Tar balls: good or bad?

As the oil spill in the Gulf gets worse, it gets crazier too.

The latest twist is reports of 8-inch (!) tar balls on a Louisiana beach.

Nearby, a biologist found about “25 nickel-sized tar balls per square foot.”

Wow; that’s a lot of crude.

But when it balls up, at least it’s easier to clean up.

Sort of, of course. It’s still incredibly icky and gooey, but at least it’s not floating in the Gulf or evaporating into the air we breathe.

BP should offer a bounty for every tar ball that Gulf residents can turn in. Let’s say a buck a pound just to make it worthwhile.

Then in could refine that goo into gasoline, which of course was the original plan.

Too difficult? Too costly?

Not at all. Simply tell BP execs that unless they make this deal, coastal residents will be legally allowed to throw said tar balls at them any time they want.

I have a feeling that might make them more agreeable – and more motivated to plug this leak once and for all so the final cleanup can begin.

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Tossing Taylor?

Should Lawrence Taylor be kicked out of the NFL Hall of Fame?

If he’s convicted of having sex with a 16-year-old prostitute, I say not only yes, but hell yes.

The problem, unfortunately, is that NFL rules don’t allow that.

As it stands now, you make the Hall based on your play. What you do off the field or after you retire doesn’t matter.

It should.

I know this opens a huge can of worms for any kind of Hall of Fame.

Ty Cobb, for example, was a nasty racist, By today’s standards, he would be shunned.

Unfortunately, back in the day, Cobb’s bigotry was all too common.

Drawing these lines will be tricky. It creates the possibility that a great athlete could be bounced someday for something silly, like not having the “right” attitude on global warming.

Still, that’s a chance I’m willing to take.

Lawrence Taylor has been a drug-addled creep since he left the NFL. (I know; many believe he was a drug-addled creep when he was in the NFL.)

At some point, enough is enough – and his latest sleazy charge tips the scales.

If the verdict is “guilty,” his Hall exhibit should be cleaned out that afternoon.

Think of the third word in “hall of fame.”

That has to mean something. Criminals are infamous, not famous.

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Coddling Cushing

If fans were hoping that Houston Texans linebacker Brian Cushing would lose a coveted award because he was exposed as a drug cheat, they got blindsided.

Incredibly, he won a second vote for NFL Defensive Rookie of the Year.

Granted, it was by a smaller margin – 18-13 over Buffalo safety Jairus Byrd. But as they say in sports, a win’s a win.

Last year, Cushing beat Byrd 39-6.

So the fact that he was caught using a drug commonly used by steroid abusers means … nothing.

The sportswriters who chose Cushing again apparently didn’t care he might not have been such a spiffy player if he hadn’t had a little help from the team trainer – or some drug dealer.

It’s disappointing, but not surprising.

From sport to sport, among players, owners and coaches, it’s “Don’t ask, don’t tell” when it comes to drugs.

To its credit, the media had largely refused to play along. It exposed baseball’s juicers and helped bring drug tests to that sport.

But the message sent by this vote is clear: Playing “clean” is not that important -- and maybe not important at all.

Here’s a thought: How about Cushing turning down the honor because he realizes he doesn’t deserve it?

I know; that kind of integrity went out with leather helmets.

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A doggone shame

Once again, the depravity of the criminal mind astounds us ordinary folk.

Up in Edina, Minn., some twisted souls are even … stealing the dog poop bags thoughtfully provided by the city.

Sad but true. And as a result of this brazen thievery, the city will no longer be able to supply the bags for free to hard-working residents.

It did seem too good to last. I guess now Edina-ites will have to use an old Wal-Mart bag or yesterday’s newspaper. Oh, the humanity.

This is a body blow to the concept of civic sharing.

The city used to fill the baggie dispensers in the morning for the convenience of residents – and their dogs.

But of course, you just can’t trust some scoundrels any more.

“People walk up and take them until they're gone," said one city official. (Have they no shame?) He added that it was "not just one isolated incident. It's everywhere and often."

Tsk-tsk. I don’t know what this country is coming to when even dog poop bags are no longer respected.

Of course, another option is to cut out the middle man, so to speak. Intead of scooping and bagging, why not leave it where it lies?

It’s called fertilizer, and some day a patch of grass will thank you.

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Solving the road-kill riddle

Finally, one innovative jail has figured out a way to save taxpayers a few bucks and kill two birds with one stone. (Actually three.)

The idea? Have inmates pick up road-kill.

