Wrapped Up Like A Guest Blogger: Roger Cedeño
Hi, everybody, I’m Roger Cedeño. You may know me from my days as the wacky, fun-loving right fielder of the New York Mets. But since it seems those days may be coming to an end, I’ve decided to try my hand at a few other trades, and WULAD’s board of directors was kind enough to give me a shot while I consider how to make use of the months of inactivity to come during which I will be earning five million dollars. Thanks, guys! Hope you enjoy the Beluga I sent over!

Now let me start off by saying that when I’m not dropping easy fly balls or driving recklessly, I always make it a point to chow down on as many PowerBars® as possible. Mmm, PowerBars®. They’re like a 95 m.p.h. fastball for your stomach. No, that's no good. Maybe a shot of tequila that doesn’t get you drunk and is made out of nuts and grains instead of whatever they use to make tequila. In any case, PowerBars® get my full endorsement until March 31, with renewal option at fifty grand per year. OK, thirty-five. Call me.

Anyway, I’m really here to inform and entertain in much the same manner as your usual WULAD editorial staff—I want my Ferrari back in the same condition I left it, bizotches—so I’ll start with a little round-up of current events:

According to Some Government Guy, the U.S. is under imminent threat of a terrorist attack, with Washington D.C. and New York as likely targets. Lucky for me, I’m wintering here in my native Venezuela. To all of you who booed me at Shea Stadium: Good luck with that, fellas! But seriously kids—terrorism is no laughing matter. And neither is my batting average! Ba-dump-BUMP! Stay in school.

Looks like Michael Jackson is having some problems with the law again. Having been there, I can only tell him to be strong, Bro, and don’t resist when they want to do the cavity search. It’s no fun driving a Maserati on a donut cushion! Also I have a demo tape, maybe you could pass it along. [Sings] “I’m an… OUT-fielder, GLOVE-wielder, SONG-stealer, don’t ya mess around with me..” What’s that? Copy-what Infringe-what of the what now? OK, never mind. Call me, though, Mike.

And I heard that Joe Namath told some sports-news chick that he wanted to do the quarterback-sneak back in her hotel room—hey editor dudes! I came up with that one! I told you it'd be a riot! Anyway, as Joe and I have both been professional athletes for New York teams ending in "-ets", I can say that the temptation is always there, although I've seen quite a drop-off since I became the laughingstock of the league. But the trick, Joe, is to wait until the camera's off, big guy. Then you can let the love... flow.

Lastly, those WULAD dudes—who best be taking good care of my car—would like me to remind you to check out the Bach Festival. You know, my soon-to-be former teammate Mike Piazza really likes that classical shit. Now I know what they say about him, but let me tell you, he never did anything like that around me, and I consider myself a handsome man, you know. And so what if he keeps a shirtless photo of Richard Marx in his locker? I told you the man loves music.

So that’s it for my first stint as guest blogger here at WULAD—if you like what you’ve read, be sure and let the management know, so they can present me with an offer that doesn’t insult my intelligence and the intelligence of my agent. I mean, let’s be reasonable, people—I know Giambi’s getting $2.5 over at his guest-bloggin’ gig, and I’m much funnier than him. Call me, though. Peace out.

Disclaimer: Parody, not really written by Cedeño, blah blah, any similarity with crappy outfielders living or dead coincidental and not affliliated with blah blah blah, etc.

If It Ain’t Baroque, Don’t Play it for 168 Hours
WKCR, my favorite radio station, has begun its annual festival dedicated to Bach, my favorite composer, during which they play his music continuously for a week, my favorite duration, from New York, my favorite city. It features such music-nerd-friendly events as nightly Cantata Request Hours, the Jazz meets Bach show, and interviews with über-music-nerds whose Bach Fu is so superior to mine that it leaves me to weep silently while listening to the Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue in D Minor by the light of a single candle, a broken shell of a man. Along with (non-yellow) snow and crates of clementines, it’s one of the highlights of the holiday season back there. (As opposed to San Francisco, where the holiday highlights include manger scenes constructed out of discarded drug paraphernalia and chestnuts roasted over an open hibachi with mango-chipotle compote.) If you’re in the NYC area, tune to 89.9 FM, or listen to it on the web here.

If the National Review Printed This, I’d Protest
We lead you into the weekend with a bit of “foreigners are funny” humor that’s acceptable because everybody knows I’m not a racist even though I did once drunkenly remark that “those Koreans sure like their restaurants brightly lit” and I may have pretended to be Black to get into college where I had a brief romance with Rae Dawn Chong before being exposed as a white guy in front of my teacher, James Earl Jones, and it’s true that I was once in the Klan but that was only to meet women. That said, WULAD presents...

The 5 Most Entertaining Items on a Thai Menu I Got Recently

5. Rare Naked Shrimp with Spicy Paste (Ten bucks extra if you want a lap dance.)

4. Pork Rib Pickle (“You got your pork rib in my pickle!” “You got your pickle in my pork rib!” Both: “Heyyyyyy…”)

3. Angle Wing (About 45°, I think.)

2. Lord (No thanks, I ate God for lunch.)

And the Number One Most Entertaining Item on a Thai Menu I got Recently:

1. Deep Fried Balls

OK, this is a sub-par post. I admit it, I'm coasting. So just allow the dulcet tones of the Bach Festival to drown out the screams of my joke writers while I beat and coerce them into squeezing more ideas out of their tiny, mashed-potato-like brains. Cheers!

The brains of the WULAD Cleverness-Wasting Council are still sore from crafting the Neal Pollack acrostic, so while their synapses refresh themselves, we humbly pour you a big cup of…

WULAD Web Wround-up
First on the menu: This is the sort of thing that made me an atheist.

Platypuses hunt with electro-sensors… and they will never stop hunting you.

Will Carroll of Baseball Prospectus (who makes occasional use of the nickname I suggested for sports-medicine-enthusiasts, "MedHeads") has got great overheard quotes from baseball's winter meetings.

I neglected to mention the other day how much it bothered me that the operation which resulted in Saddam Hussein’s capture was named after a Patrick Swayze movie. Luckily, Chatterbox is all over that shiznit.

Dances With Stereotypes
The Times had a piece yesterday about the ongoing battle of Little Big Mascot, which introduced me to my new favorite white Midwestern idiot, loudly proclaiming his unawareness of said idiocy:

John Gadaut, a lawyer in Champaign, said he had spent more than $5,000 on keep-the-[Illinois mascot] chief billboards and buttons. "I'm a Native American," said Gadaut, who is white. "I was born and bred in Illinois. The chief means something to me, too. People keep saying we have a mascot. No, we have a symbol. … It's my whole heritage in front of me. Hey, these people can be my heritage even though this guy's skin is not my color." He dismissed … opponents of the chief as "leftist social engineers."

(See here for some examples of rightist social engineers.) I suppose he’s correct in a sense; mocking and denigrating minorities while appropriating romanticized caricatures of their culture is definitely a part of his heritage. However, the article failed to mention far and away the most heinous—yet most widely accepted—example of Native American minstrelsy in the sports world: Chief Wahoo of the Cleveland Indians. Although the esteemed Chief has been ostensibly replaced in his “official” capacity as mascot—by a ridiculous Youppi-esque monster called “Slider”—his toothy, blood-red mug adorns the team’s caps, jerseys, and nearly every piece of fan merchandise. In addition to its general offensiveness, I also hate that shit-eating grin because it makes me dislike the Indians (the team, not the ethnic group)—one of the younger, scrappier, and more exciting teams in baseball—intensely.

But I digress. For my final no-new-effort-required item, we continue the series begun Monday:

Wrapped Up Like An Internet Search, part II: The Douche
The following are 100% genuine searches that have led (presumably disappointed) searchers to this tiny shack by the internet tracks:

• Origin of douche
  
• Why we douche
  
• Douche for sexual pleasure
  
• Do they say douche?
  
• Forced douche
  
• Picture of douche bag
  
• Douche pictures
  
• Douche container
  
• Crack up like a douche
  
• Wrapped up like a douche meaning
  
• Wrapped up like a douche bag
  
• Douche bug
  
• Douche bagel
  
• Douche the Marlins
  
• Great douche
  
• Erotic douche
  
• Android 18 douche
  
• Monolith douche
  
• Chicken douche
  
• Douche for dogs
  
• Dancing douche
  
• Douche Bag Dave
  
• Dave is a douche
  
• Steve is a douche
  
• Brad is a douche
  
• Neil is a douche
  
• Steve Bartman douche
  
• Rupert Murdoch douche
  
• Ann Coulter is a douche
  
• John Kerry is a Douche
  
• George Bush is a douche
  
• Have A Douche Break

Well, if this has tought us anything, it's that everyone—whether you're Steve Bartman, George Bush, Android 18, or even Douche Bag Dave—could use a Douche Break now and then. Don't forget to write!

Wrapped Up Like A Roast: WULAD Salutes Neal Pollack
It may be reasonably asked why I, a relative slime mold on the evolutionary ladder of literature (of which the Right Honorable Mr. Pollack is the slippery topmost rung) am qualified to contribute to his Celebrity Roast; after all, I have never met the man, nor shared his bed at the fantastic ranch and amusement park which bears his name, nor even felt his gentle, clammy hand clasp the nape of my neck in the most stepfatherly of manners. This concern is appropriate; but before I attempt to befoul the great litany of tributes preceding this one with the stain of my sophomoric pen, I ask that the assemblage consider the tale of the following missive I received from He Whose Tea I Am Not Worthy To Bag, which I believe amply demonstrates the depth of my connection to this brilliant, pasty man.

