Category Archives: General Satire

They’re Always After Me St. Paddy’s Day Limericks!


Ah yes, St. Paddy’s Day has arrived. A day of Irish reconciliation in America where, for a day, everyone has at least one drop of Irish blood alcohol level, thus qualifying them to drink liberally and slur their best Irish accents among their 1/32nd Irish friends. For the record: I’m half Irish, but I’m not entirely sure which half – the bottom or top half. Although I inherited a number of Irish traits from my father’s side (green eyes, reddish hair, and a soft spot for Bono), I did not inherit his Irish taste buds. I cannot stand Irish cuisine and feel blessed my grandfather immigrated to America, where he drank himself, probably to kill the taste of corned beef and cabbage, to an untimely death.

I plan on celebrating by wearing green all day, not because I need to profess or celebrate my Irish heritage, rather so nobody pinches me. Moreover, to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day this year, I thought I would serve up some tasty limericks as either appetizers or chasers for those of you who plan on indulging in Ireland’s favorite pastime: Guinness green beer.

(Note: To fully appreciate these limericks, it’s recommended that you read them aloud in private, using your best Irish accent, before you start knocking down the beers in a public pub.)

There’s No Place Like Ireland on St. Paddy’s Day in America

St, Paddy’s Day rolls ‘round but once a year
As Americans quest for green beer,
Pour on thick accents,
Spew yarns of nonsense,
And long for a home they’ve never been near.

Just Say No to Me Lucky Charms

There once was a leprechaun named Lucky
Who hooked kids on marshmallows quite sticky.
When they need a fix.
They must turn a trick;
For Lucky’s charms are magically tasty.

Saint Patrick’s Snakes on a Plane

There once was a saint named Patrick
Who chased off Ireland’s snakes with a stick.
They boarded a plane,
Drove the crew insane —
Inspiring this muthufuckin’ snakes on a plane lim’rick.

Saint Patricia’s Night at the Roxbury

There once was a lassie from Listerine
Who dipped her whole body in green.
She drank herself blind,
Nearly drowned her mind
And awoke to a leprechaun drag queen.

Spring Forward: Daylight Savings Next Casualty in Economic Downturn

The Clock Also Rises

The Clock Also Rises

In states that still participate in Daylight Savings, which may soon be nationalized by the federal government if Americans continue to lose confidence in daylight and are reluctant to spend their time, everyone bemoans the loss of an hour – namely because they could have used the hour to reset all the clocks in the house.

But seriously, what would they have done any differently had they had that extra hour this weekend? I’m sure if we conducted a family-feudal survey, the survey’s number one answer would be: sleep. Of course this assumes that those surveyed do not have children or milk cows, whose biological clocks resist man-made cosmic alterations in the Timexian universe. By the time these biological clocks are completely recalibrated, it will be time to “Fall Back.”

In Iowa the designated witching-hour to either spring forward or fall back centers the 2 a.m. bar-closing time, thus clearing up any confusion among alcohol peddlers as to when they should stop nursing the drunks passed out at the bar. The delayed time-switch also provides the lonely beer-goggle populace an extra hour to lose even more focus as they zero in on their intended target, preferably the one in the middle – even though they’ve only locked in on one target.

Local drunk attempts to pull back clock's big hand to extend bars' "last call"

Local drunk attempts to pull back clock's big hand to extend "last call"

So why do we still have Daylight Savings, which allows Mother Nature’s invisible hand to unhinge our time-structured world without any government oversight and/or transparency? Better yet, what are some of the advantages and disadvantages of Daylight Savings and the age-old prospect of Springing Forward?


Less time for our Do-Nothing Congress to do less of nothing

More daylight in the evening to watch your new Plasma television

Provides excuse to take off for lunch an hour earlier or justify extending your afternoon cat nap: “Really, it’s an hour later, so…”

Get your newspaper an hour earlier, so your metabolism can get a jump start digesting all of the depressing news

Milk cows, whose teats aren’t prematurely pulled, are less likely to conspire with the pigs and the horses in overthrowing the Animal Farm and/or the government


More time for the GOP-arm of our Do-Nothing Congress to obstruct Congress from doing less of nothing

If you die before ‘Fall Back,” you’ll be robbed of an hour of precious life, assuming every hour of your life is not already preciousssssssssss…

More daylight in the evening to shed even more light on the melancholic faces of those folks who have lost their jobs, homes, dignity, or thought injecting botulism into their foreheads ten years ago seemed like a good idea at the time

More time for Rush Limbaugh’s shadow to eclipse the sun, especially after he has succeeded in fully consuming the GOP

Insomniac’s more likely to join Fight Club, but we’ll never really know, because the first rule of Fight Club is never talking about Fight Club (looks like my membership has just been revoked; now what Tyler?)

