braille, do they? Looks like this joke's on the BLIND PEOPLE.)

When I left my apartment, in near shambles, I saw some fire trucks and electricians on my street, no doubt fucking shit up for the entire neighborhood. Luckily power was restored to the neighborhood, but apparently my apartment still has no hot water or heat. Unluckily for me, I have CRAY CRAY PMS today and want to murder the world and then weep on their mass-grave, Slobo-style.


Women! Am I right?

Seriously, someone bring me a mug with a menstrual joke on it.


Ooooh! Someone got told! (p.s. nice try, "Blossom Fuller": you obviously don't get your period anymore. Also, "Blossom Fuller"? Soooo noony. Uch.)

The Real Holiday Conspiracy

The country has been in a mini-panic lately over what to call that green spruce tree used to celebrate a certain holiday in December. What used to be called a "Christmas Tree" (or, affectionately, "Christy"), now, according to the U.S. Government, must be referred to as a "Holiday Tree."

Now I've heard many different terms used for trees over the years to celebrate the holidays ("Hanukkah Bush", "President's Day Timber", and the "Kwanzaa Trellis"). But "Holiday Tree"? More like "Ridiculous Arboreal Statue."

I thought the whole debate was behind me, until recently when my roomates (Christians, religiously, as well as both of their names) decided to put up a miniature Christmas Tree in our kitchen. Even though I'm a Jew, and even though I wear a Menorah hat in the wintertime to keep warm, I had absolutely no objections to the Christmas tree... after all, I love Christmas! At least... I think I do. It's possible I just love that catchy Macy's commercial ("Hey Mr. Jingle, La la la la la la, la la la la la la all your troubles away!"). Anyway, I've never gotten a "Yom Kippur" bonus in my life (save for the bonus of atoning my sins and losing 4 pounds), so financially speaking, Christmas is awes.


The beard also helps with insulation.

Anyway, the miniature tree was decorated, placed on our kitchen table, and admired...

Then... A miracle of miracles.

That night, when I went to close the lights, I noticed the absolute strangest thing. The lights.... were they... no, it couldn't be. And yet, there it was.

The lights were little stars of David.

See for yourself.

Lights on:



Lights off:



Lights on:



Lights off:



Clearly, us Jews were up to something. A little something called "winning the debate." For you see, readers, you may think you have a Christmas tree in your living room, or in your front yard, or knitted into a tasteful red and green holiday sweater. But when the lights go off, and when no one is looking, much like the Looney Toons character and WB Icon Michigan J. Frog, your tree is a huge, huge Jew-tree.

I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you.

But don't blame me. Blame this family.


The Rosensteins. They're behind this entire plot to Jew up Xmas.

I mean, would these faces lie?


The answer: clearly.

Happy Holidays to All Creeds!!


Except this one.

(For more Jewish conspiracies, check out Josh Neuman's book "The Big Book of Jewish Conspiracies", as well as IMDB.com.)

Sprained Neck Theater

All hell broke loose last night at the Chelsea Cinemas on 23rd Street, when word got out that the 6:30 pm showing of the hot man-on-man western "Brokeback Mountain" was sold out. "What!?" shouted one small gay from the back of the line. "No seats!" another hulkier homo hissed alliteratively. Cut to a man in a feather-dress running up to the camera lens, fingers clawing into his face "What are we gonna do?!?!?!"

These people, ladies and gentlemen, would comprise the audience of the 7:15 pm showing of "Brokeback Mountain" last night.


People in line: Impatient, but ravishing.

Now, if you're in the mood for a gay cowboy movie, I can't really think of a better option for you. However, if you're in the mood to sit in a theater with 300-or-so perma-rections for 2:30 hours (all springing to life from those effeminate Fandango ads, with their brown-paper-fag puppets), then might I suggest catching a showing of the film at the movie theater in Chelsea, which, according to Zagat's, is New York's "Really Really Gay" Neighborhood.

How gay? Let's just say when one of the Fab Five from "Queer Eye" is standing behind you in line (Jai Rodriguez), you've pretty much hit tight bottom.

Of course, my friend Becca and I lurved every second of it, as we are like the Pied Pipers of Gayboys, playing our novelty dildo flutes down 8th Avenue from brunchery to brunchery, lactating Bumble & Bumble hair products, being surrounded by some of the city's hottest men, only to realize that they'd never have any interest in us, no matter how buff our pecs were to become. This was our Mecca, except we were the only ones who didn't have kneepads... for praying... or explaining confusing metaphors.


Still too feminine I guess.

As far as the movie goes, if you like postcards, and hard, skull-crushing make-outs, it's a must see. And while people keep lauding Heather Ledger, let's be honest: How hard is it to 1. express no emotion; 2. speak with your mouth pursed into a little anus (Jake's, obvs.); 3. mumble practically everything; 4. go fishing with your male lover? The answer: according to the Hollywood Foreign Press, hard enough to earn you a nomination for a bogus, made-up award.


Although, judging from that perfectly lithe pose alone, I'd give him the Golden Globe anyway.

