Why won't you take my money????

A South Carolina man tried to open a bank account with a million-dollar bill and then cursed out the tellers when they refused to do it, according to the AP.

He was charged with disorderly conduct and forgery.

It's almost like the infamous 20,000-forint incident of 2006... except... well... less real...

Incidentally I hope you people are picturing this like I am... "WHY WON'T YOU PEOPLE ACCEPT MY MILLION-DOLLAR BILL?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! IT'S REAAAAAL, I TELL YOU!!!!! REEEEAAAAAAL!!!!!!!"









(And if you're wondering, I swear I do work during the day... I... just.... need people to call me back. It's not my fault they don't call me back. I mean, how can I write Things when People don't call me back? Seriously.)

At least she'll be powder fresh

I know I generally pilfer from the AP for this thing, so today I thought I'd mix it up a little and instead pilfer from Nicole. This morning I received the following e-mail from Nicole, whose boyfriend's parents are currently visiting them in Puerto Rico.

I woke up this morning and Dave's parents were there. His mom had dryer sheets under each arm, tucked into her sandals, tucked into her shirt like a bib, sticking out of her pants pockets and in each hand.

Why you ask?

To keep the mosquitoes away of course.

She doesn't want to use bug spray because she "just doesn't trust DEET" but thinks she read somewhere that dryer sheets will keep the bugs away. This apparently isn't true because she was still getting bit and was informing me about each bite since it is apparently my fault that Puerto Rico has a lot of mosquitoes. She keeps saying "I only get bit at your house" and I want to tell her that is because other than my house the only place she goes is to air conditioned restaurants, but each time I bite my tongue.

But despite the fact that the dryer sheets obviously weren't working she still insisted on walking around covered in dryer sheets instead of using the fucking bug wipes that I bought. The last straw for me was when she was trying to get a dryer sheet to stay in her hair. I had to leave the room. I don't even have to be at work right now but I'm not leaving because there's too much crazy at my house.

"This toothpaste tastes awful"

So Becky and I returned to my aunt's apartment last night after a few drinks, and as we were both getting ready for bed she emerged from the bathroom with a generally disgusted look on her face.

"This toothpaste tastes awful," she said, holding up the white tube.

That's when she actually looked at the tube in her hand. And realized she had spent the last three minutes brushing her teeth with hydrocortisone cream.

It capped a day spent soup-kitchening, watching surgery shows on Discovery, going out to eat and drinking.

We volunteered at a soup kitchen in Queens, where we cut and peeled carrots and.. yeah... pretty much it. They were giant carrots and we spent our time comparing each one to different men. The nice, churchgoing volunteers doing the real cooking may have been giving us dirty looks.

Once the cooking was done we essentially served as the cheerful greeters as people walked in the door. I signed people in and Becky directed them "a la izquierda," and all the men were very happy about the cute girls in the hairnets at the front door. That's right. We got a lot of second looks. In fact, if they'd had phone we *totally* could have gotten, like, 50 numbers.

People suck

Apparently it's a longstanding tradition during halftime of Jets games for men to stand along the winding stairwell at Gate D and try to harass women into showing their breasts, according to a story in today's New York Times. The men throw things at women who don't comply.

From the Times story:
Throughout halftime, about 10 security guards in yellow jackets stood near the bottom of the circular, multilevel ramp, located beyond the stadium’s concourse of concession stands and restrooms. One of the guards was smoking a cigarette; many fans do the same during halftime on the giant ramps, which are located at each corner of the stadium.

A YouTube clip (which has been removed) shows a man groping a woman next to him.

When the Times reporter tried to question these security guards about the practice, they detained him and threatened him with arrest unless he surrendered his tape recorder.

Another guard said later that they couldn't do anything about the practice because of free speech laws. Because apparently harassment and free speech are the same thing. The security guards do, however, threaten women with indecent exposure laws.

A.M. is evil

Last night A.M. threw up in her food bowl while she was eating and simply continued to eat around the vomit.

Today she threw up in four different places around the apartment.

I'm not sure what I did to piss that cat off but I really wish she would stop.

Give me all your money or...

A Kentucky man used a stapler to rob an ice cream store Tuesday.

From the AP: Ashland Police Capt. Don Petrella said he didn't know if Rocchi planned
to shoot staples at the shop's employees or use it as a blunt instrument if
he didn't get the cash.

Anyone can make your wee-wee grow, but we take things even further!

I just got an e-mail with the subject line, "Beat her womb with your new big rod."

I watch too much TV

Last night I dreamed I was sitting in the Scrubs hospital with Donna from 90210 when the guys from Queer Eye came to do a show on Turk. Because I watch too much TV.

