The Gargoyle lives...

And there is reason to fear. Check him out here.

We have found out what is wrong with the economy. Now, we will fix it.

My brother Patrick has discovered a secret.***

(***-Said secret requires some knowledge of Batman Begins. If you have never seen the movie....well, you suck. And you will get NONE of the references).

It is one of those deep, dark, hidden things that might get him killed just for discovering it.

However, I am stealing his discovery and taking full credit for it. Only because I am hoping to save his life, of course. They will come after me, not him. I would hate to have his death on my hands. (Especially since his wife, Lori the Oompa Loompa, would bite my ankles off in anger).

Regardless, this is the biggest discovery since finding out we are really in The Matrix.

Remember, they killed Keanu for revealing the Matrix. (Well, they killed his career).

So I can only imagine what will happen to me for reporting the discovery of The Truth.

It is the most relevant discovery since online poker.

Here it is: Our current economic problems can be traced to one organization.

(No, not Citigroup).

It is frightening to dare mention the name, but I must:

The League of Shadows.

Yes, the very same. The group that burned London to the ground. Sacked Rome. The group that tried to overthrow Gotham twice -- the second time was through a disturbingly effective fear toxin.

The first? Economic sabotage.

Yes, I know Raz Al Gul will come for me now. (Or, as he went by in the comic books, The Demon. Coincidentally enough, that was the nickname I gave the first ex).

Think about it -- carefully planted CEOs forcing key companies into bankruptcy over a 20-year period, destroying the economy of the world and bringing us all into chaos.

Their sick, twisted version of justice will be served. (Hey, maybe Ken Lay was Raz Al Gul and it was all a cheap parlor trick...).

Sadly, it's working. What shall we do? We have no Batman.

There is no one person to turn to (no, not even Obama).

It's times like this we really need the Gargoyle.****

****please read prior post on the Gargoyle. (25 things...)

Granted, The Gargoyle is a little upset. The League never tried to recruit him. Yes, maybe he is a little old and pudgy for ninja training, but please. No one inspires fear like The Gargoyle.

So watch out, ninja freaks. Watch out Raz. While Fred fears you, the Gargoyle will be waiting. We will burn your house to the ground and leave you for dead.

(Memo to Raz: Could you give us a couple more months to drop some more weight first? Ten more pounds and I can get into one of those cool kevlar suits. Well, the Gargoyle, not me. Because that would be impossible, us being the same person. I know we are never in the same room, and whenever the Gargoyle's mask is removed in public, he looks like me, but that means nothing.)

Where were we? Oh yes, you, Raz. (Incidentally, Liam Neeson did an awesome job portraying you. It was almost as terrific as his Briar Gates in this classic).

I have a simple question for you.

Why do we fall, Raz?

So we can step on your throat.

You ain't seen bad yet. But it's coming*****.

*****You will only find this amusing if you are one of the seven people in America who actually saw Next of Kin. Sorry to mix movie references on you.

Fear the Gargoyle.

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No, I didn't give up being funny for Lent. I gave up religion.

And yes, the blog's fate has been decided. Sort of. My name is Inigo Montoya -- you killed my blog. Prepare to die.******

******-Princess Bride. Keep up, people.

Check out Brandy's guest bloggers. They are doing a nice job.

And I think I have mentioned this blog before, but it is fast becoming one of my new faves. Lots of great description and compelling narrative about everyday life. It takes talent to do that.

Not all of us have that kind of talent. Those of us without skill do, however, have Gargoyle costumes. (Allegedly).

So fear us. But thank us when the economy turns back around. We will have conquered the League of Shadows and buried Raz once and for all.

Because we have finally learned to do what is necessary.

I killed Lance Armstrong. Almost...

OK, just because I am blogging every day, don't be fooled. I am still leaning toward killing the blog. It's just that the freaks keep coming out. (This is taking on a Dread Pirate Roberts, "I will most likely kill you tomorrow" vibe, isn't it?)

While we are waiting for that day, please click on the ads, and check out my examiner commentary. Click as often as possible. It needs love.
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I killed Lance Armstrong today. Well, I almost killed him. And it wasn't exactly Lance.

