Terrifying Tales of Halloween Dorkage Past
Today is Halloween, which is of course known as a harvest celebration, an embrace of the play of life and death exemplified by the microcosm of the crops that feed us, yet indicative of the greater cycle of decay and renewal that governs all life on Earth—and it’s also a source of embarrassing stories of almost unbearable dorkiness. I include some samples from my own litany; feel free to add your own spine-tingling tales of Halloween Horror and Pants-Wetting in the comments.

• My first costume was a Pumpkin Ghost; I know that’s not particularly dorky but it does establish that I was not one of those kids who got the store-bought plastic Batman costumes, although I was secretly envious of the rows of identical Batmen and the relative bully-proof anonymity they provided.
  
  
• On my first trick-or-treat, my parents accompanied me around the neighborhood; one nice old lady invited us inside, and she happened to have a menagerie of chotchkes, trinkets, and little porcelain animals, etc. in her living room; when we were back at our house, my parents opened my bag to find, in addition to candy, a large assortment of the old woman’s personal property. Apparently I was so enamored by the idea of putting things in my bag that I happily looted her collections like they were so many boxes of Milk Duds. If I ever have a kid and he does something like that, I'll sell it all on eBay faster than you can say "old people can't use computers"!
  
  
• In second grade my dad made me a fabulous homemade costume out of cardboard, glue, colored pencils, foam, and other household items; when I asked him what I was, he said, “um… Space King!” It was a glorious costume that should have made me the envy of the schoolyard. We all know how that turned out.
  
  
• In fourth grade I was a mummy; unfortunately, while I was being “wrapped” by my babysitter, I became nauseated and threw up on my costume, staining it. We had to start over. What a dork, throwing up!
  
  
• Three years later I had a great pirate costume, but some dickhead named “Bo” stole my sword and threw it in the dumpster. That was altogether a pretty lousy, dorky year, come to think of it.
  
  
• When I was a sophomore in high school, my friends and I decided to go trick-or-treating for “the last time”; dressed up as the usual-for-high-school mutilated corpses, we worked up a complicated song-and-dance routine that we would break into as soon as someone opened the door, but we were such a bunch of rowdy teenagers that people either kept the door shut, told us we were too old, or, in the case of one old man, slammed the door in our face when we sang our first note. Dorks!
  
  
• Finally, in the greatest act of Halloween redemption since the goat’s blood-drenched-Carrie killed all her classmates (I know, that wasn’t technically on Halloween), in 2001 I wore the greatest costume ever. I found the foamcore girder on the curb outside Macy’s, which was incidentally where Chelle-Belle, who deserves credit for this idea and even offered me a dollar for everyone who correctly referred to me as "Krazy Glue Guy" instead of "Super Glue Guy", worked at the time. At the office party I was awarded “Scariest Costume” (I know, what’s important is that I won the candy), and I was officially King of the Halloween Dorks, and lord of all that I surveyed! Look on my Works, Ye Mighty, and Despair!

Addendum: Speaking of terror, apparently my worst recurring nightmare has come to life. Also, I've now noticed that lots of people seem to have chronicled tales of their Halloween loser pasts (here or here, for example); I'd hate for anyone to think that I ever came up with an original idea—if I've learned anything in my six-odd months of blogarrhea, it's that original ideas are for suckers. And speaking of not coming up with original ideas, this right here is an absolute must-freaking-read, via (parenthetical note).

Kvetch as Kvetch Can
The following is an excerpt from an SF Gate article on the UK’s soccer/media/sarong luminary David Beckham (who also starred in this year’s breakout indie hit Bend it Like My Big Fat British Chocolat):

His golden-boy visage is plastered on product ads from Barcelona to Beijing, he is married to the former Posh Spice, and his presence has probably resulted in more wet crotches, both male and female, around the world than anybody since Elvis.

I’m neither a homophobe nor an Anglophobe nor even a SpiceGirlophobe (I can even appreciate their charming testament-to-the-state-of-British-dental-care smiles), but when I turn to my trusted local news outlet, I generally do not like to read about who caused how many wet crotches. There are many fine websites specifically geared toward this topic, but I feel that a venerable journalistic institution such as the San Francisco Chronicle should not be one of them. I personally stumbled upon this article quite innocently while doing a Google search for “golden wet boy crotch” in conjunction with my scientific research. Also I resent my exclusion from consideration for the esteemed title of Mr. Responsible For Most Wet Crotches Since Elvis. I have now said my peace on this matter.

Funny Things My Friends Once Said, vol. xcdvi
The scene: Several years ago, the proto-WULAD is suffering through a cold while at a health food store with longtime comrades Clare-Bear and Snarly; Snarly is showing me an Asian herbal remedy she’s taking that she believes is helping her cold. I ask her what it’s made from; Clare-Bear quickly snorts: “I believe it’s Ye Olde Chinese Placebo Flower.”

Heat Up the Stove
With 2003 World Series’s, both real and imagined, consigned to the mists of the past (and if I may give myself just a few more warm fuzzies by saying, “Yankees lose! Thaaaaaaaa Yankees lose!”), we begin the long march toward April with a WULAD Wround-up of Mets-related offseason news. (I know, none of you care—that’s why I put this last.) The Times talks about Jim Duquette’s preparations for the scaling of Mount Unsurmountable; the Post discusses all the scuttlebutt surrounding the possible acquisition of Kaz Matsui and the potentially disastrous move to shift franchise shortstop of the future Jose Reyes to second to accommodate him; and Bryan Hoch has a photo of the new GM that pretty much sums up how freaked out he is by the task of transforming these aspiring third-placers into contenders.

World Up Like A Series
Here in the “real” world, yesterday was a day for celebrations in Florida, recriminations in New York, and the beginning of the long, hot stove winter of waiting for otherwise inclined baseball fans nationwide. But as resounding sighs of relief rose from the masses—grateful to be spared the sight of another storybook Yankee triumph and consequent rounds of humble (in a megalomaniacal sort of way) self-congratulation—in another, more perfect universe, the stage was set on Sunday for an epic showdown between two franchises known far and wide for their lengthy litanies of loss. That’s right—thanks to the miracles of modern technology and the inventive brain power of WULAD, Boy Genius™, we are now able to peer into the twin MegaSmartometer lenses of the Dimensional Cross-Transfernator and catch all the action from carefully placed IntraUniversatory Cameras in the nosebleed seats of Wrigley Field! My friends, I am speaking of...


Game 7 of the Parallel Universe World Series, Chicago Red Sox vs. Boston Cubs
Wait a minute, wrong universe. Lemme just adjust the Transfernator slightly. Ah, here we go. My friends, I am speaking of...


Game 7 of the Parallel Universe World Series, Chicago Cubs vs. Boston Red Sox
It was a balmy evening, and the hordes of long-suffering-faithful began to flood through Wrigley’s gates with the knowledge that one of these two eternal also-rans absolutely had to emerge from the night’s wreckage with a World Championship, and that one of their storied curses—either Bambino- or Goat-related—must be broken. The expectation in the air was as thick as the transfat-loaded hydrogenated vegetable shortening used to fry the Twinkies, and already legions were preparing to swear that they, too, were there the night those damn [Cubbies or Red Sox] finally made it happen.

Yes, history was definitely in the air as Pedro Martinez and Carlos Zambrano, the evenings’ starting pitchers, strode to the microphone in center field to sing the National Anthem; the only snag in this touching display of perennial underdog unity was the fact that, due to lack of pregame coordination, Martinez and Zambrano actually sang the national anthems of their respective homelands, the Dominican Republic and Venezuela, simultaneously. Members of the crowd later reported this rendition to be far superior to Celine Dion’s performance of “O Canada” prior to Game 6.

