Monthly Archives: September 2008

Tail of the Tape

“Rumors of VP Sex-tape Suddenly Hounds GOP VP Hopeful”–Washington Post (AP)

After revealing that Alaska is actually a state-sized Minuteman, positioned on the lookout for any sneaky border-crossing Russkies, and then unsuccessfully using her magical ‘Alaskan Christian priestess’ powers to re-animate Frankenstein for her second appearance on Katie Couric and Her Legs Show, Govenor Palin appears to be taking a page out of the Paris Hilton/Kim Kardashian book of winning/distracting people as she is forced to confront rumors of an alleged sex-tape. 

The leaked tape, identified on the internet under the innocuous title “Palin Spreads Democracy” has been on the fast-track of circulation, making the rounds on blogs, Facebook profiles, and YouTube.

Palin's fast life is quickly catching up with her

The tape in question depicts scenes of the Govenor in bed with FOX bulldog Bill O’Reilly, CNN darling Anderson Cooper and stately vapid ABC anchorman Charlie Gibson. A later scene involves another woman – bearing a striking resemblance to sometime anchorwoman Couric–and company taking turns urinating on what appears to be a resume’.

Surprisingly, its source has been tracked to the McCain-Palin website of all places.

When reached for comment at a spokesperson replied with, “While Senator McCain and Governor Palin are saddened by the sudden rise of file-sharing on the internet, they’re happy that more Americans are getting to see another side of the Govenor. Ultimately, this video is an opportunity to confirm what we’ve stressed from Day One–the media has been screwing Govenor Palin left and right.”

The representative then urged people and the press to judge for themselves on where for $.99 for the first minute and only $19.99 each additional minute, viewers can see the Govenor in action.

“We’re donating all the raised funds to the Economic Reform Bail-out–country first!”, assured the representative.

Poor quality won't detract people from following Palin's moves

Already totaling over 1.5 million views, many viewers are complaining of the “poor quality” and “obvious off-camera direction” that’s evident on the tape.

“She just didn’t seem ‘natural’,” offered one Arkansas man who wished to remain anonymous, “I will say this though–that girl is a freak.”

When asked about the some of the other issues dogging the candidate as well, namely her lack of experience in foreign affairs, a campaign spokesperson replied, “Oh, we’ve got that on tape too.”

(Associated Press)


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Crank That!

Grab, twist and pull at the Franklin Institute

Yesterday I was roped into being a chaperone for a 9th grade field trip (8 girls and 2 boys) to the Franklin Institute–it’s basically an over-sized museum that operates with the same intention as my old Houston students: “Please Touch” .

Anyway, this entry is about one boy in particular; since he’s a minor, we’ll call him………”Henry”.

“Henry” was weird right off the bat. He’s one of these kids that can’t keep still if his life depended on it. There he is running around the classroom yanking girls’ hair….there he is getting smacked on the other side of the room for touching a girl’s ass “by accident”….there is he teabagging the bus driver. And he giggles weirdly the whole time too, like fairies are tickling his junk from the inside.

“He’s nasty, mister” one of the girls forewarns me.

(Sidenote: It’s a warning I heed too, as she’s the same girl that later tells me: “I like to watch people get cut open. I want to be a teacher.” Which also reminds me, F-ck you, 9th grade staff for sticking me with the cast of Girl, Interrupted )

And on one level, I’m totally over this kid already; I’ve had plenty of “Henry”s over the years in other jobs.  But on the other hand, “Henry” is most likely a crackbaby, or at least a chemically-infused gremlin sent by the Russians to cripple us from the inside, so there’s the entertainment value he was sure to provide.

So once we get there, “Henry” is all about the “Please Touch” policy. Yet there’s a curious pattern to “Henry”s choice of entertainment.

The Franklin Institute beats regularly

The Franklin Institute is the home of the Giant Human Heart; an over-sized model of a human heart that kids can walk through. Immensely popular exhibit*. But instead of heading to that, “Henry” races to the various gears and…..pumps…that are strewn about this museum floor. It’s lots of “see how gears work” kind of stuff.