Memo to ride-a-bike-like-you-are-Lance guy: You are lucky to be alive today.

First, let me say I have nothing against cyclists. It's good exercise, it's a nice way to get outside... good for you.

But Lance Wanna Be (LWB), if you are going to be out racing with traffic at 5:15 in the morning, there are a few things you should know:

1) It is pitch black at 5:15 in Houston. There is no sunlight, and very little in the way of street lights. The moon will not protect you, genius. Especially when it is behind the clouds.

2) Lance doesn't race down South Braeswood when he trains. If he did, he would be smart enough to wear something reflective. Or he might use the perfectly nicely paved bike trail we have along the bayou.

3) This is Bray's Bayou, not the Champs Elysees.

4) Lance usually wears a bright yellow jersey. That might actually reflect a little on a dark, unlit road.

Yes, LWB, while you are going full tilt, fantasizing about leading the peloton, some of us are going to work. We're not awake. We are in a hurry. We aren't going to see you weaving through the cars.

This particular genius survived his first brush with death because the car in front of me slammed on its brakes at the last second. Our friend LWB was zipping along at a bustling 27 miles per hour in the left hand lane in front of someone in medical scrubs driving a Ford Ranger.

The driver saw our friend at the very last second. Had the Ranger been going any faster, LWB would be a News brief this morning.

Instead, he quickly dipped away from the Ranger into the right-hand lane, right in front of Uncle Freddy.

Keep in mind this is a very dark road. No lights. Nothing. And he is dressed in his tight little biker shorts, a skin tight Discovery Channel racing jersey...with no type of reflectors or anything. No lights. Nothing.

He did, however, have on an aerodynamic helmet. I assume he wore this so when I crashed into him and sent him flying, he would go an extra 20 feet or so before hitting the pavement.

He only lives today because I resisted the urge to do society a favor by not stopping. But I did not want a dead, 103-pound person with minus-15 percent body fat getting tied up under my wheels. It might take weeks to get him out of there.

So I slammed on the brakes. The car behind me had to do the same, almost hitting me and driving me into LWB anyway, making my moral dilemma moot. (The fact that I could even REACT at 5:15 in the morning is worthy of some sort of award).

After almost causing three cars to crash, LWB turned and -- I think -- shot us the finger. It was too dark to tell. He then raced off.

Well, I couldn't let this go.

As fast as he thought he was, the Accord caught up with him pretty quickly.

I pulled up alongside (I could still barely see him), rolled down my window, and offered a helpful, "Hey, you Lance-wanna-be-idiot f---er, wear something we can see."

He ignored me, furiously pedaling, chasing an invisible breakway in the Alps.

At sea level.

In a bad neighborhood.

At 5:15 in the morning.

He was completely focused on zipping through the ever-dangerous Fondren Southwest in his own private Tour de the 'hood.

I gave up, sped up, got past him and went about my way. (I noticed another car had to slam on the brakes behind us, too).

And I was left -- as always -- to reflect (oh, did I really type in that pun? ugh) on my freak experiences.

In retrospect, I think LWB is the smartest dumb person alive.

I mean, if you are going to ride a five-pound bike in traffic surrounded by cars made of metal stuff that will smash your tiny, bony body into all bran cereal, why not do it at 5:15 in the morning?

After all, people are unlikely to be on the cell phone at that time of morning -- like the woman who almost ran over me in the parking lot yesterday. (Although she was hot and she smiled at me afterward, so I forgave her).

They are unlikely to be texting while driving -- like the kid who was doing that in heavy traffic on the freeway and almost ran me off the road last week. (We were heading toward Galveston on Mardi Gras Saturday. There was more traffic than Talladega, all going 80 miles an hour. Kid is lucky he didn't start The Big One and bring out a caution).

I mean, who calls people at 5:15? Who texts at that time of morning?

So maybe LWB has it right. All he has to do is dodge a bunch of tired people who are going to ridiculous jobs that require you to be out and about at that time of morning.

Of course, this being me, I have to put odds on what happens to you, Mr. LWB:

Odds you are killed by a half-awake driver: Even

Odds you are killed by a gang-banger in Fondren Southwest who will sell your $1800 bike for $80 to buy drugs: 6-5.

