Friday, January 30, 2004

Top Excuses for Not Updating Blog

...as tabulated by American Academy of Important Statistics and Stuff, Jan. 2004:

  • Computer incapacitated by baloney sandwich wedged in D: drive

  • Hospitalized following drunken fracas at LegoLand

  • Busy rummaging through Spalding Gray’s trash for “clues”

  • Meeting with Commissioner of Baseball to discuss possible reinstatement on way to dog track

  • Grounded

  • Developed carpal-tunnel syndrome following launch of HotMaryPoppinsAction.com

  • Sent to Alaskan military school by dad following flunking of History exam due to George Carlin’s interference

  • Recruited unexpectedly to fill vacancy in The Bloodhound Gang

  • Searching for weapons of mass destruction and babes

  • Didn’t feel like it

Wednesday, January 28, 2004

Wrapped Up Like A Lame Excuse
Unfortunately, WULAD’s day job requirements are heating up, so expect light updates for the next week or so. (Quote from our obstreperous coworker: “These people are crazy, working fourteen hours a day. I mean, I might be willing to do that if they... No, I never would.”)

Thanks to all who’ve run up the Douche flag and saluted over at BlogMadness—there are still a few hours to vote, although we may not survive this round and certainly not the next one. But Hey Nonny Nonny, we do This Holy Work for neither Profit nor Renown, but solely for the Good of our Fellow Man and Maid, and the Eternal Glory of Paris Hilton's Crotch.

So as an example of the kind of low-effort entertainment of which we are still capable despite the demands of the workplace, we present...

Spammers Just Keep Getting More Post-Modern
Fresh from the front lines of the Unsolicited E-Mail Wars, we give you the Top Eight Bizarrely Fascinating Spam Subject Lines of the Week:

8. Re: VUYH, berlioz looked around

7. Re: UPI, the first! Exclaimed

6. Re: RSV, stravinsky suddenly asked

5. Re: ACSS, here? eh? Allow

4. Re: ARCE, the gingerbread towers

3. Re: LUTAR, strangely: the procurators

2. Re: TBNHYANL, exactly half past

…and the Number One Bizarrely Fascinating Spam Subject Line of the Week:

1. G1ve H.e.r. da wut S.h.e dezurvez! fasteners tormenter

Tuesday, January 27, 2004

Sit and Deliver
As I unfortunately sit convalescing in congestion, I would like to put the word out that readers of this site can show their support by voting for WULAD over at BlogMadness. Simply scroll down to the appropriate matchup (#5 vs. #28) and let the love flow. I am currently getting my ass handed to me by the Jeopardy guy, which is an untenable situation. Cheers!

Monday, January 26, 2004

Lunar New Year’s Resolutions (47)‘02

  • Lose those holiday pounds by adhering to a strict diet of molten lead.

  • Finally get around to accepting the validity of the Second Vatican Ecumenical Council.

  • Translate the complete works of Marilu Henner into Pig-Latin.

  • Stop calling Ricky Schroeder every damn day to ask him if I can play the arcade games he has in his house.

  • Give up nail-biting. From now on, those people on the bus will just have to bite their own nails.

  • Stop adding “Bellgrande” to everyone’s names.

  • Help old ladies across the street instead of just into the street.

  • Let go of my fierce, irrational hatred of Hawaiians.

  • To mine own self be true; and mine own self wants to get down.

  • Find a cure for the summertime blues. Or barring that, a cure for cancer.

  • At least once a week, purify body and spirit by bathing in Velveeta®.

  • Devote self to championing the misunderstood genius of Robin Williams’ dog.

  • Spend at least as much time updating WULAD as I spend doing “that other thing.”

  • Use fear and demagoguery as an excuse to erode the nation’s basic liberties and further enrich the elite at the expense of the neediest.

  • Do the Monster Mash.

  • Stop coveting my neighbor’s wife, especially since my neighbor’s wife is a blind, 87-year-old shut-in who speaks only Khmer.

  • Volunteer weekly at local soup kitchen; only this time, serve soup in bowls instead of shooting it through a high-powered hose.

  • Save the Welsh.

  • Reduce frequency of frantic calls to psychiatrist to one per super-intelligent talking gazpacho.

  • Resist irritating urge to do the right thing.

  • Tell the truth and shame the Devil Dogs.

Friday, January 23, 2004

Give Them What They Want, Vol. II
In our continuing effort to satisfy those random seekers who happen by our virtual door looking for something completely unrelated to our usual business—and usually perverted—we proudly present the second installment of our attempt to sell out completely to these prurient interests. Enjoy!

WULAD Web Wround-Up
Matt Baldwin (of D. Yeti fame) has got the ultimate guide to completing the terrifying IKEA quest Nintendo-style.

McSweeney's presents Choose-Your-Own-Adventure stories from the giants of American Lit.

SFers rejoice: the late, great Sears Fine Foods back in the house thanks to another restaurateur, possibly not obsessed with bodybuilders!

And Pete "Contrition is My Middle Name, Jackass" Rose is making his case for Cooperstown—one gambler at a time.