I cannot describe the elation I felt upon the appearance of the name “N_Pollack” in my inbox one shimmering day; it was beyond my wildest expectations that my PayPal donation of $13.56 would prompt a personal reply from the Man Himself. No, thought I, it must be a form letter from some anonymous lackey, a pale and pimply coffee-runner in the lowest basement of the Pollack Media Empire’s most remote outpost. I did not dare to dream that a lowly scribbling piss-ant such as myself would be the recipient of a personal reply from one who obviously wipes his brain’s nether regions each day with writers exponentially more prominent and talented than I, checking to make sure they have removed all traces of metaphorical stool before consigning them to the septic tank of his subconscious. But I was mistaken.

“Thanks, Ian,” the G.L.A.W. wrote—immediately uplifting me by typing my pitiful name with those glorious, if warty, fingers—“whoever you are!” (The warmth! The wit!) Mr. Pollack, or “Dad,” as I have taken to calling him, then closed with an exhortation to a Higher Life:

“Rock on,” he wrote, and signed with the touching sobriquet “NP.” Needless to say I needed an extra helping of yams that night, if you know what I mean. So without further ado, I give you my own humble homage to the man who may be the suppository cure for the cultural constipation of our society:

N is for the Need which he ably fills
E is for Eczema, and his plethora of ills
A is for Awe which spreads, tumor-like, as we read
L is for the Lard he devours while on speed

P is for the Pride which he humbly swallows
O is for Orgasm, which inevitably follows
L is for the Love which he showers on the reader
L is for the Lubricant this requires by the liter
A is for All of his appreciative progeny
C is for the Codpiece which hides his androgyny
K is for Knowledge, his work’s very crux;
...and these are the reasons why Neal Pollack Sucks.

Godspeed, you great doughy, balding avatar of American prose.

Random Mockery of ESPN to Distract You From Bush/Saddam Victory Parties
I’ve never thought that Jayson Stark was a great baseball writer, but did he really pen the following sentence?

And now, if Pudge [Rodriguez] also signs on, [Vladimir] Guerrero will be able to smell the sweet scent of two fellow Latinos deciding that Baltimore is their kind of place.

Yes, he did. Smell those Latinos, Vlad. Mmmmm.

And does the lack of capitalization in the following tagline not make it seem like a radio station is offering to perform oral sex on Roger Clemens?



That’s all. You can go back to watching them trim Saddam’s eyebrows now.

Nefarious Despot Celebrates Capture of Nefarious Despot
Well, you’ve no doubt already heard that Saddam Hussein—who you may recognize from the South Park movie—was found at the Command Center Dirt Hole from which he was leading Iraq’s insurgency with an iron fist, so his capture will of course result in the cessation of hostilities. Within a few hours of President Action Figure’s PR victory, the local news teaser was already asking, “Does the capture of Saddam Hussein now guarantee President Bush’s reelection?” (Do I detect a Fair and Balanced hand in crafting this question?) And double agent Joe Lieberman, still smarting from the symbolic foot Al Gore recently inserted in his hoo-hah, used the opportunity to resume his pummeling of candidates critical of the President—although this approach may hurt him when he gets around to asking voters to support the President by voting for Joe Lieberman. Shortly after hearing the news, I spoke to WULAD Wregular Shan-bear.

Me: So, what do you do now if you’re the President’s handlers?
Shan-bear: Masturbate.
Me: No, after that.

I went on to say that I wouldn’t be surprised to see the Prez’s people start negotiating with Saddam, to talk him into copping to involvement in the September 11 plot in exchange for not being executed. (That is, after they finish touching up the the "MISSION REALLY ACCOMPLISHED THIS TIME" banner for the deck of the U.S.S. Photo-Op.) I felt like quite the cynic for immediately bringing this up—even people as colossally dissatisfied with the direction of the country as I am can agree that Saddam is an evil murdering butthole and that Iraq will be better off without him running around—but soon saw that I wasn’t the only one who thought of this one. People like us should really be working for the Action Figure administration, since we can clearly think like the Bad Guys when properly motivated (wink wink, my own island kingdom, nudge nudge).

"But what kind of sanctimonious political claptrap is this," you might ask, "We come to WULAD to be entertained!" Well, to fight off the Guaranteed Reelection Blues, we’ve decided to recycle an already tired idea by posting the first part of a comprehensive report of Exciting and Confusing Searches which have recently led inquiring minds to our virtual doorstep, along with the kind of incicive commentary you've come to expect from our highly trained, slave-wage-earning editorial staff. It's...

Wrapped Up Like An Internet Search, part I: The Perverts

• "having sex with twins" (OK, standard enough in the greater scheme of things.)
  
  
• kinky slideshows ("And that's Uncle Bill in the body stocking next to Suzy Mae and her goat boyfriend. Next slide...")
  
  
• "crushing things" woman videos (Getting farther afield…)
  
  
• girls wrapped up (Let’s see them go to the prom without me now!)
  
  
• woman pull up shirt ballgame (Not often enough, unfortunately.)
  
  
• hairy nude coed girls (Try the international dorms.)
  
  
• mamby girls sex (But keep those pamby girls away from me.)
  
  
• anal cavity searches at customs (Only if you ask nicely.)
  
  
• Neil Bush Sex Romps (See also Embarrassing Presidential Brother Syndrome, or Roger Clinton’s Disease.)
  
  
• "Laura Bush naked" (Shannen Doherty's got the pictures.)
  
  
• naked blonde NY hotel heiress (Yeah, what was her name again?)
  
  
• DID MAGIC JOHNSON HAVE A HOMOSEXUAL ENCOUNTER (He might tell you if you stop shouting.)
  
  
• Magic Johnson + group sex (Busy guy.)
  
  
• c-baby nude (Hey now! Getting a little out of line!)
  
  
• free c-baby panties (Callin’ the cops now…)
  
  
• People wrapped up in bags (And lovin’ it!)

If you, the loyal readers, find this incredibly tiresome, make sure to drop by my spider hole and voice your concerns so I may ignore them accordingly. Good day to you, and to the woman this morning who said, "What an annoying bus driver."

WULAD Web Wround-Up
This is where I will identify things that you should read and enjoy and you can then read and enjoy them, or read them and not enjoy them, or not read them and not enjoy them, as the case may be. But if you don’t read them, you can’t enjoy them. And if you’re not going to enjoy them, at least make it a non-enjoyment that comes from reading them, rather than a non-enjoyment that comes from non-reading, as that leaves open the possibility that you may not have non-enjoyed them had you not non-read them. You may even have enjoyed them. So read them.

Finally, a good love poem.

For the last-minute Xmas shopper: the gifts that keep on giving.

And now, an event you have no doubt all been waiting for with increasing impatience, it's...

Wrapped Up Like a Pledge Drive
That's right, the Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation’s drive is officially over, and although we may see an increase in Crotch Hunters as Ms. Hilton’s star continues to rise, I did say that December 10th would be the end. Here’s just a sampling of the variations which led brave seekers to our humble web-ode:

paris hilton crotch
paris Hilton crotch shot
paris hilton money shot
conjunction paris Hilton
Neal Pollack Hilton
paris+hilton+suck+toes
"the lovely and talented" "Paris hilton"
the wit and wisdom of paris hilton

And so on and so forth. (I knew that Pollack was somehow in on this.) For the final accounting, I turn the festivities over to someone who knows more about the topic of Paris Hilton’s crotch than anyone alive—you know her, you love her, it’s the Hostess with the Mostest, the Heiress with the Barest, the Debutante with the… anyway, it’s the lovely, talented, witty, wise, and etc. Miss Paris Hilton!

"Thanks, WULAD. Of all the people I’ve met in life, you’re the most recent. [Ba-dump-bump!] No, really, it’s great to be here, but remember I just had my arm up a cow’s ass! No, I gotta tell you, I haven’t met anybody who loves people as much as WULAD does—not since that German Cannibal Guy! [Crash!] But speaking of cannibalism, I want to talk to you about something that’s really been devouring my attention lately… [Groans] That is, it’s been eating away at me… I mean to say it’s like a big barbecued penis in my mind …

"But seriously, folks, the plight of the people of Afghanistan is no laughing matter, and I’m happy that my crotch has played a small part in making things a little better for them… ‘cause it sure hasn’t done me any favors lately! [Ba-dump!] No really, people, my crotch has gotten so popular it just hired its own agent! [Crash!] And it’s getting top billing in my next TV show—they even decided to call it The Simple Life of Paris Hilton’s Crotch! [WULAD whispers in Paris’s ear.] Ah, we’re running long, eh? You’re just afraid these people will get used to real comedy! [Laughter.]

"Anywho, WULAD’s crack statistical team has informed me that the final tally of Paris Porn-Seeking hits was—drum roll please...

"462! That’s right, folks, 462 of you came looking for pictures of me and/or my crotch, and every one of you helped raise money for this worthy cause. My crotch goes out to you! [Curtain raises and 462 blind, hairy-palmed middle-aged men in white tuxedos bow simultaneously.] And thanks to our generous pledgers—Belle, Shan-bear, OATO, NBG, C-Baby and the CEO of WULAD Enterprises himself—the PHCSF has successfully raised a grand total of $35.03 for the Afghanistan Relief Organization!