There's really nothing I can add to this...

Straight from the AP:

SEATTLE (AP) — A woman bit off her ex-boyfriend's lower lip as they were kissing in bed, likely disfiguring him permanently, authorities said.

The 49-year-old man and the woman kissed several times Monday night when, without provocation, she bit off his lip and spat it out, he told King County sheriff's deputies.

Deputies were called to the house in White Center, an unincorporated suburb south of Seattle, and found the man bleeding on the porch.

"There was quite a bit of blood,'' sheriff's Sgt. John Urquhart said. "He could talk, but just barely.''

Deputies reported finding the man's lip on the bedroom floor, covered with cat hair. Doctors at a hospital were unable to reattach the lip, and deputies said he was likely to remain disfigured.

Authorities said a 44-year-old woman in the house cursed and attacked one of the deputies with a pillow before being arrested. She was jailed on investigation of domestic violence but had not been charged.

Bail for the woman was set Tuesday at $25,000. It was unclear Wednesday whether she had a lawyer and police did not release her name.

The man and woman share the home with another couple, deputies said, though he was described as the woman's ex-boyfriend. All four of them are recovering drug addicts, deputies said.

Deputies had been called to the home an hour before the attack because the woman apparently was drunk and disruptive. At that time there was no indication of violence nor any other reason to arrest her, Urquhart said.

Halloween pics

Unfortunately, Becky and I forgot cameras on Halloween night, which means there's no record we were ever toothpaste. But Dave and I took pictures the Saturday after Halloween, when we went out in New Brunswick. Dave was Clark Kent and I wore the dominatrix costume I bought in Boston years ago, back before those costumes were $80...

So for the sake of posterity...

Don't look too close -- I totally photoshopped the arm-fat from my left arm. (You might ask why I'd go to all that trouble and then tell everyone -- well apparently I'm more proud of my technical savvy than I am self-conscious about my arm fat.)

He also had a little reporters notebook that said "Daily Planet" on the cover. He's big on the props. I, however, always lose them. I've left the whip in two different boyfriends' cars in the previous Halloweens (the first one got pulled over with it in the passenger seat, and the cop subsequently eyed him very suspiciously) and have since given up on props.

I fixed the arm-fat here, too -- albeit less successfully and more noticeably...

What? No, I'm *totally* comfortable dressed like this...

Why we're *awesome*

Headline on Rich's A1 story today:
Schools targeting violence with guns

Personally, I think it ranks right up there with "Motorcycle breaks leg."

Born to hand jive, baby

Becky and I were wearing giant sparkly blue shirts doing the hand jive in the back corner of a swanky Manhattan restaurant when the extent of our coolness became very, very clear Saturday night.

We decided to go the non-traditional route for Halloween (rather than returning to our roots -- the Infamous Devil and Cat Fiasco of 2002 in which I ended up throwing up on myself on the cab ride home and she went home with a hairless, eyelashless freak... and that wasn't a costume). So we found these giant sequined blue shirts at a thrift shop, sprayed our hair blue and decided to be toothpaste. Think about it... think... think... yes. Crest.

So we traipsed through the city in our big sparkly blue shirts and made our way into the restaurant where someone we kind of know was having a birthday/Halloween party. She had rented out a room in a posh restaurant on 57th Street and we figured it couldn't be all that bad.

We walked in, being toothpaste, and found everyone else in traditional Halloween attire (sexy cat, sexy tiger, sexy Alice in Wonderland, sexy fill-in-the-blank, etc., etc., etc.). So we figured the drunker we were, the better -- but after the first gin and tonic set me back $11 plus tip we realized we probably should have pregamed.

After talking to a few different people (one of whom asked Becky why she didn't just find a big strong man to support her financially), it happened.

We were toothpaste sitting in the back corner of the room, eating cake and doing the hand jive. And the answer to your inevitable follow-up questions is no. No, the hand jive song wasn't playing. And no, no one else was doing the hand jive. We just suddenly started doing the hand jive for no apparent reason. We're not sure why ourselves.

We left soon afterwards, changed out of our toothpaste and finished off the night at a sports bar with the final innings of Game 3.

The impending Pimp and Ho Adventure of 2008's gonna have nothin' on last Saturday...

I'm not a reporter -- I just play one on TV

You know those people who like to ask themselves questions and then answer them ("Am I happy about being a schmuck? No. But have I come to accept it as a part of life? Sure.")? Apparently FEMA gave a whole new meaning to that...

