*cough*

Due to an ongoing "virus" on the ol' typewriter has, OMS will return to regular updates with funny links that bring the funny as soon as the daggum thing is fixed.

In the meantime, here's a li'l story to keep you all, all five of you, entertained:

Scene: the barren woods of Laporte, Pa. OMS, dressed to kill in his blaze orange trucker hat with "Hoss's '97" and a buck head on it and his blaze orange hunting jacket sittin' in the woods waitin' to kill him some buck yessir.

OMS plops down gingerly on the ground and leans up real good on that there tree there. He looks left. He looks right. He hears a crack. He cocks (quiet, you) his rifle and peers real nice through the scope.

Up hops the vicious creature that must be destroyed. He pauses. OMS pauses. They make eye contact. OMS grunts, evil man that he is, and prepares to fire on this soon-to-be fallen foe.

But then the cute li'l baby squirrel, complete with cute li'l red mohawk, looks at OMS to say, "Hey, HEY! You! I'm not a deer. No sir. I'm a cute li'l fuzzy squirrel and you needn't point that weapon of destruction my way, kind sir. I'm just passin' through here, mindin' my business.

"And in a minute, I'm gonna hop up that there tree there and warn all my friends that some poet in a hunting suit is sittin' there praying nothing comes near him so he actually has to, you know, load his gun, p*ssy that he is.

"Now go back to sleep, dear friend. We know you don't want to harm us. And easy with the Kit-Kats."

So OMS, convinced that he was slowly going insane because what baby squirrel busts out a fat joke, ever, put his head back and drifted into his li'l nap, setlists dancing in his head, gun firmly not loaded.

And END SCENE.

Back as soon as the ol' laptop stops with the pop-ups and disappearing icons.

Establishing extended indebtedness

About four years ago, Ol' Man Snap sent an email to a group of friends.

It was a story about how he went to his local Quick Check for a cup of coffee and promptly spilled it all over himself, and how angry he was that his lady-enducing scent was Irish Creme instead of his usual chick-magnet smell.

But then he spent the afternoon interviewing a World Trade Center survivor with a beautiful wife and two awesome, awesome kids. The man stared blankly while he questioned, openly, why he was alive and his friends at Morgan Stanley weren't. The man reminded Jimmy Olsen Snap that life is indeed something we all take for granted way too much.

And how cliche is it to write about this on the day before Thanksgiving? It's as non-original as news agencies reporting that there will be traffic delays today and HUGE SALES on Friday. But deal.

Therefore, today's entree will be all encompassing. Between family time over the holidays and hunting time starting Sunday (awwwww hell yeah the Ol' Man is gonna shoot him a buck by gawd), there may or may not be another entry between now and next Wednesday.

We know. You can't live without this. It keeps you going. It keeps you strong.

But never fear, kids. Today the Ol' Man will establish extended indebtedness (points for originality, he knows). This includes a game (!). You pick out the Heroez and Not So Much with the Heroez contained herein the indebtedness message.

Confused? Good. Welcome to the club. And buckle up.

The Ol' Man extends indebtedness for/to/about/regarding:

The media. For covering this. And this. When the Ol' Man turned 14, he called a sex line from his parents' tenant's apartment phoneline and then blamed his best friend Isaac for giving him the number. "Hello," said the sweet, soothing, sexy voice in San Francisco. "Click," said the intrigued, then panic-stricken fat kid.

Cavett. Because he rules.

The guy on the side of the road this morning who took a leak in broad effing daylight. Because he made the Ol' Man's day and reminded him of yesteryear, when peeing in the backyard was considered A-OK. What's that? It never was? Oh. His bad.

The twitching car insurance salesman yesterday whose idea of fixing his computer problem was tapping his right hand on his desk, repeatedly, while uttering, "I'm so sorry; I don't know the problem but this happens all the time" and looking like he was about to burn his office to the ground. Because he put the day in perspective.

The virus on the Ol' Man's laptop that forced him to delete certain "files." Because he already knows how.

Things like this. Because Praise Jesus, godd*amn the Lord has a sense of humor.

People to goof on. Like Maverick. And him. Because life is a li'l more gooder when we have assclowns like this to look at and say, "Huh. Sooooooo glad that's not me."

Grey's Anatomy. Because it's a pretty good show and it has fantastic eye candy (the latter link because OMS has him some readers who are dames, not because he wants Dr. McDreamy's hair).

Eye candy in general. Grrrrllllll. Because. Just because.

