Charlie Sheen is NOT off the hook

I don't know if you've followed the news about this, but I guess Charlie Sheen made some comments to the effect that 9/11 was orchestrated by the government.

There was even a debate about whether Google was censoring peoples' attempts to try and find information about the story.

That's fine, the man is entitled to his opinion.

But nobody has a right to go out and make a movie this bad.

I'm talking to you, Richard "Ditch" Brodie.

Maybe it's petty of me to be harping on a 12 year old movie nobody saw anyway. Sometimes it feels like nobody even remembers Terminal Velocity.

Well guess what, I remember. Parachutes. Stolen gold. The Russian Mafia. And I'm not willing to just let things go. I could sit here and spew venom, but I'm over it. It's done. I am leaving, my anger intact. I am bitter and I don't care.

I have been hurt and I could be the bigger man and forgive and forget, live and let live, but I have had enough. I am taking a stand. This is not alright. This is not OK.

This is a country based on freedom and justice for everyone who is rich and white and Charlie Sheen is both of those, so it's time for him to belly up to the bar and apologize.

I'm not even saying that will do it for me, I have a feeling it won't, but it's a start.

The Dixie Chicks have a new song that sums everything up about how I'm feeling over this whole Charlie Sheen business, I will leave you with those lyrics.

I’m not ready to make nice

I’m not ready to back down

I’m still mad as hell and

I don’t have time to go round and round and round

It’s too late to make it right

I probably wouldn’t if I could

‘Cause I’m mad as hell

Can’t bring myself to do what it is you think I should.

Thanks for nothing, jerks!

Well this explains my 8 month recovery period.

(Just kidding! *hugs*)

I invented a new day!

For all those people out there who said I'm an idiot and I'll never amount to anything, I say: SUCK ON THIS!

Maybe I didn't go to "college" and maybe I'm not all smart and junk, but I have accomplished something that hasn't been accomplished in thousands of years.

Behold, the majesty of "Skizzleplex"!!!

That's right, "Skizzleplex".

It comes between Friday and Sunday and it's the best day ever and it never existed before until I invented it.

How the hell did I do this, you ask? Well, it's simple:

I took seven hours out of Sunday and added 3 hours to Friday and then I invented Skizzleplex. Trust me, if you do the math, you'll see it all adds up.

Don't you ever feel like "oh, it's Friday, hooray!" and then all of a sudden you're like "oh shit, it's Sunday!" and you wonder, "what the fuck happened?" Unbeknownst to anyone but me, that feeling happens because there has been a secret day occupying that space and that day is Skizzleplex.

It all makes sense now, huh?

Sure, this is going to cause lots of problems. There used to be a certain number of days, I'm not sure how many (ten?), but now there's one more. Calendars will be fucked up, people will get slightly older or younger and the moon will probably spin off of Earth's orbit and fly away into space.

I really feel like things are going to change. Not just for me, either. I'm probably gonna get a Nobel Prize or a lot of money or something, but I also think the world as a whole will be a much better place as well.

If I get elected President of the World, I probably won't have much time for this blog, so I won't be posting as much from now on.

But I promise to stay grounded by taking a few minutes out of every Skizzleplex to give you, my loyal readers, a quick heads up about all the private jets I've been flying in and all the supermodels I'm banging and how many mansions I have.

Enter my contest!

Hey gang, guess what?

I'm having a contest!

Enter my contest and you can win 250 Iraqi Dinars! That's right! This is genuine Iraqi money with Saddam Hussein right on the bill! Taken from Iraq by our brave fighting troops in the U.S. Army.

Imagine what you could buy with that much money! 250 Dinars! Houses, gold, women! All of this could be yours! Perhaps you've had your eye on that brand new luxury car your neighbor just got? That could be you! Stop being a fucking loser! Enter my contest!

OK, now that I've got you all hyped up, you're probably wondering, "What is this contest I keep hearing about via the local news media, podcasts and cereal box prize cartoons?"