Clash of the Nerd Titans
Well, evidently the epic battle of the blogs known as BlogMadness ‘03 is underway, and WULAD’s entry—Wrapped Up Like a Personality Test (selected over other favorites by our executive editorial committee after a lengthy deliberation)—has been seeded 28th in the “Sports” bracket. (We’re told that both seeding and bracket assignment are arbitrary.) Our competition in the first round is somebody who quotes Jeopardy in his title, and while we definitely have the edge on word count and general snarkiness, the other guy references several old bad songs, which should earn him points with the sentimental crowd. We have no idea how exactly the winners are decided, but you can be sure we’ll find a way to complain about it. Unless of course we win. Stay tuned for further updates on this all-star rumble in the internet jungle.

(Let it be noted that WULAD realizes that in twenty years, we’ll be all be listening to a 250-lb. Britney Spears read scripted one-liners about blogs on I Love the Zero-ies. Good weekends all around...)

Thursday, January 22, 2004

Take Me Out to the WULAD
It's Mets Caravan Day over at WFAN: Mike "Not-So-Hot Corner" Piazza, Al "If you liked me as a pitcher, you'll love me as a Republican toady" Leiter, and Jim "Vladimir Who?" Duquette sit down to chew the fat with Mike and Mad Dog. (Leiter gives an especially enjoyable performance as "Disgruntled Grudge-Holding Guy" due to some on-air skewering he received last season.) Unfortunately, interested parties are forced to look forward to another ten weeks of gabbing and yammering before any actual baseball takes place.

Wrapped Up Like a Guest Blogga: Shan-Bear (Part II)
It's once again time to hand the cleverness reins over to our illustrious Far East correspondent, who as you read last week, has trekked across the globe to make the world a better place through the use of very complicated supersmart science stuff that you could never hope to comprehend. Let's begin!


Hi there kids,

...Well, this country continues to amuse. With the country-wide appreciation for the vodka, I felt like I needed to try some, so I did as much last night. While I'm generally a beer drinkin' gal and therefore not so much of a vodka connoisseur, in my humble opinion it was awful. First off, this so-called vodka we were drinking was made from wheat. Isn't vodka by definition made from potatoes? Again, I'm not an expert, but that's what I was taught in grade school. I just don't think that you can slap a "Chinggis" label on a bottle of ethyl alcohol and call it vodka. They sure do enjoy it here though.

So, usually, when I go out [doing supersmart science work] there are two people with me: 1, the guy who goes in the house with me and tells the family what we are doing and helps me measure the
ger and weigh the fuel that we give them; and 2, the driver. Sunday we went to this ger, and I knew things were strange when, after Guy 1 went inside the gate, he had Guy 2 come into the ger with us. There was an older woman and two old guys, and the latter were drunk, and I don't mean just drunk, but F***ED UP. They were totally belligerent (it was 3 p.m., mind you), and every once in a while one of them would head towards me, but Guy 2 was standing between me and them and he would just puff up all big like and they would back off—I had my very own body guard. Then, when Guy 1 went to take the string down that had been holding up the monitors, one of the drunk guys started yelling at Guy 1 and then at me, and then the old lady grabbed the guy by the coat and threw him down on the bed and she started yelling at yelling at him even louder than he had been yelling. Then she turned to Guys 1 and 2 said some stuff and yelled at the drunk guys some more.

Of course, I speak no Mongolian (well, I am up to 3 words—the bad thing about being oft accompanied by a translator), but I was just imagining what this lady was saying:

"You good-for-nothing son-of-a-bitch, you're drunk on a Sunday and these nice people come to our house and you act like a complete ass, embarrassing me and them. Why can't you stay sober for one goddamn day?!" Turns to Guys 1 & 2: "Do you see what I have to put up with? And not just him, he brings home his drunk friends to cause even more trouble. I'm too old for this shit." Back to drunk guy: "Stay there and shut up until these people leave. Then I'm really going to let you have it."

The kids are really cute though, and they are all completely enthralled by my computer... [but] the other day, I remembered something very important: it is super-fun to pop bubble wrap. So I gave some to two little girls at the last house. They were very happy. I probably will come home with unprotected equipment. Whatever.

... It's the "9 cold days." Or so I've been told. When we arrived, we were told that it was going to be cold for 9 days starting on Jan 18. But last week, I was told that the 9 cold days had arrived early. They are, in fact, cold. I can't wait until the 10th day.

I lost my hat in a taxi cab. It was the best hat ever—the one that had the facemask thingy that you could pull down to use as a neck warmer. But I've been surviving with my fleece cap that I wear back home and my actual neck warmer pulled over my face (which makes my neck cold). But the story of the lost cap is really quite funny. I had to go [do supersmart science stuff] right after I lost the cap, but [Coworker X] was on its trail: The doorman got the number of the cab, and the hotel people called every cab company to see which one had a cab by that number. They found it and reported the fact that I was missing my cap, and they said they would have the guy come by and give me my cap. [Coworker X] was told that, in case the cap wasn't returned, she should type a letter to the police describing the circumstances under which the hat was lost. She did so, and the letter reads:


"To Whom it May Concern:

Today I lost a hat in a taxi.
The taxi was a yellow car, license plate #2546 with a meter.
The taxi picked up two women between the Ghengis Khan Hotel and the Flower Hotel, about 14:15 today.
The taxi dropped us at the Ulaanbaatar Hotel.
The hat is black. It is a style that covers the whole face. It was left in the back seat.
Please help find this hat.

Thank you."


The hotel staff were unrelenting in the effort to recover my hat. They provided daily updates on the status, which didn't change between Saturday and Tuesday: basically, they guy hasn't been showing up in the mornings like he's supposed to, and even the taxi company was very interested in the guy coming back because he owed them money. I was starting to think the guy had skipped town with my hat. But the driver of taxi 2546 showed up for work yesterday, and I was reunited with my hat! I like that hat. A lot.