Odds that you get blown to bits by a road-raged driver with a deer rifle: 7-5.

Odds that you win the Tour de the 'hood: 2-1.

Odds that you win the Tour de France: 5-1.

Odds that you are really Lance Armstrong: 100-1.

Odds that you think you are Lance Armstrong: Never mind. We know the answer to that one.

Good luck with your future, LWB. I'm betting it doesn't last long.

I'll look for you in News briefs.

And here we go...Marry me, Mr. Chimp

OK, still no decision on the future of this blog (see prior post). Maybe by Friday.

In the interim, some quick takes from the weekend:

1) Thank God they gave the best supporting actor to Heath Ledger. He was so transcendently brilliant in the Dark Knight that if those stuffed-shirt Academy freak shows had denied him...well, I would have dressed up like the joker, stalked them all, killed them in their sleep in a deviant way, and sent them on to the next world, where hopefully Heath would be waiting there to do it to them again. (Yes, I admit I am strangely drawn to Heath's portrayal of The Joker).

OK, maybe I would have dressed as the Gargoyle and done it.

I am still a little angry that The Dark Knight got screwed in general. After all, we wouldn't want popular movies that are dark and Freddy-like being rewarded. We should always reward weird movies with subtitles and fuzzy filming.

When your star has to die to get an Oscar...that seems to be a bit much.

Maybe I should whack them all anyway -- but dressed as a chimp.

(If you missed that story...have you been traveling in Anarctica? Hiding in a cave? Watching too much sports? Living on Facebook? Doing radio shows?)

Hey, why not a chimp for a husband? After all, that's where it was going. Are they really any different than men? They eat. They drink alcohol. They take Xanax. They burp, they sleep.

Then they maul your friends.

At least men just try to sleep with your friends.

OK, so give men a slight edge in that battle. But here's what we REALLY want to see:
*-Chimp vs. Pit Bull. I'm taking the chimp and the points.

Maybe that pet spider monkey I want to get isn't such a good idea after all...

(*I am joking. I have not gone all Michael Vick on you. No animals were harmed in the writing of this blog. Animals are our friends and should not be harmed. Then again, they also shouldn't be fed wine, given Xanax or dressed up like little boys. Especially when they are big enough to kill you).

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Please drop by and say hello to Brandy and show some love.

And please click on the ads. (I can't wait to see what "chimp" and "spider monkey" bring! Especially since my recent posts brought an "elevator accident expert!." I wonder if he or she can protect me from freaks in the elevator...)

And gratuitous plug for my Examiner commentary, which is updated every day and I get paid per click so help a brother out. It struggles unless I tell people they are idiots. And people like me should not cast the first stone.

Life, the universe and everything...No way out for A-Rod?...Bathroom humor

OK, we're going to get back to having fun with the blog. But first, I had an epiphany about blogs the past week, and it means I will be blogging like a fiend for the next month or killing Freddy's World once and for all. We'll see.

First, bear with me. I promise there will be some funny A-Rod stuff in a minute. But first, my epiphany:

My favorite thing in the world is writing fiction. More than poker, football, horse racing, spider monkeys, evil clowns and bathing in green jello.

I've gotten away from it recently for a lot of reasons, but that's about to change. So F World will either benefit or suffer.

I recently picked up a copy of The Salmon of Doubt, a collection of some of the final writings of the most brilliant writer ever, Douglas Adams.

Adams wrote the single greatest collection of books ever conceived: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series. (One of my proudest moments as a father happened recently when Will started reading the series. He loves it. Smart kid).

Adams was uniquely brilliant. I had the great fortune to meet him once at a book signing. He was tired, clearly not enjoying it, but he was affable. (He was also one of the few people I have met outside the sports world who towered over me).

I am never impressed by famous people; I've been around them from the time I was a spud.

But I was too nervous to speak to Adams. I mumbled something about being inspired by his writing and wishing I was 1/1-millionth as talented and brilliant as he was.

He asked how important writing was to me.

I thought of the only clever thing that came to mind. I answered with a number.

"42."

He laughed, signed my book "to someone who has found the answer to life, the universe and everything, Douglas Adams."