Bill Burr, who the Ol' Man is seeing Friday night. Because he is a funny motherf*cker. And no, it's not pesto.

Li'l Jimmy, who the Ol' Man's friends are all going to see Saturday night. Because he is a funny motherf*cker, too. And he's on his way.

If the Ol' Man can be serious for a moment, he also remains indebted to his friends and family, too, who at the end of the day are pretty much the most fabulous people on earth.

So Delightful Failure Day to one and all. And wish the Ol' Man luck when he's off in the woods this year, not breaking out in hives while hunting the enemy.

You know we'll have a good time then.

"Dad," I have off until TUESDAY," said the pink-tied li'l boy at our favorite breakfast stop this morning.

"Wow," dad said. "Tuesday."

"Yeah. That means I have off tomorrow and Thursday and Friday and Saturday and Sunday and Monday."

"That's nice," dad said.

At first, Ol' Man Snap was touched by the li'l exchange. Fathers and sons, whether having breakfast or throwing the old ball around the yard, need this type of bonding time. If not, they end up wallowing in a Harry Chapin song.

But then OMS turned around. It's hard to express just exactly what expression dad wore on his downtrodden, defeated face during this exchange. So we'll try to reenact the previous scene using visual and verbal aids for you, the dedicated P&PL reader.

First, picture a fabulously young David Fisher playing the role of the li'l boy. Now, picture the dude from The Shield playing dad.

Son: "Dad I have off until TUESDAY. LAAAAAAAA!"

Dad: "That's f*cking great kid. Eat your f*cking sandwhich and shut the f*ck up."

Son: "Yeah. That means I have off tomorrow and Thursday and Friday and Sat-"

Dad: "Kid. If you don't shut the f*ck up, I will go home and scream at your mother. For awhile. Probably an hour or so. Probably with something in my hand. Like a frying pan or the record with our wedding song. You talk a lot. It's her fault. It must be because I like silence. Especially during breakfast. All day, even. Shhhhh. Silence.

"And wear a navy blue tie next time. Christ."

And END SCENE.

Enough with the godd*mn automated systems

"We're sorry for the inconvenience," said the not-so-sweet mechanical voice on the other line, "but our system has changed. You are no longer able to dial in your member ID number. Please speak your member ID number when prompted."

"Please speak your ID number now."

"(sigh) ************."

"We're sorry. We did not understand your entry. Pl--"

"Of course you didn't."

"We're sorry. We did not understand your entry. Please speak your ID number again now."

"(sigh) ***-"

"We're sorry. We did not understand your entry. Please speak your ID number again now."

"*...*...*...*...*...*...*...*...*...*...*...*"

"We're sorry. We di-"

"Jesus Christ."

"We're sorry. If you would like to speak to a service representative, please say 'Service' now."

"SERVICE."

"Thank you."

"We're sorry. All of our representatives are currently assisting other customers."

This is what's called a good thing

Some of you laugh, still, that the Ol' Man is as big a fan of professional wrestling as he ever was.

Look, it's the one constant thing he's always had in his life. Things going bad? DDT your pillow. Life getting a li'l stressful? Cut a promo on your living room table. Feeling fat? Pound your gut like Kamala and give your other pillow the big splash.

Not following? Don't worry about it.

This, though, is a corporation that perhaps has finally realized that steps need to be taken, now, to fix what has long been rumored and talked about, while not necessarily receiving mainstream coverage.

This could also mean that WWE is taking seriously the loss of a 38-year-old wrestler last week due to heart failure.

OMS looks forward to not only finding out what this policy entails, but also who starts shrinking in the coming months. Seriously, though, it's good to see the McMahons doing something that should have been done long ago.

Guilty pleasure confession, part 1

So the Ol' Man is driving to work this morning, and he hits the "2" button on his XM radio to see what's on the '90s on 9.

"I must confess that my loneliness is killing me now. But you know I still believe."

Please tell us that OMS isn't the only one who turns this up and *maybe* shimmies a bit in his car dancing gayly as in happy when the Hit Me Baby One More Time comes on.

No? Huh. Ya'll are crazy.

Much to be thankful for

And seriously, he isn't one of them. Mongolia? Are you kidding us?

Now, the Old Man isn't one for knowing anything about the li'l intricacies of foreign policy - other than being treated like an ass while trouncing around Paris, drunk and American, once - but Mr. President, can you come back home and fix things here?

Please?

On a similar yet related topic, our favorite exchange from over the weekend came between CNN's Wolf Blitzer and Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld.