FEMA held a press conference Tuesday in its southwest D.C. offices (nowhere near downtown or Capitol Hill, where the reporters are) with Deputy Director Harvey E. Johnson to discuss the California fires. Unfortunately, reporters only received 15 minutes notice about the press conference and no one was able to make it to the office on such short notice. So the reporters who weren't able to make it were given a call-in number on a "listen-only" line, meaning they could hear the press conference but wouldn't be able to ask any of their own questions -- much like Joe Blow watching it on Fox News.

Well the questions asked were like softballs in a senior citizens slow-pitch league. (What "commodities" are being shipped to Southern California? Are you happy with FEMA's response so far? Does the quick response to the fires show that you've learned lessons from Katrina?)

This from the Washington Post:

He was apparently quite familiar with the reporters -- in one case, he appears to say "Mike" and points to a reporter -- and was asked an oddly in-house question about "what it means to have an emergency declaration as opposed to a major disaster declaration" signed by the president. He once again explained smoothly.

Turns out, there was a good explanation for the smooth-as-a-baby's-butt press conference. Because of the impossibly short notice, no reporters could make it. Turns out, the "reporters" who showed up were actually FEMA's deputy director of external affairs, FEMA's deputy director of public affairs. FEMA's director of external affairs and one of FEMA's press aides, according to the Washington Post.

Al Kamen broke the story in his Washington Post column (from which I pilfered) here.

After standing by their decision through the week, FEMA apologized today. They also acknowledged that no actual reporter attended the press conference.

Reuters story on apology here.

What to do if you're attacked by monkeys

The best monkey story (and, OK, most morbid) I've ever heard involved monkey spluge in the eye leading to death. A young biologist had the noble job of holding a fake monkey vagina up to a male monkey's cage and letting him do his business so the biologists could collect the splugey specimen. But said biologist forgot to wear protective goggles, some spluge squirted up into his eye and the guy died a few days later from a resulting infection.

But monkey-related deaths and injuries occur more often as a result of a monkey attack. Most recently, The deputy mayor of New Delhi fell off his balcony and died Sunday after being attacked by wild monkeys.

According to Slate, monkeys generally attack because they think you have food. So if you're ever attacked by monkeys, you should either fork over the food (sorry, Fatty), or hold out your open palms to show them you don't have any food. If that doesn't work, you can try to chase them off with a stick. (because who doesn't carry a stick in their back pocket?)

Here's Slate's Explainer's take on How to Fight Monkeys.

On watching the ALCS with cats

I tried to put the Red Sox hat on A.M.'s head but it didn't fit so well and that made her very unhappy.
So she violently squirreled her way out of the hat and wanted to run away. But luckily, she's a very lazy cat and instead decided to just roll a little to the side and yell at me for a minute.

She remained unhappy about the hat being on top of her (she's kind of a control freak), so we compromised by having her cuddle with the hat instead.

The End. (hooray!)

It's "called underwear for a reason"

The Port Allen, La. city council has joined a bunch of other towns throughout the country banning baggy pants. It's the eighth Louisiana municipality to pass such an ordinance.

The council passed the ordinance on Monday, creating a $25 to $250 fine for a first offense and a $250 to $500 fine for subsequent offenses.

From the AP:
Councilmember Hugh Riviere said he didn't want to view other people's
undergarments, saying it "is called underwear for a reason.''

Another councilmember said she voted for the ordinance because many of her constituents believe baggy pants are a fashion faux pas.

AP story here
Local newspaper story here

So Piscataway's the new Crenshaw...

(It has, incidentally, occurred to me that my L.A. readers won't get the Piscataway reference; the Jersey readers won't get the Crenshaw reference; and the North Carolina readers won't get any references at all. So I apologize for that. And I double-apologize to Brian and Eric, who have no idea what any of these places are.)

That said...

My coworker Dave had had a bad week, and since I'm such a nice guy I decided I'd be the DD for once and drive to and fro the bars Friday night. After a long night of much drinking and an hour at Nuebies sobering up enough to drive home, we got into the car and I started driving him back to Piscataway.

Well the street he lives off of is essentially invisible and very easy to miss while driving 45 mph at 3:30 a.m., so I was driving a little under the speed limit and I noticed a car following close behind. I hate when people follow me close behind so I continued to watch from the rearview mirror.

Then I turned onto the street he lives off of -- which is not, incidentally, a major thoroughfare -- and the car turned also. I made the next turn onto his street, and the car turned again.

I locked the doors and pulled to the side of the road, hoping the car would continue past and everything was just a giant coincidence. The car pulled over, too.

I turned off my headlights. The car behind turned off its headlights.

At this point I was convinced we were about to be stabbed.

While Dave was calling the cops I was able to get a very fuzzy glance of the person driving the car and it appeared to be a blond chick. This made me feel less scared because apparently I'm a racist sexist asshole who assumes that blond girls can't be murderers.