But, as if their vocalizations had sapped their competitive fires, both pitchers were battered and bruised by bats on both sides of the dugout within the first few innings, and by the end of the fifth, Boston held a 7–6 lead on the strength of home runs by Nomar Garciaparra, Manny Ramirez, and the robotic exoskeleton housing Ted Williams’ cryogenically stabilized head. The Cubs, on the other hand, responded to the challenge with hits from Sosa, Moises Alou, Harry Caray’s memorial urn, and manager Dusty Baker’s 4-year old son Darren, whose three-run bomb brought the Cubs to within one and chased Martinez to the showers, but not before he grabbed the toddler’s head and threw him to the ground in rage, prompting shirtless 72-year-old ex-Yankee coach Don Zimmer to jump to the field from his seat in the stands and begin pummeling the Cubs’ mascot and batboys.

The bullpens managed to settle down both teams’ bats for a few innings, and by the time newly elected California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger led the crowd in singing “First, I Take You Out to This Ballgame; Then I Stuff Your Puny Head in My Toilet and Flush,” the score remained the same.

As the game progressed to the ninth inning with the Red Sox still leading by a run, Cubs fans began to become anxious at the prospect that perhaps their beloved squad didn’t have it in them after all, and the bonfires of joy being prepared across the Windy City began to be subtly converted to bonfires of rage, if needed. In an optimistic move, Baker sent Cubs closer Joe Borowski to the mound in the top of the ninth, and he quickly sent down the Red Sox in order; the only distraction in the otherwise uneventful top half of the inning came as a naked and inebriated Oprah Winfrey “streaked” across the left field grass before being tackled by security and escorted from the stadium while vigorously screaming obscenities at the crowd. It’s people like that who ruin the experience for everybody, folks.

So it all came to this: as stomach ulcers from Chi-town to Beantown flared, Boston pitcher Scott Williamson stepped on to the dusty hill to try and protect his team’s fragile lead—in three outs, this Clash of the Cursed could be won for the Red Sox, and disaffected Bostonians everywhere would be dancing in the streets, gleefully looting. However, the Cubs were not dead yet, and with ten more years of waiting under their belts, they weren’t going down without a fight, or at least a stern disagreement. Sammy Sosa stepped to the plate, and after watching three pitches outside the strike zone and fouling off the next 124 pitches, the 128th pitch of the at-bat sailed just inside and he finally drew a walk. The tying run was on first, with the potential winning run at the plate.

However, hope turned to anxiety as the next batter struck out, and then, in a dramatic play, Cubs hitter Harry Caray’s memorial urn stroked a ball into right field as Sosa sprinted to third; as Caray’s urn stretched for a double, Red Sox shortstop Ted-Willams-exoskeleton leaped to the base simultaneously. The urn smashed directly into the Pyrex® containment unit holding Williams’ deep-frozen head, and the force of the impact immediately shattered the glass, sending Williams’ head flying with such force that it ricocheted off the glove of outfielder Manny Ramirez, who was temporarily blinded by the cloud of Caray’s ashes blowing across the field, and careened into the stands, striking Red Sox fan Ben Affleck and killing him instantly.

Cheered by this development and with Sosa at third, the Cubs sent a surprise pinch hitter to the plate for their final chance to win or go home—none other than a plucky young rookie named Ferris Bueller, who had impressed scouts with his catch of a ball in the stands at a June game attended while skipping school. As Bueller and Williamson stared each other down, the crowd began chanting the batter’s name in a strangely questioning tone, as if wondering if he were in fact in attendance. Williamson’s first two pitches were blazing fastballs and Bueller took both of them. The count was 0–2, and suddenly the Cubs found themselves one strike away from defeat, and the Red Sox one strike from breaking the Curse that had stymied them for 85 years. We go to Cubs announcer Pat Hughes’ call of this historic moment:

And here's the pitch—a fastball over the heart of the plate—Bueller with a monster swing! It’s a long fly ball, could be outta here! Lofton is back at the warning track, he reaches… For the love of God, what is that?! Sweet Mother of AaahhhHHHHHH!!

Well, we all know what happened next—a rogue asteroid penetrated the Earth’s atmosphere and pounded its fiery way directly into Wrigley Field, creating a 3-mile smoldering crater of ash and devastation and leaving no creature alive. FoxSports analysis of the videotape of the late Kenny Lofton’s attempt at a catch was inconclusive, so it looks like fans in Boston and what’s left of Chicago will have to Wait ‘Til Next Year!™

One Last Unrelated Thing
Just to cheer you up, via C-baby, here’s living proof of the teaching power of North Korean labor camps.

It’s Friday, which means that instead of being clever, I present your…

WULAD Web Wround-Up
Polar bears eating pumpkins. Pumpkins, damn you!

Why are cats so cuddly? Because they’re a bunch of inbred mutants.

Now this is what I could really use. Taking notes, Secret Santa?

C-baby alerted me to the most interesting criminal since the Drunk Jail Bride. (Can we get these two together? I want to be there to see the sparks fly: they fight, they scream, they crash tricycles—they fall in love.) Her comment: “Maybe he was upset that he got kicked out of clown college.” Way to show ‘em what they’ll be missing!

And finally, a story that makes me not feel so bad about living on Bush Street.

News You Can Abuse
Those of you Bay-Areaers who read regularly, or occasionally listen to my drunken ravings as you pass by the gutter I sleep in on Polk Street, know that I hate the local morning news shows—all of them. And why, you might ask? Is it the inane banter and segues of the talking heads? (“And that was the 84th murder committed in Oakland this year. Well, the Raiders are looking to murder the competition this weekend…”) Is it that smarmy “personality” guy on Channel 2 who’s supposedly related to Steve Perry but has no other redeeming qualities? Is it that, after old venerable anchor guy Ross McGowan compared happy-go-lucky traffic guy Sal Castaneda to Goofy, Sal just did a lame Goofy impersonation, rather than saying, “Fuck you, Ross!” Is it the fork-scraping-across-a-chalkboard of a human being that is Darya Folsom? My friends, it is all of these things. However, this morning I witnessed channel 4’s frowzy hat-fancying movie reviewer Jan Wahl giving the actual Quentin Tarantino® the journalistic equivalent of a Dirty Sanchez, and I must say I loved it—especially when she asked him why Kill Bill had to be so groin-grindingly, gore-drippingly, grey-matter-oozingly violent, and he shouted, “because it’s fun!” When asked why he felt 12-year olds should see it, he replied, “I watched violent movies when I was a kid,” to which she responded, “And we all know how well you turned out.” Score one for the frumpy crowd.

Dinette Vignettes, vol. mcxvii-a & b
At a fifties-style diner near Union Square on this glorious post-dental-cleaning morning, while sipping enamel-staining yet oh-so-satisfying diner coffee, complete with half-n-half from a little plastic creamer container (next to a bowl on the table containing ten or fifteen more little creamer containers than necessary)...

Waitress #1 (Alice?): Where's the hostess?

Waitress #2 (Flo?): At the bail bonds office.

Then, from the table behind me...

Grizzly Construction Worker Dude: Hey man, can I use your cellphone?

His Buddy: Here you go.

GCWD (on phone): Hi, this is _____, I'm callin' to let you know, well, obviously you're aware I missed our appointment yesterday. I was comin' down with somethin', I went to work an' they sent me home, you know, 'cause I was so sick. I lay down for a while, but next thing I know I missed all my appointments, and I'm really, really sorry. I hope you don't write this up as a violation. I'm really sorry, I was really sick but you can page me and I'll call you back.

Buddy (after GCWD hangs up): Good bullshit, man.

GCWD: Hell, yeah.