As Mr. Blitzer read excerpts of a Time Magazine article on military personnel asking for more troops, Mr. Rumsfeld said something snippy, like, "You probably haven't even read the article."

Blitzer: "I have."

Rumsfeld: "OK, then..."

Just be quiet. Shhhhh, Mr. Rumsfeld. Shhhhhh.

As for the President, doesn't he have people to make sure doors are always open? Too bad the American public chose to keep the doors to the country open last year.

HAH! Get it? See, the President won the election and we said that the American people kept the door - aw forget it.

(Fantastic photo above by Jason Reed, Reuters).

Just to watch him die

We admit upfront that we never read a Harry Potter book, and we've never seen a Harry Potter movie. The only thing Harry Potter we've ever enjoyed is this.

And we're OK with that.

That said, this isn't about Harry Potter and the Endless Franchise of Suck Your Parents' Money Dry. It's not even about how sad we are that the li'l boy dork beat out the Man in Black this weekend at the box office.

No, this is about Mr. Phoenix and Ms. Witherspoon. We've been fans of both for awhile, especially Mrs. Phillipe.

The two of them in Walk the Line, which we saw today, really are *that* good. For instance, you forget it's them playing the roles.

But it's more than that. They have the raw emotion needed to pull off playing two country icons, and they do two things better than anything else.

One, you don't spend the whole movie seeing someone try to play someone. You really forget it's Reese and Joaquin up there. You really do.

Two, they live and loathe true love. They look in each other's eyes and the reflection is each other's souls -- and we don't mean this in awwwww-cheesefest-ways. We mean it like this: it's impossible not to understand after watching this movie that we all have that one person we look at and just know.

There's that one person that makes us better; that makes us remember that life is best lived when your best friend is walking beside you. Walk the Line reminds us of this.

Watch this movie.

And we didn't even begin to talk about what it does for aspiring rock stars. But that's another story for another day.

Soon.

The answer is no

The fact that this is even a godd*mn headline on the CNN right now makes us sick:

Watch: Did 'South Park' go too far in mocking Tom Cruise?

Jesus, news gatherers. You should be ashamed of yourselves.

The Ol' Man Snap Complex

Ah with the hidden messages this early in the morning.

A younger OMS, back in the oldern days of reporting and what not, once interviewed Sen. Arlen Specter (R-Pa.). It was the day of President Clinton's admission on a worldwide stage that yes, yes indeedy ohhhhweeeeeee, he DID have the sexual relations with that woman.

We respect this man very much, but we still get a li'l chuckle whenever we think back on the big interview. See, Mr. Specter was up for reelection and touring old folks homes in the middle of nowhere, Pa., and young Ol' Man Snap's question was pretty simple, really.

YOMS: Senator, if President Clinton lied to the American people, if he committed perjury, then will you move to impeach him?

Specter: I think it's too early to say. I'll see what the president says tonight, and I'll make my decision from there.

YOMS: OK, but we're talking hypotheticals here. The president is addressing the world tonight. If he says he lied, which means he committed perjury, will you vote to impeach him?

Specter: Like I said, it's too early to tell. But I'll tell you what. I'll be on Larry King Live tonight after the president's speech. Tune in and you'll see my answer.

Later that night...

King: Senator, should the President be impeached?

Specter: Well, Larry. It's too early to tell.

As is the case here on Fridays, time for Heroez and Not So Much with the Heroez here on the ol' Porch. Reflect, ya'll, like OMG LOL reflect.

Heroez
Buffy can do no wrong. Despite the poor review. "His penis got diseases from a shoo-mosh tribe." Genius to this day, Mr. Whedon.

Still sad, we are, about this.

We know some of you are thinking, "Enough with the country." But still, it had a good week up there in that there big city there.

Not so much...
Drivel, this. Consult Bill Burr's One Night Stand appearance on the HBO for a better marriage statistic. "Is this the line where I go to lose half my sh*t?"

Whoever wrote this needs to be a li'l more positive and a li'l more clear. Jesus with the negativity, this one.

We're at 12 minutes and 48 seconds, maybe. Can we start making people famous for, you know, having actual talent and actually working hard?

Shafted. Again

We hear at Porch and the Parking Lot believe that Ol' Man Snap got the ol' damn shaft by People Magazine and its stupid Sexiest Man Alive issue.

Now, we recognize that the gentleman named has fantastic abs, a great smile and hair that blows in the wind just right -- if you're into that sort of thing, which OMS clearly is not, he tells us. We understand that his sweet and smooth southern drawl with a tinge of cockiness makes the ladies melt, but that's all beside the point.