"Now, before I go, I just want to thank Leon, Rickie, Tom, Ashley, Luis, Brittany, Chelsea, Greg, Nora, Shelby, Mahmoud, Racquel, Lawrence, Shaniqua, Reginald, Bret, Rod, Nancy, Igor, Dmitri, Ngoyo, Ping, Theophilus, Buck, Trot, Piotr… [Music swells.] Wait! I’m not done! [Music stops.] Also Mom, Dad, my agent, my crotch’s agent, Jesus, Shannen Doherty, Pedro Martinez, Don Zimmer, President Bush, Gavin Newsom, Ronald Reagan Jr., the folks at Red Bull, the folks at Stolichnaya, Rush Limbaugh’s maid, Darya Folsom, the doctor that cured my phobia of Walloons, Kazuo Matsui…" [Music swells and security escorts Paris from the stage as she begins to throw up into the audience.]

Last of the Election Crap
OK, so after some last-minute hemming and hawing, WULAD ended up voting for Gonzalez, who lost, and Harris, who won. But I’m pretty sure Mecklin of the Weekly is correct in saying that either candidate would make a good mayor, even is one of them is a courageous crusader for the voiceless and the other is a soulless lackey for the plutocrats, as the Eternal Protest crowd would have you believe. (Which I don’t, incidentally.) After casting my weighty vote, I headed to the Laundromat for another civic duty, and was greeted at the door by a homeless guy who proceeded to smoke crack in the corner while the patrons loaded their washers. I didn’t bother asking him if he was acting in his capacity as a symbol or if this was just his normal routine.

Last of the Pledge Drive Crap
Today is officially the last-ass-last day to pledge to the PHCSF—which is too bad, since the flow of crotch-seeking visitors is holding steady—and may even be getting stronger since “the lovely and talented Paris Hilton” (as one Googler sought) seems to become more of a cultural phenomenon each day. And the Afghanis could really use the dough, I would think. But I can’t milk the six poor souls I roped into pledging forever, and I promised that December 10 would be The Last Day. So drop me a line at the e-mail to your right and chip in a little holiday Hilton hope for those less fortunate. Hell, you could even skip my sorry go-between ass altogether and just donate to them directly. Tomorrow: the final tally, when we learn just how obsessed with celebrity crotches our nation really is.

Last of the Recycled Crap
I’ll close this abbreviated filler-post with a little piece I threw into the e-mail flotsam a few years back. And let it never be said that all Wrapped and no Up makes Like a dull Douche…

Hey guys! I know it sounds far-fetched, but I tried this and it worked!

Microsoft, as part of a promotional e-mail tracking test, is sending out squads of beautiful supermodels with huge bags of free money and shiny sports cars to anyone who forwards their tracking message. The supermodels are instructed to become the personal sex slaves of anyone who helps with the tracking test, to help clean up around the home, and to pay off the mortgages of their new masters; in fact, Microsoft is offering to set up a personal stipend of one million dollars per day for each respondent—so great is their need to test this new system.

Here's how it works: simply forward this to thirty-seven of your friends, family, etc., and in one week your choice of either a) a Victoria's Secret runway model in a bitch-red Mercedes coupe, b) a Soul Train dancer in a black Lexus SUV, or c) a member of the New York Jets Dance Squad in a '67 Charger will pull up in front of your house, adorn you witha solid-gold diamond encrusted tuxedo, and your days of struggle and disappointment will be over! You will have joined the ranks of the immortals! I know what you're thinking—too good to be true!—but this has been independently verified by Dr. Werner Wittgenheimer at the University of Munich (WWittgenheimer@UMunich.Ger). See you on the Riviera!

Note to SFers
Read this piece (short ad view req.) before voting for a little response to all the anti-Gavo, pro-Matt-Gone hype that's been floating around. You still may not want to vote for him, but check it out anyway, because unsubstantiated non-policy-based mudslinging helps nobody.

I’m Your Venus
Well, there’s a lot of ground to cover today—aside from the fact that we San Freakin’-Franners are headed to the polls to choose our next mayor, or alcalde, as they say in "Zorro", today is also the penultimate day of the Paris Hilton Crotch Drive; and perhaps most importantly, there are dwarf riots in Africa. Dwarf riots! Let’s begin.

I’m Your Mayor
As the Day of Mayoral Reckoning has approached, the WULAD Endorsement Committee has spent quite a while listening to interviews, reading position papers, etc. We’ve compiled the following summation of what we’ve learned, so that you, the busy voter, don’t have to waste your valuable skeeball time sifting through all that razzmatazz yourself:

• Gavin Newsom is not a Nazi. It turns out he’s not even a Republican.
  
  
• Matt Gonzalez is filthy stinkin’ richer than Newsom, and no, you can’t see his tax return.
  
  
• Newsom doesn’t believe candlelight vigils can defeat homelessness.
  
  
• Gonzalez once held a candlelight vigil for his missing socks.
  
  
• Newsom talks like he’s tired of explaining it to you idiots, again.
  
  
• Gonzalez attended the Jonathan Richman show last Friday in his trademark "Only Suit," though he did not call C-Baby "Little Mama."
  
  
• Newsom has a 30-foot anaconda named "Pepe" in his garage that he plans to use to fight aggressive panhandling.
  
  
• Gonzalez was raised in a remote alpine cabin by Jaye P. Morgan of The Gong Show.
  
  
• Newsom was born with eight fingers; his current thumbs were transplanted from a serial killer after his botched electrocution.
  
  
• Gonzalez is the only man ever to escape from Alcatraz; at the time, however, he was known as “Clint Eastwood.”
  
  
• Although Newsom appears middle-aged, he is actually 87 years old, the last of a line of long-lived Northern kings and heir to the throne of Gondor.
  
  
• Last week, Gonzalez dressed up as Billy Bob Thorton dressed up as Santa Claus and touched me in an inappropriate way while I sat on his lap.
  
  
• Newsom once told a reporter to “go suck my mammy’s left buttcrack.”
  
  
• Gonzalez is not related to “Speedy” Gonzalez. However, outfielder Juan Gonzalez of the Texas Rangers is his great-grandmother.

Now you have the facts, so get out there and vote, my lovelies!

At Your Deblogger
Tomorrow is the last day to pledge for the sounds-like-a-joke-but-it’s-actually-for-real PHCSF. The coffers are looking pretty bare, so dig deep and pledge a cent or two per Crotch-Searching hit toward Afghanistan relief efforts. Otherwise this will be just one more clever idea that ends in crushing disappointment and yet another depression-induced Cheetos binge.

Now, some of you may be thinking, "yes, yes, elections and Paris Hilton and self-aggrandizement is all well and good—but don't you have anything to say about what we really care about—the Mets' acquistion of Japanese shortstop phenom Kazuo Matsui?" And you are right to ask, my friends. But as years of Met-induced-pain have resulted in permanently low expectations, I leave the prognosticating to the experts listed to the right of your screen and silently pierce my Roberto Alomar voodoo doll with pin after heartbroken pin.

Finally, kudos to the blogtacular WWKAD? for mentioning this relative piss-ant of a blog today. From tiny acorns grow mighty oaks, which are then cut down to make DuraFlame logs and biodegradable kitty litter.

An Army of Two
Well, it wasn’t easy—due to the overwhelming response—but WULAD’s esteemed panel of judges has selected the two winners for our prestigious Wrapped Up Like a German Cannibal Joke contest. In second (also last) place, we have a delicate yet powerful evocation in verse of the greater relevance that a solitary German cannibal can have to the brotherhood of man and the human condition. From Ryan:

Internet to the rescue
Lonely only child
He ain't lunch, he’s my brother

…with an auspicious start like this, we can no doubt expect great things in the future from the pen of this Bard of the Bay. Also he has an amazing collection of porn.

But now, it's the moment you’ve all, or at least both, been waiting for, when we reveal the champion of the first biennial WULAD Jerman Joke Jamboree: none other than Richard, who demonstrated his poetic prowess and mastery of the form with this mighty trilogy of epic limericks:

There once was a cannibal named Armin
whom news reports spoke of as charming
He sat down with Mr. B
and cut off his pee-pee
Would you say that his smile was dis-arm-ing?

Armin was on trial for killing
his actions were gruesome and chilling
but cannabalism aside
it couldn't be denied
in this case the victim seemed willing

So the Cannibal's on trial—whatever;
the thing that'll impress me forever
is two people meeting
for long-term or just eating
Ain't it great how the internet brings folks together?

Bravo, Herr Kontestmeister. For the rest of my handful of readers, who are content to sit on life’s sidelines and watch clashing titans like Ryan and Richard tackle the real challenges, I will make no effort to evoke remorse; I can only say that if you saw the dazzling prizes that are currently en route to the two wordsmiths above, you’d crap yourselves with jealousy. And speaking of amazing lists of two, it’s time for…

The Two Most Creative Lines That Strange Men Tried to Use on C-Baby This Weekend, vol. xmcvi
Not content to use old chestnuts such as "Hey, Little Mama," our two award-winners broke new ground by offering the following gems while C-Baby was en route to a show by her Secret Boyfriend:

Second Prize (a week in San Tropez with Leon Redbone and the cast of the hit TV show “A Very Busey Christmas”) goes to the guy who said: “I know this sounds crazy, but I lost my car. Do you want to help me find it?” Strangely, she declined, but that should be no reflection on the quality of the invitation.