Take Me Out to the Rift in the Space/Time Continuum
Lastly, the moment at least three of you have been waiting for—WULAD Sports proudly brings you continuing coverage of the Parallel Universe World Series (in which managers Grady Little and Dusty Baker escaped from the clutches of mad scientist Dr. Seligator and defeated their evil android replacement managers before crucial decisions could be sabotaged). When we last checked in, the Cubs carried a two-game lead into Fenway Park, but a dramatic play-at-the-plate left the BoSox hungry and determined to make a statement on their home turf.

Well, last night’s Game 3 did not disappoint, as the fully-rested Pedro Martinez battled Matt Clement in a classic pitchers’ duel, and both teams brought a 2–2 tie late into the game. Little, ever the expert bullpen manager, gently ushered Martinez to the bench and handed the ball to Scott Williamson, who pitched a 1-2-3 top of the ninth. But in the bottom half, Red Sox left-fielder Manny Ramirez sent Clement’s 100th pitch soaring over the Green Monster and into the chilly Boston night, winning the game. Afterwards Ramirez, ever the cheerful ambassador, told reporters the credit for the victory really belonged to the whole team, not just one man. He then spoke eloquently on the topic of land-mine removal in Afghanistan for 20 minutes while signing autographs for every single fan outside the clubhouse until he was satisfied that truly, no child had been left behind. What a guy.

And with that, we hear the sad, yet inevitable words that are the harbingers of the end of another episode of the Divina Commedia called WULAD: “The network’s back up.” Until we meet again…

Where Every WULAD Knows Your Name
“The network’s down.” There can be no happier words for you, my Diaspora of lovelies, because they indicate copious amounts of guilt-free work time open for the development of new breakthroughs in WULADology.

In the six months or so that I’ve been at the helm of the glorious experiment known as Wrapped Up Like a Douche, I’ve passed through many of the stages of Blogism—from the humble beginnings of relating esoteric jokes that could only be understood by people who had been drinking with me the night before, expanding to tackle tough issues of the world stage such as the race for the White House, the Goonies, and plagiarism of my thoughts on said Goonies; from a butt-fugly eye-piercingly bright yellow-green background to the subtle nuances of my current expertly-retooled blogspot template, with all the creature comforts of a modern public housing unit; from updating occasionally and being thrilled that anyone at all read it, ever, to ignoring my job, friends, and family to devote every waking moment to obsessively checking my visitor stats—and I can say definitively that, in the words of my father, I feel more like I do now than I ever did before. So keep propping up my fragile self-esteem with your continued patronage, and I’ll agree not to resort to any “extreme measures” to generate attention for the cause. (But I warn you: I can mash potatoes. I can do the Twist.)

In the news, we have word of the Pentagon developing a giant airship 25 times the size of the Goodyear Blimp, which will protect us from nuclear missiles launched by such rogue nations as North Korea and France. (No word on its effectiveness against bombs delivered by FedEx.) However, I believe its benefit will come as much from its symbolism—a gargantuan floating behemoth representative of the overwhelming and terrifying protective love of the United States for all the little nations gathered around its Golden Fence, uh, Door. (And let’s see them terrorists try to work after we’ve blocked out the Sun!) Anyone who has qualms with the idea of a huge airborne military surveillance city in the sky has clearly not taken their Patriotism Pills this week. Don’t forget, people—one red pill, one white one, and one blue. It’s as easy to remember as the theme to “What’s Happening!!”

Stopping by Bushes on a Snowy Evening
I know I’m a little late on this bandwagon, but I haven’t really heard much from the blogosphere on it, so we now present the WULAD Literary Team’s analysis of President Action Figure’s ode to his beloved spouse…

Dear Laura,
Roses are red, Violets are blue,

Here Bush makes use of a cliché to establish his tone as firmly in the ironic, post-neoclassical idiom.

Oh my lump in the bed, How I've missed you.
Roses are redder, Bluer am I,

A sudden turn toward the Confessional school, this is the emotional center of the poem and could easily have been written by Lowell.

Seeing you kissed by that charming French guy.

Undoubtedly a reference to Descartes, and the manner in which conservative thinkers have “kissed” Laura with the influence of Cartesian philosophy in opposition to the deconstructionalist methods of the Leftist academy.

The dogs and the cat, they missed you too,

The “dogs” are of course those members of his administration who support Bush’s world view of the United States as a benevolent superpower that rules by example but carries the will to take any action necessary to protect its interests and those of its geopolitical allies. The “cat,” Sec. of State Colin Powell, keeps a statesman’s eye on the proceedings and is a duly skeptical voice as compared to the generally non-disagreeable “dogs.”

Barney's still mad you dropped him, he ate your shoe.

This line is ambiguous; Rep. Barney Frank and the House Democrats? Or Solomon Smith-Barney and the other titans of the financial world? And what is Bush suggesting with the aggressive metaphoric imagery of the eaten shoe? This may be a question left to future scholarship.

The distance, my dear, has been such a barrier,
Next time you want an adventure, just land on a carrier.

Bush closes the poem by returning to the Americana-tinged realism of his Texas upbringing; his assertive repudiation of standard meter smacks of a rejection of the “science” of poetics in favor of a radical, populist approach to art. However, it is impossible to ignore his reference to the intrinsically isolating act of “land[ing] on a carrier”—as Baudrillard said, “Postmodernism is a flow of ultra technological images in a consumerist hyperreality across a mediascape or mindscreen to which we can only passively surrender,” and what more technological image could Bush present than his own staged appearance before his charges on the USS Abraham Lincoln? Further, is he referring to the actuality of the experience, or the deeper, more personal “landing” on the USS Abraham Lincoln he—and by extension, every citizen of the postmodern global village—carries within himself? At best we may only claim a brief glimpse within the consciousness of the man; additional insights will have to come from Bush himself.

Coulda, Shoulda, Oughta
Does everyone remember everything I said about wanting the baseball season to linger on as long as possible, with every playoff series lasting seven games, preferably extra innings, etc.? Well... I’m over it. Apparently some dudes from New York and some other dudes from Florida are locked in heated battle, epic showdowns and yada yada (as they say in the Bible), but not even the guys on ESPN can bring themselves to be excited about it. (Jim Caple tosses any semblance of journalistic impartiality to the wind to argue what everybody knows—that this isn’t the World Series we deserved.) I realize now that I simply get no pleasure whatsoever from watching the Yankees play, just as I get no pleasure from watching George Bush negotiate with the North Koreans or from watching my luscious coed neighbors bathe each other. As Jayson Blair would say, it’s just so much sound and fury signifying nothing.

Meanwhile, in the Parallel Universe Series, the Cubs and Red Sox, having been fortuitously relieved of their brilliant yet inexplicably brain-dead-when-it-counts managers in dual freak lighting strikes, are locked in the heated battle of an epic showdown. The Cubbies have managed to eke out two wins at Wrigley (in front of frenzied crowds featuring such Chicago luminaries as Mayor Daley, Mayor Oprah, Sausage King Abe Froman, the Blues Brothers, the re-animated singing remains of Harry Caray, and such stars of the recent hit movie Chicago as that Hot Chick who’s married to that guy from Romancing the Stone and that Buddhist Guy who put the you-know-what up his hoo-hah), both in extra-innings and dramatic fashion. But the Red Sox are expecting to be energized by their return to the adoring denizens of Fenway Park, scene of their impressive come-from-behind ALCS win (capped by two impressive shutout innings from the bullpen in relief of the clearly spent Pedro Martinez) over the Yankees, who went home to cry like little children in front of their burning piles of money.

Stay tuned to WULAD for updates on the World Series we wish we had!

WULAD World Wire
The sex police are really getting out of hand. Now a judge can't even "bang the gavel" in his own courtroom? I expected more from you, France!

Dinette Vignettes, vol. cxvii
Belle, while watching MTV last night: “Wow, he was born in 1954—he’s young. I mean old.”