OMS was robbed.

Sure, he doesn't possess the uncanny ability to appear on the TV and make women's panties bunch up while they're folding them, maybe, but OMS does have a devilish grin, good hair, and the greatest strength a man can possess: the ability to drink all ya'll motherf*ckers under the table. When he's drinking, that is.

And he can do voices. He cooks a mean broccoli and cheese omelet. He likes him some jazz and enjoys playing guitar beneath a full moon. He takes excellent naps and is prone to laugh at awfully inappropriate times.

Most of all, OMS is a sexy beast. A damn sexy beast.

Contact you some People Magazine, ya'll, and demand a recount.

Don't you have something, um, better to do?

So two football players walk into a gun range. One says to the other something like, "Hey, f*ck you buddy," and the other knocks him out. So hilarity ensues when the FBI starts inve--

Waitaminute. This isn't a joke. It's real. And that, kids, is what makes it funny. Depressingly so.

Can't the agents go investigate something meaningful, asks Capt. Old Man Obvious? Aren't there vicious vermin to catch or some sh*t?

I caught you knockin' on my cellar door

And back to the cynicism we go.

50

We admit that some cynical motherf*ckers reside in these here parts. That said, we present this without a punchline.

Our prayers are with Kurt Socha's family and friends.

You may have to fill in your zip code and date of birth, but read this today if you get a chance, and don't forget to count your blessings.

Round up the wagons

The Ol' Man tried himself some beer back in '82, he thinks. He remembers the yucky taste of the Schlitz and thinking, "What's the big deal?" Little did li'l ol' man know that the sh*t was healthy.

Word.

And yes, OMS read the words "a few cold ones." Don't worry, he'll take it slow. Eventually. Until then, he's sticking with veggies and other things.

But he has a plan

"It's... well... it's... it's a good plan, see? Terror... terrorists... we're gonna-we're gonna take 'em out, see? We're gonna get in there with our troops there -- they, heh, they need yer s'port. The plan is we're gonna do whatever it takes to make sure America is safe. And Americans are with me. We need to s'port our troops and beat the terrorists. Blah... blah... f*cking blah."

Does he even believe what he says anymore?

Why Horoscopes are Bad, Part 2

You're a sensitive creature, with antennae that never, ever fail you. Those antennae are going to come in quite handy now, given that there's a mixed bag of astrological energies on duty that aren't exactly a predictable bunch. One never knows what you'll do, or what the rest of the world will do, but you'll know about it just before it happens. Better keep a chaperone handy. You'll be picking up all kinds of signals.

Huh? Um. Yeah. Vague, much?

No, thank you, ma'am, I think I'm all set.

OK, kids. Stay away from the drugs. That's all we're saying.

Wait for it

The Ol' Man loves him some Cross Canadian Ragweed.

They opened for Dierks Bentley last night at the Nokia Theater in Times Square, and boy did they ever rock the f*ck out. They reminded us of a show we saw in the oldern days, way back in 1998, when Sister Hazel opened for the Allmans.

Now, we'd seen the Allmans many a time, and this particular show in State College was no different. They ruled. But the opening act, Sister Hazel, brought the smaller, filtering-in crowd to its feet on more than one occassion with its abrupt and in your face Southern Rock.

Though more Skynyrd than Hazel, Cody and the boys definitely brought the musical goodness last night.

And Dierks, well, there's just something completely and utterly bad ass about swigging beer and crooning songs and appearing just drunk enough to let your geetar dangle from your neck while your band jams and your fans scream.

Our favorite moment in the show, aside from flailing-arms guy 20 feet in front of us skipping up and down and beckoning Bentley like he was a long lost lover at a rave, was Dierks getting ahead of himself during "Come a Little Closer," singing the third verse first, and acknowledging he doesn't really like the foreplay.

This was the second time we'd seen Mr. Bentley, and motherf*cker has a long career ahead of him. He brought the energy. And Cross Canadian Ragweed backed him up perfectly.

High times and hangovers, indeed. Although at this point in our lives, we'll stick with good times and a morning bagel.

Daddy like

Country music gets a bad rap.

There are real musicians out there, from Dierks Bentley (pictured; we're seeing him tonight in the big city) to Miranda Lambert to Big and Rich. There are unbelievable voices in country music, from Martina to Faith Hill to Natalie Maines.

Real is the key word here. Not every song is about a truck and a beer and a steer and a belt buckle or gun rack. More often than not, the songs hit people, hard, right where they should.