(Read the books and that will make perfect sense. You'll also appreciate that all my goodbyes contain the phrase, "So long, and thanks for all the fish.")

The book was stolen from my car several years ago, which sucks, because Adams passed away far too young in 2001 at the age of 49. Whoever stole it took a bunch of CDs, and it just happened to be sitting on top. The book couldn't have meant anything to them and it probably ended up in a dumpster somewhere. Adams would have probably found that amusing.

I have had a great life and would only change one thing -- I wish I had gotten the opportunity to know Douglas Adams.

Adams was brilliant for a simple reason; he took sentences in directions no one would ever dare try. He wrote prose like he was writing a song. His mind was so brilliant and out there, he could try almost anything and it would work. He was an amazing combination of Asimov, Monty Python and Aristotle.

He would write a sentence like, "it hung in the air in exactly the way that bricks don't."

The great ones do that, like the truly great bands. The Beatles took the interior of their music in directions no one could; it was the key to their charm. Guns and Roses did the same thing. It wasn't the hook or the melody, it was the layers underneath that made the music unique.

They see on a different level; they write for the ethereal plane as well as the real world.

That kind of brilliance stands out. Some people appreciate the brilliance without understanding where it comes from. Some people understand it, but can't duplicate it.

Hence my epiphany. The Salmon of Doubt is a collection of essays, short thoughts, things Adams left behind that his editors found.

I hang on every word. Even letters about his childhood are brilliant.

They are blog entries before blog entries. I think how wonderful it would have been if Adams was alive and blogging. The humor, the insights...I can't imagine how incredible it would have been.

I can't do that. People will never hang on my words like that. So is this blog worthless? Is it a waste of time? Should I kill it?

Or should it be a place to keep mentioning the freaks? Keep honing my chops? Pull your entertaining comments into fiction? Use it to improve my writing?

I don't know. I will never play basketball like Michael Jordan, but I can still play and enjoy it.

I'll never write like Douglas Adams, either. No one ever will. I'll always enjoy it. But will anyone else?

So it's either Life, the Universe and Everything or So Long and Thanks for all the Fish for F World.

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While we're considering cosmic questions about the blog, please take a second to click on the ads. And please check out my examiner commentary before they decide I am not getting enough hits and decide to reassign me to Madonna Examiner.

Speaking of Madonna, her new wife, Alex Rodriguez, has become the biggest liar in baseball.

Madonna once starred in A League of Their Own, with the famous line, "there's no crying in baseball."

Good thing no one ever said "There's no lying in baseball."

A-Rod the Roid Freak has become the biggest liar on the planet. Every day, we find out something new.

My favorite is his mysterious cousin, "Yuri."

A-Rod has hired all sorts of PR freaks, consultants and lawyers to tell him what to say. One of them had obviously spent too much time watching No Way Out.

Kevin Costner turns out to be a Russian spy at the end. (Sorry if I spoiled it. It's 21 years old, if you haven't seen it by now, tough).

They created the mysterious Russian "Yuri."

Why not Kaiser Soze?

Million dollar consultants, and that's what you get? Bad Kevin Costner movie references?

Imagine how that meeting went.

Consultant 1: "Let's create a Yuri."

Consultant 2: "Yeah, but the fake cousin is supposed to be Dominican, not Russian."

Consultant 1: "What does it matter? We are making him up."

Consultant 2: "How will he look?"

Consultant 1: "Like this."


Consultant 2: "We can't use that."

Consultant 1: "Why not?"

Consultant 2: "That's A-Rod at spring training."

(OK, that was a long way to go for a weak joke. It's Friday. What did you expect?).

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We have the worst bathrooms in history at the station. They are cleaned about once a week, the toilets don't flush...it smells like the floor of a shrimp boat on a good day.

On a bad day, it smells like hairspray.

We have a sales person who apparently lives in his car. He's a kid, early 20s, short, weighs about 80 pounds.

Apparently he bathes in the sink, and spends a good 30 minutes each day grooming himself, complete with hairspray.

I'm not sure what brand, but whenever I walked into the fog cloud each morning, I long for the days of stale urine and unflushed floaters.

I finally said something today.

"Dude, what's with the cloud?"