And the coveted Grand Prize (a tuxedo made entirely out of scraps of “intimate” laundry that I stole from Paris Hilton’s room at the Four Seasons while she was handing out campaign leaflets for Matt Gonzalez) goes to the brilliant man who asked, “Excuse me, would you like a small woman’s coat?” (This contestant later fell back on the hackneyed "Are you a dancer?" but his opener is nonetheless staggering.)

That’s all the contests for today. Feeling left out because you didn’t win anything? You can fill that emptiness in your soul by pledging to the PHCSF—where everybody wins, and the holiday cheer and Valium egg nog is always flowing.

This Entry Practically Writes Itself
Amid all the exciting developments in current events (such as mad scientists trying to scare the good industrialists with talk of killer greenhouses, monkeys taking up arms and joining the cola wars, and colleges ruling that students may not film figure skaters having sex in the classroom) the WULAD news team, with the participation of C-baby, has been following the German “Gentleman Cannibal” story with particular interest. (I especially like the close-up photos of his teeth, and look forward to seeing him host his own late-night variety show in Berlin.) While contemplating the incontemplatability of it all I’m reminded, however, of that wise Cassandra of nerd literature, Douglas Adams, who saw it all coming:

'I just don't want to eat an animal that's standing there inviting me to,' said Arthur, 'It's heartless.'

'Better than eating an animal that doesn't want to be eaten,' said Zaphod.

On that note, I’d like to commence the official Wrapped Up Like A German Cannibal Joke Contest. Readers shall submit to the comments link below one or more jokes, puns, limericks, haiku and yada yada concerning, but not limited to, the topic of the German gentleman cannibal. The joke(s) may be any length but must make witty use of the possible multiple meanings of the word “kraut.” At least one winner will be selected by the WULAD Word Wranglers’ adjudication committee, and that winner will receive a stunning prize of some sort, which is guaranteed to be at least as cool as the prize I got from C Monks’ novel-titling contest. Participation in this contest is mandatory.

The San Francisco Treat
In keeping with this week’s theme of showcasing the best and brightest of San Francisco’s intrepid street personnel, I wanted to give well-deserved props to the man who was alternately frightening and entertaining the crowd waiting for the bus this morning; he was standing on the corner of 4th and Market Streets, with a long scarf and those giant sunglasses which seem to be favored by a certain breed of eccentrics, holding his suitcase tight to his body and shouting, at the top of his lungs, “I am New York! I... love... human... beings!”

“Shadd-ap!” yelled the construction workers.

“New York!” shouted the suitcase-hugger as he crossed the street, possibly in search of more human beings to love.

Speaking of which, why not show your love for those who have recently had the crap bombed out of them (I mean literally, not figuratively) by our fearless—and soon to be pensionless, if the Action Figure in Chief gets his way—military by pledging to the Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation? There are only six days left to convert that plethora of Parisian porn-hunting into real dollars for the Afghanistan Relief Organization. Otherwise all those fruitless Crotch Shot searches will truly have been for naught.

The Two Most Interesting Freaks I Saw Yesterday
Belle reminded me that I failed to mention in my earlier post the two Polk Street denizens who each had profound effects on me and my nose during the brief time their stars shone brightly in the sky of my life.

The first: I'm walking up Polk toward Victor's Pizza, through the fairly funky stretch of that street as it passes through my neighborhood (anecdote: guy walks up to me and says, "Which way is the good part of Polk St.?"; I thought, "Good as in gourmet food, or good as in transsexual prostitutes?"); suddenly I feel my nostrils spasm as I detect an awful stench. I look down and see a scruffy, mumbling man crouched on the corner, his hands agitating a big sack of what look like decomposing animals. A woman from the crêpe restaurant-by-day/Korean nightclub-by-night storefront in front of which he's set up shop looks on helplessly, no doubt trying to figure out how to get him to move his project elsewhere. I pick up the pace to try and put some distance between my nose and this tableau, and as I pass a group of skater kids I hear one of them say, "Did you see that guy? He's selling rotten onions!"

The second: as Belle and I are sitting a few blocks east, drinking beer at a watering hole known for its preponderance of Elvis Costello and Tom Waits look-alikes, I suddenly see a scrawny arm (I know, I have no room to judge) in front of my face, accompanied by a voice shouting, "Excuse me, could you smell this?" I look up to see a skinny art school kid, and quickly get out of the way to let Belle handle this one. She does so admirably, and the two spend the next few long minutes talking about their shared love of the printing press while I think about how I might get home without subjecting my sinuses to another pass by Ye Olde Moldy Onion Shoppe. But our friend and his cargo had moved on, perhaps to a happier place, where everyone is anxious to buy rotten vegetables and smell each other's arms, late into the Polk Street night.

Stick Your Dainty Hand Inside the Cow of Charity
Paris Hilton stopped by the WULAD Wranch last night and sipped a low-carb martini while watching the premiere of her new TV show from the comfort of my Corinthian leather beanbag chair. While she was excited about the prospect of showing her buttcrack to America in a more family-friendly way than she has in past months, she was most enthusiastic about how much publicity the show could generate for the PHCSF and its worthy cause. Sure enough, by the time I was tucked in bed and Paris was at the local unemployed web-designers' shelter serving soup, kindness, and Red Bull Cosmos to those less fortunate, the heretofore-diminishing tide of Paris Porn hits had swelled once again to a torrent. So why not pledge a penny or two per hit, and make up for all the bad things you’ve done in the past? Santa is watching, and his wrath is mighty.

Enough with the Democracy, Already
Meanwhile, here in San Freakin'-Fran-cisco, we’re bearing down on yet another election—some mayoral runoff or some shit—and the consensus is that we can either have the status quo (hand-picked successor of current mayor), or the status quo plus (President of the Board of Supervisors). The Chronicle wisely focuses on the most important issue of the campaign: fashion. (via Belle.)

Take Me Out to the WULAD
And a coupla baseball items for that tiny percentage of my tiny readership who can be bothered to pretend to care, even if it's only to humor me and hold off the crushing power of my self-doubt for one more day: Peter Gammons talks to Mike & the Mad Dog about the hot stove market, including why Mets fans are in for a long hot summer of a long dark winter before they can get to their long dark winter of a long hot summer. The Times has an entertaining piece on the rebranding efforts of perennial Japanese League not-so-lovable losers the Nippon-Ham Fighters (“Take ye back, ye scurvy ham!”):

They have been awful for decades on end, with exceedingly rare exceptions, and—as if to highlight their ineptitude—they play in the same city and stadium as the legendary Yomiuri Giants…One Japanese sports executive says the team’s image is so dismal that the team “could actually devalue the ham brand.”

Lady on the 27 Bus, 9 a.m.

Yeah, I been tired
Everyday I gotta go all the way out there to get my dose,
or they throw you back in jail
Been tryin’ to get off the stuff
but they don’t want me to
you know, they want to keep getting that Medi-CAL money

You should come to my place, there’s an open bed
since my friend got sent up for two stabbings
There was some mofo comin’ after her
so we got a coupla big knives, like machetes
and went down to Market Street—she’s Mexican,
and you know how those Mexicans are with the knives—
I told her she shoulda got rid of that yellow knife

They got two whatyoucallem
witnesses for the defense, though
but she’s the sweetest, give you the shirt off her back,
she don’t weigh but 90 lbs.

She’s a whatyoucallem, not a transvestite
one of those other things
Anyway it was three times,
you’re, you know, career criminal,
so she got life in prison
but I think she’s where she wanted to be
if you know what I mean

I was going through her drawers
to see if there was anything worth keepin’,
and I found one a them big things,
you know, with the …
they says, Ain’t you afraid to sleep next to her?
I says I’m the last person
she’d ever use one a' those things on.

Wrapped Up Like A Week Off
This morning, C-Baby alerted me to this piece of Paris Hiltonography, which is exactly the kind of vehicle into which the WULAD news team has been pouring their creative juices for these past few weeks while our nation has been under that tantalizing temptress’s siren spell. I reacted less than charitably at the prospect of yet another, funnier (albeit fact-checker caveat-laced) version of my own schtick: “I bet he doesn’t have to come up with new material every day!”

Her response: “You don't have to come up with new material every damn day. Contrary to popular belief, people really did manage to make it through the day before your blog existed.”

They did? What the hell did they do with themselves? I had to concede the point. I was being overcome with blog bitterness, the result of squeezing one too many sweet pearls of inspirational syrup out of an increasingly sapped trunk—and just as the WULAD message was starting to make inroads, winning a cutthroat contest (tying for first with three other bloodthirsty competitors, that is) at one esteemed site, being added to a select list of the “Only Other Blogs Worth Reading” at another—but I realized, my fellow Americans, that this was a Sign. The heavens opened and I heard a voice, calling down on a sunbeam, which I recognized as belonging to recently deceased Winningest Left-Handed Pitcher of All Time Warren Spahn: "Hey, jughead! Whyn'cha give the e-yappin' a rest for a cotton-pickin' minute! Spend some time workin' on your infield defense and shaggin' flies! Give that damn Hilton harlot a break from your yammerin' and rediscover the fire in that piss-ant never-worked-a-day-a-back-breakin'-labor-in-your-life belly of yours!"