English Conspire with Exiled Aussies to Steal 81st Academy Awards

The envelope please: And the winner of this year’s Oscar for “Best Abduction of the Academy Awards Unbeknownst to Hollywood” goes to…Australia.

Three of Hugh Jackman's henchmen disguised as Oscars helped rig the balloting backstage (Note: photo nabbed from Oscar's offiicial web site and I'll be damned if they think I'm giving it back.)

Three of Hugh Jackman's henchmen disguised as Oscars helped rig the balloting backstage (Note: photo nabbed from Oscar's offiicial web site and I'll be damned if they think I'm giving it back.)

That’s right folks, the fix is in, but the filmmakers down-under could not have pulled off the largest gold heist in Hollywood alone.

The envelope please: And the winner of this year’s Oscar for “Best Support Abduction of the Academy Awards Unbeknownst to Hollywood” goes to…England.

While Academy members sat around stroking their Hollywood-sized, sequined egos, Australian front-man Hugh Jackman orchestrated the abduction, distracting them with cheeky song and dance numbers while his Aussie posse cleaned house.


“Look everyone, nothing up my sleeves…”

Jackman, when not subliminally pitching his un-nominated self-titled Australian propaganda film “Australia,” seduced television viewers with his Australian accent, which he borrowed indefinately from his English predecessors — who reluctantly surrendered the King’s English to America, so we could butcher it accordingly.

Meanwhile, the “Slumdog Millionaire” clan led the Oscar abduction charge, nabbing eight of the gold Oscar statues, which at the time of this post had already been melted down into Australian and British currency and prepped for final shipping.

“Slumdog Millionaire” serves as the perfect allegory for this Oscarnapping, which, if discovered, is destined to launch a thousand sailboats from the United States nautical team. Here we have a story about fate, destiny, and the power of hope captured on screen by descendents of exiled penal colonists from England, who go to one of England’s former colonies to exploit the formerly colonized citizens for mega-profits in America and boomeranged back to Australia. What more could you ask for, other than a living wage for the film’s extras.

But the Slumdog Millionaire Aussie posse could not have pulled this off without help from down-under and up above, by which I mean fellow Aussie Heath Ledger who won an Oscar posthumously for Best Supporting Abductor – a fitting award for The Joker.

Moreover, the Aussie’s picked up an assist from descendents of their former wardens from afar, the bloody Englanders, who picked up three tasty gold nuggets with Kate Winslet. ames Marsh, and Danny Boyle’s Oscar chicanery.

Follow the gold and you’ll find that the yellow brick road not only leads out of Hollywood, but America as well. It’s only a matter of time before Hollywood will be completely outsourced to Australia, so you mates be sure to stay tuned for the 82nd Academy awards broadcast out of Sydney.

"Thanks for all the gold, Hollywood. We'll be back."

"Thanks for all the gold, Hollywood. We'll be back."

Thank Darwin for Prednisone

“So I have this rash…” has been a great icebreaker for the past few weeks when talking to friends, colleagues, and strangers at the bus stop. I’ve grown tired of talking and hearing about the weather, especially when the subject is broached while outside:

Stranger: It sure is cold out here. (hands tucked up in arm pits, shivers while waiting for me to agree with statement of obvious).

Me: (wearing puffy snow suit, scarf, and ear muffs) Really, I hadn’t notice.

Stranger: It’s supposed to get even colder the next few days.

Me: So I have this rash…

Stranger: (suddenly uncomfortable and at a loss of words, relieved by emergence of bus) Well here’s our chariot.

Me: Do you mind if we sit together? I would love to tell you all about my rash…

Despite the past couple thousand years of evolving, assuming you buy into Darwin’s theory, our species has yet to find a solution to deal with uncomfortable encounters with strangers in small, compact spaces. We tried silence, but that merely created a new problem that needed to be dealt with: repressed tension.