But each time it’s the same thing: “Henry” frantically pulls on the levers and yanks the cranks much harder than necessary, each time putting his whole body into it. At one point, he runs into the giant human heart with some of the girls in our group, and after squeals emit from inside the heart once or twice along with a couple of “Henry!” he comes racing back out and works over the cranks, gears and pistons double time–it’s like he’s become John-f*cking-Henry all of a sudden.

Little beads of sweat are racing down his brow, his skinny body jerking all over the place, a greasy grin on his face…..I’m watching him race from station to station jerking these exhibits to pieces and it dawns on me:

“Henry” is a chronic masturbator.

I mean, what else could be going on with this kid?

The rest of the day, I watch “Henry” like I’m Dian Fossey (google her, kids)–his every move now fascinates and terrifies me.

Henry's a pole-drivin' man

During the IMAX film on white-water rafting, “Henry” is sitting closest to the screen, feet propped up with his thin frog legs pumping in the air whenever the raft crests another frothing wave on the rapids.

After the IMAX, “Henry” wants to go to the gift shop and I watch as he repeatedly pulls a pirate sword in and out of its scabbard like he’s sawing the f-cking thing in half.

And when we go to the aviation room, there’s “Henry” sitting high up in the life-sized model plane, sinking himself deep in the cockpit.

When the day is finally over, “Henry” and I end up walking out together down the museum steps. I ask him if he’s had a good time and he gives the world’s heaviest sigh and says, “Man mister, I’m beat.”

We both laugh for obviously different reasons.

Then “Henry” shakes my hand and says, “thanks for being our chaperone, mister and letting me be myself”, which makes me feel a little guilty about the feelings and even question blogging about him, until I remember what he just did.

He shook my hand.

Nasty motherf-cker.

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“Oh The Places You’ll Go…!” Pt. 2 (cont.)

So yesterday I got a little long-winded talking about Barnes & Noble and poop-themed Amber alerts, but promised that I’d deliver the other half of that today.

And here it is: My C.R.A.P. review of Whole Foods.

You ready to do this?

Of course you are.

Let’s do this.

Whole Foods on the corner of South and S 10th Streets here in Philly is pretty close to where I live. We go there because like many urban sophisticates, we’re drawn to over-priced beef that was raised listening to NPR and The Daily Show.

Whole Foods sure is purdy, what with its nice lighting, natural grocery bags and tattooed workers. Not sure about your Whole Foods but the ones at ours all look like human distressed jeans–their bodies just look all worn-in and wrinkled already. Oh, and they have zippers on their faces.

Anyway, the review:

Cleanliness: No NPR and John Stewart here (thank God). The bathroom looks more like somewhere you’d see Anderson Cooper reporting from. It’s one of those single-serve bathrooms with the standing toilet, a large sink and a paper towel dispenser. Also, there’s a plunger next to the toilet and, if I recall correctly, a sign about “PLEASE FLUSH THE TOILET” or something like that. Uh, not good. Plus I think they advertise that their toilet paper is made from “82 % recycled goat sack”. Dear god, what’s the hand soap made out of???

Both times I’ve been there, the toilet had a wet seat, meaning that at least one of those times, I used a move I call The Force; with sheer will power, I hovered my ass over the toilet. It’s like I’m Obi Wan Can Dookey. The strain on your legs is rough, but it makes the release oh-so-sweet.

As a matter of fact, I propose that they start using this technique in superhero/spy movies where the hero gets captured–it seems much more effective/tortuous than the whole “laser slowly climbing to your nads” bit.

Quick, James--shit on the laser!

“Do you expect me to talk?”

“No Mr. Bond, I expect you to get toilet herpes.”

Want more fun? While doing this maneuver pretend you’re an old U.S. bomber dropping bombs on the enemy. Make airplane noises. Bomb sounds. Scream, “Ratta-tat-tat!”