... I'm really bummed because I have yet to see a yak. I was seriously considering brining one home, but I hear they don't travel well. But they seem like such a practical pet. You can make yak butter and sweaters. I haven't worked out the details, but I haven't given up on the idea.

... It's confirmed: I have SARS. Well, "confirmed" might be the wrong word because everybody keeps telling me it's a head cold. But it's definitely respiratory, and it feels really, really severe. If they quarantine me, will you find some way to smuggle me cigarettes and porn?

See you soon,
Shan-golia


Wednesday, January 21, 2004

Give Them What They Want, Vol. I
The WULAD Marketing Team has been under a lot of stress recently to keep those new visitors coming in—to the point that the Team captain recently had to cryogenically freeze his entire family to allow him more time to spend on the problem—but the hard work seems to be paying off in increased "hits," much to the delight of the DoucheCo media empire's corporate brass, who are after all only concerned with the bottom line. However, one idea recently advanced by the team regards all the random visitors who happen by the site while looking for something else—such as the multitude of glances directed our way during the recent travails of Ms. Hilton and her adult cinematic debut.

"Why not," they asked, "give these random visitors what they're looking for, and therefore a reason to come back again?" Why not indeed. So, my dear search engine seekers, I say to you now in the words of fine car commercials of the past: you asked for it, you got it.

Here then, are the fruits of our pandering labors, collected from five recent searches which led weary Googlers to our door:

If these crowd-pleasing examples are successful in seducing and ensnaring new visitors, they may be followed by many others; so don't stop searching now! Excelsior!

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Self-Promotion Makes the WULAD Go 'Round
Another Note to SFers: My quartet will again be gracing or spoiling the stage this evening—5:30 to 8:30 p.m.—at the House of Shields (39 New Montgomery at Market). Who the hell knows when they'll let us play again? Better get your ass out here.

The powerhouse of internet fiction and sundries that has been Haypenny.com is ending its three-year mission. Accordingly, WULAD humbly offers tribute with...

Ways In Which I Will Express My Lament at the Imminent Demise of Haypenny.com

  • I will stage a three-day medieval tournament dedicated to finding a champion worthy of replacing the mighty Sir Haypenny of Com. Medieval Coke and toaster strudels will be served, and Polaroids of guests making out with life-size wax replicas of the Haypenny editors in period costumes will be available for purchase.

  • I will Cry Me A River, but it will turn out to be the Amazon River, and I will be devoured by piranha within seconds. My skeleton will then be used by my lovely assistant Rita to spell out the phrase, “I miss Haypenny.com.”

  • I will invent long, complicated excuses for why I never got around to submitting anything to Haypenny.com such as, “Moments before I was to submit my brilliant contribution titled ‘The Many Very Good Reasons Why I Have Taken So Long to Submit Anything to Haypenny.com’, I was rendered unconscious by a powerful wiffle-bat blow to the left pancreas from Michael Score of the 80s pop sensation A Flock of Seagulls.”

  • I will retroactively cancel Christmas this year. Please return the gifts I gave you and regurgitate any remaining holiday treats.

  • I will take out a classified ad in a local weekly paper with text as follows: “SWM seeks anyone to mitigate my crushing grief at the imminent demise of Haypenny.com by submerging me in a tub of warm (but not hot) salmon gravy. Make sure the gravy is warm. But not hot! ND/NS, light heroin use OK. And NO AMISH—this means you.”

  • I will allow no drop of water to touch my right leg below the knee until a humorous-fiction website of equal or greater distinction is discovered.

  • I’ll be there for Haypenny.com. These five words I swear to Haypenny.com. When it breathes, I want to be the air for Haypenny.com. I’ll be there for Haypenny.com. I’d live and I’d die for Haypenny.com. Steal the sun from the sky for Haypenny.com. Words can’t say what humorous fiction can do. I’ll be there for Haypenny.com.

  • I will drone on endlessly to my friends and family about how this is the saddest day "since they cancelled Jake & the Fat Man," and then, after locking the doors and sealing all exits, insist on showing them all 74 episodes of said show in succession, including the rarely-seen "Jake & the Fat Man Do It."

  • I will continue to steal liberally from the Haypenny archives, including but not limited to the following: ideas, Cheetos®, vintage sex-ed films, board games, LEGOs® (pre-1986 only), signed and authenticated Yakov Smirnoff souvenir memorabilia, money.

  • I will release my idiot twin brother from the attic for an entire hour and allow him to sing his favorite song, “Food Poop Pee-Pee Jenna Jameson Haypenny.com Water Please Water.” We will then weep together—I, for the loss of my favorite humor website; my brother, for the relentless beatings he receives from his governess, Mistress Painlashing.

  • I will refuse to eat freshwater shellfish until Haypenny.com is declared the 51st state of the Union, but even then I still may not feel like eating freshwater shellfish. So back off, Chef Fancy-pants.

  • I will pen an in-depth, thought-provoking piece titled, “Ways In Which I Will Express My Lament at the Imminent Demise of Haypenny.com,” which I will then be unable to submit to Haypenny.com due to its imminent demise.

Friday, January 16, 2004

It’s Friday, so we begin with the ever-sorta-popular...

WULAD Web Wround-Up
Sean Penn’s in Iraq, dude.

