HANSMWTH, Year End Edition

Old Man Snap is God-awful tired today, what with the boozing and the carrying on last night in the Big Apple as he likes to call it.

But that doesn't mean he's mailing in a "Best of" or anything like that. Well, actually, he sort of is. So today, instead of the normal linkage and the Heroez and Not So Much with the Heroez, the Old Man presents the Year End Edition.

He'll give you six Heroez and six Not So Much with the Heroez. And he'll do it with pictures. You figure out which one is which, and what one is what, etc. etc. etc. Hey! And Happy New Year! 2006 is so the Year of the Bear.

You make Bear sad. All ya'll.

See, Old Man Snap was trying to help out a friend, is all.

Like he said on Tuesday, he met Bear on Saturday, when his Nana was thoughtful enough to give him mad cash inside the cute li'l fella.

Bear quickly became the life of the party, with his witty banter and hack one-liners.

So Old Man Snap thought the same would happen here on the ol' Porch and the Parking Lot, mainly because the fives of readers he has tend to live on the darker, more cynical side of life.

But NOOOOOOOOOO. If ya'll want the Ol' Man to just b*tch about the woman on her cell on the bike next to the rower at the gym (Seriously? Enough with the planning for John's party and more with the peddling. Christ.), or keep posting sh*t like this, fine. But OMS warned you about Bear.

He's a person, too. And now he's sad and hibernating. Poor li'l guy. All he wanted was a place to come and play every once and awhile.

*yawn*

When Old Man Snap wakes up from his vacation/nap, he'll bring the update fun. Until then, here's Jessica Alba:

Meet Bear

So Old Man Snap had the pleasure of meeting Bear's acquaintance this past weekend at his Nana's house.

Bear, a cute li'l puppet, quickly won over OMS's family with his witty banter and snide, bearly (Hah! Get it?) audible remarks.

Bear has no conscience, really, and he sounds like a cross between Kermit the Frog and any Smurf who bombed his audition and ended up joining the Snorks. Only once this weekend was he threatened with wall-mounting, right next to the big buck head OMS's ol' man shot back in the day.

Anyway, the thing ya'll need to know about Bear is sometimes, well, most times, he gets bearried (HAH!) away with words that: 1) sound like bear; and 2) can be hurtful.

Be warned. Bear has asked for a forum here from time to time. OMS acquiesced, if only to hear him stir some sh*t. Bear, the floor is yours.

***
Well, thanks bear, fella. HAH! See I said bear instead of there because, huh, well everyone, I'll be here all day thank you very much. Anywho, just thought I'd take the time to wish all ya'll motherf*ckers a safe and Happy New Bear. HAH! Again I brought the funny with the ol' play on words.

Well, that's all I really want to say. Thanks to Mr. Snap for giving me the time to speak my mind. I have a lot of important things to say about a lot of important things. Unlike Mr. Snap, who's just a bitter double-chin-smiling lonely asshole who drinks too much and only writes this because he's scared of succ--
***

ALRIGHT. Thanks, Bear, for visiting the Porch and the Parking Lot. OMS certainly looks forward to all the important things you have to say.

To the grandma in the row ahead of us

It's f*cked up when the best line in The Family Stone comes from you.

"THAT'S THE WOMAN FROM THE SEX AND THE CITY!" you gasped, loudly and old, as soon as Ms. Parker arrived on the big screen.

Adorable.

* Old Man Snap Note: For the rest of the year, the word "adorable" will be edited in place of other words because we are working out our anger issues. Gone are the days when we'd say things like, "Oh how we longed to boot you in the back of our head with our Adidas kicks, all the while muttering, 'Shut it grams with your too big bee's nest hair.'" Here are the days when we say things like, "Adorable."

To the chick in the pasenger seat stopped at the light next to us eating a banana

Thank you for the visual this morning.

We spent the next hour on the road laughing to ourselves and trying to come up with sound-alike words. Toad dead. Joe said. Foam lead. Load bed. See? Hysterical.

Thought of the day, part 5

So Old Man Snap will leave you with this today, kids. First, he will wish you a happy and safe holiday weekend.

Secondly, OMS was just thinking, for a change, about childhood memories that make him happy. Doodling the album cover to Men At Work's Cargo when he was 7 years old popped up out of nowhere. He used to sit at his friend's house listening and drawing. He was a happy lad, hellbent on hitting the notes in Overkill.

Ya'll should listen to this album.

It's a Mistake could very easily be the theme song for 2005 America. But then again, that would bring up sad thoughts, and we're riding the happy train right now.

We wish you'd all throw in the towel, indeed.

Thought of the day, part 4

To back up just a bit...

All day long with the "Merry Christmas!" and the "Hey! There's donuts to eat!" and the "Hey! Can we leave early?" And then with the everyone dressed in red and wishing more Merry Christmases and the "Hey! Where's the present you got me?" and the "I BET YOU CAN'T WAIT FOR SUNDAY!!! CHRISTMAS IS THE BEST HOLIDAY EVER!!!"

So we're walking in the staircase and yet another lady in red shouts "MERRY CHRISTMAS" at the top of her lungs as she whisks out the door to embrace her favorite Christian holiday.

"Don't any Jews work here?" we say, out loud, without hesitation, as we continue down the stairs for more water.

We thought it was hysterical.

Mission: Impossible

What's that? He lost his place? This guy getting his rowdy on is like saying OMS is one ugly motherf*cker.

He's quite the adorable li'l fella, though, with his cute porcupine hair. We mean, um, godd*mn we dig us some blues.

Beauty is a curse on the world. Yeah. So is the entire holiday season these days, right? You with us? Show of hands? Thank you.

Could it have been anyone else? Old Man Snap started saying things like "Avy" and "Matt's li'l sister, think about it, where the f*ck has she been all season?" once Quentin got himself all kinds of carved.

But then it turns out he's all "Yeah, so what if I don't have diag?" and Kit was all, "I like brother c*ck" and that, as they say, was that.

Huh. At least evil Meg was kind of hot throughout the season, in a f*cked up God-we-want-to-punch-the-li'l-racist-in-the-face kind of way.

So Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukah to one and all. Old Man Snap sort of got in the holiday cheer at the Hallmark yesterday, buying himself all kinds of last-minute cards. Nothing says Christmas like li'l magnets for $5 that say things like "Aunts are people, too" or some sh*t.

HEY! It's Friday! That means Heroez and Not So Much for the Heroez! Like, this is so gonna be the BEST ONE EVER because we only have another week to use the term BEST _____ EVER before we retire this overwrought drivel with other classics like, YO THAT'S THE DOPE and OOPS! I DID IT AGAIN!

Heroez
Preggers Gwen is more gooder. But what about that stomach? Damn you, Bush guy.

RIP, low-calorie beer guy. RIP. We should drink more of what you made. Nice work with that.

Old Man Snap. So what if he's found himself watching reruns on WE sometimes while channel surfing. He tries to entertain you folk. A lot. And he tries to stay sane by not so much with the beer and more with the happy thoughts these days. Give him some credit, ya'll.

Not so much...
Stupid strikers. We were worried this chaos would continue through New Year's Eve. And that would have been awful for us B&T lads and lasses longing to welcome the '06 from the village, clutching our Guinnesses and smiling, loudly, because '05 is so the new over.

Blogs are bad, MMMMMK?

Fat kids. Yeah. We know. But we *could* play sports, even if that meant keeping close to first base for the majority of our childhood 'cause it was closer to the dugout, and if we were the goalie, because, well, you know, less with movement and more with the coverage area. Or something.

Isn't this why we left and you lost? Oh SNAP! Britain: OWNED.

Finally, it really wasn't. Of course El Presidente says it was a good year. Nevermind the perpetual f*ck-ups on pretty much every turn. You sure when us over by keeping the faith and telling Americans, and the world, the same thing. Over and over and over and over and over again. Christ, mix it up once in awhile and talk about something different for a change.

God we can't wait for the ought-six.

Just sayin'

To the salon hair washer lady

Please stop slamming Salems in the bathroom right before you tenderly and gently wash our hair. If we wanted stripper smell to permeate our oxygen, well, we'd go somewhere else.

And don't ask us questions, either. We were trying to breathe through our mouth. Saying, "No thanks" when you offer us a cheese platter and coffee meant we had to breathe through our nose, which meant back to stripper smell.

(For the record, there are two kinds of stripper smell.

One is sweet and easy, like a warm Spring afternoon, sort of inviting and sort of expensive to those charmed by its tough yet hot exterior, and daddy-issues ways.

Then there's salon hair washer lady, who smelled sort of like Scranton meets a 1936 USO Rally meets an ashtray meets the end-of-the-night floor at a dirty, shady pub).

Oof, we say. Oof.

To the junkie in the minivan

Ol' Man Snap fears no man. None. At all. OK. Well. Maybe he fears the Boogeyman. Or double-mouthed fish. Or Santa Pope. But he digresses, as usual.

But you, junkie in the minivan, you kind of scared the Ol' Man this morning at the Dunkin' Donuts. OMS was content in his car, sipping, carefully, his coffee and praying certain stomach issues faced yesterday have been rectified. Mid-prayer, he saw you lingering around the newspaper dispensers.

In a flash, you grabbed the handles of each box and, well, the only good description we have is, huh, well you know how sometimes parents who are the devil, wait, what's that called, well, whatever it's called, you know how they sometimes shake their baby, violently?

Mr. Junkie, sir, the violence you possess is scary. You shook the handles in an attempt to dislodge any loose change. You failed miserably, but you achieved victory. When your menacing glare came the Ol' Man's way, he quickly averted eye contact and pretended to play with his Blackberry.

He probably would have sh*t himself, but thankfully, that ended yesterday.

Quote of the day, maybe year, even

From the Rolling Stone, which really isn't as good as yesteryear. Still, Mr. Clooney, named "Renegade of the Year" in this week's double-issue, caught the Ol' Man's attention.

"The second and third rounds of your career are the ones that define you," he said.

Huh. This gets the Ol' Man a-ponderin'.

"I'm over hair now."

Get it? Because Damon has hair and now he's over here now so we used what's called a play on words to, well, you know tell a joke. What. Nothin'?

ANYWAY... Old Man Snap admires him some Red Sox Nation, even though over the last year they went from being the fans he could somewhat relate to, to, well, morphing into somewhat obnoxious fans who took great pride rubbing the rest of the world's misery in our collective faces last year.

But here's OMS's prediction, early-like, for the 2006 baseball season: Newly-clipped Damon will fail in his first season, much like Giambi did when he first shaved, cut his hair and hid his arm tat. When you have to clean up and become someone else, well, huh, the Ol' Man may have talked about this recently.

Point is, pretending, or cleaning up, or whatever to be someone else is phooey. Be yourselves, kids. Even when the millions come your way, just be yourselves.

As for Damon. Well, he's still kind of your homeboy, only not really at all.

The Last Train to Clarksville

Did we ever tell you all about the time we interviewed Davy Jones? Nice fella, this Davy. Peter Tork, well, not so much with the nice. He once yelled at us backstage because we were using our passes to get CDs signed for the less fortunate fans sitting outside.

A Peter Tork scorned is not someone to f*ck with.

What this has to do with this is absolutely nothing, other than when we read about the ol' transit strike this morning, the Monkees immediately popped into our head, and they haven't left since.

We can only imagine there's a bunch of Peter Torks in NYC today, freaking out. Yikes.

Fending them off with a stick, only, you know, not

So we broke down over the weekend and finally succumbed to mass marketing. There we were, strolling through our local supermarket hellbent on buying veggies and conquering the ol' fat kid issues once and for all.

We had ourselves some tomatoes, and soup, and brocolli and carrots. Then we realized we needed some deodorant to make us smell as pretty, er, clean. Now, Ol' Man Snap, being a good ol' man, likes him some Old Spice. Daddy gets what Daddy likes. You know how we do.