The best part of the movie came at the very end, after the credits rolled, when we headed to the ladies room, and lo and behold, for the first time in cinematic, nay, theater going history, while the line to the men's room was at least 50 gays long, the women's room was completely empty. I nearly forgot to place 48,000 toilet paper squares on the seat, I was so jazzed.

"Brokeback Mountain", overall, is a moving film and worth a look. And now I officially feel like I've ended an eighth grade history test. ("The Revolutionary War, overall, was revolutionary and a war.")


My letter to Santa this year. I really hope I get that ironing board!! Although a "bath tob toy" would also be pretty great.

I Think I Wrote A Real Joke

I think I wrote my first real joke. (deep breath) OK, here goes:

Q: Why did your mother tell you to never sleep with sailors?

A: Because you'll get anchor sores.

Punchline explanation:


This one or this one, people?

Epilogue: You'll also find yourself beaten, naked, in the underbelly of a warship, carrying the seed of a nameless bastard. Thanks for the advice, Mom!

Happy News? Or Startling Coincidence?

CNN has a riveting story about some dude ("Byron Reese") who created a website to cater to... happy news. Happynews.com delivers just the sort of brain-damaged, intravenous-feeding-tube news Americans love to read about. What can you expect to find at Happy News?

The 30,000 job cuts announced by General Motors Corp. last month? You won't read it in HappyNews, but stories about hiring are welcome. Even sports stories are mostly out of bounds, "because one team wins and one team loses," Reese explained.

Poor Johnny Graham - he may have won a Silver medal at the Special Olympics, but he would never see his name in print on Happynews.com. For one thing, he's, technically, a loser. For another thing, he's a retarded kid with little hope for an independent future.

Speaking of the disabled, check out the founder of Happy News, Byron Reese:


Seems like a nice enough guy... but hold on a second... that picture. It looks familiar. Is it just me, or is Byron Reese --


-- hactually the little girl from Schindler's List?

Way to keep it happy, guy!

SO JEWTASTIC

Just a quick heads up that I'll be one of those ubiquitous VH1 talking heads on "So Jewtastic!", premiering December 19 at 9/8c.

It is notable not only because it will be a funny show (move over "Two And A Half Men"!), but also because it is the first time Jackie Mason and myself will share screentime. But clearly not the last.

VH1's "So Jewtastic!"

Christmas Fun Even Your Adopted Father Will Love

It's Friday, and you know what means people: It's time to face a coupla facts. My fact today is that I'm a cheap asshole. Now, now, now I know what you're probably saying. "Michelle? We don't know you at all, and have no way of proving whether you're actually a cheap asshole or not." Well, truss. My ancestors weren't sent to WWII camp for nothing.

So when I came across an offer for a FREE, PERSONALIZED, FREE Christmas song, I was all "Juden who?" and immediately clicked on the link.


Knock knock. Who's there? A walking target in Germany. A walking target in Germany wh-- LOOK OUT!

This is how I discovered Instasong, a new service where you create personalized songs for loved ones (or, if you're out of those, yourself [LOUD COUGHING]). You can choose from a variety of Xmas song styles (might I suggest the Kids and Family version sung by the man), and then you fill in the blanks for your own personalized lyrics.

So far, this shouldn't strike you as funny. Even reading the loooong list of possible names (such as Beulah, Jaw-kneen, and "Infant") isn't really the funny part.

No, the comedy tears won't start rolling until your song is actually finished, and you can hear it for yourself. Take my word for it, this is WORTH 5 minutes of wasted time on the company dime.

To get your own Instasong for free:

--Click here and fill out this short survey.

--Check your e-mail... See that promotion code? THAT IS YOUR TICKET TO FREE INSTASONG. Copy it.

--Now paste it into the open field marked "PROMO CODE".

--Make history.

Or, if you're too lazy, you can just listen to the Instasong I created for myself by clicking HERE. (Note how I chose a DIFFERENT city than the one I ACTUALLY live in. Turn on your headlamps, I'm mining for comedy GOLD.)

Also, for free chocolate coins, check out my show tonight!

UPDATE:



My suede boots say: "I forgot how much snow ruins me."

YAMAHOLIDAY Friday Night @ Galapagos

Tomorrow night, I'll be singing a SPECIAL HANNUKAH SONG in the style of RHYMES-WITH-TRELINE-TRION. The information is on the above (adorable) postcard.

What's that? Having trouble reading it? Let me zoom in, see if you can read it easier...



Still too small?



That's right: I'm in the show!! Here's a list of the other people who'll be holidaying it up with me:



In all seriousness, this show is labeled as a "spectacular", and having seen a run through, I can pretty much guarantee it WILL be just that: Spectacular. Here's the information, with an actual line-up of people who are all more talented than me, and also have bigger dicks.

Becky Yamamoto's YAMAHOLIDAY SPECTACULAR

December 9
Galapagos
8pm
$5

Featuring the talents of:

Lang Fisher
Michael Cyril Creighton
Baron Vaughn
Desiree Burch
The Fabulous Entourage
Michelle Collins
Tony Carnevale
Joe Randazzo
Jon Friedman
Lianne Stokes
JB Rote
Becky Poole
Jimmy Owens
Daiva Deupree
JJ Shebesta
Sara Schaefer
Michal Pasternak
and the Flanks!