Monkey undies! And huggable, cuddly bacon! (Just noticed Mimi's got this one as well.)

In WULADemy Award news, it’s the year’s first nominee for “Best Use of a Quote from a Blondie Song in a Satirical Infographic”: The Onion.

Late Add-on: Margaret Cho responds to torrent of vitriol from the right with aplomb.

Did You Eat All the Cracklin’ Oat Brain?
There’s been a lot of talk lately about Fried Brain Sandwiches, and it seems to me that although consumers may want to avoid eating beef brains due to the Mad Cow scare, this leaves many perfectly good human brains to choose from. Therefore, we proudly present the People Whose Fried Brains we’d Most Like to Chow Down on in a Sandwich:

Note: as this is currently a hypothetical endeavor, the brains of historical personages are considered allowable; if at some point in the future this becomes a reality, consumers will want to confine their searches to living or recently deceased brains.

James Joyce. The creator of Ulysses and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man changed the face of fiction as we know it, and must be considered one of the giants of the modern era of literature. His brain would undoubtedly provide much educational nourishment (perhaps even insights into what the hell Finnegans Wake is about), and could be perhaps topped with some steamed Irish cabbage and served with a pint o’ Guinness.

Britney Spears. The fried brain of this popular chanteuse is light, fluffy, and resembles a puff pastry. Lightly dusted with powdered Sweet-N-Low, then served on Wonder bread with mayonnaise, sweet relish, and a side of bubble gum.

Abraham Lincoln. Many people know him as one of the greatest U.S. presidents, a master orator, and a brilliant statesman. What they don’t know is that his brain was the tastiest, most scrumptious morsel of 19-century goodness around. Even his assasin knew it—it’s a little-known fact that John Wilkes Booth’s last words were, “My only regret is that I never had the chance to taste that tyrant’s delicious brains before I die.”

Neal Pollack. Want to show appreciation for the genius of bloggery and author of Never Mind the Pollacks without the drudgery of penning long-winded testimonials to his greatness? Why not pay tribute by savoring the taste of his tender, juicy brain on a roll with tartar sauce and cole slaw? “Greatest Living American Writer”? Greatest Tasting American Brain is more like it.

James Garner. Brains—it’s what’s for dinner.

Wrapped Up Like An (Early) Endorsement
I saw this headline—"Bush Wacked"—on the Examiner this morning and got excited, until I realized that no, the Prez had not been taken out by Tony Soprano. (Note to Feds: this is a joke. I want the Prez to lose his job by election.) Speaking of which, some long-time readers may remember that the WULAD Endorsement Caravan had a lot of early interest in Wes Clark, but had allowed the gradual trickling-in of Republican tendencies and quotes (many of them via Drudge’s endless harping) to lead us to believe that perhaps the good General was putting on the Democratic coat suspiciously late in life. Combined with some early missteps in PR, such as skipping debates due to “scheduling conflicts”, this was enough to turn our interest to who might be the next most electable candidate.

Sure, Dean is likeable—in a Dukakis or Mondale sort of way—but it amazes me that he’s gone as far as he has in an unofficial “front-runner” position, mainly because he seems to represent everything about the left that is anathema to centrist voters. He’s from Vermont; he has no military experience; he’s often cantankerous and scolding; and his smile is just slightly more charming than Dick Cheney’s. It’s difficult to even put into words exactly what makes me think he’d lose spectacularly; I just feel his appeal to “Red Staters,” independents, and disenchanted minority groups will be slim to none. And it’s hard to imagine him winning any of the so-called swing states that have become so pivotal. I can’t even see him winning California, not with Gov. Ah-nold leading the charge for the Dubyites.

Kerry, on the other hand, is a war hero, he seems to have an appreciation for consensus-building, and he understands that the time isn’t right to be tackling all issues at once (he’s opposed to gay marriage, for example, although he supports civil unions). And I really believe that in the post-9/11 climate, credibility in national security and defense issues—which has become unfortunately but inextricably linked with military service—is essential to winning over mainstream voters. But he’s from “Taxachussetts,” he’s fairly low on charisma, and he’s been a Washington insider for so long that he won’t do much to invigorate the voters looking for new ideas. Which brings us back to Clark.

Michael Moore endorsed Clark Wednesday (leftpedal via M Tobey); and while that in itself doesn’t hold a lot of weight (I consider Moore to be something of a demagogue and don’t really feel he can sway public opinion any more than the Dixie Chicks) he makes a very good case for getting behind the most electable candidate now. This isn’t the time to be tilting at windmills—four more years of the current cabal could be permanently disastrous. And aside from the element of supporting him out of desperation, Clark seems to deserve attention on the basis that he genuinely has a lot going for him. He’s smart, well-spoken, not overly belligerent, and good on TV; he’s a gun owner but not a gun nut; and his Arkansas background could appeal to voters who would never support a New Englander.

So with the view that it gets late early, we are jumping on the Clark bandwagon. It’s well known that WULAD has no readers in Iowa; but if any Hawkeyes happen by this little shack by the internet tracks, we encourage you to vote early and often for Gen. Clark so that we can get on with the larger strategy of firing President Action Figure.

Addendum: I've just noticed that Gen. Clark is not competing in Iowa. So vote for anyone other than Dean to counter his press-anointed front-runner status. Then move to New Hampshire and vote for Clark.