"Yeah, it smells in here."

"I meant the spray."

"Yeah, that really helps, doesn't it?"

He then excused himself to bathe in an equally pungent cologne.

Next time, I'm flushing him.

A farewell to a friend

I don't do death well. Never have. I hate funerals, hate the somber eulogies that rarely capture what a person was really about.
They say funerals are supposed to be for the living. If so, why are they always so full of B.S.?
My dad, rest his soul, had it right. At funerals, he would make us laugh. He would remind us of the funny things and quirks about the person who died. A lot of people thought we were sickos when we were sitting in a corner laughing like idiots (they were probably right).
But we celebrated life.
I bring it up, because I had a lot of conversations with Terry Hayes, my former secretary and dear friend, about that very subject. The last really serious conversation we had a few months ago was about exactly that, among other things. She hoped people would celebrate her, not mourn her passing.
She finally left us yesterday after a long battle with cancer, an ugly, crippling disease that has no conscience and no concern for who it touches or why.
I thought a million times about what this blog would say when I got the news. I wanted something that would be poignant, funny and capture what Terry was really about. I knew no matter what I wrote, it would fail miserably.
I apologize in advance for that.
I had no idea how to start until this morning, when I read the obit in the Chronicle by David Barron, a terrific writer.
And I started laughing out loud.
There was a quote that said, "Terry's loss will be felt not only by those of us who had the pleasure to work with her, but by the many who knew her only as the caring voice on the other end of the line."
Terry was the best secretary ever. She was organized. She was tough. She would call B.S. on you in a heartbeat.
But her phone conflicts were legendary.
It made me think of the two or three times a day I would have to talk down an angry caller who had gotten into it with Terry.
We would get some weirdos calling in -- a lot of drunks (yes, even at 8 a.m.) and sexists who resented a woman answering the phone in a sports department. Needless to say, that never went over very well with Terry.
Some mornings when I got in, I would already have a list of people to call who wanted to talk to Terry's supervisor.
(She was almost always the one in the right).
I can't tell you how many times I had to try to talk the rednecks off the ledge. Almost every call would start with, "that &@!@$!&$ woman answering the phone..."
A couple times, Terry joked about going to the, "I'm sorry if I'm cranky; I had chemotherapy for my terminal cancer this morning" card to disarm them. When she finally did, I laughed my ass off. It got better when the redneck on the other end said, "that doesn't mean a woman should be answering sports questions."
It's one of a thousand hilarious memories I will have of her.
Even when Terry was mad, she made me laugh. When she was sick, she would make me laugh. When she was upset, I would try to make her laugh.
It's that Terry I tried so hard to hold on to; the Terry who was brave enough to share her story with the world in her blog. The Terry who approached everything with no B.S. and a beautiful sense of humor.
I hate cancer for what it did to that Terry.

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Terry was incredibly organized in the office. She planned everything.
So it was no surprise that when she got sick, she planned to go to London and Paris and travel the world.
And oh, how she would agonize over her blog entries. They had to be perfect.
I would frustrate her to no end when I wasn't organized. (Trust me, she would would hate that I am writing this totally on the fly).
She also surrounded herself with wonderful people, especially her sister, Bev, who is one of the strongest and most incredible people I've ever met.
I can't tell you how much I admire Bev and the others who took care of her. Those people are true heroes and real inspirations. Terry was fortunate to have people like that in her life at the end.
For her sake, I am relieved that she is no longer in pain. That faith or no, a better place awaits. In the end, her life had true meaning, and that deserves to be rewarded in the next world.
What more can a person ask for out of their life? More than any of us, Terry had a purpose. Her blog touched thousands of people, gave them hope. Gave all of us hope.
I have to believe there was a reason for that.
A few months ago, I was in the hospital. When I was admitted, the nurse said, "oh, you used to be the Cancer Diva's boss! I love her! She is terrific!"
I couldn't help but smile, even though I was sick as a dog. I wonder if Terry ever realized just how popular she became.
For a lot of people who truly needed it, she was an inspiration.
She made it personal. She made it OK to be sick and talk about it.
I was proud to be the Cancer Diva's boss.