This is the best ideas in corrections to come along since orange jumpsuits.

Think of the many benefits:

1) Instead of using highly paid highway workers to fritter away their time on carcass patrol, jail inmates do it for the proverbial “three hots and a cot.”

2) Inmates get a fun job. What would you rather do, sit in a cramped, airless cell with a child molester, or get some healthy exercise with a nice walk in the sunshine and fresh air?

That’s a no-brainer. … OK, the air might not be so fresh around a possum that’s been laying there for a few days, but hey, there’s a downside to everything.

3) Finally, and most important, inmates get a chance to spice up their diets.

PB&J sandwiches get old quick. A tasty bowl of raccoon stew or a sizzling slice of venison BBQ really hits the spot after a long day in the slammer.

Heck, if you also let ’em grow their own vegetables, the jail’s food costs practically disappear.

Let’s give it a try.

Sure, some inmate might get hit by a passing car or get sick from rotten meat, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take!

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Please give me patience – and hurry!

This came past the spam filter the other day, and it is worth passing along.

It is a prayer that all of us should offer up now and then – or a lot:

“Heavenly Father, help us remember that the jerk who cut us off in traffic last night is a single father who worked nine hours that day and is rushing home to cook dinner, help with homework, do the laundry and spend a few precious moments with his children.

“Help us to remember that the pierced, tattooed, disinterested young man who can't make change correctly is a worried 19-year-old college student, balancing his apprehension over final exams with his fear of not getting his student loans for next semester.

“Remind us, Lord, that the scary looking bum, begging for money in the same spot every day (who really ought to get a job!) is a slave to addictions that we can only imagine in our worst nightmares.

“Help us to remember that the old couple walking annoyingly slow through the store aisles and blocking our shopping progress are savoring this moment, knowing that, based on the biopsy report she got back last week, this will be the last year that they go shopping together.

“Heavenly Father, remind us each day that, of all the gifts you give us, the greatest gift is love. It is not enough to share that love with those we hold dear. Open our hearts not to just those who are close to us, but to all humanity.

“Let us be slow to judge and quick to forgive, show patience, empathy and love.”

Amen!

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I love the smell of grease in the morning

Just in time for Mothers Day (or not):

Scented candles with that fragrance you’ve been yearning for: White Castle hamburgers.

I’m not kidding, though I wish I was.

If you haven’t had the pleasure, White Castle hamburgers are small collections of grease, salt and cholesterol.

And that’s not as bad as it sounds. At the right time, they taste great.

As the famous slacker movie illustrated, one of those times is when you’re stoned, but I digress.

Eating them is one thing. Smelling them when you don’t have to is an entirely different thing.

If you give that special woman in your life this scented candle on Sunday, don’t be surprised if you wake up in the dog house Monday morning.

This is like other crazy schemes you hear about now and then, such as selling cow manure in Lucite blocks or shirts that look like Domino’s pizza drivers.

You are thinking: Why? Why on God’s earth would you try to make money selling more of something there should be less of?

As always, the Iron Law of the Marketplace will rule.

If this proposal craters, as it should, we may all rest assured.

If it takes off and becomes the Pet Rock of the decade, we are all in more trouble than we realize.

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Should fans running onto field be tased? Hell yes!

It’s a familiar argument about leniency vs. lowering the boom:

How should police handle fans who disrupt ball games by running onto the field?

Some punk did this Monday night in Philadelphia in a game against the Cardinals.

One of Philly’s finest tased the twerp, which upset some people.

They thought it was much too harsh. The lad’s dad said it was “definitely uncalled for.”

No word yet on whether the creep will be suing for emotional distress, but I wouldn’t rule it out.

If he does, he needs to hope I’m not on the jury.

Idiots who run onto ball fields for 15 seconds of fame are pathetic and stupid. But there are lots of pathetic and stupid people in the world, and you don’t want to encourage them.

This was a trend a few years back, and it got real annoying real quick.

In fact, on Tuesday night in Philly, the exact same thing happened again. Monkey see, monkey do.

So should these misguided souls be tased?

Hell yes! They need to learn a lesson, and it needs to sink into the tiny brains of other people thinking about copying them.

In fact, I wouldn’t stop with a little jolt of electricity.

After the moron is brought down by the taser, I’d pepper-spray him to make sure he stays down.

Then give him a major wedgie, and force him to look at photos of fat people in tiny swim suits.