And Lastly...
I just heard “Werewolves of London” on one of those classic rock internet radio stations, and if there’s anything for which the late Warren Zevon deserves credit, it’s that he can make the phrase “little old lady got mutilated last night” sound as sweet and mellifluous as a babbling brook. Good weekends, kids!

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

Note to SFers: My quartet will be playing a happy hour show—5:30 to 8:30—tonight at the House of Shields (39 New Montgomery at Market). Cum on feel the noize.

Wrapped Up Like a Guest Blogga: Shan-Bear
WULAD proudly presents the following report from our top (and only) Far East correspondent, the eloquent and benevolent Shan-Bear (famous for her coinage of the term "shitfacederest"), who is currently halfway across the globe, engaged in very important scientific super-smart stuff that you would never understand. Enjoy!

Hi kids,

Cold here in Mongolia but I’m working my ass off, which means that I haven't given the cold a chance to freeze it off. Hoping to take tomorrow morning to do some sightseeing as I haven't had a chance yet.

But I do smell like mutton and smoke (combo of wood, coal, and grease fire-type smoke), which is always nice. And I’ve been drinking a lot of awful tea. So far, so good.

... I saw a Mongolian guy's penis yesterday. He was showing it to us as we drove by and even turned as we passed for continued good viewing. Also saw a drunk guy passed out on the sidewalk with another guy kicking him. Not good in -26 degrees C. Oh yeah, and we were chased out of one of the gers we were going to sample by many drunk guys. And did you know that when you go calling at someone's house, the customary greeting, when translated is "hold your dogs," and thank goodness you do b/c the rest of the ass that hasn't been worked or frozen off would surely be in the jaws of some ravenous slum dog.

... By the way, did I tell you guys that I was "interviewed" by Mongolian national TV? They asked if they could interview me when we were sampling at one house. I said "yes" and then waited for questions. Then they just wanted me to talk. That's not an interview. Regardless, I'm kind of famous here. Does that count for your brush with brushes of fame category?

Also, the main good food we've had here has been billed as Indian. It hasn't actually been Indian food, but it's better than the alternatives. The first few days we were here, Coworker X kept taking me to all of these restaurants, and I was wondering why she hadn't taken me to any Mongolian places. Then I had Mongolian food.

Gotta run. Too many gers, too little time.

Big fat yak hugs,
Me in Mongolia


"Banned CD" presents Spam Subject of the Day: Re: VQRVTSO, finally in 1966

Tuesday, January 13, 2004

Yes, another baseball-related rant. It's almost out of my system, trust me...

Take Me Out to the WULAD
Ah, the New York sports media. It’s like a fresh breeze out of a steaming sewer on a hot summer's day. By now, everyone’s aware that Vladimir Guerrero spurned the Mets’ offer that, with health incentives, would’ve been worth more than the guaranteed offer he accepted from the Angels. Let’s revisit what the WULAD Sports Desk had to say about the matter a few short days ago:

As far as I’m concerned it’s a bunch of evil propaganda designed to falsely elevate the hopes of Mets fans before bringing them crashing to the ground, and turn what could be considered a fairly productive offseason into one which could be viewed by the fervently Yankee-biased New York sports media as a spectacular failure.
And here we are. Mike and the Mad Dog spent yesterday drilling new A-holes into Mets GM Jim Duquette, and I find their arguments perplexing. Among them:

It would’ve been better not to pursue Guerrero at all than to pursue him and lose out. OK, maybe this is correct from a PR standpoint, since this allows the fatalistic fans and writers to hold up another example (in the tradition of Alex Rodriguez, Mike Mussina, Lou Piniella, etc.) of the Mets coming in second place because they failed to go the extra mile contract-wise. But Duquette never held out much hope to the fans of signing Guerrero since they had no intention of guaranteeing more than three years to a player who they considered a significant medical risk, in spite of how it might make them look short-term.

Well, if he’s a risk, why did you offer him $30 million? If these guys can’t see the difference to the long-term financial health of the franchise between a three-year, $30 million incentive-based deal gone bad and a five-year, $70 million guaranteed deal gone bad, I don’t know what to tell them. See the Texas Rangers or the Mets teams of the past few years for examples of what huge guaranteed contracts can do to flexibility. I know, Guerrero is more A-Rod than Mo Vaughn, but to imply that there’s no difference between a moderate three-year risk and a heavy five-year risk is absurd.

If the performance incentives would’ve been easy to meet, why didn’t you just guarantee him the years and the money? The incentives would be easy to meet if he stays healthy, numbnuts! If his back gets worse—and the Mets obviously feared it might—they’re screwed. And no one would insure five years in advance.

The Mets offseason can now be considered a total loss. This has got to be the dumbest part of all. Baseball people everywhere consider the additions of Cameron, Matsui, and Looper as definite steps in turning around a wayward team philosophy toward younger, faster, cheaper, giving up fewer draft picks, etc. A month ago, when the Mets were not even considering going after Vlad, no one was talking gloom and doom. This was supposed to be a rebuilding process! But what the media seems to be ignoring is the fact that Vlad was never coming to New York.