So after a couple of minutes the dispatcher told us to drive forward and then make a left at the next block. I did. So did the car behind us.

At that point, two cop cars intercepted it at the corner and I pulled over half a block up.

The girl told the cops she was trying to follow someone else and must have gotten confused. It all seems very suspicious to me. The cop seemed to think that maybe she was a confused and/or bad private investigator.

So now I'm waiting for Dave's psychotic girlfriend to stab me in the head because she gets insanely jealous of any female in the same room as Dave and often refers to me as "the little bitch," even though I was disgustingly nice to her the one time we met. I don't trust that one...

Wow. That wasn't a good story at all.

Neither is this:
A.M. had a *giant* dingleberry this morning and was so terrified of it that she sprinted all over the apartment in a panicked -- and futile -- attempt to run away from her poo.

Like, OMG, totally!

So I generally try to sit quietly during haircuts, allowing the people at the hair salon to have their hair-salon-type conversations without me. Since they generally talk about pop culture, hair, fashion and other things I know nothing about, I've found that this strategy is best.

But on Saturday, they tried to include me in the conversation. Said conversation dealt with reality television, and the only time I've watched reality TV in the last three or four years was when Sparkley made me watch "America's Next Top Model" the other weekend.

Which is what I should have said.

Instead, I started ranting about how "Kid Nation" is a serious disappointment given the lack of a Lord-of-the-Flies, heads-on-stakes, ganging-up-on-fatties-named-Piggy atmosphere. I continued to ramble about how great that show would be if there were wars and a gang of kids trying to kill a fatty with broken glasses. I heard they cut the head off a chicken in one episode, I continued, but wouldn't it be better if they cut the head off a kid instead?

Apparently no one agreed. The salon was eerily quiet and I had to say something along the lines of, "J/K! You know what show's awesome? America's Next Top Model! Like, OMG, awesome!" just to get them to stop staring at me in horror.

The conversation eventually shifted to Halloween costumes and I limited my participation to periodic, "That's soooo cuuuute!" comments, which went over much better with the apparently-anti-child-killing crowd...

Still on the politeness rant...

I spent two hours in the doctor's office waiting room today, it turns out, because the nurses had "accidentally" recorded me as a "no show."

This comes on the heels of flipping out on a nurse who refused to refill my prescription (but told me she already had, thus sending me on a pointless trip to the pharmacy to pick it up), and writing a detailed e-mail to the doctor about the negligence of his staff. When I was finally called in today, I saw that the e-mail had been printed out and placed in my file.

I asked the doctor to explain his staff's negligence, and he hinted around the fact that the nurses dislike me. At first I tried to explain that I'd been very polite to his nurses for the first three phone calls, but I quickly realized this was a pointless explanation, because the doctor dislikes me as well. He was less concerned with my problems and more concerned with how I'd gotten his e-mail address. (Me: "I looked it up." Him: *looks at chart* "Ohhhh. You're a journalist. Maybe we should be nicer.")

Maybe I'll move back to Boston where I had a doctor who wasn't a douchebag... Anyone want to give me a job at the Globe? Anyone?

Done being polite.

You heard me. I'm done with it. It gets you nowhere. Cases in point:

1. The waitress spilled half a pitcher of ice water on me Sunday. The manager saw it happen and apologized profusely. I told them everything was fine and calmly blotted at my clothes with the damp towel they gave me. In the end, they gave us the check -- and comped *nothing.*

2. I spent last week politely calling the doctor's office to renew a prescription for a pain medication. They spent the week dicking me around. The long weekend came, I ran out of the pain medication and they still hadn't called the refill into the pharmacy. So I had to go through the weekend in serious pain and couldn't do shit about it. Then I called again today and politely reminded them that they were dicking me around. The woman tried to tell me that my other medication (an anti-inflammatory that does jack shit for pain) is "the same thing" as the pain medication. This is when I flipped out. She apologized and said she'd call the prescription in immediately.

But then, flipping out didn't work either. I went to the pharmacy to pick it up and they said nothing had been called in.

3. Last week I politely told my editors that my circa-1990 computer blows. They said I was next on the list for a new one and that I'd get said new one last week. A week later, I still have the same circa-1990 computer and when I came in today it refused to start up. So now instead of having a barely-working, no-memory piece of crap, I have no computer.

After sitting at my desk, reading the New York Times, waiting for the "help desk" to call from Neptune (the town, not the planet... I'm told) for hours, I said fuck it and told my editor she could call me at home if she needs anything.

So yeah. I'm done with politeness. I'm done with everything. Maybe I'll move to Thailand and open my own brothel...