Because when I think of Christmas, I think of sex, gunplay, afros, Isaac Hayes, alcohol, knife fights and bomb-throwing ninjas.

What, you don’t?

Here it is, the true story of Christmas!

KRINGLE

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So you might have seen Penn Jillette, my personal savior, on his show Identity. Please do not judge Penn by this show.

Penn needs to be unleashed, not chained to a podium.

The excerpt from his radio show (in MP3 form) is available here. You need know only this:

1) this was recorded around the time that David Blaine was in that ball of water in Times Square a few months ago.
2) Penn and his guest Criss Angel had spent much of the show saying that while David Blaine had a lot of great qualities, he is famous because a) of his famous girlfriends b) he is good looking.
3) Penn also observed, earlier in the show, that David Blaine was not very good at card tricks.
4) This comment caused a few people to call into his radio show and complain that he was bad mouthing David Blaine.

The excerpt I posted is Penn’s rather…er…explosive reaction to the David Blaine cultists apparently not understanding what he was trying to say.

This is Penn at his best. He’s rarely as boring as he is on his new game show.

All hail the Komodo Dragon Messiah (and his six siblings)!

He is come, and He is a lizard!

The King of Kings of Reptiles!

And the Lord said, let there be moulting!

“My country is still at war. I need an American identification card to get anywhere in my own city. Now, for some reason, men with machine guns have placed two rows of jingling antlered pigs on the roof of our house. This is insane.”

More here.

A few months ago, I went on a miniature adventure. I walked to Market Square and sat on a bench. I opened my notebook and began to write. I had an iced chai from Starbucks, a pack of smokes, my iPod and plenty of things to write about.

Five minutes after settling in, I was joined by an older man who looked remarkably like Tom Waits.

This is what I wrote:

I’m writing this so this guy stops talking to me – maybe if I stop talking, he’ll stop talking. Somehow I doubt it.

I have visions of him killing me. A struggle. He’s wiry and muscular and he has tattoos. I’m doughy and out of shape. He’d take me. I bet I could outrun him though, if I drank this iced chai first.

—

I want to mitigate the insensitivity expressed in this story by relating my most recent adventure, wherein I dragged a drunken homeless guy out of Forbes Avenue traffic while buses whizzed by students blared their horns at us, but I won’t.

Judge me as you will.

—

The first time I encountered Tom Waits was while he was apparently playing a homeless man living in Wheeling, West Virginia. I don’t know if it was for a movie or what, but he looked just like he did in Ironwood. I didn’t see any cameras or anything, but I swear it was him. He even sounded like him.

There’s not much to say about our encounter. Again, I was sitting, but at a bus stop this time, and he was sitting next to me. He asked me for a smoke, and I gave him one, and he started making creepy suggestions about my age.

“What are you, about 18, maybe? You look like you might be a teenager. Maybe even younger than that. Do you have a girlfriend?”

I was 23.

Ok, since that story went nowhere, you can watch Tom himself (the real one) tell way better stories than mine.

I went through a period in my adolescence that I call the Age of Sandwich Deconstruction.

I knew the ingredients of the sandwiches I liked. I knew how to make them, and the order in which one applied said ingredients. But it always seemed like too much work, and it relied on the presence of highly-perishable components (for example, bologna or turkey).

So, I slowly reverse-engineered my sandwiches until I had precisely the ingredients that I enjoyed and nothing else. It’s sort of an omnivorous cutting out of the middle meat, like making sandwiches wholesale.

By the end of it, I was eating dill pickle slices and mayo on toasted white bread.

Don’t knock it ’til you try it.

The Outlet Halloween Film Festival was last night. Todd asked me to submit a movie, so I did. It’s called Attack of the Metropolitans. It’s easily my best work yet.

It was nice to see my work on the big screen. The sizable audience seemed to like it, and they laughed at the right parts.

If you’ve seen my other movies, this one is way better. Lindsay gave it a B-, which is definitely an improvement (she gave the last two F-, which is understandable).

Even so, my first attempt (which has no sound, poor editing and no noticeable storyline), Teenage Slumber Party Attack! has been seen by MySpacers over 42,000 times, putting in like the top 20 or so videos on the site. The comments you see at the above link are mostly valid, if only vaguely recognizable as english. Keep in mind that the only reason anybody watched the thing in the first place is because the thumbnail depicts three girls in towels.

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That’s what I am. I don’t care about football. I enjoy the energy.

This town scintillates when the Steelers are winning. The parade downtown to celebrate the Steelers superbowl victory was an amazing experience, even though I only got to see the nubbin of it outside of my building. I wrote about it last year, without much happiness, which I will eventually link here when MySpace stops being retarded.

So, now that the Steelers just lost to one of the worst teams in the league, I really don’t care anymore.

Pittsburgh is a drunken stepfather during football season. If baby gets his bottle, and the Steelers are playing well, then the place lights up with good moods and friendly faces. But if the Steelers are doing badly, it’s like everybody in the city has been replaced by ogres or some shit.

I don’t care about football. I’m a fairweather fan.

Consider this my official protest.

So they arrested a guy in the area today for like the third time, for being a predator (the link points to an older story with pretty much the same punchline).

No, not the cool kind, the icky kind.

As I often do with peoples names I learn, I ran a quick MySpace check. Sure enough, he’s there. He also has a lot of young, female friends. Hardly surprising.

I learned about his arrest via KDKA’s 11 PM news. The story began as a report about perverts looking to bang teenagers, but it naturally, inevitably, devolved into an indictment of MySpace.

For instance, one Concerned Mother (and neighbor of the predator) talked about her teenage daughter. Her parents found “the MySpace” in her computer’s history, and subsequently banned her from using the computer at all, until “her dad” puts “the password on.”

Ugh.

She should probably ban her daughter from talking to and/or associating with boys near her age, since those bastards are going to be the ones to deflower her, not some idiot on MySpace. The young man who takes advantage of her daughter ain’t gonna be blocked by “the password,” but welcomed into her home, told to “take care of my daughter” and expected to have her home by 10.

Anyway, Dustin is an idiot. Everybody knows that there are no actual teens on MySpace anymore. They’re all undercover cops.