Why didn’t the Yankees, absolute kings of getting anything and everything they want, go after Guerrero? Why deal with the headache of Gary Sheffield’s personality for an inferior player when Vlad was available? Because they knew that any offer from the New York teams would only be used as leverage to get a better offer from a team that Guerrero was actually willing to play for. He liked Montreal, for Chrissake! Arn Tellem came to the Mets and asked them for an offer, assuring them that the idea that Vlad didn’t want to play in New York was only a rumor—and Chris and Mike will say that, well, the Mets never made him a substantial (read: guaranteed) offer so we’ll never know—but does anybody really think that Tellem would’ve come calling if there had been anything like the market he expected going into the offseason? Playing in New York was so appealing to Guerrero that he waited to express an interest until the absolute last minute, when Baltimore was the only other team that wanted to take on his financial weight and potential medical risk. And lo and behold, after the Mets made their offer, out comes the new owner of the Angels, looking to make a splash, and does Tellem give the Mets, who figured so prominently in Vlad’s night-before-the-prom date-hunting, a chance to respond to the Angels’ offer? Of course not. Because Vlad did not want to play in New York if at all possible. And see Robbie Alomar as a good example of a player who’s supposedly guaranteed to perform well even in a setting that is uncomfortable to him.

Maybe with a gargantuan contract, the Mets could’ve gotten it done—and I realize that Guerrero is currently one of the best players in the game—but personally I’m glad they didn’t hang themselves out to dry on this one deal. Check with me again in five years, which is the only time we’ll really know who was right on this one.

And speaking of the sweet words of the New York sports media—Roger Clemens goes from beloved hero to cop-killing-traitor in three months. See you on Old Timers' Day up at Yankee Stadium, Roger! Watch those flying tomatoes and batteries!

"Banned CD" presents Spam Subject of the Day: Re: KWXK, the cat raised

Monday, January 12, 2004

Wrapped Up Like A Product Review: Moon Shoes!
Since C-Baby was just the right combination of naughty and nice this year, Santa decided to grant her wish and leave something under her tree which the WULAD Consumer Corner felt deserved to be shared with the great un-bouncing masses—we speak of the intriguing Moon Shoes.

Essentially two mini-trampolines for your feet, these can allow for some pretty serious air, depending on the weight of the wearer and the number of big greasy rubber bands he or she chooses to attach to the shoes. (However—be prepared for a generous helping of pain and profanity as you slowly learn to apply the bands without detaching your fingernails.) While it's true that by the manufacturer's reckoning these little babies will only accomodate someone under 180 lbs. who wears up to a size 9 men's shoe, that probably still includes a great many of our readers of smaller stature. Here's a look at the W.C.C.'s extensive testing process at work:



Of course, the kids on the product's packaging do look like they've been dropped off a roof and photographed just before hitting the ground—but even if such acrobatics are unattainable for the big kid or smaller thirtysomething adolescent, these are still much more fun than a barrel of frozen Chinese cats, and as the photos demonstrate, the hilarity and mayhem is ripe for the pickin'. Four stars on the WULADometer.

Mars Needs Coffee
And if you're truly starved for visual stimulation, Utter Wonder recently called for "Starbucks on Mars" submissions—by the time WULAD's contribution was posted, I'd already realized it wasn't complete. Put on your 3-D glasses and view the new and improved version here.

Friday, January 09, 2004

It’s Friday, and my brain still hurts from crafting the vacation report below, which means it’s once again time for…

WULAD Web Wround-Up
Firstly, Shawn, proprietor of He Is The Man Who Will Fight For Your Honor is back from the Land of the Lost (Domain Name), and will hopefully be wanting to spank J. L. Hewitt for undefined time periods to come. He did put in a few jabs at the WULAD Media Empire while his site was in limbo, however—specifically our gams. I don’t generally predicate my self-esteem on public opinion of my gams (unlike Ann-Margret, star of Viva Las Vegas, which I watched last night along with many ear-splittingly loud amateur commentators), but I can’t let an attack on them go unanswered. So—gaze upon my glorious gams. And just you try to avoid changing your shorts.

Meanwhile, ESPN has some potential Hall of Fame plaques for Pete "Rule Twenty-what now?" Rose. I especially like the one that says, “Employees must wash hands before leaving restroom.” And here's more good news for the nation's number one advocate of collective amnesia. (Also, for anyone not already sick of the subject, I couldn’t resist joining a lively little mini-debate on alicublog—see the comments.)

Via Beck of Twittering Machine (who recently became "Jesus' age, but still younger than Hamlet"), you can now write messages in the snow to your loved ones or enemies. That’ll save me a lot of drinking.

Finally—this is not Web-related, but I send you into the weekend with the following quote which demonstrates just what makes C-Baby C-Baby: “One time when I was little, the bathroom was full of ants, so I squished them all with my tiny hands, and buried them under my brother’s blankets, so that when he went to rest his sleepy little head, his bed welcomed him with a pile of squashed ant carcasses.”

Note: my fellow bloggaz should sign up over at Blog Madness for a chance to be crowned King (or Queen) of the Dorks. Everyone's doing it!

Thursday, January 08, 2004

Dungeons & Douches
In each of our lives, there are destinations that beckon, grail-like, to the deepest parts of our psyche—places that call to us but that we do not dare to dream of actually seeing with our mortal eyes. For one soul, that destination might be the Pyramids, for another Mt. Everest, perhaps Paris in autumn or the Sistine Chapel. But C-Baby… her heart pined for one enchanted place above all others—Medieval Times.