Atari Teenage Quiet
Via Scrubbles, here's an excellent piece demonstrating what kids of the information age think about the quaint time-wasters of yesteryear—meaning my childhood. On a related note, Chocobaby recently bought me an all-in-one Atari joystick that includes ten games right there inside it, so you just plug it into the TV as is. On the box, it has a picture of a kid holding it under the text, "Have Fun with a Blast from Your Parents' Past!" Ugh. Should I have multiplied already? (She pointed out that if we'd all started reproducing at 18 like good suburbanites, we could have 11-year old kids by now.) Anyway, it included such old favorites as the recently-mentioned Yar's Revenge, where the player is some sort of Space Fly Critter that blows things up while being stalked by a glowing minus sign (as if your math homework is hunting you), and Adventure, where the protagonist is a square with a sword chased by transparent dragons and—get this—the game continues even after you're dead. Four stars on the WULADometer. And a bonus star for getting to hear C-baby's grunts every time her stick figure crashed to the ground in Circus Atari.

Not That There's Anything, Etc.
From an article in the UK Guardian regarding biblical views on homosexuality (via Matthew Tobey):

In this passage the word "know" has increasingly over the centuries been taken to mean some sort of homosexual encounter, probably rape. This may be what the men were intending, but the original Hebrew word "yada" is ambiguous: it appears 943 times in the Old Testament but only on about a dozen occasions with the meaning of sexual activity.

From Seinfeld:

George: Listen to this. Marcy comes up and she tells me her ex-boyfriend was over late last night, and "yada yada yada, I'm really tired today." You don't think she yada yada'd sex.

Elaine: (Raising hand) I've yada yada'd sex.

And some still doubt the modern relevance of this miraculous book!

WULAD Wround the Web
Go here to read my contribution (Erotic Senryu on the Curse Classic That Wasn't, October 2003) to Neal Pollack-impersonator-of-the-week C Monks' call for Erotic Poems regarding the baseball postseason. Mine's the really, really good one.

The Curse of the Pedrino
Aaaaarrgh. Buh. Uhhhhnn. And here's the understatement of the year.

There is, however, something poetic about the way that the team and its fans recieved their smiting; He who lives by the Pedro, shall die by the Pedro. The World Series was going to be fun to watch if the Cubs and/or Sox made it; now it'll feel like a slow, dreadful wait for the inevitable nausea of watching the same smug celebrants talking about how this year was especially meaningful, what with all the hardship and such. (Wait, what year is this again?) However, due to the fact that as recently as 2001, the Diamondbacks (another expansion team with sparse fans and repellant uniforms) proved that "America's Team" is indeed fallible, I will begrudgingly take up the aqua and black banner (hurts my eyes just imagining it) and root, root, root for the non-home team.

Go Marlins. Beat those big-ticket bastards at any cost. I don't care if you have to re-animate the frozen head of Ted Williams and attach it to a robotic exoskeleton. I don't care if you discover that Osama Bin Laden has a 98 m.p.h. fastball and you name him team captain. I don't care if your entire starting lineup is bitten by radioactive spiders and develops the proportional strength and agility of said spiders. Forget creative solutions—you want steroids? I'll buy them for you.

Just... beat... those... @#%$&... Yankees!

Chocobaby Chat Chorner
Me: ... In 9th grade, I used to sit every night before bed in my darkened room, listening to Def Leppard on my headphones, playing Yar's Revenge and visualizing winning mountain bike races. Those were the awkward years.

Her: Just those?

WULAD Word of the Day
Shit•faced•er adj. Even more shitfaced than before; progressively shitfaced: "Then we went to another bar, and everybody proceeded to get even shitfaceder." (Belle, 2003.)

Fiddle, Faddle, Spittle, Battle
It’s National Feral Cat Day, which also serves as a reminder that there are only 14 shopping days until National Feral Elected Official Month begins!

In baseball news, Joel Achenbach of the Washington Post lays further blame for the Cubs’ demise at the foot of the now-revealed-not-to-be-Barry-Zito foul-catching fan…

Supposedly, a butterfly flapping its tiny wings in China could set in motion the atmospheric events leading to a hurricane in the Atlantic. Imagine stubbing your toe and triggering an earthquake. You hop around, squealing, and Japan drops into a deep-sea trench. Steve Bartman tries to catch a ball hit directly to him in the stands, and his team gives up eight runs. Chaos reigns. It's physics.

... and he’s got some explaining to do to the victims of the Staten Island Ferry crash as well, I would bet.

Yes, WULAD is disappointed that one half of the Curse Classic has dropped out of the running, but I think that if the fans had been just a little more ravenous and hooliganistic, they might’ve been able to rally their squad to success. (Next time: more beer, more yelling, Cubs fans. Say it like you mean it.) Meanwhile, the Marlins, owners of the major leagues’ most hideous uniforms, will take their scrappy brand of play to battle against the victor of tonight’s winner-take-all-and-stomp-on-the-squishy-eyeballs-and-pulverized-genitals-of-the-losers matchup between the New York Paychecks and the Beantown Brawlers. I’ll be there in spirit, soaking up the sights, the sounds, the loogies...

WULAD News Flash!
Holy crap! Due to Nomar Garciaparra's sudden discovery of a bat on his shoulder, the Curse Classic is now just two wins away! I charge you, the WULAD faithful, to vociferously exhort the Red Sox and Cubbies on to victory. Those of you not interested in baseball may read silently or begin translating Finnegans Wake into Klingon or something and say silently to yourselves, "It'll all be over in a few weeks..."

All Roads Lead to WULAD
This is of course an easy joke requiring no thought on my part, and has been done by every blog known to man or astro-man. So what am I waiting for? Nothing!

Actual internet searches that have led (most likely disappointed) people to this website:

• Magic Johnson + group sex (I never kiss and tell.)
  
  
• NYC criminal court summons information (Your go-to guide to the criminal justice system. Se Habla Español. Open 24 hours.)
  
  
• Smelly French drummer (Wanted for cover band with major label interest!)
  
  
• "coffee cops" noir (Is somebody else using my screenplay idea?)
  
  
• "nude racquetball" (Keep your eye... on... the ball!)
  
  
• anti-Boston Red Sox (I've always considered my site Fair & Balanced™.)
  
  
• "Obnoxious Red Sox fans" (Slander! Libel! Wait...)
  
  
• douche bug (Just don't let it lay eggs!)
  
  
• "Johnny Damon" ethnicity (That feller's got a purty mouth—but is he, you know...)
  
  
• ORIGINAL CAST OF SABADO GIGANTE (... ¿Qué?)
  
  
• Baptist history and principles coleman (I got your Baptist history and principles right here, Gary.)
  
  
• People wrapped up in bags (And the people who love them.)
  
  
• photo of young red sox fan flipping the bird (For the new Massachusetts state quarter.)
  
  
• wrapped up like a douche (Is THIS what that freaking song was about?)

I will of course keep you, who come to this site for what are generally not perverted and/or devious reasons, posted with all the stunning developments in this so-easy-the-entry-writes-itself area.

Attention Denizens of Wrigley
Cub fans, I have two things to say to you. First, the guy who caught the foul ball is not your enemy. The eight runs you coughed up after that are the enemy. (This is similar to Red Sox fans blaming Bill Buckner for losing the ’86 series when in reality a) at the time Mookie’s grounder rolled through his legs, the game was already tied, so they would’ve had to go to extra innings even if he’d fielded the ball cleanly; and b) it was Game 6, so they had a whole new day and a whole new lead to blow on their way to that unhappy fate. So leave the guy’s kids alone already.) Second, as you can see in the comparison shots below (provided by WULAD’s crack Photography dept.), the “Cub fan” in question was actually none other than former Cy Young winner Barry Zito of the Oakland A’s, no doubt looking to sabotage other teams’ World Series® hopes to assuage the pain of his own Shattered October Dreams®.