The contest is simple: you send me an email at hollywoodphony@yahoo.com and tell me what you think of me. Whoever has the best entry wins and I will send them 250 IRAQI DINARS!!!

What do I mean by "best entry"? I'm not even sure. I have a feeling I will know it when I see it. Maybe it is the most original or creative. Maybe it is the meanest one, the one that really tells me, in plain English, what a bastard I am. More than likely, though, it will be the one written in flowery language that is all about how I'm so great.

Maybe you're thinking, "Hmm, I barely know this guy, surely I couldn't win"? But fear not, I'd actually rather hear from someone like you than my real-life jerk friends! If you want, just write something about how you found my blog or who told you to read it or hell, just make some shit up. What the fuck do I care, right?

I will post the top 17 entries on this site and dedicate a whole post to the winner.

That's it, that's all you have to do. Chances are, you'll be the only person who enters and you'll win by default. Then you can tell your boss to shove it and quit your job and retire to your own little tropical island.

So again, do it. Don't be a jerk.

My new ad campaign

Here's the deal: there's not a lot of money in comedy.

For every Jim Carrey making $300,000/year or whatever he makes, there's six or seven people who barely crack a hundred.

Maybe I'm a sellout, but I want to be rich. I want a Dodge Caravan with a DVD system so I can park by the beach, curl up on the bench seat in the back and fall asleep to Patch Adams.

I'm sick of doing stand up six nights a week like I do. I'm tired of the grind. There are some weeks I wake up in a shitty motel in a different, anonymous, midwestern city every single day.

I want a family and kids and a dog and a wife who understands that it means I love her more, not less, when I hit her.

I am a simple man, with simple needs. My one extravaganace that I allow myself is my goat cheese pizzas. I'm nuts for those.

So anyway, the comedy thing ain't happenin' for me. I give up. I'm talented and I'm super good-looking but it's just not enough, you know? I'm not sure what it takes, I'm only sure I don't have it. That's a good one, I should use that in my act.

So anyway, what does a guy with all this talent do? I can't just go and design computers and rockets and hot air balloons and crap like that, I need an outlet for my creativity. I need to give birth to the torrent of ideas pounding at my fucking brain like the tumor my doctors keep insisting I have after I blackout from my migraines and wake up in the hospital for the 47th time this week.

And then it hit me. The junction of comedy and commerce: the advertising business.

You get paid to create and the things you create make money. That's advertising in a nutshell. There is the little matter of demographics and research and focus groups, but let the suits handle that bs, I'm an idea machine, mother fucker!

Now, I could go the usual route and go to college and try and get an entry-level job and work my way up the ladder, but that really wouldn't be me, you know? I'm a "grab life by the balls" kind of guy, so I've decided I'm just gonna make an ad campaign for something that already exists and then I'll probably get paid or something when people start buying it.

But what product should I advertise? What's something everybody likes and is entirely free from controversy? I'm not sure.

All I know is people hate kids and they hate having kids. If there was some way to take pregnant people and make them not pregnant, the fella who thought up that idea would be a millionaire.

Well, imagine my surprise when I found out there is such an invention and it's called "abortion". Catchy, no?

I haven't written it down or anything, but here's the gist of it: Being pregnant is awful. You get fat, you can't stop eating weird food (according to TV, anyway), you turn into a total bitch and you're in pain all the time.

Some guys out there who are probably less sensitive than I am wouldn't realize this, but a baby is much bigger than the average size vagina, from which they eventually come out of. Get it? It hurts.

Abortion: Just End It! Trust me, chicks are gonna eat this shit up. I'm assuming they just don't realize this thing exists, or else, why would anyone go and have a kid? It doesn't make any goddam sense. There's kids everywhere, who the hell needs another one? No one, that's who.

So there, that's my pitch. A well-defined market of people looking for a service, a catchy jingle which I'm not going to write, some posters, yadda yadda yadda. Can I have my money now?