Wait, you might think—are you talking about that restaurant with the fighting suit-of-armor overgrown Dungeons & Dragons guys? Affirmative; but it is so much more. Let’s begin…

As part of an impromptu holiday tour of California’s Southerly regions, C-Baby and I made our way down the coast—braving antique-rattling earthquakes in Morro Bay, lightning-fast highway speedsters down U.S. 101, and terrifying abandoned outlet malls in Oxnard—until we found ourselves at the end of our quest: that tourist Mecca of the West Coast, Anaheim. (After a mid-state visit with the extended WULAD Clan to partake in holiday familial festivities, we had decided to kill the twin birds of D’Land and The Grail with one stone of a two-day stop.) As we pulled into the parking lot, her eyes widened at the sight of not the small cult following she expected, but a thousand people—not only nerds, but men, women, and children of every stripe, gathered from far and wide across The Realm—waiting for entry to this magnificent spectacle of medieval cheese and death.

We managed to take a short-cut past the horrendous line—we had purchased the “Royalty Package”, after all—and as triumphant red and yellow paper crowns (constructed รก la Burger King) were placed atop our heads, I surveyed the less regal souls surrounding us in their inferior blue, red, green, etc. crowns. “I can’t believe,” I remarked with pinched nose, “that they make us mix with all these commoners.” On to a quick photograph with “the Princess,” a heavily made-up tart who called me “M’Lord”—and don’t tell me she didn’t have the hots for me, as resplendent as I was in my crown—and flowed with the crowd into the large outer hall, where we viewed all manner of medieval Taiwanese merchandise available for purchase. (C-Baby decided on twin inflatable weapons sets with the intention of staging chivalrous battles among her friends.) We sidled up to Ye Olde Margarita Bar to refresh ourselves with authentic period cocktails—a Dragonslayer for the Lady, and an Executioner for myself, in authentic plastic goblets and tumblers, although we declined to splurge on the golden knight-head beer mug—and listened to our Master of Ceremonies milk the expectant crowd in his booming baritone, which was evocative in equal parts of Shakespeare In the Park and WrestleMania XVIII.

"Now, my Lords and Ladies," he bellowed, "I have heard tell that Valley High School is a meek, quiet, lot—have I been misinformed?" (Roar, roar.) And so on. Finally we were ushered into the arena, which had already begun to fill with a billowing dry-ice fog that would eventually become so thick as to cause us to doubt whether we would even be able to see the bludgeoning that would presumably be taking place under the clouds—and were seated at a long no-you-can’t-go-to-the-bathroom table and given little flags to cheer our champion. As the lights dimmed, the Robin Hood-esque soundtrack began to drown out the shouting of our Polo-shirted serf-waiters, who were attempting to explain that—in the interests of authenticity—although we would not be given silverware, a (medieval) wet-nap would be available following dinner.

The following quotes occurred during the show and its immediate aftermath:

C-Baby: Is this a medieval light show?
Waiter: Some Coke, M’Lady?
C-Baby: Our knight looks like an REO Speedwagon fan.
Me: Is that horse supposed to be drooling so much?
Her: Is this a medieval toaster strudel?
Some kid: Dude, I like, ate so much, my stomach’s full.
Me: Are those guys medieval ninjas or something?
Some old guy: He shoulda just pulled out a 9mm and capped his ass.
Some other kid: The Blue Knight rocked, until he died. And then I was sad.
Same old guy, 30 seconds later, louder: He shoulda just pulled out a 9mm, and capped his ass!
At the end of the show—after the various intrigues had been played out and the medieval ninjas defeated—the victorious knight rode his steed into the center of the arena, inexplicably holding aloft an American flag to cheers from the greasy-fingered crowd. “All hail the King of America!” said C-Baby.

We made our way towards the entrance of the nightclub (cocktails and dancing with the Knights of the Realm until the wee small hours) to meet our Red and Yellow hero—who was robbed, incidentally, by the script—and memorialize this moment. Note how tall he is.

Personally I was so won over by the experience that the following day, when we spotted Kobe Bryant and Mrs. Hotness Bryant being hustled out of It’s a Small World, I couldn’t help but unfavorably compare the star-power of that basketball and courtroom luminary to that of Sir Dies-A-Lot and the other celebrities of the Dark Ages who had so valiantly hammed it up on our behalf the previous night. “I don’t care,” said C-Baby as Mr. Trial of the Century and spouse disappeared into the Disney night, “If you cheat on that, you should go to jail.”

Whet your appetite for medieval pageantry and light shows? Watch the mini-feature here. Our knight was the French dude who I must admit does look like an REO Speedwagon fan.

Take Me Out to the WULAD, Continued
I’ve heard the rumors, and I want to go on record saying that until I see the signature of That One Dominican/Canadian Guy Who Shall Remain Nameless on a contract, I don’t believe a damn word, nor will I dare to entertain the possibility in my increasingly paranoid mind. As far as I’m concerned it’s a bunch of evil propaganda designed to falsely elevate the hopes of Mets fans before bringing them crashing to the ground, and turn what could be considered a fairly productive offseason into one which could be viewed by the fervently Yankee-biased New York sports media as a spectacular failure. So, Mets fans: plug your ears, hum “Meet the Mets” loudly, don’t read a newspaper or turn on the news, and—if I may modify an old Zen proverb—if you meet Budd Mishkin on the road, kill him.

Note: Don’t really kill him. It’s just an expression. It means don’t listen to him fill your head with a bunch of fantastic nonsense about some guy taking less money to sign with some team because he wants to be near a community of some cultural group, etc.

Also, Pete Rose is to jerks what Arnold Schoenberg is to 20th-century composers who pioneered the use of atonality and dodecaphonic composition. Later, kids!