Anyway, we thought we'd try something new on this supermarket trip, so we grabbed us some Tag. We sprayed some real careful-like on our hand to check the smell.

Daddy liked. So Daddy got him some.

Ever since then, though, every time we spray it on, we wait. We wait some more. We duck, thinking they're coming. We duck again, thinking they're coming again. But nothing. A big fat nothing. No chicks attacking the ol' man. No dames. No broads. Nothing.

If anything, we think this Tag is keeping them away. Because let's face it, kids, OMS is the new pink, and the ladies, awwwwww yeah, like them some.

Say this may have hypothetically happened

There's a brilliant episode of the real Office where Gareth incessantly hits the button on his li'l dancing bloke toy. The thing sprouts wood and then, well, ejaculates (there's no other way to say it, really) in his pants and cries, "Ohhhh noooooooo!"

Fast forward to real life, where a dancing Santa bloke toy -- hypothetically, of course -- may have made his rounds today.

All ye had to do was hit a button and after a quick, "Ya'll ready for this?" the li'l fella would shake his hypothetical gut and then his rump, all the while kickin' it to 2 Unlimited. And oh how the office laughter may have hypothetically ensued.

Yup. That sound you hear now is Old Man Snap hysterically not laughing as he contemplates this hypothetical craziness. And no, the above shot of Brent bringing the dancing has nothing to do with this li'l post. We thought you might be a-thinkin' and a-wonderin' 'bout that. We just needed a picture to cheer us up.

***
Speaking of holiday cheer, is it weird that the Equal Opportunity Coordinator's doorway is hypothetically adorned with Christmas decorations?

And speaking of just weirdness in general, is it weird that the HR guy might have hypothetically smacked us on our arse and asked if we were "slimming down" today?

What a hypothetical day, kids. We say this because we've made it more than 200 posts and we *may* have mentioned work once. Just once. We deserve a medal for that sh*t. And to keep our job. Or to write an episode of the fake Office once. Just once.

Just saying.

We *so* want a stoner owl for Christmas

And we shall name him Spicoli.

Dear Old Man Snap in 2009,

Hi, sweetie. How are you? Is your hair gray, yet? How's your doctorate coming? The small bar and local stage gigs? Did you grow your beard?

Hey, in no particular order, this is what we're wondering about you, you handsome, handsome devil:

1. Who's cooler to hang out with after shows, Dave or Ben?
2. Did you really think the "Mariah Carey Can't Row for Sh*t" and "So that's how OMS became Amanda's Bitch in 1988" and "We wish we could hang you upside down by your eyelids and force you to watch H.R. Puff'n Stuff for a year straight. While you're forced to watch, we also wish we could take big 1970s headphones, stick them on your ears and force you to listen to the theme song over and over and over and over again, thus ensuring that you seriously lose your sh*t, and develop a crush on Witchiepoo" T-shirts would make you so much bank?
3. Did it work out between you and Izzie? You do realize she's a fictional character, right?
4. Define stage fright in 2009. Is your li'l picture there? Didn't think so.
5. Who's President?
6. Did Hulk Hogan ever actually retire?
7. How was opening for Miranda Lambert?
8. Is Dierks as cool as he seems?
9. Did you play a small role in "I Joined the Dating Revolution" smash hit, as promised by the author?
10. Now what?

;-) ^^^***<45
OMSn05

And the best way to end the night

We're sorry. We made it past "We found no weapons of mass destruction" without throwing anything, then we made it about three minutes in and were so distracted by the word "terrorists" that we couldn't not do it.

At 9:04 p.m., or thereabouts, we turned back to the Law and Order: SVU marathon on the USA. Maybe this made us a bad American, but at this point, we're so disenfranchised that it really, really doesn't matter.

*Sigh*.

We so remember being a good li'l American, too.

The best way to wake up on Sunday morning

Huh. Spying protects safety. And smoking is cool. And pro wrestling is real. And there really is a Santa Claus. And this really was a good movie but not really.

"Often appearing angry..."

So welcome to the club. Take that eight minutes or so of radio time and multiply it by just about five years now. Take that eight minutes and think about how every time you open *your* mouth and say something dumb, we still want to throw our shoe at the TV because it's the only option *we* have.

We love that when the story broke Friday, you issued a terse no comment. We also love that the above photo, taken by the AP's Hadi Mizban, doesn't even begin to equal others we've seen that we won't post here because they're way, way too graphic, like how-many-limbs-are-missing-oh-sh*t-three graphic.

We love that being President as we close 2005 still means telling the American people what they should think, rather than simply making decisions that will give the American people both the ability to think, and fodder to think about.

We're going back to bed on this lovely Sunday morning. Wake us up in 2009, if the world still exists.

Tick to the tizzock...tick to the tizzock

Yup. She's got about 38 seconds left, we'd say. (In her career, not *life* you sick f*cks).

Where's our gun?

We could update the previous post, or we could just vent.

To the guy in the car in front of us this morning: Turn your "Support the Troops" sticker right-side up. You were white suburbia-lookin' and you drove a nice car li'l non-gas-guzzlin' car. You screamed CONSERVATIVE BUSH BACKER. Wethinks there was no ill-will anti-troops statement here, just sheer stupidity on a whole 'nother level. Pay attention to the li'l things, mister, like putting a sticker on your car the right f*cking way.

To the entire office playing this right now. Man. So much for quietly doing things at work that you're not supposed to. Shouting "I just electrocuted him again!" is not conducive to a work environment, no sir. Neither is, "I just like to get him drunk quicker."

To Big Bird: Oof. At least you actually didn't do it. Still, why you gotta get all Kato up in this bizzatch? Today's lesson, boys and girls, is background checks.

To Dictator Shaaaaaaaaaady. Strike 3. We'd say yerrrrrrr out, but we tried doing that all democratic-like back in ought-four. Ya'll motherf*ckers who voted for him? Well, you get the point.

Whew. Much better.

It's still real to (us) damnit

Thanks for our very best buddy Matt for sending us this.

