And, from the "What Were They Thinking?" department, comes this little tidbit reported, not by the Onion, as you might think, but by IMDb.com:
Jackson To Release Pope Prayers?Earth to Vatican, come in... you're embarrassing one billion Catholics and we must ask you to stop now.
Pop superstar Michael Jackson has been asked by the Roman Catholic Church to set the prayers of the late Pope John Paul II to music. The 47-year-old singer was chosen to write music for the 24 prayers and chants, after Vatican officials decided his global celebrity would best promote their holy message. Father Giuseppe Moscati says, "We have the rights for the 24 prayers written by Pope John Paul. We had hoped the fact that we have been in contact with Michael Jackson would remain a secret. But sadly it has leaked out ahead of time. We are in discussions and trying to sort it out." The priest, who is head of the Millennium Music Society, insisted Jackson's hard-won battle against child molestation charges did not discount him as a candidate. He adds, "He was cleared and found not guilty by a jury. Michael Jackson is very interested in this project -- we shall see what happens."
Man, I really, really hope this is a hoax. And not just because of the whole pedophile thing, but also because Michael Jackson's music sucks.
voice -- whose volume only increases in direct proportion to his alcoholic intake -- the "Expert" issues his pronouncements on beer as if he were handing down stone tablets from Mt. Sinai. The problem is that, somewhere around the time of his, well, first pronouncement, it's clear he has no idea what he is talking about and, worse, that he has no idea he has no idea. Somehow he's picked up a few tasters' terms -- such as phenolic, estery, tart, malty -- which just coincidentally seem to apply to every beer he tries, tempting you to say, in your best Inigo Montoya voice, "You keep using that word. I donna think it means what you think it means."
At league night last night, I matched last week's pathetic performance almost exactly with my pathetic performance this week: 96, 96, and 88. I was really hoping for an 89 on that third game, because then I would have improved by one pin on all three games! But alas, it was not to be. Anyway, if I improve by one pin every week, by the time the league ends, I'll be up around a stratospheric 110. I rule.
father who is the president or the head of the CIA or something like that. He is there for one reason and one reason only: to drink as much beer as is humanly possible during the course of the tasting for -- shock! -- the purpose of getting completely wasted. It is pointless to ask the Buzzard whether he likes IPAs or stouts or what he thinks of any given beverage, as his preference runs to "alcohol." As a result, the higher your beer's ABV, the more times you will be refilling the Buzzard's constantly empty glass.
spit bucket), then he's grimacing, smacking his lips, or regarding his glass with the hurt, quizzical expression normally reserved for when a woman slaps him in the face. He might be one of those wine-and-cheese types, with a tennis sweater draped over his shoulders and a bumper sticker on his Volvo that reads, "I'd rather be attending a debutante ball." Or he might be a sad, lost jock, silently bemoaning the 25 big ones he could have spent on Jager shots as he turns to you in his Doug Flutie jersey with the faded ranch-dressing stain and asks, "Can I have some beer?"
The typical encounter involves the Pointer suddenly materializing in front of the table and forcefully extending a finger toward his beer of choice. He exudes a portentous silence reminiscent of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come refusing to speak to Scrooge about the name on the tombstone. Upon receiving his beer, he just as mysteriously melts back into the crowd.
pants around here. That don't fly with me. Anyway, if she has a lot of money too, that's cool, but not vital. I have ways of getting cash when I want to, but she better not expect me to throw it away buying her stupid crap all the time. I won't get too hung up on looks, but I'd prefer a woman who is at least somewhat pretty. I gotta say I don't like chicks who just let themselves go, you know? So no fatties. I don't care if you like NASCAR or share in my other interests. I mostly prefer hanging out with the boys anyway. Just have something ready for me to eat when I get home or there will be hell to pay. Oh yeah, and don't hassle me if I forget to come home. But keep money for bail handy just in case.
profound reflections on whatever major events happened and deep prognostications about their lasting impact. You know, like developments in the Iraq War, indictments of administration officials, deaths of beloved celebrities, natural disasters, scientific breakthroughs, and so on.
irreplaceable town of New Orleans. Worry whether it will recapture its uniqueness or if it will just become another Boringville, USA, thanks to all the government money and opportunistic morons who likely will be involved in the rebuilding effort. (Ann Arbor, of course, is already well down the path of becoming another Boringville itself.)
I vaguely believed when the White Whale came back into my life (and I subconsciously knew she somehow would, eventually), it would be different the second time around. We'd have a chance at something together, even if it was only the occasional mutual vacation. But I seriously underestimated her ability to continue fucking up her life and, by extension, mine. Also, in the back of my mind, I believed New Orleans would always be there, ready for a visit, waiting for whenever the time was right for me to develop a closer association with it, perhaps as a resident. Maybe the city will rebound. Maybe I will, too. Only time will tell.
for one year and further, that he must notify any women he meets of his history of violence.
new Max Bialystok, the cynical producer of "Springtime for Hitler" in Mel Brooks's "