And if Dick Cheney was in town, you could even waterboard him just before sending him to city jail, where he should be thrown into a small cell with a bunch of drunks about to get sick.

And by the way, make sure the entire city knows about this.

This approach, I guarantee you, will keep troublesome fans where they belong:

In the stands, whining about high concession prices and making ignorant comments about the sport and its athletes.

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Hot tea, cold cash

It is difficult to feel sorry for Starbucks or any food conglomerate, but these days anything is possible.

For example, the coffee giant has been sued by some idiot who says he got second-degree burns from tea that was too hot.

Good grief; it’s a hot beverage. If you chug it like a sody pop or spill it on your wee-wee, pain will result.

Again, what part of “hot” do you not understand?

This pathetic plaintiff says the tea was "unreasonably hot, in containers which were not safe."

Pal, unless it was boiling over like a Frankenstein experiment, it wasn’t too hot. It was simply hot tea.

And unless the container was a leaky plastic bag, that wasn’t the problem either.

Starbucks ought to come up with a new motto: "If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of our kitchen."

Meanwhile, in other warm beverage news, a trendy New York shop has come up with the world’s first ... $12 cup of coffee.

This, I believe, is too much.

Jeez, for 12 bucks you could buy a sack of coffee beans and maybe a plot of ground to plant 'em in!

The shop attempts to defend this petty larceny by describing the coffee as a "very clean, sweet, complex cup with tropical fruit notes of pineapple, kiwi and key lime."

Puh-lease! Is is a cup of coffee or a bowl of fruit? Even New Yorkers should know the difference!

If I bought a cup of coffee and someone charged me 12 George Washingtons, I’d be tempted to spill it on myself and call a lawyer.

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Once again, a bullet dodged

Let’s face it: We got very lucky with the car bomb in Times Square.

Just like the failed underpants bombing on the Christmas Day flight.

And Lord knows how many other close calls.

On the one hand, you have to be incredibly grateful for these breaks.

In both cases, many, many people would have been murdered.

But you have to wonder: How much longer can our luck hold?

Terrorists are evil, not stupid. Pretty soon, they’re going to figure out how make a bomb go off when it’s supposed to.

Tragically, they do it all the time in other places.

The car-bomb approach is particularly scary. We can search airplane passengers. We can’t watch every parked car.

Sure, your odds of being next to it when it goes off are a million to one. But somebody’s son or daughter, mother or father will be there.

Real life isn’t like TV, where Jack Bauer of “24” nabs the bad guy in the nick of time.

Most of the time, the bad guy commits his crime, and we try to catch him afterward.

This time, we got lucky. Eventually, our luck will run out.

When it does, our prayers won’t be those of thanksgiving. They will be those of mourning.

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Evicted from a pet cemetery?

Further proof that the recession is not over yet:

Critters are being evicted from pet cemeteries!

Yikes! I didn’t even know that was possible.

I’ve heard of being evicted from a hotel or restaurant (and even been tossed a time or two myself, but that’s another blog). But who ever heard of being kicked out of a graveyard?

I thought that once you were buried, either man or beast, you, uh, pretty well stayed six feet under.

Not so at a pet cemetery in Hartsdale, N.Y.

If you lapse on perpetual care – which runs a cool $1,700 per year – your pet is yanked out of the ground faster than you can say “late fee.”

This, I believe, is unfair.

What kind of “perpetual care” do you give a buried pet?

I’m pretty sure the only maintenance of the grave is running a lawn mower over it once a week.

And isn’t that understood to be the cemetery’s responsibility?

Have you ever heard a funeral director say, “Thanks for doing business with us – and the zoysia over Uncle Frank grows quickly after rain, so get on it pronto.”

Jeez, they could at least call it a “grass-cutting fee.” But I guess “perpetual care” sounds spiffier, and you can persuade someone to shell out $1,700 for that.

I think we’ve all learned a lesson here.

Always read the fine print.

And if you have to inter Fido, discreetly ask the head honcho if they have a discount for slightly used graves.

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Illegal immigration is now really illegal

Now this is ironic, sort of:

Illegal immigrants are leaving Arizona … because of the uproar over a new law that says they need to to skedaddle if they are in the states illegally. Even though it was already supposed to be illegal to be in this country illegally.

"Nobody wants to pick us up," said one frustrated Mexican day laborer in Arizona. So he and his friends are planning another border crossing. Only this time they’re headed south over the Rio Grande.

Uh, isn’t that the purpose of the new (and redundant) law?