For those of you who don't know, the Midnight Express are one of the best tag teams in professional wrestling history. And when LPS (Li'l Pudgeball Snap for you new readers, of whom there are fives by the day, we're sure) was a li'l pudgeball, he studied manager Jim Cornette's every move, and he rooted his fat li'l heart out for the Express at every turn.

See, LPS decided way back in 1985 that he would be somebody. And that somebody would be the diabolical "Luscious" Old Man S. He would help his wrestlers spiritually and professionally, especially if it meant using a steel chair.

Old dreams do indeed diehard, kids. Just yesterday, as OMS wondered around the hallowed halls of his job, he saw a steel chair sitting innocently by its lonesome in a cubicle. Oh how OMS wanted to grab that sumb*tch and plaster the next person he saw with it.

With that, oh loyal readers, of whom there are fives by the day, we're sure, we give you the Friday funday hack bit we call Heroez and Not So Much with the Heroez, our weekly look back on the week that was.

Heroez
Dylan. Always Dylan.

This kid better turn out to be God.

This young fella, for telling the truth.

Santa Claus, for violently telling it like it is.

Not so much...
Kid toucher.

Frat boy. And you, the president, should know better.

We're *this* close but not even remotely. "See. We gotta plan. We're gonna... heh... terror. It's about terror, see. Terror. And then, heh, we're gonna win because terror. It's all about the terror baby. I been had skills, cristal spills hide bills in Brazil, about a mil to ice grill. Make it hard to figure me, liquor be, kickin' me in my a$$hole, uhhh, undercover, Donni Brascoe lent my east coast girl, the bentley to twirl. My West Coast shorty push the chrome 740 rockin redman and naughty. All in my kitty-kat half a brick of yea, in the bra, where her t*tties at. And I’m livin that, whole life, we push weight. F*ck the state pen, f*ck hoes at penn state. Listen close it’s Francis, the praying mantis attack with the mac, my left hand spit, right hand grip on the whip. For the smooth getaway, playa haters get away or my lead will spray. Squeeze off 'til I’m empty, don’t tempt me. Only to hell I send thee. All about the terror. What."

Good for him, otherwise known as strike two (well, 5,689 -- but who's counting?), otherwise known as we didn't vote for him. Otherwise known as he is the devil, mad lyrical skillz or not.

NEIN! NEIN! DU HAST NULL DER PETTEN JA? NEIN!

He was a wuss, anyway

We haven't even begun to address the violent anti-commercialism displays sprouting all over the country, but this is f*cking priceless.

Instead of getting offended, people, can't ya'll just join hands and remember the true spirit of the holiday season?

What? What'd you say about Old Man Sap? Hey! F*ck you, buddy. Sappy is the new angst. We got your holidays right here.

Shouldn't they be wearing white wigs?

And shouldn't they be using pens made of feathers? Shouldn't they be cursing the red coats and DEMANDING tea?

We mean... YAY! Freedom for another country worlds away and more important, and overlooked, issues right here in the good ol' USA!

U...S...A! U...S...A! U...S...A!

HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Guilty Pleasure Confession, part 2

Anyone out there *not* start dancing in the car when Wannabe comes on? No one? Sh*t. OK. How 'bout What About Your Friends? No love for Left Eye? Damnit.

OK. One more. How about Birdhouse in Your Soul?

Huh. Ya'll got no skillz.

Thought of the day, part 3

There's nothing worse than waking up *ahead* of your alarm, all hellaexcited about the Honey Nut Cheerios you're about to pour so they can be all kinds of hellasoggy, only to open the cupboard door and see a big ol' shelf of emptiness.

Then you realize you ate the rest of your Honey Nut Cheerios yesterday morning and told yourself then to, "Remember to hit the store tonight to get more, and to buy carrots."

Defeated at 6:27 a.m., you realize that the coffee you just put on is worthless without the Honey Nut Cheerios, so you panic and lunge to turn it off.

Then you realize that you never plugged the coffee maker in, therefore the power is not on, thus signified by both the fact that the coffee maker isn't plugged in, and there is no light on. Light equals power, kids. Power is what makes the world go 'round. Well, that, and the CMB.

Then you wonder what the f*ck you're doing awake so early, with no Honey Nut Cheerios soggy goodness to speak of. Then you want to go back to bed, but you realize, "Hey! Jersey Boy! Go get you a bagel! Go on with your bedself!"

The you realize you typed "bedself" instead of "badself" and you smirk on your way to the shower about this slip, knowing you're actually losing it for real this time on this lovely, cold as a motherf*cker morning, and you could use a nap already.

Now you're ready to start with the carpe and the day, probably without anymore exclamation points and definitely with correct spelling and real words. And sadly, no nap.

This starting/seizing/goofing on the day will most definitely include a scalding hot coffee and a wheat oat bran bagel with tomato and a "li'l bit of veggie cream cheese" from the Jersey Boy.

And you know already they'll douse that sh*t like the weatherman called for one inch and we get 12, but you'll suck it down anyway, because it's breakfast, beeyatch.

Enough with the Howard

Is it 1998? Are we mesmerized by the pixelated t*ts on the E! show?

Is it 1988? Is he beating Debella?

Granted, we're big fans Opie and Anthony; we share this openly and happily. But this does not cloud our thinking one bit. We like the Imus. We like the Norton 'N Friends.

But we're really tired of the Fartman. XM just signed Dylan to do a show on DeepTracks. Sirius, which is 3 million subscribers behind, gave $500 million to a guy that hasn't been cool since Private Parts. He's moving from FM to satellite. We get it. Big f*cking deal.

Just saying.

Mariah Carey can't row for sh*t

Ol' Man Snap used to row in college.

In his dream last night, there he was, back in the stroke (quiet, you), or eight, seat -- the seat one sits in to set the pace for the race. It's important, this seat, because the entire boat is expected to follow eight's every move.

So in this dream, OMS is stroking (Shhhh).

Mariah Carey is behind him in seven, and she is all over the place. She's off the pace. She's dipping her shoulder. She's not keeping her eyes ahead.