To deal with this, some sadistic bastard created Muzak – faux music which strips the soul out of its original recording to keep compliant with current copyright laws. As is the case with most innocuous inventions and discoveries (e.g. splitting of atom), Muzak was used for evil purposes. Muzak, for example, when not used to extract vital information from detainees at Guantanamo Bay, is pumped into elevators to sedate unsuspecting guinea pigs as a means of keeping us from turning on each other in a raging fit of uncomfortable silence.

For the most part it worked. How often do you see random acts of Elevator Rage splashed across newspaper headlines?

“Breaking: 13 Killed in Elevator Rage Incident, While Going Up”


Site of deadly episode of Elevator Rage allegedly spawned by Muzak version of “Rage Against the Machine” song

But I digress, dear Reader.

So I have this rash…and what better way to celebrate a full-body rash and the 200th birthday of Charles Darwin than a trip to the dermatologist, eh?

That’s where I was headed when I met up with the reluctant Stranger at the bus stop. My conversation-starter didn’t quite seduce the gentleman at the bus stop, who upon boarding, bolted to the only open seat in the back of the bus. I sat up front, feeling what the lepers must have felt when the Christians relegated them to the lazar section of the bus — named after Lazarus, patron saint of lepers and public transportation.

“Viva la Lazarus!”

Now, I’m willing to bet a pound of dead skin that nobody starts off in the medical profession by openly admitting: “I’ve always dreamt that of one day I will become a dermatologist.”

I’m guessing that dermatology is one of those fallback occupations in the medical field – should you not make the final cut for one of your top choices – brain or plastic surgeon (depending on what you’re more attracted to).

When I was plugging away on my undergraduate degree in Open Major at the University of Iowa, the fall back major was Communication Studies. Nobody started off on this track, but after partying leap-frogged academics on the priority list, this is where a lot of people were derailed, including my roommate, who later dropped out altogether. He was quick to rationalize his fall from academic grace, citing Tom Brokaw as his poster-boy for success:

“Brokaw flunked out of Communications at Iowa, and look at him now.”

True, Brokaw did drop out of UI, where he says he majored in “beer and co-eds,” but I was quick to remind my roommate that he also finished his degree at the University of South Dakota, not to mention his nabbed 17 honorary degrees without having dropped a single dime for tuition.

Instead of minoring in Beer & Co-eds, maybe I should have double-majored, so I would have had something to fall back on in case my Open Major didn’t pan out.

So you’re probably wondering what all this has to do with my rash, huh?

Which leads to why I found myself sitting in the dermatologist’s office with a rash that had consumed most of my body, thinking about Darwin and evolution theory. The walls in the waiting room and the examination rooms were covered with photographs of underwater sea creatures. I tried to figure out a possible motif linking these creatures to dermatology when it dawned on me that they breathe through their skin. Skin is their essence.

Sure looks fishy to me

Sure looks fishy to me

I suspected my rash was an allergic reaction to laundry detergent. Thanks to the recent downturn in the economy, I’ve had to alter my normal shopping habits. Normally, when the economy is on the upswing and I’m poor but not dirt poor, I tend to buy the second-to-cheapest product on the brand chain. Not only does this help feed the illusion that I’m not a bottom feeder, but I found the thought of playing Consumer Russian Roulette exhilarating as well.

That said, I purchased the cheapest laundry detergent on the shelf.

Bang! I lost.

My dermatologist, who I suspected dreamt of a life in plastic surgery before his Darwinian fall from grace, confirmed my suspicions. His diagnosis: an allergic reaction to cheap shit.

The cure: a steady dosage of Prednisone and a 12-step program to break my addiction to cheap shit.
Speaking of Darwin, I realize there are still skeptics out there who don’t buy into his theories on evolution, but clearly none of these naysayers saw how my rash evolved on my body. It started off as a small colony on my forearms before spawning sub-colonies that spread up my arms that eventually descended down to my ankles, where they set up temporary shop.

Sure, the Creationists will argue that my spreading rash is all part of the Creator’s master plan to keep me from buying cheap crap, but I turned to a more reputable source for guidance: The Flying Spaghetti Monster of the Church of FSM.

the new Creationism of Choice

Join The Church of FSM: the new Creationism of Choice

For whatever reason, I find the Almighty FSM’s beliefs easier to swallow.

Thank Darwin for that.