"That unsavory hall-of-fame voice from beyond the grave is right," I thought out loud, to the dismay of my fellow riders on the 27 bus, "I should take some time off, catch up on all my Tivo'd episodes of Sabado Gigante, spend some quality time with my friends and pornography, and return a revitalized, hippin', hoppin', a-hip-it-to-the-hop-and-you-don't-stoppin' blogger. Therefore I will be giving the overworked WULAD media empire and their domestic partners the week off, and resuming regular hilarity and megalomania next Monday. Man, is it gonna be madness and mayhem when we get back!

But we wouldn’t think of leaving you without a vacation time-waster... via Belle, comes this fascinating tool that can guess which dictator or sit-com character you’re thinking of, 20 questions-style. It successfully outfoxed yours truly on Harris from Barney Miller, Ferdinand Marcos of the Phillipines, and even Jonathan Winters as Mork’s kid from Mork & Mindy. The best part is the interspersing of dictator vs. sit-com questions, such as when I felt it was zoning in on my pick of Charles from Charles in Charge, only to be asked, “Did you attempt to unite the Slavic people?” Also, it recognizes George W. Bush as a dictator, even going so far as to differentiate our current President Action Figure from George Bush the elder with the question, “Is your son also an asshole?” That oughta last you a few days, at least.

I also suggest that our readers shake off their sense-of-abandonment blues by patronizing any of the fine websites to the right of your screen, or browsing the treasure trove of wit that is the WULAD archive. We close with the follwing message from Our Lady of Charity and Lo-Fi Porn, Miss Paris Hilton:

Hiya folks, I'm totally bummed that my erstwhile lover and whipping boy WULAD is taking the week off, but why not make it up to yourself by pledging a penny or two per porn-searching hit to my very own Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation, which is stuck on six pledges? In addtion to helping Afghan refugees, participants will also qualify to be entered into a random drawing for a special Parislicious Prize! Stay tuned, and keep those phones a-ringin'... [throws up.]

Addendum: Be sure to read the riveting installment of C Monks' novel (which WULAD helped to title) in the comments below—mega bonus points will be given for anyone reading the mighty e-tome in its entirety.

WULAD Quality, Friday-Style
After hours spent tabulating pledge amounts and hit counts for the Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation this morning, I decided to take a break from that worthy cause to catch up on all the developments in the world of current events and refresh myself with a few news snippets. The first story to catch my eye was that the popular entertainer Michael Jackson (of “Say Say Say” fame) has been arrested for doing the nasty, or at least a nasty, with a young boy. His lawyer assured everyone that this was not the case:

"He is greatly outraged by these charges," Mr. Geragos said outside of the jail complex, in front of a phalanx of reporters, microphones and television cameras. ... He also said that if the accusations were true, "Michael would be the first to be outraged."

—Yeah, if Michael had molested that kid, Michael would be outraged. Well, if he later learns that he actually did commit the crime, I expect him to be appropriately outraged at himself and demand that he be punished to the fullest extent of the law, and to insist that he himself issue an apology to the fans, as well as to the person that his outrageous act has most outraged: himself.

In all seriousness, let me state that although I spent many a happy night at the Neverland Ranch during my Wrapped Up Like A Boyhood, Michael never successfully touched me in my private place; most evenings we stayed up late drinking oxygen shakes, talking about boys, performing plastic surgery on each other, and playing the MASH game (mine said that I would marry Liz Taylor, live in a trailer with my 28 kids and drive a Cadillac; Michael’s said he would marry me and live in my pants). But in spite of these allegations, I must stay true to how I’ve felt about Michael all along: he is a caring, kind, talented man, and is also the freakiest freakin’ freak in the freakin’ freak world of freaky freaks.

I also stopped by Dave Barry’s blog while on my idea-stealing, uh, make that inspiration-gathering, blog rounds, and discovered that many people have a crippling fear of peanut butter sticking to the roofs of their mouths. (Do they still fear this even when they’re not eating peanut butter? I have many questions to ask these unfortunate souls.) But thankfully, this program isn’t limited to arachibutyrophobics—help is now available for those poor folks who spend every waking moment in mortal dread of

• these
  
  
• these
  
  
• these
  
  
• these
  
  
• these
  
  
• these
  
  
• this; and even
  
  
• these.

Luckily, the best cure for the irrational fear of phobias is racing slot cars against a parrot.

And speaking of parrots, Paris Hilton stopped by last night on her way to a gold-plated toilet plunger auction in Monaco; while painting my toenails, sipping Red Bull & bourbon and listening to a mix CD she and Nikki had made for me the night before, she told me she’s feeling better and better about the use of her crotch shot to raise money for Afghanistan relief efforts. “But, dearest Ian,” she said as she delicately placed cotton balls between each of my dazzlingly adorned toes, “it really is out of our hands. You’ve issued the challenge; it is your diligent readers who must now rise to the task with their generous pledges. My crotch cannot win this fight alone.” Then she threw up.

Tids, Bits
My nominee for best review of the year to date: SF Weekly takes on Dr. Seuss' The Cat in the Hat:

...the producers may as well have skipped the hassle of securing licensing rights and simply called this mess Mike Myers: Asshole in Fur. ... Between getting kicked in his supposedly snipped cat-balls (an unfunny incident that admittedly prompts surprising use of the Commodores' "I'm Easy") and beating the hell out of the narcoleptic babysitter, you can see him visibly struggling to ride out the shitstorm. And you can see him failing.

PHCSF Update
In the midst of a dream about a completely platonic encounter with Jessica Alba, I was awakened this morning by the ringing telephone; the clock read 3:26 a.m. It was Paris Hilton, and after rambling on for fifteen minutes about the virtues of Stoli Raspberry and Zoloft, she told me that she's absolutely in love with the idea that amidst all the money-grubbing surrounding her burgeoning adult film career, at least someone is trying to turn all that ravenous greed and horniness into something positive. In fact, she was so moved that she began shoving her cell phone into her crotch in happiness, and I cursed myself for not splurging on the videophone that the WULAD technical staff recommended. Regardless, we're still at six pledges, people. Just think: every porn-obsessed click could either be wasted, or it could make a difference in the world. As our conversation came to a close, Paris asked—nay, insisted—that my readers see beyond the lo-fi fornication and pornarazzi and think about the things in life that really matter. And then she threw up.

Chock Full O' Chocobaby, vol. xcdvi
Me: "I'm getting my haircut today. I was thinking of getting a buzz-cut."
Her: "I'll see you when it grows back."

À la recherche du WULAD perdu, vol. whatever
Finally, we present yet another blast from the distant past, carbon dated to approximately 1986 (or year 12 of the WULAD era). If these preteen pearls are becoming tiresome, feel free to call our Customer Feedback line at 1-800-INSERT-DERISIVE-JOKE.

THE STORY OF IBIK:
OR, THE IBIK STORY.

by ian ______, esq.

utter mongolia, 1874.

Deep in Bungoland, lives Ibik. Ibik has devoted his entire life to killing the evil thing, Stupid Man. He has never felt so strongly about killing someone as much as now this very moment right this very second. Boy, Stupid Man is stupid...

Ibik went shopping. There he met his rival from the heart of Gnma, Mr. Big Fat Man, who is not fat at all. He is stupid, too but not as stupid as Stupid Man. "Num," says Ibik. "Num," says Big Fat Man. "Num num," says Ibik. "Num num," says Big Fat Man. "Num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num num," says Ibik. "Num num!" says Big Fat Man defiantly and walks away.

In our language, Ibik said, "You keep away from Gnma! She hates you! She likes me! She hates your guts! She wishes that you would go turn into three fat British superheroes who work in a labor office! She wishes that you would go and slip on a banana peel and break your @$%¢*# neck! She wishes that you would step on a rat and he would bite off your &#¢%$*! She wi—" and then Big Fat Man would interrupt and say, "So what, you stupid ¢%&@*#@*! I think she likes me better!" and he walks away.

____________ _________ ____ ___________ ____________________ ___ _____________ ________________ ___________ ________ _______ ___________ _ ________ __ __________________ _ ________ ++ ++ ++ +++++ +++ + ++ ++++ ++ ++ ++ ++ ++++ + + +++ +++ ++ ++++++___ ________ __________ ____________ _______________ _______ ______________ ___________ _____________ ___________ ____ ___________ ________ ___________ ______ _________________ ___________ _________ __________.

Fill in the blanks

THE END

Because It’s Easier than Coming Up with New Stuff, vol. mxciii
On the advice of WWKAD?, and because everyone’s doing it, I took some personality tests over at similarminds.com, and the results didn’t bode well for my chances of success in life:

Extroversion results were moderately low which suggests you are quiet, unassertive, and aloof.

Friendliness results were moderately low which suggests you tend to be rude, uncooperative, and irritable.

Orderliness results were moderately low which suggests you tend to be unreliable, lazy, careless, and unmotivated.

Emotional Stability results were moderately low which suggests you are worrying, insecure, emotional, and nervous.

Intellectualness results were moderately high which suggests you are creative, original, curious, imaginative but possibly not very practical.

Overall, you scored highest on Intellectualness and lowest on Orderliness.