Meanwhile, the Sox have the odds stacked against them in the Bronx, so the lovable losers of the Midwest may be the last hope for a Curse-bashing Classic—so dry your windblown eyes, Cubbies, and win just one more for the WULAD.

Stars and Gripes
Apparently an Army officer serving in Iraq has been forging sick notes—wait, make that "glowing appraisals of war progress"—for his charges, and instructing them to send the letters to newspapers across the country. As ABC News tells it:

Each letter was signed by a different soldier, but the words were identical:

"Kirkuk is a hot and dusty city of just over a million people. The majority of the city has welcomed our presence with open arms. After nearly five months here, the people still come running from their homes, into the 110-degree heat, waving to us as our troops drive by on daily patrols of the city. Children smile and run up to shake hands and in their broken English shouting, "Thank you, Mister."

Amy C_____, of S____, Mass., knew as soon as she received the letter from her son A___ that he did not write it. "He's 20 years old and I don't think his language or his writing ability would have entailed that kind of description," she said.

...yep, that's some pretty intellectual writing. However, the WULAD news team has managed to locate a copy of the original, undoctored version of the letter quoted above, which reflects much more accurately the language and writing ability of a 20-year old soldier:

Kirkuk, the centre of the northern Iraqi petroleum industry, is located at 35.47°N, 44.41°E, in the Iraqi province of at-Ta'mim; the estimated population in 2003 was 755,700 people. It is exceedingly sweltering and bathed in a fine coat of dust—a dust as ephemeral and easily borne on the desert wind as the deep, dark dreams of its inhabitants. The vast preponderance of its native population has joyously lauded our triumphant ingression with amicable embraces. After the passage of five lunar cycles, the populace continue to spring forth from their humble abodes into the oppressive and blistering air to deliver salutations as we, their watchful hussars, pass by. Their smiling progeny approach on tiny merry feet to clasp our palms, chirping mellifluously, "We are eternally grateful, gallant sirs!" Also please send porn. Porn and air conditioners, Ma. God damn.

FLULAD
Yes, it’s true that most of the WULAD executive council has been fighting a pretty nasty case of the flu, but we’re not the kind of media empire to just lay down in a pool of our own sweat and leave our loyal readers without their daily dose of wit and wisdom. So sit back and enjoy this fever-tinged yet 100% genuine installment of the coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever so you can rest blog.

Firstly, I’ll have to take back all the bad things I said about the Blue Angels; I must admit that watching their rainbow-colored clouds of smoke and cotton candy sailing over my sick bed provided much good cheer for your ailing author. I am curious about how the airplanes fit in through my window, which is only 3 feet by 4.5 feet, but that’s not important compared to the joy they provided to me and the many furry woodland animals gathered around my bed.

Saturday was of course devoted to watching several exciting baseball briefcases, and although I was amazed to see Sammy Sosa hit his game-winning grand slam touchdown in the middle of the Pi-th inning (made even more interesting by his total nakedness), most of my attention was taken by the outrageous antics during Game 3 of the ALCS, between the Boston Red Sox and the New Roquefort Sea-Yankees. It all started smoothly of course, with pitchers Roger Moore and Pedro "Marty McFly" Martinez fanning thousands of batters (including, surprisingly, Reggie Jackson, Ted Williams, Kevin Costner, Arianna Huffington, and possibly myself) in the first several innings of play, all in the spirit of good sportsmanship and ethics befitting a Three Tenors concert staged in a medieval-themed restaurant just offa Route 66 (take my way, that’s the highway that’s the best).

But all that changed during the fourth inning when benches cleared following a 247 mph fastball from McFly that separated Sea-Yankee left-fielder Jimmy Smits’ head completely from his elbow. Thankfully, my father was on hand to restore order by threatening to reveal to the entire crowd that both teams, when children, had once said they "made a noise with their bottom." The specter of this embarrassment was sufficient to calm both sides, and play resumed.

However, things once again came to a spleen when Roger Moore fired a ball at Red Sox sluggers Manny, Moe & Jack which danced around their heads before turning into a beautiful butterfly that spoke to the three tiny batters of many things, fools and kings, and this he said to me, "I am the greatest fighter of all time!" Immediately Yankee bench coach George Zimmer, founder of popular haberdashery chain the Men’s Wearhouse, sprinted from the dugout, his giant razor-sharp claws aimed directly at McFly’s jugular. "Nay," shouted McFly, "Ye shall not take me alive!"

Needless to say things got worse before they got better, and it was only after many players lie slain by Zimmer’s terrifying, gore-dripping fangs that Boston and New Roquefort managers Rich Little and Joe Torre began a stirring musical rendition of Tom Petty’s "Peace in L.A." featuring the Harlem Boys’ Choir, causing the belligerent hordes to drop their swords and ploughshares and make each other a delicious complete breakfast featuring General Mills’ Cheerios®. The Red Sox went on to win, 38.4 to negative infinity.

Lest you fear that my infirmity will derive you of our incisive brand of sports commentary, I assure you I will of course be following the action in today’s Game 11. And let the best sponge win! That’s all for now from our headquarters in the medical wing of the U.S.S. WULAD. May you live in peace and angel hair pasta, my dear sweet pumpkin muffins.

Love,
Suzy

Daily Kvetch
OK, so as I'm working, the Blue Angels—those shimmering, dazzling reminders of the beauty of the machinery of world domination—are screaming overhead "rehearsing" for the big air show tomorrow. (C-Baby: "They're supposedly practicing, but everybody can see them—I mean it's not like they're behind a curtain or something.") I try to think of them as descendents of the old barnstorming daredevil pilots of the early days of flight, but somehow that point of view has been ousted ever since screaming flying things hurtling over cities became a little bit more nerve-wracking a few years ago. And even after I've reminded myself that it's just an air show, I still get a a little queasy every time they roar by. Last year, as they were rattling the windows of my apartment while I was on the phone with old buddy Clare-bear, he was talking about the inappropriateness of warplanes showing off their military might over civilian cities while essentially the same planes were busy raining down destruction over Afghanistan, etc. "But these are just showplanes," I said. "There're no bombs on them."

"Yeah," he replied, "That's what they want you to think."

More realistically, consider C-Baby's thought: "I just keep wondering how much this is costing me." Not more than the yearly salary of a few dozen teachers, probably.* (I know, this hardly sounds like the words of someone who went to Space Camp, but I guess I lost the air and space bug when I found out that astronauts have to do a lot of math.)

*According to the Navy's website above, the team uses approximately 3.1 million gallons of airplane fuel per year. I'm sure they get a good deal on it, though.

Wrapped Up Like A New-Age Day Spa
For your personal care, holistic health, and aromatherapy needs, the following assortment of extremely Non-Essential Oils is now available from WULAD Personal Care Products:

• Hand-pressed Organic Concrete Oil


• God Liver Oil


• Fractionated Oil of Hawaiian Pizza


• Nilla® Extract


• Partially Hydrogenated MexiMelt Oil


• Pastor Oil


• Oil Get You, My Pretty (Groaning Added)


• Essence of Wilford Brimley


• No-Blood-For Oil


• Oil of VH1’s Top 25 Make-Out Videos of the 90s, hosted by Soleil Moon Frye


• Valvoline MaxLife Higher-Mileage Engine Oil of Passionflower


• Hairy Palm Oil


• First Cold-Pressed Unfiltered Foot-Scab Oil


• Oil of Dow Jones Industrial Average


• Expeller-Pressed Organic Blogseed Oil

Supplies are limited, so order now! And with every purchase, you’ll also receive a FREE CD from the WULAD Environments Series, The Soothing Sounds of My Neighbors Getting It On. Don’t miss out on this holistic meltdown of an offer!