God Bless, South Park

I have just seen the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life.

The season premiere of South Park was a truly magical thing to behold.

I'm not going to give anything away, plot-wise, but it was amazing on so many levels it has literally blown my mind.

The genius of this show is that they fucked Scientology in the ass, but did it in a way that while everyone knows they're talking about Scientology, Scientology can't say, "Hey, this is about Scientology" because if they do, they'll be admitting they're nothing more than a fucked-up cult that brainwashes people.

I really feel like they may never show this episode again, it's that awesome and out there. If anyone has a tape or dvd of it, I would appreciate a copy of it so that I can make my own fucked-up "religion" based on its teachings and then the circle will be complete.

Seriously, if you don't watch the show, but you've heard about the Issac Hayes/Tom Cruise/Scientology controversy, check out their response to it all, because it's really great.

My faith in humanity and comedy restored, I bid you goodnight.

I am afraid of Rob Wagman

People often ask me, "Aren't you afraid you really, truly believe all those horrible things that your imaginary friend who may or may not be a rapist, Chad Robuckle, says in your stories?"

To this, I say no. What I AM afraid of is Rob Wagman.

"Your dummy?" you ask, "why that's ridiculous! He's nothing more than a harmless piece of plastic!"

Plastic? Maybe. Harmless? Hardly.

Look at him. Tell me if you had that thing sitting in your closet every night, you wouldn't be tossing and turning til four am, shitting the bed with fear. Go ahead, tell me, I dare you. You're a fucking liar.

He sleeps in my closet, in a duffle bag. The duffle bag is zipped and the door to the closet is ALWAYS closed.

But sometimes a house makes noise. Sometimes the wood settles as the temperature drops and things contract and expand. Creaking noises eminate from all around and if one of them happens to come to the closet, I have a heart attack.

Not a fake heart attack like I pulled last year, either. Oh, by the way, April Fool's, that was all made up.

I'm talking a real heart attack, like "holy shit, I'm gonna die" heart attack.

If you saw the season opener of the Soprano's and you watched that guy hang himself, you have a tiny inkling into the kind of fear I have for my dummy, Rob Wagman.

Maybe you don't see the connection, but the hanging scene was a very graphic account of a man committing suicide. It wasn't: here I go. Snap! It's over. It was struggling, kicking out and thrashing around, probably as you realize the finality of what you've done and attempt to take things back, but you can't. It was a haunting image. I guess the guy pissed himself at the end, I couldn't really watch that much, because it was too intense.

When you realize how frail and fragile our human bodies are, how you can commit so much damage upon them in the blink of an eye, you begin to experience the real palpable fear of having Rob Wagman in your closet.

Look, do I know if he's really alive or not? No, I can't make those kinds of claims. All I know is, I look into those dead eyes and I want to run and hide in my mother's arms as I sob myself to sleep.

Maybe I'm over-reacting, but imagine if that thing was in your own closet, just four or five feet from where you slept. It's dark, you're alone in a big, new house. You hear strange noises. You shut your eyes tightly, afraid to open them. Afraid that when you do, he'll be there, looking down at you. His soulless limbs flailing about, to and fro.

To paraphrase The Usual Suspect: I don't believe in Rob Wagman, but I'm afraid of him.

Terry Bradshaw and me - by Chad Robuckle

So I'm driving over Laurel Canyon in the kind of slow-moving, not quite bumper-to-bumper traffic you experience on this road during the afternoon when this stupid whore rear-ends me out of nowhere.

I get out of my car, she gets out of hers, all apologetic and we stand there, examining the damage to my bumper. It's not bad and I decide I'm not going to give her a hard time about it, even though she was totally on her cell phone, not paying attention, as women are apt to do.

"Hmm, well the damage really isn't bad, maybe we don't have to get the insurance companies involved in this?" Big mistake, bitch. Now I'm pissed.