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But we'll leave others to talk about Terry the Cancer Diva and how they will remember her.
That's not the Terry I wanted to share.
The last real time we spent together, I got her drunk. It made her sick for a couple days, but it was worth it (at least to me). We just kidded around, downed way too many margaritas and talked about everything from life to death and how to deal with both of them.
As always, we laughed.
Of course, she called B.S. on me for a few things. (She was right, as always).
And that's what Terry will always be to me. Not the inspiring Cancer Diva; not the sick person who I couldn't bear to see at times.
She was the one person you could be completely honest with.
Because she, too, could be brutally honest with you.
Before she became the Diva, Terry transformed herself through weight loss. She went from a beautiful person with no self confidence to a beautiful, thinner person who could take on the world.
She inspired me -- and encouraged me -- to try to do the same.
And she was an inspiration in a lot of other ways. She taught me to take chances.
To try to inspire others. To be a better leader. A better boss. A better person. To be honest.
To make people laugh.
Unfortunately, I haven't always lived up to her expectations.
That is what makes me sad. I always wanted to inspire her -- and others -- as much as she did me.
As much as anyone, I loved and respected Terry. She was more than a secretary to me; she was very much the little sister I never had. I loved her as a friend, a co-worker, a confidante, a person I trusted completely.
We rarely get friendships like that in life.
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So she asked me to do one thing when this day came: make you laugh. Tell funny stories. Celebrate her life.
Once again, I am letting her down. As much as I want to joke, I miss her. I miss her sense of humor, her sarcasm, her stuffed cats. I miss Secretary's Day. I miss the mornings where she would critique whatever hideous tie/shirt combination I had on. I miss her trying to get me to eat one of her damned vegetarian meat substitutes. I miss talking angry rednecks off the ledge about her phone etiquette. I miss the office parties and the Patron shots. I miss the Buffy the Vampire Slayer conversations. I miss talking 1980s rock music. I miss her blog entries. I miss our talks about Shawshank.
That movie will always be special to me. When she found out she had cancer, she lived by a simple line in it, and I once shared it on her blog:
"Get busy living or get busy dying."
More than anyone I've ever known, Terry got busy living.
Today -- on a day I am supposed to make you laugh -- all I can think of is another line from the movie, one that makes me see her smiling face pop in my head whenever I think of it.

"As for me?

"I just miss my friend."

And I always will.

Goodbye, Terry.

Elevators and Freddy just don't mix

Sometimes, you have to take a different approach to things. Maybe my elevator problems have been my fault. After all, I just kind of go about my business, shuffle off in the corner and avoid people. Maybe that's why I attract so many freaks.

So this week I decided to try something different.

Be friendly. Affable. Smile. Carry on conversations with complete strangers in the elevator. Ask them how they are doing. Give the illusion that I care.

"How are ya on this fine morning, buddy?"

"How about this weather?"

"It sure is early, isn't it?"

As usual when I try something like this, it went horribly wrong.

Oh, it was OK for a couple days. An elderly woman thanked me for asking. A custodial engineer offered to clean out our studio. The guy bringing our Friday kolaches offered to specially cook me a few next week. (Sadly, I had to politely decline. *!#%*!#% diets. Twenty pounds down; 110 left to get rid of).

I was starting to think that maybe this was the way to go. I was making new friends, cheering people up, in general being just a friendly guy.

Until Thursday.

As usual, I get on the elevator and it is just me and an elderly fellow. He smelled vaguely of Ben Gay, stale cigarettes, cheap wine and diaper. Like a lot of people who work for the company in this building (an oil company), he was pretty rough around the edges.

He looked a lot like this:



(Yes, I know. Brooks was here. So was Fred. If you don't get that reference, go rent Shawshank.)

Buoyed by my recent success, I tried the "how are you today, sir?" approach.

He grunted, added to his diaper, and dropped a "none of your f----ing business" on me.

That was a first. Before I could respond, he started cackling, like he had just made a great joke.

"I always tell people that," he drawled. "Just a joke, fella."

Me: "That's funny. Really."

It: "I'm doing real good, since you asked."

Me: "Not judging from the smell, you're not."

Sigh. I haven't spoken to anyone on an elevator since. See where being friendly gets you? Thank God I have a cold or the smell would STILL be in my nostrils.