As a result, OMS catches a crab and is catapulted into the river. The coach comes over in his launch and asks the boat what happened. When OMS tries to get back into the boat and explain, the entire boat tips, and the crew capsizes.

OMS explains to the coach that Mariah Carey can't row for sh*t, and she caused him to catch a crab (you use your own judgement on that one) and flip out of the boat. Coach then chastizes Mariah Carey, makes her cry, and leaves the crew wading in the water to think about what happened.

At this point, OMS swims over to Mariah Carey and apologizes for blaming her. She's Mariah Carey, afterall. Mariah Carey, tears still streaming down her cheeks, reaches for OMS so they can tread water together. She forgives him. They shake it off, hug and start treading together.

Only OMS and Mariah Carey didn't actually tread water because they didn't really have to. OMS more or less put his head between Mariah Carey's bouyant, well, you get the point, and the two, holding each other tightly, floated to safety.

It was kind of hot, come to think of it.

OMS saw it on the TV once

Most of you know OMS was one cute li'l pudgeball when he was a youngin'. Back in those days, he loved him some baseball. To wit, he used to crush tennis ball home runs over the largest tree in the yard with a loaded wiffle ball bat, and his dog Tasha would gladly go retreive them.

Well, there was that one time that Tash continued around the house and into the frontyard and almost ate the neighbor's Paris-puppy for breakfast, but OMS digresses as usual. The li'l princess had it comin', and Tasha was queen of the neighborhood.

Anyway, back to what Li'l Pudgeball Snap was like back in the day. He liked him some home runs, and ice cream, and Honey Nut Cheerios for dinner, probably because he was maxed out on calories by 5.

It was around this time that LPS learned about this mile high club. His folks were downstairs and LPS decided to channel surf on the upstairs TV. And there, he met Mike Horner for the first time in a movie aptly called "Mile High Club" on this channel called Playboy.

Now OMS is afraid of flying, and therefore never, ever considered joining this club. He's too afraid, frankly, that he wouldn't be able to explain to anyone how he died, pants around his ankles, in a plane crash.

But it sure looked fun on the TV.

To the drunk guy at the bar

You made eye contact with our lady friends, and you stumbled to the table all kinds of helladrunk. You then practiced drunken stand-up for a good 10 minutes.

You pontificated about your brother and how he bought shots and ran up a bill and deserted you and then you forgot the punchline and then you brought it back at the wrong time and stopped mid-flow to introduce yourself to us. Again.

"I'm (Old Man Snap)," we said. "We've met several times before."

No matter to you, drunk guy. You rekindled your love affair with your awful drivel and then retold the story from the other night about the shots and the bill and the brother leaving you high and dry without paying. Again.

You also blocked the big screen Giants-Eagles game with your big head. You are so *not* as cool as neighbor porn girl.

To the neighbor watching porn

We see you from time to time, cute and Latina and very, very quiet. Your window is directly across the parking lot from ours. Your building is only 20 feet away, if that.

So when we went to our window so not to peer into yours (seriously, we were closing our blinds), we were *shocked* and *appalled* but not *really* when there it was, across the street and through your open-blinds window on the big screen TV in your living room.

It was impossible not to miss, this huge, well, and how it was, well, and then she was on her, huh, but then he, and, well, you all get the point.

We immediately remembered cute Latina had a visitor knocking on her door when we left our apartment earlier in the day. So CL and boy toy were *so* watching the ol' adult entertainment together.

And it wasn't one and done and hide the shame of where the tape stopped, either (or DVD or Playboy channel or whatever). When we went to close our blinds again a half hour later, there it was. Still on. Still impossible to miss, how he was, and then she, well, and then they were, and then with the upside down and he, well, you get the point.

All we did at home last night was watch the Grey's Anatomy and catch up on bills. BORING, all things considered.

He was one funny motherf*cker

RIP, Mr. Pryor. May you kill in heaven.

That's just f*cked up

Wow. Either God has as f*cked up a sense of humor as we think he/she does, or, well. Sh*t. Wow. We guess there's no Santa Claus.

Best week EVER *updated*

Well, it really wasn't. But from headlines ("Is President Bush the WORST PRESIDENT EVER") to simple things (Manning to Harrison is the best tandem EVER) to dumb things ("Like OMG Ryan's haircut is like the cutest thing EVER"), this annoying li'l phrase has certainly made it into the language lexicon.

We're running out of adjectives and it's only ought-five.

No worries, though, because 2006 is so gonna be the BEST YEAR EVER. (Yes, we said it. What you got? Nothin'? That's what we thought. You just sit there and laugh. We'll bring the funny).

For those who don't know the running hack bit on the ol' Porch on Fridays -- the only one we do, really -- this is the time we present out Heroez and Not so much with the Heroez, a cynical look back on the ol' week that was. This week's isn't the best ever, per se, but it's pretty f*cking good nonetheless.

Heroez
Mario Anzuoni, of Reuters, for taking the shots of our girl at the premeire of Match Point in the Hollywoods.

Paul Wight. Not many of you know this, and a lot of you think the Ol' Man is an ol' bat for watching wrestling still, and occassionally mentioning it here. But Mr. Wight, known as Big Show, is more and more showing himself as a gentle giant. The pictures on wwe.com about the company's Iraq tour speak volumes. He is a good man.

The li'l tree. We caught the Christmas special Tuesday night on the TV. The scene between Schroeder and Lucy and dancing, then embarassed, Snoopy? So random, so priceless. Good times, Charlie Brown.

Not so much...
Dear guy with hard-to-spell last name: seriously? This is like the dream we had last night about some random family we were staying with for a Holiday party. The house was strewn with parakeets and dogs and dust and all kinds of things that wreaked havoc on the OMS sinuses. In the dream, we dropped an emphysema line. But the mother making the turkey had the emphysema. Oops.

What this has to do with you, Mr. Iranian Sheik guy, is nothing except the correlation between your drivel and the outcome of our dream, when one of OMS's friends kicked him in the kitchen and said, "Dude, shut up." Just shut up. Shut it. Don't talk. We're all for opinions, but the Holocaust happened. Asshole.