Well, what do you think, ladies? Is this someone you’d like to get down with, or what? Aloof, unassertive, rude, uncooperative, irritable, worrying, insecure, emotional, nervous—forget about the National Guard, these are the qualities employers look for.

However, since I believe these tests to be unfairly biased in favor of people who are happy, friendly, rich, beautiful, well-adjusted, fortunate, and perfectly perfect in every perfect way they can perfectly be, I’ve asked the WULAD Psychology Psquad to develop our very own...

Wrapped Up Like A Personality Test™
The Psquad assures me that this is the only test our loyal readers will ever need, and if it’s not, they will sit in the corner and weep silently until you assure them that it is. Since we eschew such trappings of modernism as automated forms in favor of the old-school keepin’-it-real writing-down-answers-yourself way, you’ll need a pencil and/or sterilized cutting tool.

Directions: Answer each question on a scale of 1 to 5, with 1 = strongly agree, 2 = moderately agree, 3 = no opinion or wasn’t paying attention, 4 = disagree mildly but not in a way that gives me indigestion or bad breath, and finally 5 = disagree really freakin’ strongly, so goddamn strongly that you’re about to feel a slight pressure, which is me puttin’ my foot up yo’ ugly ass, and not in a fun or kinky Paris Hilton kind of way. Ready? Let’s self-examine!

1. When I am alone, I often feel I am being watched by the Ghost of Executive Assistants’ Days Past.
   
   
2. At parties, I often perform attention-getting stunts such as balancing a Toyota on my larynx.
   
   
3. I am the bestest person ever to exist, ever. No, wait, make that the worstest.
   
   
4. My personal areas are at least as neat and orderly as those of author Tony Hillerman.
   
   
5. I live for the thrill of taking risks, such as sitting upright or using the toilet without supervision.
   
   
6. The approval of my peers is more important to me than chemical weapons treaties.
   
   
7. I am secretly in love with Mariusz Czerkawski of the New York Islanders, but if anybody tells him, I’ll kill them with a spatula.
   
   
8. What a great word, “spatula.” Spatula, spatula. Spatula? Spatula!
   
   
9. I often seek the spotlight by implying that my website features pornographic videos of celebrities when in fact it does not.
   
   
10. My middle name is “Leon.”
    
    
11. Since my baby left me, I often get so lonely, I get so lonely I could die.
    
    
12. I am dating someone under 5’ 1”.
    
    
13. I have occasionally invaded third-world countries under false pretenses so that people will think I’m smart.
    
    
14. I often insist on “wearing the pants” in relationships, while at work, I often insist on not wearing pants.
    
    
15. This sword that I am girt withal doth me great sorrow and cumbrance, for I may not be delivered of this sword but by a knight, but he must be a passing good man of his hands and of his deeds, and without villainy or treachery, and without treason.
    
    
16. I am the most worthless person on the planet. Wait, that’s you.

OK—once you’ve added up your score, consult the following table to learn your irrevocable personality assessment, which will follow you to your grave. Have fun!

15–25: You are fairly confident but do not hesitate to shut your yap and grovel when you feel it may earn you brownie points with your true love, Yasmine Bleeth. However, you are very uncomfortable writing, pronouncing, or even thinking of the name “Bleeth.” You would be well suited for a job such as janitor or President of the Universe.

26–40: You are well-known author Paul Theroux. You should be working on your next book instead of wasting time scouring the internet for that video—you know the one I’m talking about, Paul.

41–53: You are such a sad sack of shit I can’t even bear to look at you or tell you what your score means. It means you suck is what it means.

54–55: You are a relatively well-meaning, pleasant person; you interact well with others and show great compassion. You are charitable, kind to strangers and children, attractive to the opposite sex, intelligent, and thoughtful. You also possess the Western hemisphere’s largest collection of illegally downloaded Lil’ Kim mp3s, and your address and phone number have been forwarded to the RIAA.

56–80: You are a heavenly being sent to the mortal realm to watch over and guide the wayward flock of humanity with your wisdom and grace. Also you lookin’ reeeeeal good in them boots, sugar. How’s about a little sum’in sum’in?

PHCSF Update
Well, we’re several days into the inaugural Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation pledge drive, and while I was encouraged to learn that we have accumulated five pledges, I would really like to see some more, especially since all those phone operators get paid by the hour. Think about the implications of this project—the money generated by all that covert porn-searching could feed, clothe or educate somebody whose country was recently bombed further into the stone age. So cowboy up.

Incidentally, WULAD Wregular Clare-bear was adamant in his belief that linking to the actual video would help the cause and perhaps increase the pledges; well, since you put it that way, here it is (via Zulkey, via D. Holmes).

Lastly, while we're on the subject of social justice, I would like all of you to copy the following into an e-mail and send it to your congressperson, senator, president, or supreme pontiff:

Dear [Person of Importance]:

As a concerned citizen, I feel it is imperative that you do everything in your power, including suspending the rule of law and/or restricting the cherished freedoms that are the foundation of our democracy, to ensure that the New York Mets trade All-Star catcher Mike Piazza to the Texas Rangers for recently crowned American League MVP shortstop Alex Rodriguez. If you are able to accomplish this through influence, intimidation, coercion, bribery, or any other means, I promise you my firstborn child and my vote.

Sincerely,

[Insert Name and Provocative Photo.]

In Search of...
The story becomes old news, and still they come. I joke endlessly at their expense, and still they come. Time passes, the leaves fall, my hair turns grey and still they come. Twenty, thirty, forty times a day—still they come. They come in search of—well, I’ve already said what they come in search of. I don’t want to make this site any more attractive to the search engines than it already is. But suffice it to say that, as much as it may pain some of you to hear—you will not find that certain shot of a certain bodily region of a certain millionaire heiress here. Nor a certain motion picture of said heiress doing the nasty. It ain’t here. And while it gives me a sense of wonderment (as it should for our friend the amateur adult film star as well) that at least once every five minutes for the past five days someone somewhere has gone looking for the things mentioned above (that are of course not here!), I wish all that energy could be channeled into something more beneficial to society as a whole.

Therefore, I would like to announce the formation of the—ok, I can say it now because it’s for a good cause—the Paris Hilton Crotch Shot Foundation.

Here’s how it will work: you, my loyal readers, will pledge a certain amount of money to the Foundation for every “hit” I receive from a search for the aforementioned picture and video between now and December 10th; at the end of that time, I will tabulate the results and all money raised will go to the Afghanistan Relief Organization, which is providing humanitarian and educational aid to a population which sorely needs it. (I would recommend a pledge of a cent or two per hit, since we're averaging about 30 P.H.C.S. hits per day.) I shit you not, people, and I will get things rolling by pledging two cents per hit myself. Let’s turn that masturbation into a mass donation. E-mail me (Wulad@aol.com) with your pledge today!

For the Jazzbos
On to the Limited-Appeal Dept.: WULAD managed to get a ticket last weekend to see Keith Jarrett, Jack DeJohnette, and Gary Peacock (the “Trio at 20”) as the closing headliners of the SF JazzFest; I’ve never seen the group live before, so I don’t know what the standard etiquette is, but I was surprised when His Keithness began speaking after the band had been introduced (since he has a reputation as something of a “difficult” performer). “Twenty years,” he said, “is not really enough.” He spoke haltingly, in choppy phrases that suggested this wasn’t something he’d prepared; he closed his remarks by saying (and this is only my best recollection), “I feel like we should thank… I don’t know, whoever we need to thank, certainly not us. We sometimes sit backstage and think, ‘What is it exactly, that we do?’ People come to hear us, I guess, and we show up on the stage, and… something happens.”

Something then proceeded to happen for the next few hours—based on the large swaths of time I’ve devoted to listening to the Trio’s recordings over the years, I would say they had a hell of a night. The second set was especially good, opening with the rarely-played “Golden Earring” (not the rock band), a fast and rollicking version of “All the Things…” (with a long sheets-of-sound-y solo intro from Keith), and a re-creation of the funky rendition of “God Bless the Child” as heard on their very first studio recording twenty years ago. The crowd was relentlessly appreciative, and wouldn’t leave until they were placated with two encores (a muted “When I Fall in Love” and a wild, quick version of “When Will the Blues Leave?”, complete with frightening fills from Jack played on those little bowls attached to his cymbals). It made me think, “Oh yeah… this was why I got into this business.”

Take Me Out to the WULAD
Lastly, some baseball news… Newsday is reporting that New York baseball’s biggest J.S. Bach fan Mike Piazza, unhappy with the prospect of learning first base on a rebuilding team, will request a trade from the Mets in the next few weeks. This is sad for me, since he’s been my favorite player on my favorite team since I really began to get serious about baseball, and some of my best Mets memories are tied up with the guy. (Such as watching him lift NY1’s Bud Mishkin into the air following the Mets’ win over the Cardinals to send them to the 2000 World Series.) But... he’s got a point. It would be wonderful to see his Non-Gayness retire as a Met, but he may be worth more to the team in trade value, and could conceivably revive his career on an American League team as a part-time catcher and DH. Hey—how about trading him for A-Rod? I’ll chip in on the salary. Maybe Paris Hilton will, too.

Addendum: I'm serious about the Foundation. Make with the pledges, WULADers of Conscience.