Friday FrightFest
He’s… comin’ right at us!

He’s… looking at me!

He’s… doing things!

He’s… doing other things!

Self-Serving yet Humble Note to Readers: If you've enjoyed this commercial-free episode of Wrapped Up Like a Douche™, please tell your friends! Link to WULAD from your Collectible Souvenir "Stars of Lawn Darts" Ice Cream Cups Clubs webring, or your Solo Projects of Former Members of Menudo message board! Don't keep the Pearl of the World Wide Web to yourself!

Dinette Vignettes, vol. mcvxi
Polk St. Station, last Saturday, 1 p.m. The burly waiter guy interrupts our conversation when someone mentions Tom Jones... "Tom Jones! I remember my mom bein' crazy about Tom Jones in the seventies. She used to wear those little tiny miniskirts with the panties that were the same color so she wouldn't get in trouble when she sat down! Eh? Know what I mean?" A few minutes later he intrerrupts the lesbian couple next to us: "Hey, you goin' to see Willie Nelson?"

WULAD Wreccomends...
Paul Fisher (of WWKAD? but currently serving as de facto chief of the Neal Pollack government-in-exile) has a suprisingly charitable yet inevitably and appropriately cutting review of aspiring dark lord and dulcet-toned demagogue Bill O'Reilly's recent appearance (and disappearance) on NPR's Fresh Air; I found the following comment particularly incisive: "It's almost hard for me to write about it because I hate Bill O'Reilly so much. And it has surprisingly little to do with his politics... but more to do with his complete disrespect for reasoned analysis or logic. Either that or his ass face."

And here's a nice photo of Condoleeza Rice pouting. And one of the Prez frowning like a Muppet.


One More Thing
Mimi Smartypants was recently saddened to discover that her favorite postmodern Joycean critique and breakfast cereal had been discontinued by the manufacturer. I was lucky enough to find one more box, though. Click the box to view.

This is Gonna Suck
Last night, while watching the Cubs and Marlins trying to rain on each others’ parades, I got a flustered message from one Shan-bear; she was talking about giving up, moving to Mexico, was completely incredulous that "we" have turned over control of our economy, educational system, law enforcement, and most other public institutions we hold dear to a man whose most memorable quality is the ability to appear as if he’s crushing things, kicking people in the groin, and delivering facile one-liners while other things are appearing to explode around him. She called me back a few minutes later. "Considah dat a divoahce," I answered.

She asked whether I’d be joining her in fleeing the country ("I just can’t accept that my governor is going to be Schwarzenegger and my president is Bush"), but I asked her who would stay and fight the good fight if we left. "How can people be so stupid?" was the gist of her point of view—I countered that I didn’t view this election as being so much about Ah-nold vs. Gray, but more Republican vs. Democrat, and that traditionally Republicans prefer their leaders to be charismatic figureheads (such as Reagan and our current Action Figure in chief) who surround themselves with knowledgeable advisors who the voters trust will agree with them—so this was no exception. And I didn’t believe that the Ah-nold camp was necessarily stupid, they just had a vastly different world-view than Shan-bear or I (believing that the Bible is true, that poor people are poor because they’re lazy, that immigrants are stealing our jobs, that taxes are evil, etc.). In fact, the people who organized the recall were obviously intelligent, resourceful, and much more organized than the Democrats’ feeble efforts at resistance. Not to mention that a "throw the bums out" mentality will almost always work when people are fearing for their jobs.

"So you’re gonna insist on being the voice of reason, is that it?" she asked. I told her I wasn’t happy about it, but I wasn’t at all surprised, either, and that I’d rather focus my attention on something where the outcome holds at least a little suspense, like the Cubs/Marlins game. "Well, call me if you think of something that’ll cheer me up," she sighed.

"You mean that doesn’t start with a 'Jack' and end with a 'Daniels'?" I asked.

Later, as I was watching a few of the man-on-the-street interviews at the polls, I almost called Shan-bear to correct myself—"Yeah, I voted for Arnold 'cause he’s really gonna shake things up," said one guy; "Our state’s a mess, and we need somebody to get in there and clean house," said another; and I remembered C-Baby telling me about the suburban mom in the Chronicle who wasn't worried about the groping charges because she thought Arnold was "pretty neat"—these people were stupid. I couldn’t believe I had wasted my breath defending them as concerned yet misguided everymen (and everywomen). They really were a bunch of freakin’ idiots. You win, Shan-bear; I’ll see you at the airport.

As a side note, I did think Arnold’s victory speech to his supporters was a little strange—I’ve included a transcript here so you can judge for yourselves:

Howdy, Strangers; this is Arnold. If things have gone wrong, I'm talking to myself—and you've got a wet towel wrapped around your head. Now whatever your name is, get ready for the big surprise—You're not you. You're me. All my life I worked for Mars Intelligence. I did Cohaagen's dirty work. Then a few weeks ago, I met somebody—a woman. And I learned a few things; like I've been playing for the wrong team. [Sighs.] All I can do now is try to make up for it.

[Taps on his forehead.] There's enough shit in here to fuck Cohaagen good. Unfortunately, if you're listening to this, that means he got to me first. And here comes the hard part, old buddy: now it's all up to you. Sorry to drag you into it, but you're the only one I can trust. First, let's get rid of that bug in your head. [Holds up plastic bag.] Take this thing out of the case and stick it up your nose. Don't worry; it's self guiding. Just shove real hard... When you hear the crunch, you're there. Just pull it out. And be careful. It's my head, too.

Now this is the plan. Get your ass to Mars. Then go the Hilton and flash the Brubaker I.D. at the desk. That's all there is to it. Just do what I tell you, and we can nail that sonovabitch who fucked you and me and millions of other poor bastards here on Mars… I mean California. I'm counting on you, buddy. Don't let me down. [Crowd erupts into thunderous applause.]

WULAD Web Wround-Up
Via Scrubbles, the glorious, mouth-watering mail-order junk of yesteryear. Required reading for anyone who ever fantasized about hand buzzers, Sea Monkeys, 1000 pc. soldier sets, etc.—as well as a sub-minimum-wage child-labor-for-crappy-prizes racket that would make Ayn Rand proud.

From Chocobaby: Because "it's better when it looks pretty," the perfect gift for the woman who has almost everything.

And lastly, because if I had started with baseball most of you would no longer be reading, King Kaufman of Salon dissects the most memorable play of the postseason so far: No-mah and Bill Mueller's ultra-smooth put-out at second after the relentlessly replayed skull-crunching collision of Johnny Damon and Damian Jackson. (Brief ad-watching necessary to read the article.) It was almost a little too smooth, if you know what I mean. (I got my eye on you, Nomar.) So the Sox head back east to face the Evil Empire, and the World Series of my dreams (no, not the version of the 2000 series where the Mets win)—the Curse Bowl, you could say—is just a combined eight wins away. (Best quote of the division series: "Well, Dontrelle [Willis]'s mom knows her son ate his Wheaties today, but the question is, did he eat enough?" Answer: maybe not, but Pudge Rodriguez apparently ate enough for both of them.)

Bonus: here's a nice photo of one of the charming young men rooting for the A's last night.

Don't Make Her Come Over There
Special message to Californians: You see this? If you don't vote today, this woman will come to your apartment and sing house remixes of all her hits until you realize what a lousy citizen you are, and would it kill you to put away that pile of socks? You did laundry like a week ago.