I tell her that, no, I'm actually going to have to see her insurance and she offers to pay me a couple hundred bucks to avoid having her premiums go up. I'm looking at the damage and really it's nothing that a three dollar jar of touch-up paint couldn't fix, but she's really pushing my buttons now. If there's one thing Chad Robuckle values above all, it's his honesty and his integrity and I'm not about to compromise my good name so I can play nice and commit insurance fraud.

Her kids are screaming in the back seat and people are honking so I lean in really close and whisper, "I'm going to act like I'm walking over to get my insurance card from my glove compartment, but I'm really going to get my gun and shoot you in the fucking head. So, if you value your life and the lives of your children, I suggest you run for it."

I can tell she can't quite believe this but my iron cold stare is starting to convince her so I walk back to my car and say loudly, "OK, let me just get my insurance out of the glove box," when she decides I'm not joking. I look over and she's got this expression of pure terror as she jumps in the car, puts it in drive and pulls around me, tires squealing and runs right into a car in on-coming traffic, airbags go off and everything. Priceless.

So I close the door and some bystanders run up to her car to see if everything's OK and she gets out, blood running down her face from her broken nose and she can't stop screaming. She pulls her kids out of the backseat and starts running up the hill.

The onlookers give me a "what the hell?" kind of look and I give them a "beats the shit out of me" one in response and we all stand around and wait for the cops. I explain to them and the police officers that I just wanted to do everything by the book and was walking over to my car to get my insurance card when this lady flipped out and tried to drive off. Several eye-witnesses backed up my side of the story, so even though the lady insisted I had threatened her, nobody had come forward and corroborated this. Not to mention, the cops search my car and the surrounding area and find no evidence of any gun, so I'm off the hook.

The 5-0 apologize to me, take my name and number, send me on my way and as I'm driving off, I look in the rearview and she's screaming and yelling as they rip her kid out of her arms and throw her in the backseat of the squad car.

So I last about three seconds before I lose it and start laughing my ass off! Oh man, that was some funny shit! The irony of this whole situation is, I left the accident in such a good mood, that if it had happened again, I wouldn't have been such a dick in the first place.

Anyway, a couple days pass and I get this knock on the door. This weasely-looking guy is standing there, holding his hat in his hands like people do in old time movies. He looks nervous as shit so I look over and make sure my Louisville Slugger is right by the door. It is.

"Chad Robuckle?" he asks.

"Who wants to know?" I reply.

He goes and explains that his name is Terry Bradshaw, when I say, "Like the football guy?" he gives me this blank stare and I know I'm dealing with a real winner. Anyway, he tells me he witnessed the accident and he knows I really did threaten to shoot that woman. Well at this point, I'm inching towards the bat and trying to remember how many corpse-size garbage bags I've got saved up under the sink. I figure he's looking for money or whatever, but he actually has something else in mind.

"Man, I couldn't believe that shit, it was great. You stayed so cool and totally fucked her shit up, that's some next level shit and I'm down with that," he says, never quite looking me in the eye.

Normally, I would kill someone just for making any sort of reference to Men In Black, but I'm also a sucker for flattery, so I released my grip on the bat and let him go on.

"Anyway, I don't know who you're with, CIA, FBI, KGB, whatever, but if you need any help, just let me know."

Now let me pause here and tell you that I am a big fan of Mr. Miyagi. Not Pat Morita. Not the movie itself, just that character. I'm not into the kind of karate where you defend yourself as a last resort and you never use it to get money out of people, but still, there was just something about the way he bossed that greasy little wop around that tickled my fancy. So here I saw my chance to be my own Mr. Miyagi and I jumped at it.

"Well, Terry, you're in luck. My last intern just quit and you look like you're cut from good stock, so why don't you go down to the 7-11 over there and get me a twelve pack of beer, for starters," that seemed very mentor-like to me.