It’s Thursday and I haven’t had any insights lately (having been busy fielding requests to record DVD commentary for the video I made with Ms. Hilton), so it’s once again time for...

WULAD Web Wround-Up
Firstly, Neal Pollack, the Internet’s patron saint of feigned (feigned) megalomania, is hanging up his blog cleats to waste time on things like writing books, following current events, and raising a family. What a wuss. Pay tribute to the years he devoted to his self-aggrandizing brand of neo-literary patriotism and neo-patriotic brand of self-literary aggrandizement by buying his book or endlessly, obsessively browsing his archives. Hey, more readers for me, homeslice.

Excuse me miss, would you like to join me for a nice, hot cup of crippling disease and conversation?

You probably won’t be surprised to learn that WULAD doesn’t really believe in Hell—but if it did, and were a betting blog, it would expect this “Reverend” Phelps guy to get some prime real estate next to Adolf, Joe McCarthy and the scalding-hot La-Z-Boy they’re saving for Osama Bin Laden (and the winged monkey-demon with Michael Bolton’s face that will sit perpetually on his shoulder, singing “When a Man Loves a Woman” for all eternity). You know there’s a problem when none other than Jerry Falwell accuses you of being a little over the top with the gay-hating.

Speaking of which, First (and probably smarter) Brother Jeb Bush said yesterday while looking at an environmental map of the U.S. that the people of San Francisco may be endangered, and “that’s probably a good thing for the country.” Mayor Willie has been his usual cordially condescending (or is it condescendingly cordial?) self about it and suggested it was a good joke; but I personally believe I speak for every other citizen of San Francisco when I say: Go fuck yourself, Jeb!

Finally, back on the bright side: though it’s a little early for the winter wonderland stuff (and someone needs to inform the Rite-Aid music programmers of this fact, perhaps even violently), here are some nice shots a sister-in-bloggery took of Brooklyn’s Prospect Park with a dusting of snow. To adopt the popular vernacular, they make me all nostalgic n’ shit, since many were the days a young WULAD would stroll the park's wooded paths, communing with nature and counting the long months it had been since last I saw a woman naked. Mmmm… speaking of Brooklyn, I could go for a sausage egg n’ cheese bagel, some light snow, and maybe a hot cup of java from the Café de Cancer right about now...

The Big Time
Well, an amazing thing happened yesterday. My humble blog—which has long been laboring on in relative obscurity without a care, happily manning the lower rungs of the blog-fame ladder (except for the countless e-mails it periodically sends to other, more influential bloggers and their lawyers, hoping to pick at the table scraps of their mighty readership, or at least an generate an attention-grabbing lawsuit)—attracted 81 hits. This is not quite as many as the day it was mentioned on a certain superstar blog (which no doubt flosses its teeth each morning with more visitors than have come the way of the WULAD during its entire sexistence), but still many more gentlemen and lady callers than had recently been rolling down the electronic pike.

Let me amend that last statement, since I’m fairly sure these were mostly gentleman callers—I’ll get to why in a minute. You might wonder what brought such a flood of attention to your friendly neighborhood WULAD; was it the incisive sociopolitical commentary? The humorous slice-of-life tableaus? The nostalgia-laden journeys into the green grass and ruined mattresses of childhood? The myriad contests featuring valuable prize packages, such as a lifetime supply of Weetabix or a week in my closet?

No, these web-weary travelers came from far and wide across Al Gore’s glorious internet, from industry titans like Google and MSN to plucky upstarts like Pappy’s Olde-Tyme Coal-Burning Engine of Searchin’, in pursuit of one holy grail: “Paris Hilton Crotch Shot.”

It is my sincere hope that, although they may be initially disappointed at the numerous ways this site fails to deliver on that request, P.H.C.S.-surfers may choose to stick around and enjoy the plethora of other fine attractions available here (including my serialized memoir, A Heartbreaking Work of Britney Spears Orgy, or my exposé of low-wage-earners, Nickeled and Dimed in Jessica Alba Topless), and perhaps even make this a regular stop on their celebrity crotch-shot-hunting rounds. (I promise I won’t tell how you got here.) And let me just close by saying, in the immortal words of the Bard, “What I have done that might your nature, honour, and exception roughly awake, I here proclaim Laura Bush Naked Wrestling.”

Photographic Evidence
For those of you who read here about the gargantuan double-hot dog and corresponding dogless-dog Belle and I constructed during Game 1 of the ALDS at the Oakland Coliseum and were skeptical that what was detailed in the diagram was actually possible, we here present two images (click each to view the full-sized hot dog action) for your perusal. Read 'em and weep. No, I want to see you actually weeping.

À la recherche du WULAD perdu, vol. II
Well, it’s been three days since I spilled the beans about my tumultuous pornographic home video past, and as of this morning I have yet to be contacted by legal representatives of either of the lovely and talented celebrities whose good names I relentlessly dragged through the mud in search of a quick laugh (let me reiterate here that it was all completely true), although the guy from Dude, Where’s My etc. did call to offer his services should my story be made into a major motion picture or an after-school special. To celebrate WULAD’s status as the Teflon® Blog, our archeological team has unearthed another glimpse of the shady origins of its widely tolerated style. So, from the mists of the past, we present the following piece, dated September 1989, when the WULAD lad was a sprightly 15...

Okay. Here was the scenario: Crazy Jack Smith the mass-murdering pal o’ mine had recently taken a turn for the worse. After mutilating 97 people in my home town of Skeeter Gulch, Florida, he had come after me with one of those multi-purpose kitchen tools and I was trapped in a Bible-school supply warehouse. I was petrified... mainly because I had to catch a plane...

Hiding behind a box of prayer books, I could hear his raspy breaths not too far away. He coughed and wheezed. "Hey ya lil’ snot-rag! I’s gonna smash yo' face clear into da ground!" This was real bad news for the plane situation... It was gonna be hard to enjoy my Chicken Kiev with dehydrated peas if my face was smashed clear into da ground.

The closer he got, the easier it was to tell... he smelled like a dead pig, only less pleasant. Just as I was sure he was going to kill me, he jumped into the light. His face! He wore the tattoo of Bondaluccio! "What! Then you must be..." I started.

"Your brother!! It is me! You thought I was—"

"Dead, yes, killed by the Count of Spam!" I interrupted.

But then the lights came on! My friends jumped out and started singing "Happy Birthday" to me! It was all a sham! Ho ho ho! What a gas!

But then I woke up! It was all a dream! But then I woke up! It was all a dream! YUK YUK YUK! Ho ho ho ho Yuk Yuk.

Has Anybody Seen My Douche?
It’s true, I’ve been a bad little blogger, as the real world has unfortunately been infringing on my beauty sleep and dampening the creative firestorm to which readers of this publication have become accustomed. But fear not, our crack staff is on the case, formulating new and exciting ways to bring in the heavy traffic and visibility our advertisers demand without resorting to cheap publicity stunts or sweatshop-manufactured merchandising tie-ins. But enough excuses, let's begin...

America’s Funniest Home WULAD
I’d like to begin by dispelling some of the disinformation surrounding the home video I made with teen socialite and hotel heiress Paris Hilton, which apparently is going to be released by some soulless profit-monger who has no appreciation for all the hard work and emotion that went into planning and producing this tribute to our affection for one another and our love of porn. It’s no surprise that, due to the seedy circumstances under which the film came to light in a way never intended, there have been numerous factual errors reported in related news coverage. We’ll tackle the myths one by one:

• It has been suggested that I had something to do with the leaking (pardon the expression) of this video; I am here to tell you that this is a damn lie, if I may be allowed a little umbrage. I have no incentive to release to the public what I really consider to be a sub-par performance on my part (not to mention Paris, who really has a lot of work to do if she ever wants to become a serious adult film star); many finer examples of my work are already available for purchase, such as Wrapped Up Like a Barely Legal Coed and WULAD Does Winnemucca. See your local adult superstore for details.

• One vivid rumor has Paris, Shannen Doherty and I engaging in a heated argument and hair-pulling fight at a Los Angeles party. This is absolute nonsense, and I’ll clear the record by stating that I have never seen Ms. Doherty socially, except during my guest appearance on Charmed, and I’m not sure how her name got mixed up in this mess. The truth is that I was beginning to tire of Paris—her endless dramatic episodes, her crippling addiction to "Yoo-Hoo", her overpowering obsession with the plays of George Bernard Shaw—and by the time of the party in question my attentions had begun to stray. So when I saw that guy from Dude, Where’s My etc. sucking tequila from the bare navel of KRON 4 Morning News personality and mistress of wit Darya Folsom, I quickly stepped in. “Does somebody here drive an ochre Hummer H2 MegaBlingBling Edition®? It’s being towed,” I shouted, and faster than a prairie dog in Paraguay our Dude was bolting out the door.

“Nice work,” cooed the lovely news anchoress as I helped her up from the kitchen counter, “these nouveau-riche have no sense of class.” She quickly looked me up and down and cocked a meticulously manicured eyebrow. “What brings an Internet mogul like yourself to a veritable outhouse such as this dreadful soiree?” We proceeded to engage in scads of charming and playful banter à la Cagney and Hepburn, to the delight of our admiring fellow guests. I was about to offer Ms. Folsom a lift back to her suite at the Biltmore and perhaps suggest a nightcap or candlelight game of Strip Triple Yahtzee, when I suddenly saw a blonde, Zima-reeking typhoon sweep past me—it was Paris, blind with jealous rage. Before I could stop her or at least remove the expensive opossum stole that I had given her for her half-birthday from her neck, she and Darya had rolled into the pool and were frantically pulling each other’s hair and garter belts, their sheer dresses immediately becoming transparent and clinging to their lithe frames.