Take that, Mao Ze Dung!

As Anderson Cooper says, “Just keeping them honest, guys”. +4

Remoteness: The Whole Foods restrooms are located in the back, square center of the store. It’s down a little hall where most of the workers emerge with food supplies, crates and black market Thai babies for Center City yuppies (and they’re still over-priced). It’s fairly easy to miss, though if you’re operating on Code ORANGE like I was one time, your heightened senses will probably lead you right there.

You could probably also sneak some reading material in there too, though Whole Foods’ idea of reading material seems limited to Real Simple and “Pamphlets About How Awesome We Are And Why Your Parents Were Whores For Taking You To Superfresh As A Kid”. So…..+6

The Whole Foods bathroom line: get ready to hear a lot about Rilo Kiley....

Access: It’s easy to get in there. There’s two of them. The odd thing is that there’s always a wait to use the restroom there. I mean, even the times that I’ve been there and not had to use the bathroom, I still see people waiting, leaning against the wall, gripping their stomachs and trying to look cool about it. The other downside is that some of the people waiting in line are, well, how can I say this? They are, as the French say, “prettyfuckingweirdlooking”. It’s hard enough to chit-chat with someone when you both know you’re there to take a dump in a grocery store, but especially hard when the other person has bolts in their face and elongated ears. The good thing is that you could Code RED right on their hipster clothes and no one would notice. +6

Privacy: Well, there’s two bathrooms. And there’s an alleyway that’s sort of off the beaten path. But then there’s the fact that once you’re done, you walk out and see your neighbors who are like, “The Kids…did you just take a dump here at Whole Foods? Wait til I call this into This American Life.” BUT, there’s nothing that says that you can’t take food into the crapper with you. Ever wonder what it’s like to have goat cheese and crackers while you’re dumping? Wonder no more. +6

Total C.R.A.P. Score: 22

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Hollaback Girl

Lady of the night.



She loves guys' bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S

Your mom.

All synonyms for “prostitute”. 

Over here in the Kensington section of North Philly near the school I work at, there are scores of these sweethearts skanking up and down the street morning, noon and night.

At least 2-3 mornings a week I’m greeted by these one when I descend the steps of Huntingdon Station off of the El Line.

Those who can, teach: Another TFA-dropout falls victim to the streets

It’s a parade of stares, severely chapped lips and poo-stained acid jeans. Everyone of them looks like a strung-out Gwen Stefani.

And they’re always wearing weird “sassy” too-tight t-shirts that say things like,

“I’m BOSSY!”


“My Boyfriend Doesn’t Need To Know”


“My Junk Tastes like Old Sour-Patch Kids”

(ok I made that one up).

And they all bobble around on rickety legs, scratching at their arms and stomachs with crazy bug-eyes–it’s like walking around a Christopher Lloyd convention.

Usually, if they say something to me, the comments are fairly lame and boring. It’s like they’ve all taken lines from the worst pick-up guy at the bar; you know, lots of, “Hey Honey, you know what time it is?”, “You got a girlfriend, handsome?” or “Cunny for a penny?”. And so on and so forth.

Once one of them even stopped  and flashed me after asking me what time it was.

Let’s re-enact.

The Kids….Theatre Presents:

KFC (Kensington Fried Crackhead) and Preppy Boy: A Play

( Skank): “You headed to work or somethin?”

The Colonel's Secret Recipe: herbs, spices and gonorrhea

(Me, nodding and nervous): “Yes ma’am”

(Skank): “Yeah? You got time for THESE??!!”

(lifts shirt to reveal prune-sized taters covered in baby powder. Read that again. Baby powder. They looked like two under-sized chicken breasts waiting for the deep fryer.)

(Me, shocked): “………….”

(Skank shakes torso back-and-forth swinging chest from side-to-side. No really.)

(Me, repulsed): “…………”

(Me, finally speaking): “Sold.”