Sure. Blame the fat kid. Bastards.

Mother Nature. We'll save the global warming rant for a later date.

Rummy. Yay! Yipee! You're staying longer! Asshole. Karma is a b*tch, we say in a non-threatening karma is a b*tch way, the way we say it for anybody. The fact that we have to even define that statement in America these days worries us to know end.

Less with the monitoring people's basic freedoms and creating li'l Americas to play with, and more with the things that matter, please.

Oh how we long for '83, when bushy-moustached gents got to snort coke off Terri Garr lookalikes and no one waved a schooner tuna flag anywhere near such good times debauchery. Wait. Stop and read that sentence again. God bless the English language. Words rule.

Thought of the day, part 2

Oopsies.

Thought of the day

*Nothing* is more awkward than wrapping up in the men's bathroom while the janitor tries to mop.

Nothing, well, besides mumbling "Good morning" to him as you walk out, hands washed and shoes squeaking on the prestine tile floor.

We don't get it

We know that some of you are mourning the loss of Mr. Lennon on today, the 25th anniversary of his death.

But are we the only ones in the world who sometimes think that his place in history, and The Beatles, for that matter, is overblown?

Are we the only ones who think Imagine sounds like a fourth-grader wrote it? Are we the only ones who think Helter Skelter is an awful, awful song?

We don't have facts and figures on this, just a gut feeling. We mean, well, the music was good and yes, they helped usher in a change of the guard from your parents' and grandparents' music to modern day pop, etc.

But beyond that, much like world-changing Bono, aren't these guys just people who learned how to play music and went with it?

Would somebody explain all the ado, please?

It's really, really not

Let's play "Complete the Thought."

Scott Stapp is to Creed as __________ is to ____________.

OK. Answers, please. Anyone have "Sting" and "Police"? Didn't think so. We had "stop" and "f*cking talking." But that's just us.

The Police brought a mix of ska and punk and pop and later turned in three of the best songs in a row on any album, from Every Breath You Take to King of Pain to Wrapped Around Your Finger.

After a bitter breakup, all three members of The Police went on to pretty successful careers. And Sting is a rock God capable of mad amounts of tantric sex and stuff, while Stapp shows up at Celebrity Poker Showdown so self-involved that an entire table of self-involved celebrities wants him out immediately.

You decide on your own where the former Creed crooner's career belongs in rock history. What's that sound? Right, then.

OMS's CP, P2

Because one of you implied our neck was hip hop red. And we're grading, which means the iTunes are on, which means we're contemplating version 2.0 already.

1. Old Time's Sake, Kathleen Edwards. Because it's on now and it's the perfect the-room-is-quiet-and-we're-typing song.

2. Got a Lot of Leavin' Left to Do, Dierks Bentley. Last year's CMT Awards were on earlier tonight, and it gave us the opportunity to play this, acoustic and slow, when Dierks finished his performance. Twang rules.

3. Where Did You Sleep Last Night, Nirvana. Watch the MTV special on the Unplugged gig. Watch Kurt's eyes. It's OK to freak out a bit. He could really get into a song, that Kurt.

4. Long Black Veil, Johnny Cash. It should have made the last list. "Nobody knows but me." Indeed.

5. 99 Problems/Scarlett Bagonias, Jay-Z/Dead mash-up. Thanks, MK, for that.

6. One More Night, Bay View. Because covers rule, and our girl has a sweet West Coast voice with an East Coast flava.

7. Kerosene, Miranda Lambert. Because it keeps coming up, and it just came on the shuffle again. And speaking of twang. Sing it, Miranda. Sing it loud.

8. Pull, Blind Melon. We think Shannon Hoon doesn't get enough credit. Had he not lost to his addictions, we'd like to think Blind Melon would be *huge* by now. Talk about lightning in a bottle though. In less than a decade, Shannon got to jam on Don't Cry with Axl, and he played Woodstock with his boys. "I'll give you more than what I'll ever show."

9. Jackson, Johnny and June. We know. The movie's out. It's Walk the Line overkill. But this song just popped on, too. You can feel the love at Folsom. Hopefully they're jamming upstairs with Elvis and the boys.

10. Three more on this abridged list, starting with Perfect Blue Buildings, Counting Crows. Our Uncle John died the summer August and Everything After came out. We played this song every day that summer. Some of it, sitting by our ol' pool. Most of it, crying and wishing he didn't die. "Try to keep myself away from me."

11. Driver 8, REM. Learn to play this song on the geetar. You'll be happy you did.

12. Breathe Me, Sia. Watch the finale of Six Feet Under again. We dare you not to cry as soon as the song begins.

Jesus Christ

Let it go, Saddam. Just let it go.

AND YOU KNOW IT

Wasn't it the Today Show that had a reporter "swamped" in torrential flooding in Wayne this past October? The flooding was so bad that she needed to canoe her way through the town, while two construction workers walked by unfazed by the trickling waters.

This is almost as bad.

We always thought that news agencies were supposed to report the news accurately. In fact, we could swear that the news is supposed to be accurate, brief and clear. ABC. Huh. We've heard this somewhere. We think it may have been Journalism 101.

Why the rant, you ask?

Howard Stern is not the first shock jock to go to satellite radio, Sirius or otherwise.

We don't need to go into who (who) is, or how long they've been doing it. Or the goodness they've brought our lives in the last 14 months. But it's worth saying: get the story right. This ain't rocket science.

Tell 'em, Fred.

Telling, really

The Eagles are done with Terrell Owens. Most of you knew that. What you may not know is this, reported in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel and again on CNN:

Green Bay Packers wide receiver Javon Walker has officially parted ways with agent Drew Rosenhaus, according to an NFLPA source. Rosenhaus signed Walker less than a year ago and led him through a tumultuous off-season in which the Packers receiver boycotted off-season workouts and threatened to hold out from training camp in the hopes of forcing the team to renegotiate his contract.

Seems like Mr. Rosenhaus really is a good agent after all. Really. Like, really, really good. Only, you know, not.