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Taking advantage of my newfound ability to imbed videos, check out Joaquin Phoenix's appearance on Letterman.



It had to be a set-up, but it was bizarre either way.

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Also, here's a link to my examiner commentary. Please help a brother out and click on it a few times. I promise the Derby winner is in that top five. Place your bets now. And my always gratuitous link to Brandy.

Watch out, world. Hunger and headaches make you dangerous

OK, I've had a brain-tumor headache for four days. I'm about to spend the next five days being on the air for eight hours a day. (Yeah, I know, life is tough).
And I spent way too much time with my all-time steroids team. (Although in order to avoid legal entanglements, it is an all-time "performance enhancing" team).

For some reason, I have some things that I really find irritating today and feel the need to call out.

1) Katie Couric. I have now seen her 2007 interview with A-Rod 26 times today. If I hear that whiny, annoying voice one more time I will kill something.



See what I mean. I just beheaded an innocent passerby. Thanks, Katie.

And let's not get started on how badly she butchered the airline interview last night. Give it up and go back to meaningless fluff, hag.

2) Dick Vitale. Our friends around the world have no idea how annoying this little freak really is. Fifteen years ago, he was funny. Now he is a sad little man.



Next time I see Dickie, I might just punch him before he can say a word -- if that is physically possible.

3) The Cameron Crazies. If I hear one more time how they are a wonderful part of college basketball, I am going to throw up.



Today on This is your life...Wait, you don't have one!

Seriously, kids, have all the fun you want. Bounce around like maniacs. But if I see you standing behind Dickie V on ESPN one more time and start screaming when there is no team or game or anything else there...well, see the passerby above. Again.

4) Steroids and baseball talk. Enough, already. Who cares? They cheated, hit a bunch of homers, and their peckers won't work in 20 years. What does it matter? If they help my fantasy team, they can inject themselves with anything they want.

5) People who say Jessica Simpson is fat. Really? Who decided this? Some bitter, mousey magazine editor or wannabe blogger who got rejected by Tony Romo? If this is fat, folks, our society sucks more than Katie Couric's interview skills.



I'm not a big Jess fan, but are we kidding?

Hey, it's Monday. It's gray and gloomy in H Town. And I have a headache. And diets suck.

And dammit, no football for seven months. Aaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhhhhhhh!!!

Look at the bright side: you aren't on my list. Well, unless Katie Couric is secretly stalking me. In that case...sorry Katie, I was just kidding. Wanna have lunch?

Ugh. Clearly I am too old to blog and too young to die. I need a new hobby.

Wonder when Dicky's contract expires...

25 things about...well, someone

Most of the F World gang is on Facebook. So almost all of us have been getting tagged with this "25 things about me" list that is making the rounds.

Mnay of my friends have very interesting ones; I have actually learned some cool stuff about people.

I have also read some funny ones (like this) on other blogs.

I have resisted doing this on Facebook, mainly because I don't think there are 25 things that people would find interesting about me. Since I am about 1/100th as interesting as Brandy, I would probably only be able to come up with 10 real things.

The other new development is I am getting lots of friend requests from old high school amigos and amigas who I haven't seen in years. I've also got some people who really don't know me that well on my friends list.

So in true Uncle Freddy fashion, my plan is to come up with 25 things about me (fictitious, of course) that are as bizarre as possible, send them to the people who barely know me, and gauge their reaction. Over/under on people who drop me as a friend?

I say 80 percent.

So, here they are:

25. I once shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die. But I shot him in the leg, and it took weeks for gangrene to set in. So I didn't actually get to see it. But I heard it was interesting.

24. I eat kittens. Preferably right out of the box, but microwaved is OK, too. Sauteed is nice.

23. I once worked as a professional, um, electrical device. (shameless link to Brandy's blog). Wait a minute...that one was true.

22. I once dated Madonna and Dennis Rodman. At the same time.

21. I like to reprogram traffic lights to cause accidents.

20. I spent two years living in Nepal as Ali Akbar Faour and leading a small group of freedom fighters.

19. I was once arrested for allegedly stalking Ben Stiller.

18. I was in an acting troupe for three years and played Sparkles the Evil Clown. Sometimes, I would go out at night dressed as Sparkles to get in the character. It required some perverse acts involving small animals. I didn't enjoy them. Much.

