PLEASE SAY A PRAYER FOR O.J. FOR THE MADNESS TO STOP

Poooooor O.J. Simpson.

Apparently, his ex-girlfriend is "missing". Her cat is dead. And there was an apparent scuffle inside her residence before she ended up missing.

And you just KNOW poor O.J.'s going to be dragged through the middle of all this.

I mean...just because he murdered his ex-wife, is that REALLY a reason to suspect him for EVERY SINGLE DAMNED FEMALE in his life that gets murdered or shows up "missing"?

You know...maybe you people don't remember it, but O.J. was a fine actor at one time.

Need I bring up his thrilling portrayal of Nordberg in "The Naked Gun" trilogy?

I need not.

I don't even think the police need to question him. Leave him alone. Let him smoke his crack cocaine that he's become so fond of and find the REAL killer of his wife and her waiter friend Don Goldsmith. He deserves it. He's a national hero, dammit. Well...you know...if you can look past that whole "murderer" thing.

I, for one, refuse to even hint at any allegations that the guy murders all the women in his life.

His Mom's still alive, isn't she?

She's not?

Well hell.

Nobody told me.

Regardless, I R-E-F-U-S-E to call him a murdering, self-righteous, smug, asshole son of a bitch.

That's just not my style.

However.

I will call him a murdering, self-righteous, smug, asshole bastard.

I mean..."son of a bitch"??

His mama was a sweet woman.

...Until he killed her.

Speaking of murderous, self-righteous, smug asshole bastards....kudos to those of you who spotted yesterday's entry as a rehashed effort from years gone by.

As I've stated, I had very little time to write yesterday and very little to write about. Monday was a boring, boring day.

Tuesday was hardly better.

I've just been pluggin' along at work ... trying to get as many interviews done as humanly possible.

I interviewed a guy yesterday...let's say he works for a circus. It's not really a circus, but it's a very fun place to work and there's lots of animals there. It's quieter than a circus and you get to look at animals in cages while walking around outside at a leisurely pace.

But it's not a circus. Capiche??

So anyway, I'm thinking "Gee...I've been interviewing some of the most gawdawful boring people on the planet lately. Everything from construction engineers to bank presidents. I sure am looking forward to interviewing Circus Boy!"

Oh. Muh. Gawd.

This guy was the epitome of boring. He has a huge plaque in the Boring Guy's Hall of Fame with a spotlight on it. His claim to fame is that he can put people into a deep sleep within eight seconds of talking to them.

He said "Hello" and it made me want to cry. I could tell this was going to be excrutiatingly painful.

Luckily, it was a phone interview. I sat with my eyes closed while he prattled on and on about African Elephant's Breeding Techniques.

Yeah, I'm about to have a little lunch there, Circus Boy. Tell me in graphic detail how the elephant manages to get his Harley Davidson-sized penis in the other elephant's vagina. I'm dying to know here. And please...when we're done with that story...can you tell me more about how elephants enjoy the anal sex?

I know at one point, I nodded off. He was prattling on and on about how African culture dictates the elephant's personalities or some shit like that and I just passed out at my desk.

I woke up five minutes later and he was now talking about the shapes of his water fountains at the circus. They're all shaped like lily pads.

Boy Howdy. That's just fucking amazing, Circus Boy. Do me a favor ... take a picture of these water fountains and email it to me, because there's no way I'm going to be able to sleep tonight with that sort of information rolling around in my brain like a velcro tumbleweed.

The boring assed bastard.

Sooooo...today I get my massive, humongous, brand new color television!!!

That is...if Circuit Shitty isn't playin' me for a fool and it doesn't come in today.

To celebrate this exciting day in my life, I went out yesterday and purchased two DVDs to watch on my new big-assed TV.

First, I got "Blue Velvet". Quite possibly the most disturbing movie ever filmed. I doubt I ever get around to watching it, since Susie HATED it when we first watched it. It gave her the infinite creeps. Me? I relished it. Then I ketchupped it. Then I ate the sumbitch.

I love that movie. When it starts getting uncomfortable, that tells me that everyone's doing their jobs because you forget it's a movie you're watching and you just end up squirming in your seat.

...Granted...that could just be the poop splashes in your undies that's making you squirm. Because this movie will scare the shit outta you.