So we'll be sporting the ol' cowboy boots tonight, walking around Broadway looking for a record contract, er, trying to get to the Nokia Theater as soon as we can so we can get a close enough seat to catch the chord changes.

You can go listen to your local country music station. Some of you have a lot of them. Others, not so much.

If you have neither, download Cash on your Ipods.

It's getting hot in here

Time to educate yourselves, young bucks.

Rolling Stone had an interesting feature on this thing called global warming last week. If you can get past the Billie Joe shot on the cover, it's a good read.

So is this. Hmmmmm. Makes ya think, don't it?

The envioronment is a big deal, you know? Like, it's like 70 degrees outside this morning and it's the middle of November. We can't, like, wait for the earth to explode.

Eddie Guerrero, 1967-2005

He was an *outstanding* entertainer. Our thoughts and prayers are with the Guerrero family, Chris Benoit, Dean Malenko, Perry Saturn, Chris Jericho, Rey Mysterio and the entire professional wrestling community.

For those of you who haven't watched wrestling since you were 6 years old, Mr. Guerrero wrestled worldwide for several promotions, including the now-defunct World Championship Wrestling and World Wrestling Entertainment.

To this day, one of our favorite wrestling moments occurred at Wrestlemania XX, when Guerrero and Chris Benoit embraced in the center of the ring, both World Heavyweight Champions, both on top of the world.

Known in WWE as "Latino Heat," Guerrero's DVD highlights his struggles with drug and alcohol addiction. It's sad when anyone beats his demons and comes out on top, and then is taken too soon.

Rest in peace, Mr. Guerrero.

A Hard Day's Night, or something

Who?

Dear President Carter,

We're sorry we called you Peanuthead when we used to play with our peanut puppet way back in '81. We were 6 and confused and big fans of the ol' GOP.

We're sorry, also, that this confusion and fandom continued for a good 20 years, and that we wore the ol' "Just Try to Burn This One" American flag T-shirt back in the day.

Actually, we're still kind of proud that we did that. But we digress.

Um. You did.

"Some Democrats and anti-war critics are now claiming we manipulated the intelligence and mislead the American people about why we went to war," Bush said.

Hey asshole, you did.

Would someone who believes in this guy, who voted for him *twice*, please explain your logic? Isn't it enough that he butchers him some English language every f*cking time he talks? Isn't it enough that he oozes fake, that he is hell-bent on stuffing his God down our throats? Isn't it enough that the *premise*, the reason we went to war, was because, "Saddam has weapons of mass destruction."

G*ddamnit. His arrogance is beyond disheartening at this point. Where are the weapons, and where the f*ck is Bin Laden?

Have a great weekend, kids. Remember: the President is protecting us. He knows what's up. He's got our backs.

F*ck that. Back to Canadia we go.

F*ck P*t R*b*rts*n

Ya'll know the drill.

It's Friday, a time to reflect on the good and bad of the week that was. And since today is Veterans' Day, we're off to reflect, seriously, on the people who fought to make dumb li'l blogs like this'en here possible.

RIP, Pop.

Heroez
Mayor Sessions, until the political machine discovers the more than the two votes needed to end his election bid. We *love* that an 18-year-old kid with no agenda and nobody to return the favor to -- you know, besides the *voters* -- was elected. *Love* it.

Andy. Ricky Gervais is one of those rare writers who can translate what actually happens out there in a sometimes jaded and pathetic real world into pure comedy. He's f*cking brilliant. You knew this, already, though.

The LPGA, with your heart-warming story of the week.

And the cheerleaders, who became a punchline faster than a hack knock-knock joke.

Not so much...
Ashlee Simpson. Let's invoke what we call the T.O. clause in these here parts: just stop talking.

Pat Robertson. Who the f*ck are you, anyway, besides an old codger? T.O. clause for you, too...

Drew Rosenhaus. Huh. We're sensing a theme, here. Our favorite question of the week, and maybe the year, was one of the local Philly reporters asking this slicked-hair piece of trash, "What have you done for T.O. this year besides get him thrown off the team?" T-Owned.

Toyota. P*ssies.

"They are not being held responsible." The internet has pictures of men making sweet love, or is it vice versa, to horses. People who watch such things, and no, the Ol' Man is *not* one of them, don't blame the horses. Awful analogy, we know, but so, so true.

And finally, this moth-- er, kidf*cker. Jesus. Remember weeks ago when we invoked the "Witchiepoo" punishment? Yes. We'd like to order that, please, with a side of gasoline poured on grandpa's face -- oh, and a book of matches, too. Thank you.

