The epitome of moustache TV...

No words...

Bob Pollard's The Aristocrats

A prominent Los Angeles talent agent is handed a padded manila envelope. He checks the postmark, reads Dayton, Ohio, and sighs. The agent had been getting these packages with some frequency lately; about every nine months or so. He tears the envelope open and out falls a cassette tape and a homemade collage of breasts and airplane propellers. The agent flips the collage over and sees a list of 32 titles such as "Fisting in the Beerlight." Out of mild curiosity the agent pops the tape into his tapedeck and presses play. The agent can make out five or six voices on the tape over the loud hiss and sounds of clanking bottles. The men on the tape seem to be reading a skit based on some sort of family act. The agent notes that all of the voices are different from the last tape he received except for the man playing "the father." The agent continues to listen as the man on the tape describes despicable sexual acts involving microphone twirls, high kicks, and Pete Townshend over the 32 two minutes acts on the tape. "Thank God, Pete's deaf and will never have to hear this," the agent thinks. On the final track, the father character, who sounds quite drunk by now, yells for everyone else to "Shut Up." "Ya wanna, ya wanna know what we're called?" There is a 30 second pause as he chuckles to himself and someone drops a beer bottle in the background. The father character comes back on the microphone and shouts in a slurred holler: "The Aristocrats." Everyone else on the tape laughs as the microphone falls to the ground. Before the tape fades out, the agent can almost make out the sound of a grown man passing out and hitting his head on the coffee table.

New Theories

Since the Member's Only Jacket Theory is not really any kind of theory, just a series of observances and hilarious imaginations (see here, here, here, and here), I am unveiling a stupid, Seinfeldian, observational theory:
D'ya ever notice how right when the Verizon people put a huge stack of phone books outside the apartment building, it rains the next day? Then there are stacks of water-logged phonebooks that not even one of the men pictured below could rip. What's the deal with that?
So that's not funny, come back next week when we'll dicuss airline food, the OJ trial, and whether or not Michael Jackson is crazy.

A funnier theory:
Since I think that all dark haired, Italio-Jewish, teenage sidekicks should be called "Boner" like the guy in Growing Pains, here's a picture of Doogie Howser holding his Boner.

"What? I Like Grey, Alright!"

This is getting to be more fun as a neckless dude picture blog. Anybody have any Karl Denney photos?

Much Better?

Your source for news...

Couldn't let this one go...
Please post something new quick and force it off the main page.



"If I am not me, den who da hell am I?"
-Douglas Quaid

KoC can turn it around

The Fightin's signed one of like three people to test positive for steroids last year. Excuse me, violate the steroids policy. That's like violating the non-robbery policy. He's a fly ball pitcher. His record over the past two seasons? 12-31. Only pitcher in the majors to lose 15 games in the last two seasons. Go Phillies!

At least the manager likes him: "'Seems like he's durable. He'll give us depth,' manager Charlie Manuel said." (from the Inquirer)

According to sources in the GoG chat, the Quarry House, like the Phillies, has no pitchers. Also, no Keno. No word the bathroom/closet.

My top 5 things to do when in Pennsylvania:

1. Read the Philadelphia Inquirer.
2. Mock my family's dog for being a Lhasapoo.
3. Drive my mom's car.
4. Sleep.
5. ...

Happy New Jeer

Cheers to McSweeney's for the 2nd part of one of my favorite McSweeney's things.

Jeers to a creepy house fulla bugs.

Cheers to Brendan's largest shirt.

Jeers to the death of Arrested Development.

Cheers to Ted Leo coming around again.

Jeers to the ad-wizards who came up with this one.

Cheers to Homer Simpson on all his recent charity work, and Jeers to this rusty door handle.