Tuesday, January 06, 2004

Take Me Out to the WULAD
Rather than thicken the fog of opinion surrounding recent revelations of Pete “Never Mind What I’ve Been Saying for the Past 14 Years” Rose, the WULAD Sports Team has decided to publish a document which was recently provided to us by an anonymous baseball official whose name rhymes with “Mud Zelig.” Therefore we proudly present the never-before-seen Official Report Card of the Hit King…



P.S. As a character contrast, we salute the legendary Tug McGraw, gone to the great ’69 Mets reunion in the sky. “Ya Gotta Believe.”

Monday, January 05, 2004

The Return of the Douche
That’s right, we’re back, Large and Recharged. Coming soon: highlights from WULAD and C-baby in the Southland, as well as the usual hummuna-hummuna you’ve come to expect from our crack editorial staff. But first, it’s a truncated version of…

WULAD Web Wround-up
Martin Bihl has recently discovered some never-before-seen effluvia of genius: James Joyce’s postcards to brother Stannie. Read them at McSweeney's.

And several sites have recently added themselves to the elect group of bloggaz who’ve been sending visitors our way: check them out here, here, and here if you like.

I will now warn readers that the following segment is very wordy, but those who brave it in its entirety will reap great artistic and cultural rewards, or at least use up some time they might otherwise spend obsessively pondering our relentless march towards death. Enjoy!

Breakfast Meat or Self-Expression?
C-Baby got a can of Spam for X-mas, and plans to fry it up with some soy sauce and a fried egg (It's Crazy Tasty™!). Speaking of which, my inbox has recently been filling up with a very creative and unintentionally poetic variety of e-mail solicitation—the spam-wizards have obviously been hard at work finding ways around the tightest of mail filters, and this particular method seems to accomplish the task pretty well. First, the subject line follows the formula of “Re: [Acronym-like series of capital letters], [Three random words].” This can occasionally produce interesting results, such as:

Re: JBB, himself on kept
Re: KZUKKE, nodded and sent
Re: BWWQU, knife and blind
Re: LSGAJ, here homeless made
Re: GMXZVVBO, off his trousers
Re: DH, she was gently
Re: ORWC, the sparrow meanwhile
Re: ZIZ, does your husband
Re: JUM, may the gods
Re: ELIC, barrelorgan was worth
Re: COVWYRG, a minute later
Re: PLRP, rested his chin
Re: WG, fool!' the girl
Re: TDJK, about what? About

The body of the e-mail consists of an image—the actual ad, something about a banned CD the government doesn’t want you to have—followed by several paragraphs of miscellaneous words to give the illusion of an actual message. These are so random that the WULAD Literary Squad felt the need to arrange them into found-art poetry for your perusal. So without further ado…

The Banned CD Poetry Collection, Part 1: the Haiku

Commentary, soar
alimony sensory
stick, forfend Laurence

Chateaux history:
Individuate, Preston—
sheepskin pier, wiener

Apostle triad,
aerobic Armenia—
delouse obverse poop

Part 2: the Free Verse

I. DIMPLE, THRUM

Dimple, thrum.
Lucrative break
Gaul, weierstrass, Lauren,
kingston bishopric “bloop” depressor—

Martha suzerain Loomis duplicity,
furthermost truancy ross:
Tegucigalpa!

II. GOTHIC PROTEIN

Giddy Christ
(burden) solo Gladys cupidity,
conscience kept.

Aitken Jimenez,
infinite nature disastrous—
chilblain tweedy, bud. Genre picnicked
transmission flautist radar,
“tide folksong,
necromantic Bangkok.”

Accolade backboard, gothic protein,
dewy consort cannel.
—Acquisition sigma hying,
aspirate clothesbrush,
prescriptive Carlisle,
circuitous Denmark, disambiguate.

III. GIANT BEARD SHACKLE

Jubilate rosary morrison auric.
—Gabrielle Newman

Barrage fungi hobble pease estate barium chorale, Patty depute eerie—Hearth, homeown bona toenail, roulette vascular (cheery Pickford dobbin catcall: “Myopia hepatitis spirit!”). Desmond uniform infantile, Bayport Holm filmstrip—Merganser Serviette Assess—bicentennial depend seismography fusiform, forever sowbelly teacup, oxalic mudguard drudgery.

Elysian dowager Jackson silkworm, replicate honorary, hadn't sparrow Brazil negroes? Disturb, derogate, creon Alison—Gilligan (thematic Vivaldi), neurotic airspeed, achieve!

Bibliophile compositor,
downtrodden poop antelope,
roundhead Anderson,
priggish cursor Neva,
demo seismology bolt anent, ideologue
!”
Muscovy Confucian stumpy heublein chignon; water cilia rotor micro buss, duress (giant beard shackle): Client said “probe!”

Appendix: the Good Names for a Band
Depth Arrival
Lipschitz Strobe
Anticipate Gypsum
Schmidt Speck
Elder Lettermen
Pumpkin Inexpedient
Juju Diopter
Scatterbrain Shadflower
Groan Tic Stylus
Pessimum Particulate
Crestfallen Blitz
Glyceride Bleach Continuation
Malefactor Embouchure
Difficult Clamshell
Caveman Arsenal
Chronograph Campsite Miracle
Lucrative Horsewoman
Footstep Rumple
Sourberry Migratory Collegian
Oregano Veda
Bureaucratic Afro