Wrapped Up Like An Endorsement
For those readers lucky enough to live in The Sunshine State, current headquarters of the WULAD media empire and home to millions of kvetching New Yorkers who nevertheless refuse to leave, we are happy to tell you exactly what to do as you stand scratching your head in the ballot box tomorrow morning. So get out your pencils and listen carefully to the issues presented to you—if you find you disagree with any of our vehement suggestions, WULAD assures you the problem is with you, not us.

Shall GRAY DAVIS be recalled (removed) from the office of Governor?
WULAD implores: NO.

Candidates to succeed GRAY DAVIS as Governor if he is recalled:
WULAD beseeches: Cruz Bustamante, D. (Incidentally, I was present during his controversial speech, and I'm pretty sure he actually said either "Niagara" or "noggin", or was asking for a refreshing Negra Modelo.)

Resist the temptation to vote for "fun" candidates like Lorraine (Abner Zurd) Fontanes, Trek Thunder Kelly, Michael Jackson (no relation), Dan Feinstein (no relation), Arnold Schwarzenegger (no relation), Kurt E. "Tachikaze" Rightmyer, Arnold "TouchiAze" Schwarzenegger, David Laughing Horse Robinson, or Arnold Grabbing Ass Schwarzenegger. Additionally, I urge you not to vote for anyone who appeared in a film grossing over $1 million this year. Or Schwarzenegger.

Propostition 54: Classification by race, ethnicity, color, or national origin. Initiative Constitutional Amendment.
WULAD entreats: NO.
All the talk about medical records is a smokescreen for the fact that this is an anti-affirmative action measure sponsored by our old buddy Ward "Colorblind Society" Connerly. WULAD thinks you should vote against it but respects your right to disagree, whereas if you vote for Arnold, WULAD will never speak to you again.

Remember, if you don't run for governor, don't complain!

WULAD vs. The Old People
For reasons I will never begin to fathom, the cosmos has recently chosen to throw in my general direction some of the Bay Area’s most ornery, belligerent senior citizens (and “citizen” is an extremely charitable designation). I present, for your incredulous perusal, three examples of these Silver Shriekers, in the hope that you might gain some appreciation of the creeping menace our Cherished Elders represent...

Route: 1 California, outbound
Time: Monday, 6:30 p.m.
The California bus during rush hour resembles a roller-coaster, except that riders are usually standing, tightly yet awkwardly packed, and not buckled in; therefore flying limbs, briefcases, or small children are not an uncommon sight. It climbs and descends some of San Fran’s steepest hills—somehow the intrepid MUNI drivers manage to slam on the brakes even while driving up them—so at any given moment a passenger may be thrown forward, backward, or sideways, often with extremely comedic results, except when they land on you. This particular day I’m standing, sardine-fashion, near the front of the bus, when a guy in his early 20s steps on the bus with a briefcase and a soda can. I hear a piercing voice coming from the seniors/disabled seats, in front of and below me.

Shrill Old Lady: Hey! You can’t have an open soda on the bus!

Soda Guy: It’s almost empty, don’t worry.

SOL: What?! You can’t have soda on the bus! Put it away! Put it away!
[SG shakes his head and turns to face away from SOL.]

SOL: This stupid guy won’t put his can away! You can’t have a soda on the bus! Hey, stupid! [At this point something in me clicks. I know it’s pointless and I’ll end up regretting it, but I take the plunge anyway.]

Me (softly but deliberately): Hey, chill out, lady, OK?
[I know, not a very characteristic thing for me to say, but I’m new to this “champion of the defenseless” gig.]

SOL: Excuse me?!

Me: Chill… Out. It’s not a big deal.

SOL: Not a big deal?! This jerk won’t put away his soda!

Me: He’s not a jerk, he’s just a guy with a soda!

SOL: He’s going to spill it on all of us!

Me: He just told you it’s almost empty! Why don’t you wait until after he spills it, and then you can yell at him.

SOL: After he spills it?! That’s too late! [To other riders:] After he spills it!

Me: Because he’s not going to spill it, is what I mean!

Guy Towards Back of Bus: It’s against the rules! Stop harassing the lady!

Me (getting increasingly freaked-out): Who’s harassing who?!

We pull up to my stop, and I realize soda guy has been off the bus for some time. As I step to the curb, I hear SOL screeching at Guy Towards the Back, “After he spills it! You shoulda knocked that guy’s block off!”

Route: 3 Sutter, outbound
Time: Wednesday, 5:35 p.m.
As I often find that even the relatively narrow profile I present when carrying my trumpet case on my back still manages to become a huge obstacle to certain high-maintenance bus-riders, I decide to duck into the exit stairwell at the middle of the bus and thus stay out of the aisle. While standing there (seemingly) unobtrusively and staring blankly out the window at the posh hotels, automotive repair shops, and back-alley massage parlors of Post Street (where I once overheard a hotel guest asking a concierge, “Yeah, but where do I find the whores?”) I start to feel pressure on my back; when it fails to abate after a few seconds, I turn around to see a wiry and frazzled-looking elderly guy pushing into my coat. I look questioningly into his fierce eyes.

Frazzled Elderly Guy: Are you getting off at the next stop?

Me: No.

FEG: Then why are you standing there?

Me: I’m trying to stay out of the aisle.

FEG: How’re people gonna get off? People have to get off, you know.

Me: I’ll let you by when you need to get off.

FEG: I’m getting off now!

Me (getting frazzled myself): You’re getting off while the bus is moving?

FEG (confusedly): Well, no…
[I see a seat and decide to give up the fight.]

FEG (to himself as he steps off the bus): Too many people on this bus...

Route: 27 Bryant, inbound
Time: Friday, 9:10 a.m.
I often nervously watch old people board the bus and slowly make their way to a seat, often still lowering themselves as the bus slams into gear and tears away from the curb, thanks to our expert drivers. On more than one occasion I’ve had to catch an unfortunate senior who loses his or her balance and starts careening down the aisle. This particular day a wizened woman in her who looked to be in her eighties decides to walk to the back exit from her seat at the front of the bus while the bus itself is making a speedy turn around a corner; all the passengers along her route hold their hands out as she passes, lurching back and forth with every step. As she tilts past, flailing for the occasional support bar, I say, “careful…”

“I’m too old,” she snaps, “is that what you’re saying? Too old to ride the bus, eh?!”

If I somehow live to my golden years, you better believe I’m going to milk the crotchety old guy thing and make the youngsters pay for all this abuse.

Nothing New Under the Douche
Matthew Tobey recently found that The Onion had, intentionally or no, stolen his idea for a story about Governator Arnold’s use of movie titles in campaign speeches; I’m now stealing that concept to point out that a recent McSweeney’s item on The Goonies has quite a few similarities to my Top Ten Problems with same, published earlier. I’m not alleging plagiarism, of course—The Goonies is, after all, a gloriously appropriate vehicle for satirical criticism—I believe that this is just a further example of the dictum that any idea you can think of has already been done, possibly by many, probably better, and the internet is a marvelous tool for demonstrating this. Therefore The Onion was only acknowledging the ultimate futility of developing new ideas by coming up with other people’s ideas retroactively. Further, I’ve stolen the previous “nothing new on the internet” concept from Defective Yeti, and this entire post has been lifted almost verbatim from a comment I left on Matthew Tobey’s aforementioned site. Anyway, it’s time to get back to work on my screenplay—it’s about a group of kids who find pirate booty.

Take Me Out to the WULAD
Or, Titillating Tidbits of Triumph, Tub-thumping and Troglodism at Game 1 of the American League Division Series, Oakland Coliseum.

[Note to non-baseball fans: Since this post contains humorous anecdotes and incisive observations about society not limited to the purview of Our National Game, it is suitable for general readers and is not to be skimmed over lightly like an air-dried pudding. Thank you.]