"Uhmm, well I was thinking like I could be your sidekick or partner or something, you know, go on special ops reconnaissance and shit like that?" I figured on this response and I was ready for it.

"Terry," I began, closing the door behind me as I stepped outside in my underwear, "how many years of military experience do you have? Is it 12? Because that's how much I have."

"Oh, shit, Chad, I'm sorr—"

"Mr. Robuckle." I cut him off.

"Sorry, right, Mr. Robuckle, anyways, I didn't mean to question your authority or nothin', I was just wondering what kind of beer I should get you and also um, I don't have any cash…" What a stammering idiot.

"Terry, listen, when they would drop us Rangers behind enemy lines and we'd have to sneak into a village and cut every male resident over the age of thirteen years' throats, rape all the women and then burn that whole place down, do you think we had time to sit around and question the orders of our superior officers? Do you think I would ask Sarge for some money? No, if he needed something, I would take it."

"No, no, of course not, I'm sorry, sir," he was practically crying. And he called me "sir!" This was great!

"Apology accepted. Now go. Get!" He ran as fast as his gimpy legs could take him. I guess he had a limp or something, probably from someone beating his ass when he was a kid. He looked like that type. "Heineken, Terry, no cheap shit!"

I went back inside, pretty pleased with myself. I began to fantasize about all the future "missions" I could send Terry Bradshaw on. Things were working out pretty well for ol' Chad Robuckle, but not for long. This always happens to me. I live my life the best I can, I try to be a good person and how do I get rewarded? By a swift kick in the balls from J.C. or Buddha or fate or whoever the hell is running things up there.

My chance to be Mr. Miyagi went down the toilet when that stupid shithead literally ran right into two of Los Angeles' finest as they were entering the same store he was fleeing from.

The cops drag Terry back to my place in handcuffs, he'd clearly been crying. I tell them I've never seen that sorry piece of shit in my life and he starts spouting off something about the accident and the CIA and a secret black ops Delta Ranger force or some crap like that. I just deny everything and they cart his ass off.

So not only does he fail me, he rats me out like a little pussy too. Why am I constantly made to suffer these indignities at the hands of the assholes of the world? If I did something to deserve it, I can't think of what it is, for the life of me.

What a prick. I hope he's sharing a cell with that uppity bitch from the other day.

Hello, stupid idiot regular blog!

You know when you were a kid and you were super cute and everyone loved you? And then your baby brother came along and you weren't so cute anymore and your mom would beat you for being ugly and less adorable than him?

We can all relate to that. Except, I guess, only-children, but they all turn out to be maladjusted, sociopathic psychos, anyway.

Anyway, the point is, this blog was my baby. I lavished it with gifts and attention. I would have it sit on my lap while I read it stories and stroked its hair so it could fall asleep.

Now I have a new baby. It's name is chadrobuckle.com, and it is my podcast.

I wrote about my new podcast before. You should check it out. It's me, yappin' into my headset mic about nothing for seven whole minutes! How could you say no to that? In fact, it's not enough that you go there and just listen to it from time to time, you need to go subscribe to it on iTunes so that it loads it to your iPod automatically and my lovely voice comes up every once in a while when you put it on shuffle.

Subscribe? iPod? Shuffle? What?!?!

"That sounds complicated, Eric. We're not all technical geniuses like you."

This is true, but it's easy. If you have iTunes, click on "podcasts" and search the words "Chad Robuckle". Then hit "subscribe". It's really that easy.

Or if you want, click on this: feeds.feedburner.com/chadrobuckle and you're all set. There are like fifteen ways you can subscribe to this.

If you have a "My Yahoo" page, you can do it that way.

People, I will level with you: this is the wave of the future. You're all on your Atari 2600s and I'm playing "The Smurfs" on my Colecovision. Catch up or be left behind as I beat you like my mother used to do to me because I was so ugly and not all shiny and new like Alex.