Ok, no, but I did say, “See you at Back to School Night“.


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“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” Pt. 2

To date, the first “Oh, The Places You’ll Go” easily snags the most reads—the closest competitor, the “Elephant” post, is 17 hits behind it. You know what that tells me?


You people love to shit as much as I do.


So you gotta give the people what they want, right? And so, allow me to drop a deuce with the a new C.R.A.P. review:


Oh, the Places You’ll Go” Pt. 2.


Actually, I should start assigning ‘Amber Alerts’ to gauge whether or not you should use these reviewed restrooms.


Let’s do that real quick (this is all stream of consciousness writing by the way):



The Kids….Presents ‘Assber Alerts’—A Guide to Dumping


Code Green: You’re ready to go, but in no rush. If you can think, “Man, it’d be nice to take a dump right now” and smile, you’re Code GREEN. That means you can stroll, chit-chat, or even jog (!) without much concern for muddying your reputation in public.


Code Yellow: Have you just passed gas and felt something ‘kick’? (you know what I mean) Glancing at your watch while someone talks to you (“it’s 1:55pm—I should’ve taken a shit 30mins ago”)? Find yourself getting agitated and irritable in petty situations? You’re Code YELLOW.


Code Orange: “Seriously, if I don’t get to the bathroom now I’m going to punch someone in the face. Seriously, pull over. This isn’t funny anymore.” Holding it so long your stomach turns cold? Yeah, you’re Code ORANGE.


Code Red: Unable to talk in complete sentences. Ass sweatin’ like it stole something. Wincing each time you take a step. All you think is, “God, please don’t let me shit on myself during this meeting”. Code Red means you don’t even have time to read this. Code Red means crack-head behavior like, “Out of my way you old b-tch!” and pushing your mom to the floor. It’s like your ass is going from Bruce Banner to The Hulk. You’ll apologize later, sure, but for now, you’re Code RED….


We clear now?


Let’s do this.

Everyone's a 'member' at Barnes&Noble.



Barnes& Noble, on 18th and Walnut in downtown Philadelphia, has a ton of books, magazines and periodicals to read on their shelves. With so much reading material there, not to mention all the paper, it’s like my ass has arrived in Shangri-la. It’s like two little butt arms come out and rub their hands together in greedy anticipation of relieving constipation. But is Barnes& Noble a place you’ll want to bookmark for your booty? Read on, reader, read on….


“There’s nothin’ ‘Noble’ about Barnes& Noble


Cleanliness: Sweet Christmas, where to begin? First tip that something was going to be amiss here: gender bathrooms. Men’s rooms are notoriously gross because guys are like monkeys; they’ll go/do anything a-n-y-w-h-e-r-e. And I’m convinced that no one cleans the men’s rooms because that’s reserved for employee punishment.


Like the manager says, “Harold, how many times do I have to tell you that Goosebumps doesn’t belong in the ‘Erotica’ section?? I should just fire you, but instead, you’re going to clean the restroom. The men’s restroom. Now get outta my sight you fuggin’ chode.”


In the main area where the urinals are, there’s piss-puddles on the wall, the floor, the sink—it’s like someone slipped on a banana peel while peeing. And the sink counters are constantly wet, just….just wet. I don’t get it, and really, it’s probably best that I don’t.


The stalls don’t fare much better here either.


I mean, the toilet looks like In the Time of E. Coli. The times that I’ve gone there, instead of pulling out an ass-bib to lay down, I just yanked the whole fuggin’ ass-bib dispenser and sat on that instead. Plus when I go to leave, I wrap my hands in so many paper towels I feel like I’m an investigator on CSI . +2


Remoteness: The B&N bathrooms are located on the 2nd floor of the store in a little nook and cranny near the “bargain books” and calendars section., so basically there’s nothing but shit over here. Since the only other people that are wandering on the floor are the café’ patrons (the café’ is located on the opposite side of the floor) and people trying to convince themselves that Dr. Phil’s autobiography is a steal at $5.99, you can walk in there without causing too much alarm. So it’s not bad, and especially great for the tormented asses that apparently go in there and desecrate the place. +6


Example Stall: Figure not drawn to scat

Access: B&N bathrooms are wide open to the public. I’ve seen everyone from the homeless to grad students to businessmen go in there with absolute ease. It’s great for when you need to pinch a loaf in a pinch, but……well, I’m a B&N Member, and it’s times like these that I wish that that membership included exclusive access to the restrooms–I’ll give up my 10% off hard-covers if it means not sharing the bathroom.