The WULAD News team was fortunate enough to send a delegation to the opener of the American League playoff series last night between the Oakland Athletics and the Boston Red Sox, consisting of myself (not having picked a favorite yet) and Belle (an old-school Boston girl). Here are some of the highlights—close your eyes, read them, and you can almost smell the peanuts. Or maybe read them and then close your eyes.

Pre-game. During the singing of our National Anthem by a trio of unfortunate a capella Air Force harmonizers, three crimson-bedecked Bostonians—two twins (as I told Belle, “They got the same strain of ugly”) and an alpha-male ringleader with ball cap jauntily askew—hold their Bud Lights high in the air as a kind of alcoholic’s salute to our cherished ideals of 40-foot flags, fireworks, and terrifyingly low-flying fighter jets. “America,” they seemed to be saying, “this Bud’s for you!”

Bottom 2nd inning. Due to Belle’s desire to experience the feeling of eating a hot dog without actually consuming der verboten schnitzel itself, she devises an ingenious plan to create a “Not Dog”, demonstrated below:


You’ll notice that this plan, while providing Belle with her condiment-laden dogless dog, leaves me to contend with a massive, double hot dog, the likes of which I will never see again. (And I must add that one “Coliseum Dog” alone is at least 1.5 times the size of Pac Bell Park’s corresponding “Giants Dog.”) In a tribute to the heroic efforts being put forth by the players below, I valiantly attack and defeat this Monster Dog, ignoring the pleas for temperance coming from my digestive system. If I don’t devour this hot dog, I think, the terrorists and other freedom-hating enemies of nitrite-infused forced meats have already won.

Mid 4th. In the men’s room, I see a man standing at a urinal watching a portable TV he is holding with his free hand. I vow never to pick up a TV I find on the sidewalk again.

7th Inning Stretch. After I sing the one-note-displaced version of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” (“Take ME out to the ball-GAME, TAKE, Me out to the crowd BUY,” etc.) that my dad taught me (a version of which was later recorded by the Skeletons), the bouncy A’s girl next to me asks, “what song were you singing?” (Belle: “Any time you see a ponytail pulled through the back of a ball cap, it’s a bad sign.”)

Top 8th. We hear a kid in the row behind us tell his family he wants to start the wave; Belle tells him he should “go down there and do it!” “I’m too embarrassed,” says the kid. So Belle offers to embarrass herself with him, and down they go to the front row. After a few unsuccessful attempts to get anybody other than me and the kid’s parents out of their seats, one of the obnoxious Red Sox fans mentioned earlier starts flipping the bird to the two would-be wave-makers. “Hey,” shouts a voice from behind me, “that’s my kid you’re flipping off!” Belle yells to the flipper-offer, “I’m a Boston fan!”, not realizing until afterwards that this will not endear her to the rest of the crowd. So they resign themselves to the immobility of their audience and make their way back up the stairs. “Hey Boston-boy,” yells Belle when she gets back to her seat, “Why you flippin’ me off? I’m on your side, you idiot!”

Mid 9th. As the accumulated alcohol starts to stew in their systems, the tempers of the increasingly rowdy Bostonians start to rise. At one point we watch as Alpha-Sock, while arguing with one of his A’s fan-buddies, pours his Bud Light slowly and deliberately on A’s boy's head. “Please,” I think, “start fighting and get kicked out!” But, deferring to Alpha’s authority and fearful of the consequences of challenging clan leadership, the buddy merely turns away and changes his shirt and hat, sitting down to sulk and give his den-brothers the silent treatment.

Bottom 9th. Belle castigates me for failing to enthusiastically root for the Red Sox to win. I tell her I want more baseball, extra innings, etc. After the Boston bullpen gives up the tying run, I tell her, “Let them win it in the 11th.”

Bottom 10th. As the night deepens and the pitchers come and go and still the game endures, we feel our posteriors slowly turning to permafrost. Belle suddenly gets a craving: “Mmmmm… Coffee ice cream…” Belle’s cravings are a little weird.

Top 11th. The Red Sox fail to take the lead. “You said they’d win in the 11th!” barks Belle. “You promised!” (Most creative anti-Boston sign: a giant green placard reading “1918”—the last year the Red Sox won the World Series.)

Bottom 12th. Answering my increasingly non-silent prayer, a giant, formidably burly A’s fan and his significant other plant themselves directly behind our favorite group of rowdy Red Sox supporters, and suddenly their chest-beating dwindles to a low murmur. It could also be that, as Belle points out, “they stopped selling beer like two hours ago.” Minutes later, making his best effort to finish the game on the same calendar date it started, Ramon Hernandez lays down his perfect “walkoff bunt” to win the game for the A’s and a roar rises from the suddenly vindicated locals. Our bouncer-sized A’s fan laughs uproariously at our Beantown Buddies, and throws a crumpled napkin at Alpha-male, who makes his best “How scandalously uncouth of you, my good man; whatever were you thinking?” face and makes for the exit along with the Lee twins, “Ug” and “Home.” (Yes, old bad stolen joke.)

Post-game. Apparently the builders of the Coliseum never considered the idea of thousands of fans simultaneously leaving the stadium for the BART station, since the only route across the railroad tracks to the platform is a footbridge less than 20 feet wide with a chain-link roof and a razor-wire lined archway entrance which reminds Belle of Auschwitz. Naturally, we have another half-hour or so to stand around and listen to endless recaps from the trying-to-stay-happy-to-keep-from-screaming-in-cold-and-frustration fans. “Hey, that was a hell of a play in the fourth, eh?” … “Yeah, that was a good one.” … “And how about that one in the fifth?” … “Yeah…” As we finally step off the train back in San Fran, we pass a man wearing an A’s cap, a green shirt, yellow shorts and tights, and a long yellow cape with “A’s” on it. Somebody sees him and shouts, “Go A’s!” but he glances suspiciously out of the corner of his eye as if to say, “what are you talking about?” That's the spirit, slugger. For Belle and WULAD Sports, this is Yours Truly signing off from Oakland. Back to you in the studio, Kitty.

Wrapped Up Like A Guest Commentator
Today, WULAD proudly presents the following contribution, from your friendly neighborhood Obstreperous Coworker:

SF Gate: Truly Unbiased Voice of the People
Here's my impression of a (shortened) unbiased article from SF Gate on police brutality:

"Cops don't be treatin' black people fair," said one man while chugging a forty and scratching his balls with a 357 Magnum. He would only identify himself as Short Fatty. Another woman we spoke to as she bought cigarettes and vodka for her underage daughter snapped, "the cops deserved to be lynched, them racist bastards."

But other residents from a nearby neighborhood disagree. Todd Wilmore had the kindness and decency to speak to us on his way to seminary school. "The police do an excellent job of protecting citizens from all walks of life. I am honored to live in a city that has the privilege of employing a police department that exemplifies courage, honor, and impeccable judgement."

"And remember," Obstrep adds, "if you go to Oakland, don't miss the plastic seat on the fence; you might get a pole up your ass."

Axis & Allies & Fuzzy Q-tip Hats
This story (via C-baby) describes a Texas high school marching band director who was shocked, shocked that the audience at a football game could misconstrue his field show featuring a Nazi flag as anything other than the masterwork of historical drama it was. (Am I the only one who's surprised that, this being Texas, nobody saluted?)

I, for one, mourn the lost days of wholesome, family field shows such as the following:

In 1990, the [Stanford] band was briefly banned from the state of Oregon for hacking up a stuffed spotted owl during a half-time performance at the U. of O. In 1994, 21 bandmembers made national news for performing "She's Not There" on the steps of the L.A. County Courthouse during the O.J. Simpson trial. And last year the university was forced to apologize to Notre Dame for a half-time performance in which a member conducted the band with a crucifix while dressed in a nun's habit and recited a script that said Irish culture consists mostly of "fighting and starving."