September 2003 Archives

When I was a kid I remember reading a tiny ad in an issue of Mad Magazine. It was offering all these 8 x 10 pictures of Alfred E. Neuman for very little money. I also remember there was something about the way it was written that made it hard to tell if it was a fake or not, but I asked my mom for some money and sent it to the address anyway.

A few months went by and I forgot about it. Then one day a big envelope arrived from Mad Magazine. It was filled with dozens and dozens of portraits of Alfred E. Neuman! The ad was real! This was like the Idiot Lottery, and I just hit it BIG.

So, a few weeks ago my parents sent me all this incredible stuff out of storage. Included in all the boxes were the Alfred E. Neuman pictures! I couldn't believe they still had them.

The best part is, after I started writing this I remembered that I had "Totally Mad" lying around somewhere. It is a 7 CD-ROM box set that contains every page of every issue of Mad Magazine from 1952-1998. I went on a little mission to to try and locate the ad I had read as a kid, and I somehow managed to find it!

Here is the actual ad li'l Stevie responded to from the Oct. '78 issue of Mad:

Do any of you guys remember the New Zoo Revue? I used to watch it in reruns all the time when I was little, at like six o'clock in the morning.

It featured Freddy the Frog, Henrietta Hippo, Charlie the Owl, and the show's hosts Doug and Emmy Jo. Doug very much wore glasses. Emmy Jo very much wore go-go boots.

If you ever wondered what Emmy Jo looked like naked, so did Doug. He eventually found out, then Emmy Jo went on to host their boy, Rob.

Rob is now 24, and competing in a radio contest. He could use your vote. You can click here to help him out. (He is second from the left and doesn't seem to wear glasses or go-go boots.)

The voting is over (Rob didn't win). Oh well.

Man, nothing gets my wife's panties wet like retro toy robots. Sadly, that's only when her panties are being worn by me. (Like now.) My wife couldn't care less about robots. My friend Eric, however, does.

Eric Joyner is an awesome artist who has painted up an amazing collection of artwork featuring tin toy robots in very interesting settings. This stuff really pushes my buttons. The one featured here is called "RoboKong." Click on it for a better view.

You can see his whole collection of tin robot art right here. And he just started selling very high quality prints of them, too. So go check them out, buy some stuff, and most importantly: can we not tell my wife about the whole panties thing? I don't think she reads the site anymore, so let's just keep that between us.

With the recent arrival of "Baboo," I have been reminded of the joys of baby poop.

During the first few days of a baby's life, he or she will take a special kind of dump reserved only for newborns. It's an oozy, black substance known as Meconium. That is a very important sounding name for "Baby's First Shit." MECONIUM! It's almost like an element on the periodic table. (It isn't. I checked with my wife and she's a science teacher.) If they ever do decide to include it in the periodic table, I would suggest the symbol: Ew.

In a few days the meconium subsides, making way for "Breast Milk Baby Poop". They don't have a fancy name for that yet. (I was thinking either "Stankium" or perhaps "Skidmarkogen".)

Unlike the black, viscous Meconium, this stuff looks disturbingly like mustard. Take it from me, it is NOT really mustard. If you somehow feel that it does smell like mustard, I strongly suggest you get yourself some new mustard.

While Breast Milk Baby Poop doesn't smell great, I can deal with it. It's more funky than gross. It smells kind of like sweetened ass. Not nearly as offensive as the unholy stench your precious child will unleash after the switch to solid food. I'm not looking forward to it.

By the way, the American Heritage dictionary defines "Meconium" as: A dark green fecal material that accumulates in the fetal intestines and is discharged at or near the time of birth. They also say it is Latin for poppy juice.

I just sent the following email to the American Heritage Dictionary people...
----
SUBJECT: TYPO IN AMERICAN-HERITAGE DICTIONARY

P.S. Do you offer any type of reward when people catch typos?

Do you like SpongeBob?

Do you live near Los Angeles?

Do you want to help me free up valuable garage space, while becoming the proud owner of a crazy-ass SpongeBob BoatCar for practically nothing?

Then check out my auction! Bidding starts at only 10 bucks! You can't afford NOT to buy it!!! The auction is over, but the page is still up. Thanks to Rob at Cockeyed.com for the fat link to it!

It's time for another edition of The Sneeze Book Club. Today we will be discussing the important literary work known as "Bad Hair."

Bad Hair has the two things I look for in a great book: The opportunity to laugh at other's misfortune, and no words.

To the left is just a sample of the horrors within. Click to enlarge.

Late the other night I was flicking around the cable dial looking for a good documentary or foreign film, so of course I went straight to Cinemax. But wouldn't you know it, they were right in the middle of a lesbian sex scene. Darn the luck!

Normally this would be swell news, but I couldn't help noticing that the two girls in the scene looked like they really didn't want to be there. Everything they were doing was tentative and forced.