OMS's Celebrity Playlist

So from time to time, some of our fives of readers have asked, "Old Man Snap, aside from your boyish good lucks and charm, what is the secret to your success?"

The answer is simple, really. Good tune-age. For that reason, OMS is pleased to let you into his life a bit by giving you his celebrity playlist, found on the iTunes sometime in 2008:

1. Behind the Lines, Genesis. There's just something about the opening synthesizer that gives OMS some goosebumps. It may be the perfect song to lead off an album.

2. The Humpty Dance, Digital Underground. Sex Packets may be one of OMS's favorite albums of all time. Between Do Whatcha Like and the Dance, it's some fun, happy stuff. "First I limp to the side like my legs was broken, shakin' and twitchin' kinda like I was smokin'. Crazy whack funky. People say you look like MC Hammer on crack, Humpty." Li'l known fact: yes, that's Pac dancing in the background all goofy-like.

3. Rollin', Big and Rich. Another goosebumps song. "Just want to hear everybody sing, at the top of your lungs 'til the windows break." Word.

4. Oh My Sweet Carolina, Ryan Adams. God bless Emmy Lou.

5. On the Side of the Road, Lucinda Williams. As we seque into alt-country, this is a pretty, and true, song. That sums up Lucinda, yessir.

6. Behind These Hazel Eyes, Kelly Clarkson. Guilty pleasure number one, really. Homegirl can really belt. And the video? Grrrrllllllll.

7. Dry Your Eyes, Neil Diamond and The Band. From The Last Waltz, Diamond opens with a pretty sweet line: "I'm only gonna do one song, but I'm gonna do it good." Slows down the playlist momentum garnered by Clarkson, but deal.

8. The Best of You, Foo Fighters. Back to speeding things up. In the fall, OMS walked down his town's sidestreet to catch an Eagles game. As he walked, the town fair was in full motherf*ckin' effizect. As was a local garage band, playing this song for the town fair. *Nobody* was watching this young band cover the Foos, except for OMS, of course. This is a great song to crank when it's quiet and no one is listening. Angst. *Sigh*.

9. End of the Day, Yonder Mountain String Band. A dear friend of OMS's recommends the Yonder whenever he finds himself left in a hole. He's right. Bluegrass brings the happy.

10. Big Eyed Fish, DMB. OMS likes him some Lillywhite version. That whole never-released, officially, album is dark. And good. This song is both as well.

11. Crystal, Fleetwood Mac. "Do you always trust your first initial feeling?" This song inevitably ends up on most mixes procured by OMS.

12. Love My Way, Psychedelic Furs. He *loves* this song.

13. I Get Around, 2Pac. "Fingertips on your hips as I get a tight grip." Pac was such the poet. RIP.

14. Don't Think Twice (It's Alright), Dylan. Speaking of poets. Capturing a break-up? There it is.

15. Babylon, David Gray (acoustic). Perhaps OMS's favorite song ever, up there with Boston's More Than a Feeling and DMB's #41.

16. What Sarah Said, Death Cab. Because it kept coming on last night after Babylon.

17. Overkill, Men At Work. OMS's all-time favorite song when he was 8. "Day after day, they appear. Night after night, my heartbeat shows the fear. Ghosts appear and fade away. Come back another day." Vague, but true.

18. When You Say Nothing At All, Alison Krauss. Close your eyes and listen. There. Much better.

It

She actually is talented as an actress. Mean Girls is a pretty good movie with actual talent in it. Lohan, when not emaciating herself and becoming camera phone fodder, has some pretty good chops (Herbie, excluded, of course).

But the other two, wow, no link for you. We worry about future generations because now, more than ever, such no-talent spotlight suckers have become society's bar, not society's punchline.

Oof. We can't wait for 2005 to end. And we vote Kelly for It girl for 2006. Have ya'll heard her sing? That's the sh*t we're talkin' 'bout.

Dear Football Gods,

We're sorry we picked a fight with that fan in the Frog once. And we're sorry we threw beads against the wall after that Super Bowl interception. And we're sorry we bought that Pennington jersey.

We're sorry we jinx the teams we root for.

Can we restore order to the universe now? Please?

Thank you.

That's "P" as in "Paul" but not really

We have several. But we need to warm up a bit, so we'll start with the softball ones.

1. How do you spell whore?
2. How do you spell irrelevant?
3. Use both in a sentence, please.
4. How did you do it? How did you get people to actually buy into this?
5. Isn't being rich like, wow, like seriously, isn't it like cool?
6. Are you in on the joke?
6. Isn't Nicole totally so much better looking with, you know, blood in her?
8. When you were in House of Wax, didn't you think that the house was wax?
9. Do you think you'll ever come up with a hotter catchphrase?
10. When you toss and turn at 4 in the morning like most 20- or early-30-somethings, are you thinking about your lost dreams? Are you contemplating what the world would be like without you? Are you stuck? Can you just not get out of the mindsight that you don't deserve anything? What are you thinking? Do you write things like, "It's 4 a.m. Friday, and the night slips away. The half-moon above me, begs me to stay?" Just curious.

System restored

We thank our friend Jim for suggesting the ol' laptop defragmentation. Such a fancy word for such an easy task. In searching for defragmentation (aren't we all, really?), we stumbled upon the ol' "restore system" icon.

Boy did it ever work wonders. It's as if the laptop *wasn't* spitting up blood for days. And here we thought we'd have to spend *hundreds* that we don't have right now to fix the laptop to do job searches we never, ever get to.

Until it'll be too late, of course. But that's another long-winded, run-on-sentence laden story for another day.

Now, then.

All of this defragmenting and restoring got us a-thinking. Wouldn't it be splendid if when we all felt a li'l down and out, sort of like Rocky in the first fight with Clubber Lang, or, well, Tommy Gunn now, we could just hit the ol' defragment button and everything would be A-OK?

Instead, some of us opt for easier things, and let's face it: it never gets easier.

Point is, when we restored the laptop, we brought it back to three weeks ago and gave it life again. Had we done the same for ourselves, we wouldn't be in the mood we're in right now. But then again, we really wouldn't be living, either.