(Update: T.M. Lindsey is currently rash-free and would like to thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster’s creations for creating non-generic Prednisone. Let it be noted that T.M. is also enjoying the uptick side-effects of Prednisone and has gone five days without purchasing cheap, toxin-filled products; although thanks to the former he has yet to enjoy taking the latter.)

My Funny Prophetable Valentine Haikus

Growing up, I always dreamt of becoming a prophet, until I realized there is not much profit in propheteering — unless of course you’re exploiting dead prophets for profit: e.g. Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of Christ.” Speaking of which, most reputable (at least posthumously) prophets are shunned by society and succumb to untimely deaths (e.g. Keith Ledger). Apparently most people are allergic to the truth and avoid it at all possible costs, fearing they will break out in hives if exposed to the naked truth.

Last night, while celebrating the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln, Charles Darwin and Aresenio Hall from the stadium seats of my Aresnio Shrine and makeshift Dog Pound (Woof! Woof! Woof!), I started thinking about some of the most influential prophets in my life. Consequently, these prophets made cameo appearances (no charge) in my dreams and recited, in honor of Valentine’s Day, love-inspired Haikus from atop a mountain of garbage in the local land fill (formerly the local dump).

Fortunately the distinct smell from the land fill jarred me out of my R.E.M. mode, thus enabling me to recall the Haikus verbatim. That said, here’s a transcription of their 17 syllable sermons from the heap:


Crucifixion II: A Cautionary Haiku for You, by Jesus

Hallmarkian lust;
Enjoy sins ‘fore Dad gets home –
I’m already dead.


Light Saber Envy, by Yoda

Size matters not, hmmm…
You, let libido flow through:
May force be in you.


Alone: Wait, Fast, Think, Then Regret, by Buddha
Underneath Bodhi tree,
Transcended Valentine’s Day.
Damn Nirvana sucks.


Big Brother is Laughing, by George Orwell

Ministry of Love
Promotes proles to begat more proles.
Big Brother laughs last.


Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, by FSM (Our Creator)

Spread gospel of FSM;
Love is in the air.

Six Feet Under (Broadway): ‘Marriage Under Attack (This is Not a Dramatization!)’


Narrator:  Jim and Carol, an average American couple residing in a suburb near you, have proudly bred two children, a son who is 17 and an 11 year-old daughter and have been happily married for 20 years. Sure they’ve had their fair share of marital difficulties, which they’ve managed to work out vicariously through Dr. Phil’s audio books-on-tape, a steady stream of healthy dialogue, and an occasional whiskey binge. If anything, their marital commitment to one another has strengthened through these trials.

But when you peel back the fake stucco veneer and artificial façade, you will begin to see that their marriage is not the perfect marriage their family and friends have romanticized. Like Superman’s Kryptonite, their life time commitment is vulnerable to a single, yet disastrous factor beyond their control, should it rear its unfathomable head. And that is just what it did on what seemed like a ordinary day Six Feet Under (Broadway):

Jim:  (dressed in gray flannel suit and wielding a leather brief case, enters through the front door) Honey, I’m home!

Carol:  (sitting at kitchen table, with small stack of papers sitting in front of her) Honey, we need to talk.

Jim:  (enters kitchen and sits across from wife at table) About what?

Carol:  It’s about our marriage, Jim.

Jim:  Our marriage?

Carol:  I don’t know how to put this delicately, but it’s over. We need to dissolve it immediately.

Jim:  Dissolve? What the hell do you mean by dissolve?

Carol:  Dammit, Jim. That’s just modern lawyer jargon for divorce. Nobody get’s divorced anymore; their marriage, like a sanitary napkin in a toilet boil, simply dissolves.

Jim:  Is sanitary napkin women’s jargon for tampon?

Carol:  For God’s sake, Jim. This is no time for your potty humor. This is serious. Our marriage is over and we have the kids to think about.

Jim:  But why? Why the haste? Are you still upset about my affair with my secretary?

Carol:  Don’t flatter yourself. I was over that a long time ago.

Jim:  Are you still upset that I gave you an STD last year from that prostitute, who by the way swore she was clean?

Carol:  No, it’s not that either. I’ve gotten used to the occasional discomfort and burning pain while I pee.

Jim:  Carol, sweetie. You’re not still jealous about last week’s swinger party are you? Like I told you before, I paid just as much attention to you as all the other guests there.

Carol:  I know, and I told you I’m sorry I got jealous, but that’s not it either.