They seemed kind of sad, like they were almost about to cry, and it gave a degrading air to the entire thing that made me feel gross. It just seemed so wrong. Wrong because I pay good money for Cinemax! C'mon girls, who wants to see half-assed lesbians?

Dont get me wrong, I watched the rest of the movie, but what has happened to the work ethic in this country? What happened to taking pride in your craft? (Cue patriotic music...) Whether you're about to do some girl on camera, or you're about to weld a backseat into a Ford Taurus, or you're trying to find the gene that causes male pattern baldness (by the way, step up the pace on that one) you owe it to your country and yourself to give it 110%

So to all of you reading this who are just now about to do a cheap lesbian sex scene to pay your rent: You march right in there and you lick that girl like you mean it, or at the very least pretend to. If that's not your cup of tea, then how about a good ol' fashioned nipplefight?

Okay, I don't even know what that is, but I'm pretty sure I'd love it. Nipplefight. It sounds really cool. If you get the chance to throw it around in casual conversation, or during your next meeting at work, I'd appreciate it. Maybe something like "If we get audited this year, the gals in accounting are in for a real nipplefight." I'd really like to see it catch on, so at least something good can come from all of this. USA #1!

Mike Boom of the Mycological Society of San Francisco has shed some light on the brain that grew on the tree in front of my house. Sadly, Mike agrees with my wife that it is not a brain...

Hi Steve,
It's almost certainly a sulfur shelf, aka Laetiporus gilbertsonii in the western U.S. unless it's growing on a pine tree, in which case it's probably Laetiporus conifericola, still a sulfur shelf in common parlance. In the eastern U.S. it's Laetiporus sulphureus. It's a decomposer that usually grows on dead trees, but is sometimes parasitic on live trees and does them no good. Check out a description here.

If there's any message from the tree in this case it's "help me!" There's not a whole lot you can do, though, other than hope the tree is in good enough health to survive it. If it's not, at least the sulfur shelf will eventually decompose the dead body and turn it into good fertilizer.

What you see is the fruiting (the mushroom) of the resident fungal organism, the mycelium, which invisibly skulks around year-round inside the tree digesting parts of it. Once a year it fruits a mushroom to reproduce, which it does by dropping lots of spores that can each start a new mycelium.

The best defense: eat it! Make sure of your identification first, because mushroom ID via tiny web pictures is never a sure thing. But if it is a sulfur shelf, it's quite tasty when young and fresh, with a consistency of tofu. Saute it, serve it in a salad, and congratulate yourself for protecting other trees. If it gets even slightly old, it gets tough and bitter, something like an old idealist.

Bon appetit,
Mike Boom

Mike is very cool, and makes a very convincing argument. But I can play that game too, and I am still convinced it is a "humanus brainius." But that's okay. We'll see who gets the last laugh when the Tree Creatures arrive.

I walked outside today to discover this monstrosity growing on the tree in front of our house. My wife says it's a fungus. God, Vassar girls kill me. She thinks she's so smart.

Clearly the tree is growing its own brain because it wants to communicate with me.

I don't believe the brain is fully functional yet because I asked the tree what it needed to tell me and it said nothing. I think it might still be learning our language from the radios of cars as they drive by. (And maybe a little Spanish from the gardener.)

You can click on the picture for a much better view of it. I put a quarter next to it for size reference.

On the off chance that my wife is right and it is a mushroom, then I think I just figured out the next episode of Steve, Don't Eat It!

But if I'm right, then soon the tree will gain the gift of speech and we will converse. It will share with me, the years and years of wisdom it has gained as a silent, stoic observer. I believe the tree will also pass along its message that we must care for our precious planet and its resources, as I gain a newfound understanding of the universe, and our place in it.

It is only after this, that I will then hack off its delicate brain and devour it for the next episode of "Steve, Don't Eat It."

As you may know from this site, when I was a kid I liked me some Happy Days. (You might remember I wrote an angry letter to President Ford when he pre-empted an episode of it.)

After I received my so-so response from the White House, I dared to write a letter to the only man more important than our nation's leader. The coolest man on the planet. The Fonz himself.

I don't have a clue what I wrote to him about. I'm sure it was dumb. A year must have gone by with no response, and I gave up hope. Then one day, out of the blue, I received an envelope from Los Angeles with a Happy Days logo on it. I nearly lost my mind.

I tore it open to find a Fonzie postcard, wth a note written to me on the back. Sweet Mother of God! I was shaking. Fonzie wrote back to me! TO ME! This could be enough to finally make me cool!

I flipped it over and started to read what the Fonz had to say. For some reason, Fonzie wanted to tell me that "Self respect is the cornerstone of joy."

Huh?

Wait a sec. Fonzie doesn't talk like this. What's going on?! I mean, it's a nice sentiment and all, but I'm eight years old Fonzie! What the F are you talking about?!