Luckily, the police arrived before anyone was seriously hurt, and it was with great embarrassment that I soothed a furious Darya (her wet mascara giving her the appearance of some sort of evil she-clown), convincing her not to press charges, and asked our driver Leonard Nimoy (no relation) to escort my soon-to-be ex-meal ticket to the car. It was only later that my shame was magnified even further when I discovered that Paris had written “KRON 4 Sucks Ever Since it Lost NBC” in lipstick on the side of the house, and that the little drunken harlot awoke the next morning with Darya’s eyebrows still clenched in her teeth.

• Finally, I would like to address the allegation that I only dated Paris because she was a multi-millionaire high-society ingénue, and that I never really cared for her, and used her to expand my sphere of influence and generate the massive amounts of capital needed to run the vast enterprise that is Wrapped Up Like A Douche. This is true.

So I hope this will convince my loyal readers to always get their news from the source, and not believe every scrap of sensationalistic claptrap that tabloid rags such as the Star, the New York Post and the Wall Street Journal choose to feed to the unquestioning masses.

Coming up next week: more finds from the treasure chest of pre-WULAD history, including the infamous not-seen-in-20-years Wonder Pumpkin! Don’t miss a single episode, or you’ll be hopelessly lost at the water cooler and ostracized by your peers. Until then…

Dinette Vignettes, Vol. mcxiii
Overheard while picking up coffee this morning: “Yeah, she was sitting at the dinner table, smoking a cigar and drinking bourbon… and my dad said, 'Yep, that’s your great-grandmother!'”

Local Political Joke with Wide-Ranging Appeal
"Why do people feed pigeons?" asks reader Shan-bear. "Are these the same people that vote for Newsom?"

WULAD Web Wround-up
Thank God for creatively positioned photographers.

Popular chanteuse and “sex on a stick” (says WULAD Wregular Clare-bear) Britney Spears recently sat down, put on her Thinking Bra and answered the hard questions. Unlike all of you ungrateful malcontents, she correctly believes “…we should just trust our president in every decision that he makes and we should just support that." You tell ‘em, Toots. She then finished the interview by reciting the Lord’s Prayer while engaging in an open-mouthed tongue kiss with interviewer Tucker Carlson.

Due to my desire to always assume the best in people, I’d like to think this picture is on Yahoo's Most E-mailed index just because people really like skating.

Looking to the Midwest, titan-of-bloggery Mimi Smartypants is back from China and has all the moo shoo for your perusal, delivered with her usual aplomb. Her demonstrated ability to see the inherent drama and comedy (cute baby pictures!) in life's twists and turns (cute baby pictures!) separates her from the majority (cute baby pictures!) of internet commentators. Also there are some cute baby pictures!

Lastly, C-baby has alerted me that a petition is available bugging Dreamworks to release the stolen-from-my-childhood TV show Freaks and Geeks on DVD. It is imperative that you sign, because the VHS copies we watch at her house are looking pretty bad.

Take Me Out to the Hot Stove
In the Nobody-Cares-But-Me Dept., Bob Klapisch is guardedly optimistic about the Mets’ chances to begin crawling toward respectablility next year; SaberMets makes one last case for acquiring prodigal son and painful side-thorn Alex Rodriguez; and also I shot a blue walrus this morning who was humping my leg and singing cowboy songs and a bunch of other stuff and no one's still reading this.

À la recherche du WULAD perdu, vol. I
Last weekend, during my visit to the golden metropolis of Sacramento (the fair capital of our state and incipient home of Governor Notatumor), I was given an assignment by C-baby: to visit my late-boyhood home and come back with as many embarrassing examples of the irrepressible yet eminently razz-worthy creativity of my youth as I could dig out of my dad's overflowing garage in the time allowed. This is because, for reasons I may never completely understand, the handiwork I spent the past twenty years hiding from the public to avoid being beaten up during recess is now finding an enthusiastic one-woman audience.

Over the next few weeks I'll be presenting you, the readership, with snippets, scraps, tidbits, morsels, numnums and what-have-you from the three bags full of my youthful effluvia (say that five times fast) I was able to retreive from that Black Hole of Folsom, since, firstly, I believe a thoughtful reader will be able to piece together the formation of the inimitable WULAD style from the embryonic mists of the past; and secondly, because it saves me the from having to come up with anything new that day.

As an appetizer for the delicious hearty servings to come later, we present the following poem, written while the pre-WULAD was in eighth grade and the Internet was not even a glint in Al Gore's eye; as you can see, it is full of heartbreaking adolescent angst and the crippling ennui that the youth of our society confronted in those not-so-halcyon days. I call it Return of the Jodi.

Like I live like in the Valley
My name is like Jodi
Like my friend Sally
Thinks she's like totally grody

We're like sittin' in like the kitchen
Sally thinks she's like bitchin'
My salad I'm like tossin'
Sally thinks she's like awesome

My boyfriend was like totally rad
He was a biker like named Brad
But now he thinks Sally's like gnarly
'Cause her brother's got a Harley

I didn't know it
So when we went to scarf
My friend Suzy told me
And I was like gonna barf

Now I've got a runny nose
Plus I've got a run in my hose
And now like to add on to that
I'm totally bummed because I'm fat

I was about to kill myself
One grody afternoon
Like but I heard Sally croaked
She gagged herself with a spoon

Wrapped Up Like (Another) Endorsement
The following letter showed up in the mailbag this morning:

Dear WULAD,

Who do I have to vote for to make sure that Newsom doesn't end up as our next mayor? I'm thinking Gonzalez or Alioto, but I can't discern who has a better chance.

Thx,
Frozen in Frisco

Another election already? I’m getting fed up with this democracy crap. Well, never fear, Froz, the WULAD Ballot Brigade is here. Sort of. Before I get to the endorsements, have I told you about the time I ran into Gavin Newsom at the Lush Lounge? My band and I were playing, and a large group of people in suits came in, including a young guy who came up the stairs to the stage and requested a song which I don’t remember. He was wearing a big “Newsom” button, and my piano player said, quite brashly I thought, “Wow, a black Newsom volunteer—never thought I’d see that.” The volunteer guy looked at the pianist for a minute, then shook his head and said, “Yeah, whatever.” I was just glad not to have a political brawl start on stage. But as we resumed playing, I noticed the Soon-to-be-Anointed Boy King himself sitting at the bar below, looking uncomfortable.

Where was I? Ah, endorsements. WULAD must freely admit that we haven’t been following the SF mayoral election nearly as closely as the Ramblin’ Recall, and the issues are not as clear cut. One answer to your question of who can make sure Newsom doesn’t win is: Anybody, because whoever comes in second will likely face Newsom in a December runoff (assuming Gav-o doesn’t get 50% of the vote), thereby ensuring that tomorrow’s election won’t determine the outcome. The favorites for second placers include Angela Alioto, Tom Ammiano and Matt Gonzalez, all of whom have spent time on the Board of Supervisors. Looking at the merits:

• Alioto seems to have the endorsements of a lot of people with the last name “Alioto,” and has stated rather non-negotioably, "I've always wanted to be mayor…I'll love being mayor. I am the next mayor.''



• Ammiano has said “The City’s approach to homelessness is not working, and it has to change… City officials either ignore homelessness or they exploit it for political gain. As a result $200 million is spent each year on mismanaged, fraudulent programs,” (Tru Dat!) and has the added bonus of being a dead ringer for former Mets manager Bobby Valentine.



• Gonzalez seems to be gaining in polls and studied Comparative Literature, so he presumably realizes how much Market Street resembles the squalor of Dickens’ London, without the lovable urchins and Victorian charm.

However, the other answer to your question is: Nobody. Because in spite of who Newsom faces in the runoff, he’s going to win, since a) he’s been “appointed” by Czar Wille and the business community, b) he’s got money and connections up the wazoo, and c) he represents to voters that elusive promise of “change”—while the percentage of people who want to see San Fran turned into a Giulianiesque police state is relatively low, it is obvious that the city’s current strategy towards homelessness isn’t working, and people are willing to take a little walk to the Right on the philosophy that anything different is at least not the same. Additionally, the City is already so far to the left that although Gav-o may seem like George Wallace compared to some of the other candidates, in the national spectrum he’s still a fairly middle-of-the-road Democrat.

So, WULAD will probably vote for Alioto on the basis of her general electability level (since Gonzalez is a Green and has a bad haircut and Ammiano will be perceived as a “gay candidate” and has low poll numbers); this may seem cynical, but we’re talking realism here. And like I said, Newsom is going to win anyway. As for ballot measures, how the funk would I know? I’m just some schmo with a blog anyway.

For those zealots who’d like a broader palate of opinion on the subject, here’s a pretty good guide to the mayoral candidates; the SF Bay Guardian has also compiled this handy chart outlining the endorsements of all the conniving special interest groups.

Tomorrow, back to the kind of general-interest hoo-hah that keeps our national readers coming back for more in spite of our endless soapboxing. Less talk, more mindless entertainment, I promise!