Latenight Monologue

Aired Wednesday night on CBS: You folks know about this Rod Blagojevich, the governor from Illinois? Well, they’re trying to get him out of there because he’s a crook. And he was having an impeachment trial, and he said, “You know what, you kids go and have your little impeachment trial. I’m going to New York City, and I’m going to be on every TV show.” Did you see the guy on TV? He was everywhere. I mean, this guy, he looks like the guy that tells you need new brake pads, you know?

Blagojevich looks like an insurance salesman that keeps calling you “Captain.” “Hey, Captain.”

Blagojevich looks like a guy who backs you up with his aftershave. Whoah!

Blagojevich looks like a guy who disappears with your deposit after he takes your contracting contract.

Blagojevich looks like the guy who tries to set you up with his wife.

And President Bush, after eight years, is also in retirement. How can you tell?

President Bush, of course, has a place just outside of Crawford, Texas — Rancho Inepto.

NFL Fantasy Files: The Best Players

(Sent by Roy Wilson)
There's a lot of levels of good. This is the top level.

What Brought Down the Plane in the Hudson River?

(Sent by Roy Wilson)

Bear Up Tree

COLUMN: Here Goes Everything

By Tobin Barnes
Living on a plateau on top of a pretty darned big hill has its advantages, view not the least of them.

It also has its down sides, like driving down the hill after a long period of snowy cold weather. And the snow has been packed down hard during weeks of sub-zero temperatures.

And there’s a quick warmup all of a sudden, making the road kinda slushy.

And then there’s a just-as-quick hard freeze the night after.

And no one thought to sand the road.

And now you’ve got a toboggan run that Olympic racers would think of as mighty fine.

And I’m driving down this thing in the morning on my way to school. To be sure, it becomes the mother of all white-knucklers.

Then coming around a bend about halfway down, I suddenly see things are going to get even more complicated. A car is sitting horizontally across the middle of the road and two kids are standing near it on the shoulder.

There’s nowhere to go. The hill rises on one side of the road and drops somewhat precipitously on the other. I pull up about fifty yards away with my pickup pointed down a 10-15 percent grade.

The kids run up to me and I roll down the window.

“Grandma is afraid to move the car. She called Grandpa to help.”

“When’s he coming?” I wonder, not in the least wistfully.

“He should be here right away. She called a while ago.” And soon, by golly, there he is, gingerly making his way on foot up the icy road after leaving his vehicle at the bottom.
He gets into the car, tries to turn it around, but it’s too slick, so he starts inching it down the grade backwards. It’s a touchy procedure for Grandpa (or for Mario Andretti, for that matter), taking about ten minutes to execute. In the meantime, two other residents of our subdivision have approached and, like me, are waiting to descend.

The waiting doesn’t help. It only makes me more aware that the road ahead—where it is most precipitous—seems, to my mind anyway, to angle off to the side where the drop-off is.

I steadily become more and more aware that this is a definite problem on sheer ice. If not careful, the pickup will not only start sliding down the road, but also across the road and over the drop-off. Sure, I’ve got my seatbelt on, but skidding off the road and cartwheeling down the hill is not at all appealing.

At the very least, I’d get pretty darned beat up bouncing around inside the cab there, not to mention totaling the pickup. Not a great start to the day.

The smart thing might be to leave the vehicle where it is, walk back home, and call in sick (not a stretch). Maybe drive the pickup down this spring when the ice is just a distant memory.

But that’d be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? I’m not sure, but perhaps. Especially when other people are waiting for me to get going.

Anyway, I nerve up for the ordeal and start feeling my way down the road. Once I get going, I gather more confidence that I can handle the challenge. And so far so good. The tension lessens. Eventually, it’s to the level of trying to make a three-and-a-half foot putt with a quarter bet on the line. Once in a while, you can do it.

And such was the case this time. At the bottom, I feel the thrill of victory, like landing a winning ski jump.

Not only that, but I am totally alert for the school day. No morning grogginess for me.

Walk-Ins

(Sent by Roy Wilson)

Five Levels of Lucky

(Sent by Roy Wilson)

Late Night

Monologue | Aired Thursday night on NBC: I tell you, it’s cold all over the East Coast. And did you see those blizzards all over the place? The whole country was so white the Republicans thought they were back in charge again.

Incoming press secretary Robert Gibbs said President-elect Barack Obama will allow gays to serve openly in the military. So the days of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” are over. Actually, that’s not quite true. Congress will continue to use the phrase when referring to the bailout money. “Don’t Ask Us What We Did With It, We’re Not Going To Tell You Where It Went.”

And at his confirmation hearing, Attorney General Nominee Eric Holder said as far as he is concerned, waterboarding is torture. And Treasury secretary nominee Tim Geithner said, “So is paying taxes.”