This could start a strange trend.

Bank robbers could stop robbing banks because of a new law that says stickups are not nice.

Kidnappers could stop kidnapping because of – you guessed it – a new law frowning on this familiar practice.

Burglars could take up new careers because of a crackdown on burglary.

In other words, if we pass enough new laws that basically restate what old laws already said, everything will be spiffy.

I dunno. It seems too simple.

Then again, it’s working in Arizona – and the new law hasn’t even taken effect!

But since it is so controversial, what if it’s repealed, and being an illegal immigrant is just illegal again in the old sense?

That didn’t seem to work, so we’d be right back where we started.

I guess we’ll just have to trust the politicians to figure this one out.

Heck, they’ve done a great job with everything else, so this should be a snap.

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Whoa, Ohio!

Just what the heck is wrong with Ohio?

Lately, a lot.

You might think that the Buckeye State if full of solid, hard-working (and frankly boring) Midwesterners.

Think again.

Exhibit A would be the recent outbreak of fleas that shut down the Fairfield County Department of Health.

You read that right: A health department closed because of vermin.

What’s next, a restaurant cook dying of starvation?

And who gave the order to lock the doors? The same health department? Isn’t that like a cop giving himself a ticket for speeding?

All I know is that if I ever got a citation from this department, I’d say, “Hey, WTF, you guys can’t even keep bugs out of your own office!”

(Which would probably cause a second citation for something like a trash can in the wrong place, so on second thought don’t do that.)

As if that weren’t enough embarrassment for one state, next we learn that a guy was refused entry into the Ohio statehouse ’cause he wasn’t wearing shoes.

Which seems OK – the refusal, not the bare feet – but it turns out there is no law banning shoelss people from entering the statehouse.

So now state officials are trying to prohibit that practice after all. Talk about closing the barn door after the horse gets out.

Strange, but not as strange as the barefoot guy. He’s say he rarely wears shoes, even in winter, because it’s “a healthy lifestyle that makes him feel closer to places he visits.”

Riiigghht. Make sure never to invite this guy to a get-together at your place.

Ohioans should go ahead and ban barefoot visitors to the Statehouse.

People like that are weird – and they might have fleas.

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Put down the french fries and slowly back away

So how do we turn our fat, lazy kids into lean, mean achievin’ machines?

A county in California may ban toys with junk food – you know, the trinkets given out with Happy Meals and other dietary disasters.

The ban would apply to any kid’s meal over 485 calories or loaded up with salt or sugar. In other words, most of the menu on every fast food chain in America.

In theory, the ban would motivate fast food joints to offer healthier stuff. (“Mommy, can I have another order of alfalfa sprouts?”)

I’m guessing the food factories will knock off a few fries or a pinch of salt to get the meal just below the threshold. After all, that’s easier and it increases their profits. Heck, a barrel of lard might last a whole month now instead of just 3 weeks.

The California Restaurant Association is not taking this sitting down, though I would think real restaurants would love to stick it to Mickey D’s.

One ad by the association shows a little girl with her hands cuffed behind her back as she holds a stuffed animal.

Awwww.

I don’t know what the solution is. Nobody likes Nanny State meddling. But we’re raising a generation of pudgy sloths who can only move their thumbs when they send text messages.

Maybe the solution is to charge by the pound – for people, not food. When you go to Dunkin’ Donuts or Taco Bell, the more you weigh the more you pay.

That’s survival of the fittest, not the fattest. Bon appétit!

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News flash: Cigarettes and junk food will kill you!

Here we go again: Another silly research project that tells us things we already knew:

Like how smoking cigs, drinking booze, eating junk food and being a couch potato will make you die early.

Duh!

Who is surprised by this bombshell? Even the people who sell you tequila and Twinkies know they’re killing you in slow-motion. They just want to make a few bucks off you before you croak.

Jeez, the only things that could present a bigger threat to your health would be:

1) Selling barbecued puppies at a PETA convention.

2) Standing up behind the Red Sox dugout at Fenway and leading a cheer for Derek Jeter.

3) Asking the customs agent at the airport in Saudi Arabia, “ … And could you please give me directions to the nearest synagogue?”

Clearly, the only way to avoid checking out early is clean living and hard work.

That means cutting out sugar or booze, forcing yourself to take cold showers every day, doing 50 pushups before bedtime and going on a brisk run each morning, rain or shine or hurricane.

That way, even if you don’t live to be 100, it will seem like it.