17. I once caused a therapist to go insane by telling my Sparkles stories.

16. I worked as a professional psychic for a while. I predicted I would someday do a blog.

15. I invented the Jack and Coke.

14. Ned Beattie requested I play the hillbilly in the remake of Deliverance. We acted out the part. He squealed like a pig. I got hired; he didn't.

13. I spend one weekend a year hunting human beings in Lower Mongolia.

12. I am considered a minor deity on Guam.

11. I have naked pictures of me, Penelope Ann Miller and an ostrich. If you look hard enough on the Internet, you will find them.

10. I have Lysdexia.

9. I don't believe in torture, unless I am successful at pulling it off.

8. I was once married to Lindsay Lohan's mother's second cousin on her uncle's side.

7. I like throwing battery acid on people's pets.

6. Sometimes, for grins, I go to strip clubs and pass out fake $1 and $20 bills in exchange for dances.

5. A total of 57 women have restraining orders against me. My goal is to get to 60 by the end of 2009.

4. I like to practice my sniper skills on marathon runners.

3. I am deathly afraid of sheep. Well, sheep that talk, just in case they ever invent one of those. If so...that will be another restraining order.

2. For two years, I was a dictator in a small South American country. Over 5,000 people "disappeared" under my "re-education program."

1. I am secretly the Gargoyle, a local super-criminal who has committed thousands of crimes dressed in a sick cool Gargoyle suit. The local police are baffled, the FBI has no clue...and I have stolen millions in a kevlar Gargoyle suit. Please don't tell anyone.

Hmmmm...maybe that will cull out 100 percent of those facebook friends....

Why Texas is special; A bong day's journey into night....

While most of America was partying during the Super Bowl, Uncle Freddy wept.
(And no, it's not because I am on a freaking diet and there was all kinds of great food going around).
Football season is over.
Life is no longer fun. This is like losing a family member. Or a pet.
Football is more than a game; more than a religion. It is a way of life.
And now, we have to go seven months without it.
So in this darkest hour of our darkest day, we offer random depressed musings to our friends all over the world...

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Apparently, adultery is completely acceptable -- and, in fact, encouraged -- in my home state of Texas.

A Super Bowl ad for ashleymadison.com -- a married dating site -- was banned in every market in the country. But they showed it in Texas. Apparently, we are special. Either that, or so desperate for money we'll take any ad.



The site's catch phrase? "Life is short. Have an affair."

As you know by now, we don't judge in F World. (Unless we don't like you). We also don't get political.

Still, you have to wonder what's next....

Perhaps killahomeless.com? "Life is short. Whack a homeless guy. You will love it and you will be doing them a favor."

How about serialkiller.com? "Life is short. Kill as many people as possible without getting caught."

Or sexwithamonkey.com? "Life is short. So are you. Maybe a monkey will work better for you."

Getcaughtoncamerawithabong.com. "Life is short. Be like Mike. Phelps, that is."

Ah, nothing like living in Texas. Thanks, Ashley Madison. We needed the money.

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Michael Phelps has money, fame and athletic success. He is dumber than a barrel of hair, but who cares? Three out of four ain't bad.

Michael likes to have a good time, and he's enjoying his stardom. He's 23 years old and he is going to make some mistakes.

Like hitting a bong in the middle of a party with people you don't know.

Yes, Michael is stupid for putting himself in that situation. But this being Texas and all, where everything is legal, the real idiot is the person taking the photo.

Why not blackmail Michael for more than a British tabloid would pay you?

Hmmm. blackmailmichaelphelps.com. "Life is short. Get as many bucks as you can taking advantage of a famous athlete's stupidity."

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Please check out my Houston sports commentary at http://www.examiner.com/x-1519-Houston-Sports-Examiner. I really need to build that one up. It only does well when I piss people off.

And click on the ads. They pay for this blog.

I promise to get back to posting every day as soon as I get over my football depression.

And look for me on AshleyMadison.com as "hot21yearoldhtowngirl..."