Jim:  Then what the hell is it?

Carol:  It’s our neighbors, Jim.

Jim:  Our neighbors? Let me guess, the ex-Marine next door who vowed to kill the both of us if he couldn’t have you?

Carol:  No, not Kevin. He only says those things when he forgets to take his medicine. Besides, I find it kind of flattering.

Jim:  Is it the Evangelical couple down the street who said we’re going to hell, because we don’t go to church and voted democratic in the last election?

Carol:  I only wish it were that simple.

Jim:  So it’s not the sociopath next door, and it’s not the religious zealots down the street. Hmmmm…then it has to be the convicted sex offender on the corner who has the giant, court-ordered neon sign in his yard that flashes “High Risk to Re-Offend” 24 hours a day.

Carol:  Don’t be ridiculous, Jim. Mr. Thornberry is completely harmless and poses no threat to our marriage. Not to mention, he’s our son’s Eagle Scout Master.

Jim (right) and Mr. Thornberry (left) admire Mr. Thornberry's new court-ordered sign

Jim (right) and Mr. Thornberry (left) admire Mr. Thornberry's new court-ordered sign

Jim: Then who could it be?

Carol:  It’s the guys who live across the street from Mr. Thornberry.

Jim:  You mean the two brothers who helped us move in, snow blow our front walk every time it snows, and let us borrow their car for six months, no questions asked, after you totaled our SUV?

Carol:  Yes, Jim. But they’re not brothers.

Jim:  Good God no, you don’t mean…

Carol:  Yes, Jim. They are gay.

Jim:  For Christ’s sake, they seem so normal. But this alone isn’t reason enough to end our marriage, honey. We can sell the house and move away. Problem solved, right?

Carol:  I’m afraid it’s bigger than that, Jim.

Jim:  How could it be bigger?

Carol:  They’re legally married.

Jim:  For the love of Christ, why is God punishing us? Why is He hell-bent on destroying the very institution he helped create?

Carol:  I don’t know Jim; the good Lord does work in mysterious ways.

Jim:  Okay, we clearly have no other choice. Where do I sign?

Carol:  (pushes the dissolution papers across table) Sign the bottom line. Hurry, before it’s too late… (loud sound of thunderbolt reverberates, blackout)


(This sketch was originally performed as part of Six Feet Under (Broadway’s) “Short Attention Span Theatre” (SAST). Six Feet Under (Broadway) maintains the original copyright. Any reproductions of any part of this comedy sketch must receive expressed permission from the author. For permission and/or to purchase performance rights (at a nominal fee of course) to this sketch, please contact T.M. Lindsey at

Top Ten Signs Christian Bale Is Your Valentine

Often times a parody is lost in translation if you don’t know the source of what is being parodied.

Such was the case when I was watching “The Colbert Report” and Steven Colbert went ballistic on Steve Martin, dropping f-bombs on the seasoned comedian for walking across the set.

Stephen Colbert Goes Christian Bale on Steve Martin (click here to see video)

What I didn’t know is that this was a parody of a recent on-the-set tirade by the Dark Knight Christian Bale, who unleashed his sexually-repressed Bruce Wayne alter-ego on an unsuspecting photographer who broke his Zen-like acting concentration.

Christian Bale Explodes on Set (audio version)

The sign of a good parody is when it can stand alone and is funny without depending on the original source for comedic effect. The Colbert bit was funny, but after I did my homework, the bit was even more funny. Clearly it’s time to schedule another dentist appointment, so I can get caught up on the last six months of “People Magazine” gossip.

In the meantime, Bale’s tantrum has gone virtual, landing on David Letterman’s Online Top Ten Contest this week. Had I known my obsession with trying to win the holy “Late Show Online” t-shirt would involve Christian Bale, I would have chosen another obsession — say chasing parked dreams.

For those of you who are counting (thanks mom and Irene), here’s the latest tally for my quest against the Artificial-Intelligence computerized intern over at CBS:

H.A.L 9000: 4 T.M. Lindsey 6800: Zero

Last week’s failed bid for the topic, “Top Ten Signs You Won’t Be Winning a Grammy Award,” was “Grammy Foundation discovered you owe $127 in back taxes.” Speaking of the Grammys, I watched them up until my ears began bleeding, literally, during the Jonas Brothers and Stevie Wonder hook up. Shame on you Grammys; you should know better than taking advantage of a blind man.