As we were defragmenting, we kept thinking that if we could take ourselves back to August 1990, then maybe we would've seen it coming. And maybe we wouldn't have ended up in our mom's office, lights out and sobbing uncontrollably like no 15-year-old should ever have to, even if he's fat.

Being disowned will f*ck your sh*t up, no matter how old you are. The words "I never want to see you again" should never really be said, even if they're taken back years later. You can't undo the things you say. You just can't. Ever.

So why are we talking vaguely about something that happened so long ago that this was in? We were just thinking, is all. It ain't living if you hit a reset button every couple of months, or even years.

It ain't living if you go through the motions each day blaming everyone else for f*cking your sh*t up in the first place. At some point, less with the harping and more with the moving on. You just have to plow ahead.

You all knew that already, of course.

But OMS, while old and wise, is just starting to figure that out.

Do we win something?

Yes.

Giants Stadium

So back way back in 2000, which really is forever ago when you think about it, Ol' Man Snap had the good fortune of scoring spectacular seats for the Dave Matthews show in the Meadowlands.

Ozomatli opened and brought their sh*t into the audience, which was, in a word, fantastic. Ben Harper was up next. It was the first time Ol' Man Snap heard him some "Drugs Don't Work," if he remembers correctly.

Wow. Sure it took him four more years to pick up the guitar, but Mr. Harper, and this show on the whole, was a big reason why. So blame Harper and Matthews if you ever here the OMS version of "Drugs." At this rate, that should be 'round March of '06. But the 'Ol Man digresses, as usual.

Which brings us to Dave. He opened the show by saying, "Carter and I were talking before the show. We like this room. This is a nice room to play in." The band then morphed right into #41 and proceeded to give one of those rare shows where you're all in a huge fishbowl of 60,000-plus, but you really could all be sitting in a living room together and have the same feeling of community.

Why is Ol' Man Snap reminiscing, you ask? Well, he's tired of feeling like this, so he decided to whip out the bootleg, crank it, and do him some dusting. He feels better already. Sort of.

"I left my wallet in the car."

So the only reason we didn't punch the guy in front of us this morning at the Dunkin' Donuts was because he was pretty much the largest man we've ever seen in person.

And we would have caused a scene, with the screaming and the jumping on the counter to get eye contact and the throwing our yet-to-be-ordered medium light and sweet in his face. So it was easier to just passively-aggressively grumble under our breath.

The largest man we've ever seen also wore camouflage and had a deep, baritone voice. We looked sort of like this. There was really no way to win this battle.

Why all this crazy talk about punching large Army men, you ask? The answer is simple. He was yet another person we've come across this week talking, loudly, into his Deep Space Nine ear piece about something that certainly couldn't wait until he was back in the quiet confines of his convoy.

No, sir. Sgt. Talkstooloudandcouldbeatusup kept ordering his soldiers from the Dunkin' Donuts counter until -- AHA! -- he made the biggest mistake the enemy can make. He showed weakness.

"Shoot," Sgt. Pleaseshutthef*ckup sighed. "I left my wallet in the car."

So PFC OMS ordered his coffee and quickly paid, hoping he wouldn't have to engage on his way out. Thankfully, the paths did not cross. Or else we would have battled to the death, Sgt. Cellphone and us. And we would have found a way to win.

So there's that.

***
Regulars in these here parts know Friday is the day we reflect on the week prior. We catchily call it Heroez and Not So Much with the Zeroez. This week, it's abridged because we were off in the woods doing what real men do.

Deal.

Heroez
Izzie. Always Izzie. Mostly for the pain she will inflect on dumb Alex over the next few episodes.

Fans. Especially those with theories (SFW, sort of).

The person who wrote this. We're, um, putting clothes on now.

Not so much...
Greedy bastards.

Does anybody really give a sh*t, really?

"I was just scared, hoping and praying that maybe it would go away," Irvin said. "I was told that I paid the fine and it was over. I was hoping it was over."

We do admit that sometimes, when no one is looking, we belt out My Own Prison in our cars. But only because we sometimes remember 1999 fondly. We admit wholeheartedly that we don't really like Mr. Stapp. At all. Something about being a pompous ass.

Ech. We think we just threw up in our mouth. Again.

Oooohweeee!, part 2

We also call this new fun game "Follow the Eyes."

We could swear ol' Willie is eyeballin' him some Maria Furtwaengler.

According to the AP, they was chillin' prior to the German 'Bambi 2005' media awards in Munich today (photo by Christof Stache, AP).

Because *that's* the answer

A few weeks back, we caught the Peter Jennings retrospective on the History Channel.

Now, you all know that Peter was an honorable journalist and a good, calming voice for a generation who sorely, sorely needed it. ABC misses him, we're sure.

Katie is, well, none of those things. CBS, please don't do this. Please. We're begging you. Don't put Katie in the seat.

Where's f*cking Tally Atwater when you need her? Just tell the story, indeed.

See, here's the thing

It's now become cool for people to bash Bush at every turn.

This makes us sad. We were throwing shoes at the TV, whenever he opened his mouth to further butcher the English language and especially while he ran on his "record" for reelection, long before the tide turned.

Now we just sit back with this "I told all ya'll motherf*ckers so" look on our face and cringe when we think of the 2008 "race."

By that time, maybe the world will finally end and we won't have to worry about buying more shoes for the next batch of nimrods. Or something.

Drink up, sister

Nothing says failure like driving around in an otherwise good-looking car, one that plays the XM proudly and maneuvers in and around asshole out-of-state drivers splendidly.

But now the Ol' Man's hot ride, fresh off another flat tire and a three-day rest while the Ol' Man "hunted," has something wrong with it.

And it ain't the awful yellow service engine light now covered with a "He who believes never dies" religion card. Nope. No sir. It's the li'l red label where a legit registration sticker used to chill out on the windshield.

"Rejected," it says.

So the Ol' Man's hot ride now his 45 days to get the part fixed -- something about admissions and a circuit -- or else curtains for the car. Curtains.

But at least there's this to make us smile. God it's good to be back.