Two thumbs and a severed ear up.

Second, I found and bought "Rock and Roll High School".

Okay...

In 1979, I lived and breathed punk rock.

That's right...Uncle Bob's a Punk Rocker. Uncle Bob's a Punk Rocker. Uncle Bob's a Punk Rocker nowwwwwowwwwwowwwwwowwww.

(Only Ramones fans would get that one. Sorry if you're not a Ramones fan. You suck if you're not one. Sorry, but that's the punk rocker in me ... always insulting people for not listening to my music.)

Now...I never "dressed" the part of a punk rocker. I looked fairly normal. Some of you young punk/Goth/grunge/gangsta rap people may call this being a "poser". I call it "Not having to change my appearance just to prove my love for a certain type of music, thus alienating myself from society and forcing everyone to snicker behind my back".

You know...like you young punk/Goth/grunge/gangsta rap fans do today.

Seriously. Can't you kids listen to gangsta rap without having to pull a stocking cap down around your head like you're in Antarctica and wearing the waistband of your pants around your knees? It IS possible to like a certain type of music WITHOUT dressing like the people who make it.

Earth to you idiots...earth to you idiots ... you're NOT a rock star. You are NOT the person who made the music. You're a mall geek. Dress normally, wash that stupid hair dye out, wash that "THUG LIFE" fake tattoo off your stomach, take the nails out of your nose and eyebrows and just appreciate good music for what it is...a form of escapism. NOT a way of life.

Here. You can have your soapbox back.

So anyway...I LOVED "Rock and Roll High School" when it came out in '79. Me and my posse (fellow mall geeks) would go see the film every night while it played in the theater...which was maybe a week or so.

Last night I watched it and have a few comments to make.

First...was I fucking RETARDED in 1979?

I mean...did I somehow get dropped on my head and lose all semblance of TASTE in 1979??

Christ...this movie's about as funny as Circus Boy. I've read fortune cookies that provided me with more humor than this turd.

And the movie in general??

LAME.

The acting's bad...the editing's bad...the dialogue is horrendous (When Riff Randall is getting yelled at in the principal's office and she decides to quote the Ramones by lobbing back "I'm just a teenage lobotomy"...THAT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE, YOU BUFFOON!!!)

...However...she's one fine-assed buffoon...

Oh yeah...and Marla Rosenfield...

Marla Rosenfield made one movie in her acting career and this is it.

I had the extreme hots for Marla in my day. She plays Cheryl, Riff's sexy brunette friend whose every piece of apparel accents her luscious boobies.

In 1979, I was 17 years old. I had never touched a naked boobie. I don't think I even touched a clothed one at that point.

My dreams were suddenly full of Cheryl boobies. That kinda stuff happens when you go see a movie seven times in one week.

Soooo...the fact that I now own Cheryl's boobies on DVD kinda makes up for the fact that the movie sucks whale shit.

Oh yeah...and the Ramones.

I still love the Ramones' music. I'm 40 and you're bound to hear me humming a Ramones song then you are any country western crap.

Their performance in this movie still rocks.

And Joey...God rest his soul...solidifies his reputation as being the most gawdawful ugliest rock and roller ever in this film.

There's not a single flattering shot of him in this movie. Which is not really a surprise, since I can't recall any flattering photos of him either.

The man was UGLY.

Beneath the hair and the glasses and the horrifying fucked-up choppers, the guy was apparently a very shy man and very polite and sweet in real life. He certainly didn't subscribe to the snotty punk lifestyle just because he made the music, unlike 90% of the mall geeks out there who don't make music, but try to dress like they do.

I know, I know...I'll get off that kick eventually...

Anyway...it's a silly, stupid movie, highlighted by the Ramones and Cheryl's luscious boobies.

Andrew liked it too. I cranked up the song "Rock and Roll High School" and he danced to it.

Some would call his dancing "slight knee bends".

Others would call it "Baby Spasms".

But the kid's a hoofer.

I'm his daddy.

I would know.

Anyway...it's new TV day and I'm sexcited!!

So if you'll excuse me, I've got things to do.

Adios amigos.

(That was the name of the Ramones final album. Pretty witty of me, huh?)