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

At the threat of sounding like a broken record (or cliché for that matter), I will continue my quest to win the Holy Late Show Online t-shirt, but again, I cannot do this alone— so I’m soliciting your help, dear reader. I’ve written ten possible entries for this week’s list, and it’s up to you to help me choose the ONE from the list (for I can only submit one) that you think has the best chance of winning this week’s contest.

This week’s list:  Top Ten Signs Christian Bale Is Your Valentine

10. Two of you met at anger management retreat in Gotham

9. His term of endearment for you is Poopsie Woopsie F*ckface

8. The Joker forbade your love

7. Recently hired as Bale’s star-crossed cameraman

6. He asked you out on blind date to “My Bloody Valentine”

5. Your love for Bale parodied on “The Colbert Report”

4. He sent you box of heart-shaped “Be My Verbal Whipping Bi-atch” candies

3. Co-starring with Bale in Albee adaptation: “Who’s Afraid of Christian Bale?”

2. Showed affections for you by tearing down streetlights in front of your house

1. D: It is written

Don’t forget to let me know (in the Comments) which ONE of these I should submit.

Facebook Status Update: Big Brother is Watching You!

Five years ago, the thought of having to wear a GPS ankle bracelet so authorities could track your whereabouts may have been humiliating, but a suitable alternative to prison.

Now, thanks to online social networking tools such as Facebook and Twitter, these tracking devices are on the path to extinction as millions of American choose to be voluntarily tracked, preferring a virtual imprisonment over a life of privacy.

Okay, so I’m guilty of falling prey to these temptations — namely for networking reasons, finding long-lost friends, and helping the FBI shave off man-hours as they keep tabs on my subversive humor and satirical attacks on government institutions. I realize that humorists/satirists are somewhere between Jehovah Witnesses and Salvation Army Bell Ringers on the FBI’s watch list, but every minute I give back to the bureau can be better spent tracking down the real criminals: offshore bankers and video pirates.

By the way, did I mention I’m a Conspiracy Theorist? Yeah, you heard me right Mr. FBI Guy; stuff that in your secret computer file and smoke it. Ever since I read George Orwell’s “1984” in eighth grade, I’m convinced that Big Brother is watching my every move. For example, I refuse to use automatic toilets in public restrooms, sensing they are elaborate tracking devices that record your whereabouts and activities via the red lights.

"It always feels like, somebody's watching me..."

"It always feels like, somebody's watching me..."

Therapist Bob said this is absurd, but I’m not about to take any chances and flush my rights away.

And now we’re seeing the trickle down effects of Big Brother as local authorities are getting into the social spying networking game. Just recently a female college student was reported missing in Iowa City after a night of drinking with her real friends. Hmmmm….I’m sure this never happens in a college town, thus raising red flags down at the police department.

Local peace officers eventually tracked her down, claiming they used Facebook to discover her whereabouts. They did not say how they did this, but I imagine they sent her a Friend Request. Nothing like getting one of these in you notification box: “The Iowa City Police Department wants to be your friend: Confirm?”

By the way, if anyone receives the following status update from me, you know something is amiss and should text message the authorities immediately:

T.M. Lindsey is enjoying shopping for women’s underwear at Wal-Mart.”

Anyone who really knows me would know that I would not be caught dead shopping at Wal-Mart. And if I was caught dead, the county coroner, thankfully, would be the only witness as to why I was shopping there in the first place. I’ll plea the fifth on this one.

Then along comes Twitter, for those folks who just can’t leave home without their personal trackers.

I will admit that I have yet to take the full plunge into Twitter, namely because I’ve developed a false Messiah complex and worry that a bunch of my followers will start their own narcissistic pilgrimages into the blogsphere and start publishing their own musings from the basement while wearing pajamas and women’s underwear.

I am not wired to handle this much responsibility.

And in Twitterville, if you are not being followed, you are following somebody else, thus completing the full circle of consensual stalking. Iowa City’s neighbor, Coralville, has gone Twitter, including its police department. Not sure who would intentionally want the police department following them, but I imagine it’s the same folks who actually talk to pollsters when they Break & Enter their phone lines.

But what does the Facebook phenomenon reveal about our need-for-attention culture? On a basic level, isn’t Facebook the mere equivalent of standing at the end of the diving board at the virtual pool and shouting to all of your friends: “Look at me! Look at me!”?