Which highlights the biggest, most obvious drawback to ‘doing the Dew’ there: the “all merchandise must be left outside the restrooms” sign greeting you (along with a pair of bar-code sensors). I can’t even read in there!


This means you’re stuck reading the stall walls, which serves as a community kiosk of sorts, letting you know where are all the best places and people to see and what to do with them where. So it loses big time points for that, but if I’m ever single again, it’s good to know that “Tanya loves hard c0ck in her face”. “+6


Privacy: Uh, there’s essentially no privacy here. I think inmates have more privacy when they need to go. The stalls are claustrophobic and smell, plus they’re right next to the urinals. But, if you’re a shrewd shitter, you can opt for the handicap bathroom that’s got more leg-room and pushed further back. But, there might be someone sleeping in there. No, really. Still, you’re getting a chorus of farts, plops, tinkles and groans when you’re at the B&N. Next time I’ll just take a dump in the café’. At least I can take books there. +2


Total C.R.A.P. Score: 16


To summarize, Barnes & Noble is great for the mind, but bad for the booty.


Since this post ended up being so long (that’s what she said) I’ll post another review (Whole Foods) in a separate post soon.



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As a special treat, I thought that I’d share with readers of The Kids…the skeleton outline for the upcoming biography ( Lame) I’m releasing in the coming months. Enjoy!; Front-man/asshat for The Black Eyed Peas

Life Highlights:

–Born 1975 in Los Angeles, CA to Whoopi Goldberg and “Caveman Valentine” Jackson.

–1985: Finally speaks first word(s) (“ba-donka-dunk”). Whoopi loses mind, soon makes Jumpin’ Jack Flash.

Father, Sam "Caveman" Jackson. Also doomed to have a joke of a career.

–1986-1995: Motherless, is raised on the streets by Caveman. Spends years with father getting meals out of trash, selling pride/dignity for money, and stealing random articles of clothing from laundrymats. Important factors that inspire creation of late-2000-to Present version of Black Eyed Peas.

–1996: meets other members of Black Eyed Peas at “Keep Los Angeles HOT” homeless winter clothing drive. Bouncy, rhyming gibberish spoken by three vagrants mistaken for rap; signed to label, release appropriately named Behind the Front

Mother, The entire line seems destined for mediocrity and suburban appeal, doesn't it?

1998: releases Bridging the Gap a slightly more commercial/critical success. Album sees appearances by quality artists like Mos Def, Les Nubians and De La Soul–Bridging…represents the last time BEP will be associated with quality talent.

–2001-2002: & co. become distressed that left-of-center rap is “too unique, creative”. Envying the careers of Young MC, Coolio and Ja-Rule, desire to produce similar sounds prompts to dig a hole to Hell where he meets….

–(late) 2002: Fergie aka “Old Scratch”. “Give up your soul and I will take you to unforeseen heights”, declares Fergie. He agrees, and she stamps her cloven hoof twice to magically intertwine their fates forever.

–2003: In the midst of harsh political climate and social strife, group releases hot-selling single pleading for an end: “Let’s Get Retarded” “Let’s Get It Started”. BEP’s appear in Best Buy commercial and debuts with Fergie, whose appearance is remade to look “more human-like, with a light whorish touch”.

–2004-2005: BEPs apparently release another album, but hard to tell as material sounds too much like previous one. Still investigating.