And can we get another Diet Coke? That'd be swell.

All apologies

Old Man Snap wishes to make known an extended sincere apology to any readers who may or may not have been offended by some if not all of the written posts meant for your enjoyment and only for entertainment value over the last three months. OMS cares about you, his readers, first and foremost. He is a dedicated family man who may or may not be destined for great things. He is dedicated to serving you, the readers who help put food on his table, with the best of his abilities, on the porch and off. You, the dedicated readers, deserve nothing but the best posts here on the Porch and the Parking Lot, and OMS must once again say that he apologizes from the bottom of his heart, one filled with love and prayers for those in need each and every day, if any of the posts may have been misconstrued to reflect the need for an apology from himself if any or all of you were misguidedly offended.

FREE KISSES! (was: 0 Comments, again? S*ck it!)

Rather than jump up and down like a petulant 4-year-old demanding attention for the pure comic genius that is the ol' Porch and the Parking Lot, OMS offers the first person to name as much as possible about the following quote a nice big wet one or two, probably on the cheek since, you know, bird flu and all.

Nameless character 1: Am I right in thinking there is no body else in this house?

Nameless character 2: Ummm, no.

1: Then there is someone else in this house?

2: No, sorry. I said no meaning yes.

1: No meaning yes? Look I want a straight answer, is there someone else, or isn't there? Yes or no?

2: Ummm, no.

1: No there is, or no there isn't?

2: Yes.

Movie? Characters? Actors who played the characters? Anyone? Is this f*cking thing on?

Secretary Ol' Man

Since two aspirin aren't necessarily helping our Election Day hangover (figuratively speaking, kids, figuratively speaking), here's a li'l story to sober up a bit:

Scene: a small Quaker private school in the serene suburbs of Philadelphia. An 8th-grade class is embarking on the monumental task of electing its class officers.

Li'l fat spikey-haired Ol' Man Snap is nominated for President with three other kids. He loses. Badly, fat kid that he is. OMS is nominated for Veep. He gets nothing and likes it. Ahhh, but wait. OMS is nominated for Treasurer. He likes him some money, so it's all good, right?

No. Still, no.

So when Mr. Klastow asks the classes for nominations for Class Secretary, otherwise known as "Amanda's Bitch," we get this li'l exchange:

Smart-ass: I nominate Old Man Snap.

OMS: *rolls eyes*

Mr. K: Now waitaminute. Snap, if you're not going to take this seriously, then you should decline the nomination.

OMS: (F*ck you, Klastow. Look. OMS knows he can't beat the more popular candidate. The one with more money and better clothes. OMS knows he doesn't bend over backwards to please his friend every day like the other candidates do. Yes, OMS meant singular in the last sentence. So, Mr. K, I take this nomination, not because I think I'll win, but more because I know I'll lose. This is all about -- it's always been about -- who can convince the minions to vote a certain way, and keeping the power once you seize the power. It doesn't matter if you really care and make a difference. It matters if you have enough money to either stave off the 'bosses' or have no spine and sleep with them.

To you, Mr. Klastow, I say f*ck it. To the class: vote for me if you want. Don't vote for me if you want. All I know is I sleep better knowing I won't win. I sleep better because I'm not in bed with anyone else.

Politics has become a battle of junkies. The ones who care and so anything to keep the power versus the ones who care on the other side and want the power. Everyone else is fed up and can't stand the commercials on the TV and on the radio that say everything but really say nothing.

You have people posting signs and stealing signs and slashing tires and voting on behalf of the dead. It's insane. And it's only going to get worse).

OMS, in reality: Um, yes sir. This is serious. I'll take it seriously, sir. Um, yes. I write good. Secretary will do me just fine, sir.

So that's how OMS became Amanda's Bitch in 1988. Here endeth the lesson. Boy do we feel better now.

To the "layers of five" lady

Jesus Christ, lady, with your "But the other woman does it like this."

Thanks to you, the other woman -- who should've been slicing our on-sale swiss just right instead of talking to you, already waited on -- paid attention to you for way too long while you basically went down on her with compliments and we almost had our third heart attack of the day watching our watch, wishing for home.

"She normally does layers of five," you said with Jenny McCarthy energy to the poor deli counter guy. "But it's OK. You must be new. It's OK. Yeah, you can leave it like that. She does layers of five, like this (again with the hand waving and chopping motions). But it's OK. Yeah. That's fine. I'll be right back."

If we could have pulled your arm off, placed it ever so gently on the meat slicer, and done layers of five. Too bad you whisked yourself away with your cart full of Coca-Cola Zeroes and melons before we had the chance.

