Fun song parodies I do when on stage at karaoke

: A sampling.

“Booooorn gay—as gay as the wind, blo-o-ows. As gay as the grass groows… on a, sunny day-y-y…”—sung to Born Free by John Barry as performed by Matt Munro with meaning unchanged.

“I would. Suck you. Off”—sung to prince I would die for you.

“Keep blowing blowin blowin blowin COCK! Keep blowing blowin blowin blowin YEAH!”—sung to Limp Bizkit “Rollin'”, which accompanied the opening cinematic to one year’s edition of NHL HITZ.

“H to the -omo, Dick to the -izzay / Tickle my dickie til the tip gets jizzy” Jay Z “Homo”.

Photo Credit: Dragon Ball Super

Weiner 2 is going to be off the chain

And I think we should workshop some titles for it! I’m serious. I just rewatched Weiner, and it’s just, oh! It makes me want to sing praises. What a glorious spectacle. If a sequel isn’t already in production, consider this my statement of intent to produce it, in all likelihood under one of the following titles:

Weiner Lose! (This is a play on the phrase, “Win or Lose.” It’s a warmup lap, okay?)

Weiner’s Next Boner

Weiner: Cockup

Weiner: There and Back Again

Weiner 2: Jarhead 4: Welcome to the Suck

The Incredible Shrinking Weiner

Weiner: Shafted

Mr. Weiner Goes to High School

Weiner: The Next, Quite Younger Generation

I Would Bust That Tight Pussy So Hard and So Often That You Would Leak and Limp for a Week, And Other Tales

Weiner: Woener

Weiner: Inch by Inch

Weiner: I Hardly Know Her!

Weiner: The B-Sides, Just in Case Anyone Forgot About the Pictures That Were Just of  Anthony’s Butt


Weiner 2 the Dingus

Tropic of Capricorn

This will all be followed shortly, triptych-style, by a posthumous Weiner 3, which will likely cover the unprecedented story of Weiner’s conspicuous death in upstate New York by domestic drone strike.

I’d like to show the world my cock

And furnish it with butt

I’d like to see it on TV

I am so in love.

I’d like to text the world my dick

The perfect part of me

In cotton briefs, laid on the sheets

It’s weiner time, baby

(It’s the real thing…)

(What the world wants, today…)

(and tomorrow…)

(The real thing…)

Another Fun Thing that We Could Do, IN SPACE

I hope that you’re enjoying the occasional lunchtime sandwich thing. I get fulfillment out of writing them—heck, it’s my pretty earnest hope that we’re all getting something out of it. Hungry, maybe.

Anyway, that’ll continue. But I’ve been brainstorming this evening, yes I have… some tornadic inspiration! This most blustery eve. We’ve figured out how to make the site a lunchtime hotspot. But what about the nighttime? What about… Twitter After Dark…?

I propose we do a nocturne journey through the art of space music. I don’t know shit about it. Neither do you. Let’s discover it together…

All… freaky-like…

…In the Dark…?

Youtube Rabbit Hole (Tell Me You’re Not Down With This): And the Stars Go With You

Photo credit:

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Bacon sandwich

There was this bug-eyed ghost of a woman on America’s Next Top Model one time, at least ten years ago, who mentioned somewhere in the course of the show that among her favorite, favorite things were her grandmother’s bacon sandwiches. Which struck me as odd, for a model. She was very lanky. Very pale. Here’s the picture she provided.

Love that photo. That was on TV! She looks intoxicated, doesn’t she? Intoxified by bacon.

Anyway. This is a solid sandwich. Some white toast, or even just plain white bread, four or five strips of freshly-fried-up, crunchy, crumbly bacon? Little pools of grease still bubbling in the contours? Come the fuck on. That’s a post-run protein slammer of a sandwich, that is. Bacon sandwich and a big glass of chocolate milk. Fuck your heart.

Incidentally, this sandwich, according to the list, originates from the United Kingdom, which, okay, I can buy that. I have a good feeling that colonial America had a pretty deece familiarity with the so-called bacon sarnie well prior to 1776. How else would this nation have become a thing? What other fuel could sustain this fire?

One could argue that we left the simple bacon sanger behind as part of our mission to incorporate bacon into everything else, which is cool, and fine. But there’s always something to be said for simplicity.

Not that the bacon sandwich needs to be simple. In the UK, they’re often served with a topping of ketchup or brown sauce, which is a real thing! Bottled and everything, and it’s not gravy. What an amazing name for a thing. I’d slap that on a bacon sandie, tell you what. Fry up some onions for that bad boy. Feel like a real supermodel at lunch today.

Now more than ever.

I’m a beauty queen.

Photo credit:

America’s New Hottest Programming Block

If there’s one thing I love about Hoarders, it’s all the people on it who are fundamentally broken. And if there’s one thing I love about Intervention, then there’s a million things I love about Intervention, because that is a perfect show.

I’ve got a pretty good idea for another perfect show. See, I’m not so down on Hoarders, relative to other shows like this, because I’m not particularly into gross-out porn. We’re all unbelievably disgusting. The inside of everybody’s house is gross. To be honest, we really do all just exist together on a mundane sliding scale of How Gross Can You Go, and the answer is an unsurprising “Infinitely.”

I’m not saying the shit isn’t gnarly—oh, it is, it all is—but black holes of human filth aren’t that different from how black holes work in space (truly). Things start to get pretty similar as you approach the event horizon. Given the choice between the two, I will always pick an Intervention. But shit, sometimes you’re at the doctor’s office waiting room, and A&E’s got a marathon of Hoarders on, so what’re you gonna do? Walk in nature? Not watch?

There’s a decent wrench in Hoarders, though, that gives the show a leg up on its rival, and that’s that a good bulk of the show involves the Hoarder in their Hoard during De-Hoarding, playing an active role in the process, often as a saboteur, or straight antagonist. This is compelling. This they got that Intervention ain’t. Because I’m pretty sure that there are only, like, five episodes of Intervention that end in a home team loss (i.e., no rehab, addict wins), at a certain point in the show, you can start to feel momentum flag. The last five minutes are always more a coda, a brief breather before you dive into the next pit of hell.

Anyway, my show pitch. We know that the production’s gotta get these kids on airplanes; the whole point of the rehab is that it isn’t local, around any triggering environments or people. Sometimes we get a glimpse about how hard this can be. Sometimes these fools cause drama. And isn’t drama why we’re here? That, and the (awesome, hilarious, cringey) plights of our fellow men? We oughta have a show that’s just about the transit. An Intervention: After Hours. I call it Get This Bitch to Rehab.

Think of the escape attempts! The clawing, the scratching! The spectacle of a man in Dockers pulling full-stop dad-strength bear-hugs to restrain his tweaked-out daughter! Sign me up or sign me out. World needs this in 2016.

Biddings on the franchise start today. Email me at to talk dollars. We can change this fucking world, man—that I do truly believe.