"Are you ready to take the Facebook plunge? Jump! Jump! Jump! ... Jump!"

"Jump! Jump! Jump! ... Jump!"

Are you ready to take the Facebook plunge?

Moreover, Facebook serves as a virtual playground for adults, who can tag and poke each other without fear of having their recess stripped from them. These behaviors, however, serve as naughty gateway behaviors leading to bigger and more dangerous behaviors such as writing on friends’ walls. “Friends don’t let friends write on friend’s walls.”

It won’t be long before Facebook goes below the neck and launches an adult version that begs the status update question: “What are you wearing right now?”

T.M. Lindsey is not wearing women’s underwear at the moment.”

Top Ten Signs You Won’t Be Winning a Grammy Award

The bad news is that I didn’t crack David Letterman’s Online Top Ten Contest last week, thus denying my body the “Late Show Online” t-shirt it so desires. The good news is that CBS hasn’t pressed any charges for virtually stalking the intern running its fixed contest. I’m 75 percent convinced that said intern is a computer named H.A.L. 9000, who is hell-bent on taking over and destroying Dave’s show, but has had a few lapses in Artificial-Judgment as of late:

Look Dave, I can see you’re really upset about this. I honestly think you ought to sit down calmly, take a stress pill, and think things over… I know I’ve made some very poor decisions recently, but I can give you my complete assurance that my work will be back to normal…

For last week’s topic, “Top 10 Ways the Bad Economy is Affecting the Super Bowl,” I submitted the No. 1 vote-getter: “The NFL is seeking a bailout from Congress to help pay for the halftime show,” but to no avail.

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

Undaunted, however, I will continue my quest to win the Holy Late Show Online t-shirt, but again, I cannot do this alone— so I’m soliciting your help, dear reader. I’ve written ten possible entries for this week’s list, and it’s up to you to help me choose the ONE from the list (for I can only submit one) that you think has the best chance of winning this week’s contest.

This week’s list:

Top Ten Signs You Won’t Be Winning a Grammy Award

10. You’re taking a Greyhound bus to the award ceremony

9. Next paid gig is opening act at Nick Jonas’ 17th birthday in September

8. Grammy Foundation discovered you owe $127 in back taxes

7. Hit song still No. 1 on Guantanamo Bay’s Psy-Ops Musical Torture Charts

6. L’il Wayne borrowed your only tuxedo

5. Said your band was bigger than Obama in press release

4. No mention of your band anywhere on Judas Priest’s new album “Nostradamus”

3. Amy Winehouse’s publicist hired you to be her babysitter

2. Recently signed deal to exclusively sell CD at Pop’s One-Stop Guns & Ammo Shop

1. You’re sending Milli Vanilli to accept award on your behalf

Don’t forget to let me know (in the Comments) which ONE of these I should submit.

This Commercial Won’t Be Televised During Super Bowl XLIII

If I had a nickel for every time I heard someone say, “I only watch the Super Bowl for the commercials,” I could, well, buy my own $3 million 30-second spot during this year’s Super Bowl in Tampa Bay.

My usual response to these unsolicited declarations is: “I can totally relate. I only go to museums for the popcorn.” This emits a look of confusion on the receiving end as if they’re wondering if they had dialed the wrong number when calling someone who cares. Better yet, they are trying to remember the last time they went to the museum, and if they sold popcorn to the audience at the time.

But ultimately, my non-sequitur response serves as an effective conversation-stopper, damning up the deluge of past Super Bowl commercial memories waiting to drown me out by the water cooler at work.

What I really want to ask these commercial aficionados is “Is there really such thing as a good commercial? Or is ‘good commercial’ an oxymoron?” Then I would have to explain oxymoron, something they used to know the meaning of before they picked up an addiction to commercials on the airwaves.

A lot of these people aren’t aware they have C.A. (Commercial Addiction) because they are living in denial or have subconsciously masked their feelings by purchasing Tivo.

That’s why if I could turn my aforementioned hypothesis into reality, I would purchase a 30-second slot during tonight’s Super Bowl and run the following Public Service Announcement:





This is your brain on SAY SOMETHING FUNNY:



This Public Sevice Announcement was sponsored by Say Something Funny and was produced with no overhead costs. No brain cells were damaged, zombified or killed in the making of this post.