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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, from the table behind me...

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

His Buddy: Here you go.

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

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

GCWD: Hell, yeah.

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

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

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

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

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

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