I sadly realized what I held in my hands was not a letter from The Fonz, but a crappy pre-printed postcard. Not only was it pre-printed, but it contained a cryptic message no kid could understand. I can still remember my mom trying to explain to me what the hell a cornerstone was.

I was broken-hearted at the time, but looking back I now think this postcard is the greatest thing ever. The picture of Fonzie above is a scan of the actual post card. This picture to the right is the back of it. Read the quasi-insulting birthday wishes and you'll see why there is a 60% chance I cried. Click here or on the back of the card to see Winkler's words of wisdom full-size.

That year Christmas came early courtesy of Henry Winkler. Then he took it right back, crumpled it up, and rode over it a few times with his motorcycle.

It is believed that the actual "Cornerstone of Self Respect" is now hidden deep below the surface of the Pacific Ocean. Here is a photo of The Fonz on the infamous day he lost it there.

Every once in awhile, I will get out of the shower and be completely unable to remember if I washed my hair. Am I crazy? Does this happen to anyone else?

It's very important that I wash my hair. If I don't I will look like a homeless madman by lunchtime.

What usually happens is I'll be taking a shower, deep in thought of Charlize Theron my work with the church. I'll get out, put on my robe, and be like "Shit! Hair!" Then I'll spend the next minute rubbing my head to see if it feels "squeaky."

Okay, you got me. This is hard for me to admit, but I was lying about the church thing. I guess the only upside to all this is the very slim chance that Charlize Theron is attracted to homeless madmen. I realize it's a longshot, but you never know. Then again, even if she is, I have a feeling that hooking up with her sounds exactly like the kind of thing my wife would "frown upon." God she's selfish.

If the tables were turned I wouldn't care. If Charlize wanted to get busy with my wife, to "tap that ass" as the kids say, I'd be totally fine with it. In fact, I might even make the bed and root them on with a big foam finger. Ooh-- and then maybe they could take a shower together. And maybe I could join them, you know, just to help everyone remember to wash their hair.

Back at Nickelodeon, David and I had a blast producing these weird little digital toys called Clickamajigs. Many of them were pretty cool, but my all-time favorite is The Obnoxor 5000.

Obnoxor is a robot. A farting, belching, ass-scratching robot. Exactly the kind of thing that Al Gore invented the Internet for.

There are 6 hotspots on him for you to activate, so be sure to find them all. His nose is my particular favorite. Nasty! Click here to operate Obnoxor!

Potted Meat Food Product

There aren't too many products that feel the need to reassure you that they are, in fact, "food." Already not a good sign.

The list of ingredients is long and horrifying, coming right out of the gate with "MECHANICALLY SEPARATED CHICKEN." Oddly enough, I'm about to be separated from my lunch, and I haven't even opened the can yet.

Other ingredients include BEEF TRIPE, BEEF HEARTS, AND "PARTIALLY DE-FATTED COOKED PORK FATTY TISSUE" How does one de-fat fat? Bizarre. God knows what else is in here.

Okay, I'm going to go try it now. If i'm not back in ten minutes, call Poison Control...

I'm back. Oofah.

Okay, here we go-- Pulling back the lid (not recommended) lets loose an odor that punches you in the nose like a stinky fist. If you've ever smelled a can of dog food, it's just like that. Only imagine you are opening the can while your head is wedged in a horse's ass.

Inside is a smooth, oddly pink meat paste. So smooth, in fact, I dare call it "creamy." (I actually got a little gaggy just typing that.) Surprisingly, it was a little spicier than I expected. Although, that sensation may have been a by-product of my tastebuds dying.

The can shows a serving suggestion of the Potted Meat being served on squares of toast. I would also suggest squares of toilet paper. Or maybe a nice diaper.

All I can tell you is, I survived the first installment of "Steve, Don't Eat It." And I have to admit it may have even been a little educational. I know I learned at least one thing from "Ralph's Potted Meat"-- Ralph is a fucking dick.

Not surprisingly, I've come up with a little slogan the peeps who handle Potted Meat Marketing can use (no charge, as always): POTTED MEAT FOOD PRODUCT: Made By, For, And With Assholes.

Now that my son is being potty-trained, we sometimes have interesting little conversations while he sits on the pot. I call them "Bowlside Chats."

One thing he has started doing recently is predicting what his next movement will be:

"Now I'm going to make a big fat poop!"

"Now I'm going to make a baby poop!"

That's funny enough on its own, but I'll be damned if he isn't right more often than not.

Maybe my boy has a gift, some sort of poo-clairvoyance, if you will. (Although I do realize the science community will likely argue that he is simply manipulating his "turds" with some form of advanced bowel control.)

My coworkers have suggested that I have him wear a diaper on his head as a turban, to enhance the mysticism. I don't know about that, but I do know it would be wrong to exploit my son's unique talent for my own personal gain.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go see if thegreatdoodini.com is available.