Actually, the truth is, I'm probably just gonna end up reading some of my more popular stories from my blog during my podcast. That should be a nice treat for you, because I know you've been wondering, "Hmm, what does this beautiful prose sound like coming from the mouth of this angel brought to earth?"

It sounds like the future and not getting beaten, that's what it sounds like.

Thank you for your time.

PS, do it now.

How exciting! I'm podcasting!

What the hell is podcasting, you say? Good question, idiot.

Podcasting is basically making a blog with an audio file instead of typing crap out. So it's good if you're lazy. You can get podcasts delivered to your itunes or right to your my yahoo page or whatever.

That way, when I make a new podcast, it appears on your computer and you don't have to go and look for it, it's right there. Just click on it and listen to it. C'mon, don't be a jerk.

Here's the deal. I have a new blog, appropriately titled, Hollywood Phony's Podcast - hosted by Chad Robuckle. So you can go there and do that, but if you want to make it easy on yourself and me (most importantly me), go to this address instead. There is a whole list of ways to get daily Hollywood Phony content delivered to your computer. C'mon, just do it.

The first couple of podcasts aren't that great, but in the very near future I'm really going to step things up and give you all the great entertainment options you've come to expect from the Hollywood Phony organization.

You like celebrity gossip? We've got it and it's all 100% untrue! I just make this shit up on the spot.

Do you like sports? Well I love them and I will give you all the latest scores on the big game. Again, these will all be made up.

Plus some other crap I will also make up. Look, I had heart surgery, just do it.

Thanks!

PS, if you want to get this site delivered to your my yahoo page or whatever, click here and I will hook you up for free, but only if you act now. If you don't act now, the price goes up to $17.

Why I love clowns

I'm back! In case you didn't know, I was competing in the Ultimate Blogger 2 competition last week so I was too busy to write any new blogs. Well guess what? I got eliminated! Yay! Now I have more time to write for Hollywood Phony!

Here is my third, never-seen entry. I wrote it before I even knew what the competition was. I was planning on just sending it in anyway, no matter what I was supposed to do. Maybe it was this attitude that got me kicked off. I don't think so. I think it was the other contestants' hatred of people who had heart surgery.

That's my theory.

Anyway, here is my latest story, I hope you like it.


Koko - by Eric Filipkowski

I lay in bed with Meredith after another unsuccessful attempt at love-making.

“Baby, just tell me, what can I do? Is there anything you want, anything you need? Anything?” she pleaded with me.

“No, I’ve told you, it’s not you. It’s just this… I don’t know. I just… I want you, I do. You’re so beautiful. It’s just…” I searched for the words. I searched my soul and I felt I could trust her, but it was just… too hard.

“Please, baby,” she saw through my façade. At this point, I realized my attempt to protect her was now doing the opposite. I had no choice.

“OK, I want you to know that I’ve never told this to anyone before,” I took a deep breath, “I need you to do something for me.”

“Just say it, baby.” She put her arm around me and kissed me on the forehead.

“I need you to dress up for me.” I felt my pants growing tight, it was exhilarating.

“Oh! Is that all this is about?” she laughed, I could feel the sense of relief running through her body.

“Well, it’s like…” I hesitated, because I felt she was getting the wrong idea.

“What? Don’t be shy,” she sat up in bed, “You want me to dress up like in a nurse’s uniform or something? I could totally do that.”

“No, no, Meredith, listen. I need you to… dress up… in a clown’s suit.” I almost came from the rush of humiliation.

Silence. In that instant, I knew I had made a mistake.

“You asshole!” she hit me with a pillow and started laughing. “I thought you were serious! Oh my god, that is so funny! You totally had me going!”

I stared at the ground. “Mere, I…”

Her expression changed. She put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, you really are serious.”

I nodded. I couldn’t look at her.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. I just… I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, you must think I’m such a jerk."

“No, it’s OK,” I said, “I figured you would laugh or freak out and leave. I’m glad you didn’t do that last one. Although, maybe you’re planning on doing it right now.”