–2006: Old Scratch/Fergie runs amok, releases uninspiring, insipid pop/r&b/hip-hop/jazz/funk/emo/opera/showtunes/electronica/death metal album The Duchess in an effort to prove that evil knows no limits. Released with lead single “Milkshake” “London Bridge”, co-written (in blood) with

–2007-2008: With nation locked deep in political rhetoric and wandering aimlessly in search of something “meaningful”, and other self-important celebs release spoken word/rap/reggae/pop/tribal/cult-like viral video, “Yes We Can”*, inspiring people to buy more Gap clothes (I think). Despite continual lack of creativity, is quickly touted as “political activist” by The Gap, the Grammy’s and people who love email FW’s.

*Video is also responsible for encouraging Scarlett Johanssen to release album Breathless Singing While You Imagine My Breasts.

I’m still waiting for a publisher to pick this up, but I’m convinced that this is a story that needs to be told.


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I’ve always wanted a tattoo of some type, but was always afraid to get one.

Not because tattoos are permanent and I’d be 80 and regret it–I already have a list of crimes that I want to commit once I’m that old, like:

1. Stealing clothes from The Gap.

2. Walking in women’s dressing rooms at Victoria’s Secret.

3. Licking strangers out in public.

4. Punching babies.

…and that’s because no one really arrests old people. I could do anything!

I think being old is like being a superhero; you get lots of attention, praise and respect, but secretly, everyone fears you. Essentially, being old is like being Batman. Think about that the next time your Pop-Pop takes a dump at the table during Thanksgiving dinner.

Anyway, that’s not the reason why I don’t want to get a tattoo. I’ve honestly always been afraid of the tattoo artist f*cking up what I want. Like, what if I go to a tattoo artist and the following situation happens….?

“The Kids Don’t Get It” Theatre Presents….

“The Kids…Goes to the Tattoo Parlor”

Act One

Walks into the store and sits in waiting room chair. As I sit, a woman in glasses and beehive hair races by, her head bent low. The tattoo artist walks out of the back room wiping his hands with a rag as he turns to me.

(me pointing at the door): Hey, wasn’t that Govenor Pal-

(Tattoo Artist, nodding his head): Yep. She came in for some work done.

(me, putting down magazine, shocked): Really?

(Tattooed Artist, nodding again): Tramp stamp on her back. Says, “Off-shore Drilling” with an arrow pointing down. What can I do for you?

Seems simple to draw, right? WRONG.

(me): I want a tattoo. I want Sam Jackson’s lightsaber from Star Wars. I like Sam Jackson. I plan on blogging about him.

(Tattoo Artist leans over and studies my arm while drawing a flaming bird on his face): I can do that, I think. Let’s go.

(Tattoo Artist and I walk into tattoo parlor. Once I am seated, I warn Tattoo Artist that I may faint. “It’s ok”, he says. I faint at the sound of needle, warmly peeing on myself.)

Act Two

(me waking, rubbing my eyes): Is it over?

(Tattoo Artist standing up from chair, wiping hands. Nervous.): Uh….yeah.

(me): What’s wrong? (looks at arm). You f*cked up my arm! This isn’t a lightsaber! You drew a penis on my arm! F*ck!

(Tattoo Artist shrugs shoulders): I can only do skulls, words and penises. At least I colored it purple. $40.

The End

And there you have it. I’m afraid of going there and ending up walking around with a dick on my arm. I’d be like Laura Bush.

So instead, I’ve decided to do the tattoo myself. And in case I want it done over “professionally”, there’s already a template for them to work on, thereby removing the possibility of having the dreaded “dong arm”. This makes the situation error-free.

And so, without further ado, I present to you my arm tattoo idea:

Naked Ladies Riding Dragons

Note the 'angry dragon' yet the 'smiling care-free women' true to traditional tattoos

Closer look: Exaggerated breast-size and 'cooter-hair'. Also, high-heel shoes. Hello Carrie Bradshaw!

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