Good riddance

We hear the Toronto Argonauts could use a brash, loud-mouthed receiver.

Good luck with that.

Meanwhile, Panther bathroom cheerleaders (fantastic band name, no?), still hot.

BLUE 24... BLUE 24...

This so takes T.O. out of the picture for hottest football story of the week.

Go Panthers!

Nevermind the dress code

Buy this. Trust the Ol' Man. It's good.

If you need a spelled-out overwrought cliche-like comparison, then think Sports Illustrated meets Vibe meets Maxim meets old school Rolling Stone -- but OMS doesn't want to pigeonhole.

Just know it's good, and if you love you some ballers, you should pick up Dime, on newsstands now, in 7-11s next week and in places like Barnes and Noble.

Get it. And for more information, check out the Web site.

God's sense of humor

Maybe there is a higher power after all, and maybe this higher power is as sick and twisted as the rest of us. How else can we 'splain this?

Or this?


Today is the sabbath, kids. Pray/laugh/cry/scream accordingly.

Quit yer day job

CNN readers are advising the president, now. They come up with some real original bits, too, like we should pull troops out of Iraq and we should concentrate more on ourselves.

We only have one bit of advice for Herr Bush. Read the headline, and to quote one of our favorite li'l comics: beat it, stupid.

Sidebar, your honor... is it the Ol' Man or is El Presidente sporting more gray hairs than his ol' man lately? Throw on a pair of glasses, and OMS swears he's looking at that other Bush guy, the one married to grandma over there. (Photo by AFP's Jim Watson).

One more thing, your honor. Can we stop with the pins on the lapel?

The Porch, the Parking Lot, Old Man Snap and anyone within shoe-throwing earshot are all *so* onto you, Mr. President.

Like, OK, random

"Like, that's so cute?"

Is it the Ol' Man or when this cast of characters talks, don't they sound like spitting out words as quickly as possible means they'll have more room in their brains to retain and think about, you know, like, things that matter, like, oh my God, like, you know, oh my God St-ven? That's sooooooo cuuuuuuuuuuuuute.

Oh my God, like, the Ol' Man starts therapy again today, and he could think of no better way to start the day than eating his li'l omelette while catching up on the ol' LB marathon. He also knows now why he made the call in the first place.

He just watched LC and OH MY GOD Jason have a nice li'l date where they said maybe nine words, tops, to each other. "It's just your so cute," Jason said at one point, eyeing himself up some LC like she was a blow-up doll.

"I'm just, like, so happy," BU replied.

Then, a second ago, dialogue Cameron Crowe couldn't touch in terms if sheer cinematic genius:

"Owwwwwww."
"Hey guyyyyyyyyys. Come in over heeeeeeeeeere."
Like, OK."

Oh my God, like, Jesus this world is so going to sh*t. But at least it's funny that MTV has the same picture of the same nimrod over and over again on its "Meet the Cast" page. Like, oh my God editing?

Dear Mr. Owens

Please just stop talking.

We loved you so much when you manned up and showed up in the Super Bowl. But we fear your true colors are a-showin', and said colors are not midnight green, white and black.

Shhhhh, T.O., shhhhhhh.

Pluckin'

The Ol' Man knows him some eyebrows. That's all he's sayin'.

H to the Izzo, and it's early so deal

Well, H for the Heroez is more like it. HAH! Get it? See it's funny because Jay-Z kicks it like this: "H to the IZZO, V to the IZZAY..." and Ol' Mizzee kicks mad flava like this: "H for the Heroez, Z for the Not So Much..."

As some of you know, and all of you should since three of you, if that, check in regularly, now it's the time on the ol' porch where we salute, happily, then angrily, the Heroez and Not so much with the Heroez of the week.

Heroez...
Be aggressive. B-E aggressive. B-E-A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E AGGRESSIVE!

We continue to hear good things and will venture off the porch and to the movie theater this weekend.

Happy one-year anniversary, sort of, boys. Can XM hook you up with a better link, though? Jesus.

Borat. Always Borat, especially for the Madonna line.

We'll miss Captain Charisma.

Not so much...
"Sir, I know you know the situation is past critical."

Please leave her alone, vultures, and don't just go for the lay-up story.

Him? And her? That makes sense (name the movie and you get a free kiss from the Ol' Man). Remember Boogie Nights and "You Got the Touch!"? Yeah, Federline rapping about pavarottis (sic) is worse. At least he's got a big (deleted due to inappropriate content). Um, yeah. Or that's what we've, um, heard.