As you may have heard, Tim Geithner, who’s been chosen to be our next secretary of the Treasury didn’t pay $34,000 in federal taxes from 2001 to 2004. But to keep the nomination afloat, he paid it this week, plus another $8,000 in interest. So that’s $42,000 the U.S. Treasury made just like that. You know what Barack Obama should do now? He should appoint Willie Nelson to the position of Commerce Secretary. What does he owe, $28 million?

Educational Emails Have Screwed Me Up

(sent by Joey Larson)

I just want to thank all of you for your educational e-mails over the past year. I am totally screwed up now and have little chance of recovery.


I no longer open a public bathroom door without using a paper towel or have them put lemon slices in my ice water without worrying about the bacteria on the lemon peel.

I can't use the remote in a hotel room because I don't know what the last person was doing while flipping through the adult movie channels.

I can't sit down on the hotel bedspread because I can only imagine what has happened on it since it was last washed.

I have trouble shaking hands with someone who has been driving because the number one pastime while driving alone is picking ones nose (although cell phone usage may be taking the number one spot).

Eating a little snack sends me on a guilt trip because I can only imagine how many gallons of trans fats I have consumed over the years.


I can't touch any woman's purse for fear she has placed it on the floor of a public bathroom.

I MUST SEND MY SPECIAL THANKS to whoever sent me the one about poop in the glue on envelopes because I now have to use a wet sponge with every envelope that needs sealing.
&

ALSO, now I have to scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason.

I no longer have any savings because I gave it to a sick girl (Penny Brown) who is about to die in the hospital for the 1,387,258th time.

I no longer have any money at all, but that will change once I receive the $15,000 that Bill Gates/Microsoft and AOLare sending me for participating in their special e-mail program.

I no longer worry about my soul because I have 363,214 angels looking out for me, and St. Theresa's Novena has granted my every wish.


I no longer eat KFC because their chickens are actually horrible mutant freaks with no eyes or feathers.

I no longer use cancer-causing deodorants even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day.

THANKS TO YOU I have learned that my prayers only get answered if I forward an e-mail to seven of my friends and make a wish within five minutes.

BECAUSE OF YOUR CONCERN, I no longer drink Coca Cola because it can remove toilet stains.


I no longer can buy gasoline without taking someone along to watch the car so a serial killer won't crawl in my back seat when I'm pumping gas.


I no longer drink Pepsi or Dr. Pepper since the people who make these products are atheists who refuse to put 'Under God' on their cans.


I no longer use Saran Wrap in the microwave because it causes cancer.
&

AND THANKS FOR LETTING ME KNOW I can't boil a cup of water in the microwave anymore because it will blow up in my face... disfiguring me for life.

I no longer check the coin return on pay phones because I could be pricked with a needle infected with AIDS.

I no longer go to shopping malls because someone will drug me with a perfume sample and rob me.

I no longer receive packages from UPS or Fed Ex since they are actually Al Qaeda in disguise.

I no longer shop at Target since they are French and don't support our American troops or the Salvation Army.

I no longer answer the phone because someone will ask me to dial a number for which I will get a phone bill with calls to Jamaica , Uganda, Singapore, and Uzbekistan


I no longer buy expensive cookies from Neiman Marcus since I now have their recipe.

THANKS TO YOU I can't use anyone's toilet but mine because a big brown African spider is lurking under the seat to cause me instant death when it bites my butt.


AND THANKS TO YOUR GREAT ADVICE I can't ever pick up $5.00 dropped in the parking lot because it probably was placed there by a sex molester waiting underneath my car to grab my leg.

I can no longer drive my car because I can't buy gas from certain gas companies!

I can't do any gardening because I'm afraid I'll get bitten by the brown recluse and my hand will fall off.


If you don't send this e-mail to at least 144,000 people in the next 70 minutes, a large dove with diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 p.m . tomorrow afternoon and the fleas from 12 camels will infest your back, causing you to grow a hairy hump. I know this will occur because it actually happened to a friend of my next door neighbor's ex-mother-in-law's second husband's cousin's beautician . .



Oh, by the way.....
A German scientist from Argentina, after a lengthy study, has discovered that people with insufficient brain activity read their e-mail with their hand on the mouse.

Don't bother taking it off now, it's too late.

COLUMN: Just Don't Want to Be the Guy at the Bottom

By Tobin Barnes
“It could be worse.”

It’s the cliched consolation you hear all the time when things are lousy.

“Well…it could be worse.”

It’s meant to make you feel better.

And it does.

Kinda.

But not a heck of a lot.

After all things are lousy.

And at the same time you’re hearing that things could be worse, you’re all too aware that they could be better, too. Aye, there’s the rub, as Hamlet says. “Things could be better” is the unsettling converse.

Just as easily better.

What if certain things hadn’t been allowed, and no one had been asleep at the switch.

Things could be lot better.

But, obviously, it’s not. Matter of fact, everybody says they’re definitely going to get worse before they get better.

Like this morning. I read in the headlines that unemployment has reached 7.2 percent, which is bad enough, especially for the people who are unemployed. And it’ll get worse. Maybe 8.2, or 12.2, or 20.2, or 25.2, like during the Great Depression.