“No, of course not, come here,” she pulled me close, “Baby, I love you. That’s all there is to it. And if you…” she took a big breath, “If you need me to dress up in a clown suit, that’s fine. I can do that.”

“Really?” I couldn’t believe this was actually happening, that she was saying these words I was hearing right now.

“Yes, really. But before I do, I need to know why.” A fair enough request.

I took a deep breath, held her hand and began my story. “Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve loved the circus; especially the clowns. I really think there is nothing more noble than someone who spreads laughter and joy to thousands of people like that. My parents took me to see The Big Top Circus when I was six and that’s where I met Koko. I couldn’t believe my luck when he chose me as a lover. I mean, he was a celebrity, he literally could have had his pick of the children in that tent and he singled me out as special. I felt like the luckiest boy in the world—“

“Wait,” she interrupted my story, “What?”

“Huh? What?” I asked, barely able to contain my impatience with her obtuseness.

“Are you serious? This clown molested you?”

I threw her hands off me and pushed her away, she fell back onto the pillows. “No! Ewww, that’s disgusting. Gross! I never said he molested me.”

She was clearly confused. “Oh, I thought I heard you say—“

“First of all, he wasn’t ‘some clown.’ He was Koko. And what we had was beautiful.”

“Oh my god, please tell me you’re kidding.” She clutched her hand to her mouth.

“You’re being a real bitch right now,” I told her, “I’m beginning to think this was a big mistake, trusting you like this.”

She threw up all over my bed.

“Thanks,” I continued, “Just so you know, you’re paying for those sheets.”

“Why,” she said, as she sobbed, “I don’t understand. Don’t you see this man victimized you?”

“Say one more thing about Koko,” I threatened, “Say it, Meredith and see what happens to you.”

“Jody, you’re scaring me,” she sat there in her own pile of sick, choking back her tears and she was truly hideous. “Please, explain this to me, I want to understand, but you have to realize, this is so much to digest. I mean, what do you even want with me? Find a real clown. Wouldn’t that be better?”

“Oh my sweet, naïve, Meredith. I never said you were for me. And I’ve found a real clown. Well, we found each other.”

From the closet came a loud honking noise, which caused Meredith to jump and splash vomit all over my room. The folding closet door swung open and out strode the man who had been my lover for the last 23 years, naked except for his red wig and nose and of course, his big, red clown shoes.

Koko had barely gotten out the words “Hiya, Meredith!” before they were drowned out by her screams as she ran from my room, completely naked and covered in filth.

Koko and I stood there, looking at each other. I feared his response, now that I had failed him yet again, but I needed not worry: he shrugged his shoulders and we both enjoyed a hearty laugh.

Later, as we made love in his tiny clown car, as we had done so many times before, I caught myself smiling, as I thought about this amazing man with the uncanny ability to bring laughter to my heart, no matter how down I was feeling.

Attention: Drunken Micks

I can say that because I'm Irish.

Anyway, even though my friends are assholes and don't tell me when my favorite sandwich of all time is (temporarily) back at McDonald's, I figured I'd be the bigger man and not repeat their mistakes.

THE SHAMROCK SHAKE IS BACK.

That's right. The minty, delicious Shamrock Shake is now available at your local McDonald's. And it's good! Of course, now it's a "Triple Thick" shake, but it's basically the same taste, only thicker. If anyone has any idea why Mickey D's would go and change their milkshakes like this, please let me know.

Nothing takes me back to my childhood in Ireland like the creamy goodness of a mint-flavored milkshake. As you know, the Irish are famous for their ice cream and nobody does ice cream like my favorite Irish restaurant.

On an unrelated note, please check out my most recently published article on the Phat Phree, as well as the Ultimate Blogger 2 contest I am in. Also, tonight I will be on the David Lawrence Show at 9pm PST.

And I like tacos.