Still president. Still on the Not so much list.

Oh what we wish we could do with them there crutches, there.

Jambon fromage baguette, merci.

You DICK.

To the gym grunter

You did the bent-over-rows with such zeal and fortitude that everytime you came up for air, li'l weights a-jingling behind you, you grunted. Loudly enough that the Ol' Man could hear you 50 feet away whilst stretching and checking out the hot chick doing pull-ups.

"Eh... eh... arrrrrgh... eh... eh... agggggghhhh... eh."

Jesus Christ, man. Breathe and maybe take a little bit of weight off so the entire gym doesn't think you're practicing for Ass Arresters 7.

And here we thought we were crazy

Kick ass piano solos aside, praise Jesus.

Coach Z

We must thank goldenfiddle.com, again, for getting us into the Homestarrunner. For Porch readers, this is a must. Laugh accordingly.

Coach Ol' Man had trouble with hith atheth when he wath a lad. He doethn't like to talk about thith, though. Thpeech clatheth thertainly helped. Don't ever bring thith up to the Ol' Man Thnap, though. Ever. Or elth.

Grading Mr. Brown

-15 points for saying, electronically or otherwise, that you are a "fashion god."

-15 points for joking about "quitting" your "job."

- 45 points for being, simply, an assclown.

- 13.5 points for "rolling sleeves like the "president."

Where are we? Huh. You've scored an 11.5 out of 100. If we think a li'l harder, you'd more than likely lose more points. Care to retake?

Didn't think so.

Your weather report for the day

It's a simple formula, really: stop drinking for a bit, clouds lift for awhile. Waking up with the sun is easier for some reason, mainly because it's not raining. Perpetually. As in all the time. This is fascinating, says the Ol' Man.

Now talk to him at the end of the day, but for now, blue skies.

(Ech. Positivity this early makes the Ol' Man wonder if he's maybe still sleeping, and this is a weird he's-going-to-see-Rainbow-Brite-making-out-with-Care-Bears-while-sitting-at-the-bar-sipping-a-Diet-Coke-tonight dream).

Slammed, did he?

OK. Let's not get our panties in a bunch and blow this all out of proportion. This ain't no Pac-Biggie East-Coast "I had sex with your wife... but not in those words" type thang. This was an emotional, God-fearing man with a sh*tload of talent speaking his mind, as good Americans are supposed to. And this is a former street thug drug dealer who make da club go outta control making a very valid point.

"I don't know where that came from" aren't exactly fighting words. What's up, journalism? Where my dawgs at?

This is why

Methinks if we'd run around before last year's election handing out li'l postcards with this God-awful evil man on them, then maybe, just maybe... aw f*ck it. Back to Canadia house-hunting flashbacks we go. (Fantastic photo by Win MacNamee, Getty Images).

Let's play a game

Let's call this "Inside the Lede."

Now the Ol' Man admits, readily, that he is out of journalistic practice. He hasn't written a news story in years. But he still considers himself a news junkie (HAH! You thought he'd use that other word...). So his opinion matters. A lot.

So here's the thing about the word "apparently" when you're trying to bring the funny in your ledes. When you find yourself typing a, then p, then another p, then an a... just stop right there. And when you find yourself quoting song lyrics as the actual lede, and ending the punchline with "after all" in the name of entertainment, well, quit your day job.

Good journalism means the writing doesn't get in the way of the story, it enhances it. So when you're writing about J-to-the-L-O, kids, avoid temptation. Don't go to her hit, er, hits. Stay away from things like:

1. Apparently she wasn't fooled by those rocks that she (has) after all.

2. She apparently lives her life to the limit and she loves it, so she can breathe again baby now she can breathe again after all.

3. She's apparently waiting for tonight, oh-whoa, for you to take her into your arms after all.

And so on. Now let's not mince words over how many Lopez lyrics the Ol' Man can kick. Let's focus, rather, on the lesson learned: No song lyrics. Ever. No after alls, ever. And just because you say apparently doesn't make it more funny.

Come on, people, feel the noise.

A definition would be nice

Missing from this story is a simple definition of what this RLS is, beyond an "urge to move."

The Ol' Man thinks he has it, which 'splains a lot, actually. Is it achy pains, like a stone grinding on the sidewalk? Is it a dull sensation, like the feeling the Ol' Man gets sometimes when he watches network news? Is it an urge to kill, like the guy who cut the Ol' Man off in the circle this morning?

OMS needs answers, damnit.