Things could be a whole lot worse.

I can imagine scenarios that make my blood curdle. Like maybe last year’s national election didn’t go the way I was hoping it would (maybe not your scenario, but certainly mine), or even freakier, maybe last year wasn’t even an election year.

Now there’s a real horror show.

Yeah, things could be worse. A lot worse.

Imagine this. You and I could be Bernie Madoff investors. Ouch. In trying to get everything, we lost everything. (Of course, that would also mean that you and I had a lot of money at one time. But imagine!)

Bernie Madoff. Now there’s a rounder’s name for the ages. A screenwriter would blush to use that name in a script. But there it is: it’ll be front row, center in any rogue’s gallery of shysters. (Even if he’s eventually lawyered out of the whole mess.)

“He made off with all our money.”

And even after he’s arrested and sequestered in his multi-million-dollar New York condo, he’s still trying to squirrel away allegedly ill-gotten gains.

Madoff—a now infamous name that will live on in perpetuity.

So, buck up, somebody always has it worse than you, like a Madoff investor.

And as the somebody-always-has it-worse-than-you theory goes, somebody has it worse than that guy, and somebody has it worse than that guy, and then that guy.

Thing is, I’d hate to drill down to see what it’s like for the sad sack who’s the final guy at the very end.

Must be rough.

But, hey, it could be worse.

COLUMN: I Met a Strange Bird at a Movie

By Tobin Barnes
“Chachalaca!” cries the Chachalaca bird of Central and South America.

I’ve never been around a Chachalaca bird, but from what I’ve read, when it has something to say, the Chachalaca bird says, “Chachalaca!”

In other words, some things are appropriately named.

By that token, there must also be a Heeheehee bird. It makes a high-pitched, piercing “Heeheehee” sound when amused--even when only mildly amused.

I discovered this strange creature when it flew into a packed movie theatre and perched beside me at a showing of “Marley and Me.” Because I was sitting at the end of a long line of relatives, there was no escape.

Chances are you may have seen “Marley and Me” by now. It’s been a big ticket-seller all across the country. But you didn’t see it the way I did. Not with a Heeheehee bird next to you.

(If you haven’t seen the movie and want to be held in suspense, skip the next five or six paragraphs until the Heeheehee bird flutters back into the column.)

“Marley and me” is a dog movie, and I don’t think I’m letting the cat out of the bag when I tell you that the dog dies. You knew it even before I told you. That’s because the dog always dies in a dog movie, or at least someone dies. Sometimes it’s the master, but mostly the dog.

Dog movies are always weepers.

But they’re good weepers. “Cathartic,” as they say in literature classes. They make you feel better for having wept for a dog who was bound to die anyway because it’s a dog movie.

On the other hand, the dog never dies in dog TV shows. Timmy might be replaced with Jimmy, but the dog lives on, even if it takes twenty dogs to replace him.

Therefore, Lassie’s going to be perpetually reincarnated and have adventures well into the next century.

In the movie I went to, Marley’s death is the second most devastating thing to happen to his owner’s family right after the wife’s miscarriage in her first pregnancy, but definitely ahead of a fairly severe case of exhaustion after the delivery of her second child.

So Marley--often described as the “worst dog in the world” and therein providing the movie with a continual font of humor, that is, until he starts dying--is central to this family’s existence during the fourteen-year span of the plot.

“Marley and Me” is a fine-enough confection of a movie with all the requisite tears and chuckles and flapdoodle you’d expect from paying seven bucks. It’s a good family-date-general-purpose-have-a-nice-time movie. There aren’t going to be any Oscar handouts on this one, but people will enjoy it nonetheless.

Unless, perhaps, they are sitting next to a Heeheehee bird, as I was.

This Heeheehee bird was female. (I shudder to think of the male variety.) She’d Heeheehee at the slightest drop of humor, even when no one else in the crowded theatre was provoked to laughter. (The preening Heeheehee bird evidently likes to attract a lot of attention to itself and those sitting next to her. Thank goodness theaters are dark.)

Heeheeheeing when no one else gave a “Ha!” is certainly excusable, but it was the nature of the Heeheeheeing that drove me to near barking mad. It was, unfortunately, something like this: “Hee...hee...hee...hee.......hee......hee........hee (wait for it) hee!” I kid you not.

The movie became a secondary experience for me compared to cringing in expectation of the next outburst from the exotic bird sitting next to me.

And to put an even finer point on the tip of the stiletto, she was also a talking bird.

“Isn’t that cute?” she’d ask the general vicinity seated around her. And, yes, it was kinda cute, though I didn’t feel compelled to answer her query, nor did anyone else.

Or “That’s funny!” she’d say. And again, yes, it was kinda funny. But didn’t we all know that?

And “Isn’t that sad?” she asked towards the end of the movie.

Yes, sad indeed. But I’ve learned more about coping with difficulty, thanks to you.