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Please, no more John Edwards

Isn't it time for former presidential candidate John Edwards to shut up and go away?

Now we learn that Johnny Boy will testify under oath “about his relationship with mistress Rielle Hunter, facing questions about the infamous sex tape and whether he spent campaign funds to hide the relationship.”

This is too much of a good thing.

There was a time when this sex scandal, like all sex scandals, was more fun than a day at the circus.

After all, you had all the ingredients: A pompous politicians, a jealous wife, a sex tape, an illegitimate child, a beautiful mistress.

(OK, a basically unattractive mistress, but she was still The Other Woman.)

But now, it just seems more tired than titillating.

And after Tiger Woods and Jesse James, Johnny just doesn’t measure up in the Infidelity Index.

Tiger was banging skanks by the platoon. Jesse hooked up with a tramp who had more tattoos than him.

What can the former senator and Democratic darling bring to the table? A furtive affair with a loopy campaign aide?

Sorry, that just doesn’t cut it any more.

Unless they can spice it up a little, I’m officially bailing out of this one.

Besides, one of Tiger’s bimbos is probably going to have another juicy tidbit any day now.

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When justice stinks – literally

Sometimes our judicial system needs to learn to leave well enough alone.

Like the drug suspect running from police who was found hiding in … a pool of liquid manure.

And neck-deep at that … for at least an hour!

This, my friends, is not a problem.

The punk should have been allowed to stay in the stinky lagoon as long as he wanted.

In fact, maybe a while longer than he wanted. It would teach him a lesson that no jail cell could match.

As it is, the news story said he became “combative” when cops tried to arrest him and had to be hit twice with a stun gun.

Yikes. How’d you like to be the officer who had to ’cuff that punk?

Meanwhile, in related news, the great state of New Jersey is shutting down the last two rest-stop bathrooms on non-toll roads.

The guv says the state is broke and can’t afford the $270,000 per year needed to keep ’em open.

Gee whiz, what ever happened to priorities? Doesn’t the gummint know that when you gotta go, you gotta go?

If nothing else, state officials should replace the restrooms with low-maintenance alternatives.

Like an open patch of grass.

It wouldn’t be as private, but think of how much you’d save on water with no flushing needed.

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Big Ben benched

So Pittsburgh Steelers QB Ben Roethlisberger is gonna get some down time next season – six game on the bench.

Some fans may think this is unfair because Big Ben, as he is so charmingly nicknamed, wasn’t convicted of a crime – or even charged with one.

Still, a 20-year-old woman basically said he raped her in a toilet in a Georgia bar when she was drunk.

That is not the kind of thing you put on your resume. Or mention to Mom at Sunday dinner.

And last year Big Ben was accused of a similar assault by a lady in Las Vegas.

You know what they say: Once is an accident, twice is a pattern.

So Commish Roger Goodell dropped the hammer, saying to Ben:

“ … There is nothing about your conduct in (the incident) that can remotely be described as admirable, responsible or consistent with either the values of the league or the expectations of our fans.”

OK, but “the values of the league” also pretend that players reach 300 pounds of muscle mass without any illegal substances and include violent hits that often produce concussions and hot-dog celebrations for tackles or touchdowns.

Big Ben also has to undergo something called a "comprehensive behavioral evaluation by medical professionals."

I’m pretty sure those experts will find out that Big Ben is a typical millionaire jock who thinks he can get away with anything … because he usually does.

After all, he is fawned over by team officials, worshipped by the media and for some reason viewed as a “role model” by countless kids.

Maybe the commish could do something about those little problems too.

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Darryl's dicey death

The world is a better place today because Darryl Durr was executed yesterday. He was a lowdown killer – and a serial rapist – who doesn’t deserve any sympathy.

But the lawyers for this otherwise forgettable punk deserve credit for coming up with a new excuse to avoid The Needle.

They claimed that ol’ Darryl was – get this – allergic to the anesthetic used in Ohio executions.

So they said that the state couldn’t execute him because that could cause him too much distress … while he was being executed!

Fortunately, logic and justice prevailed – which can’t be taken for granted any more in America’s courtrooms.

State lawyers said that if Darryl did suffer low blood pressure and impaired breathing during the execution, it was no big deal. After all, it would happen when he was on the way to zero blood pressure and no breathing.

Thank God and Greyhound he’s gone.

And if he suffered a bit extra during those final moments, well, that’s a chance I’m willing to take.

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Real men don’t wear “mirdles”

Just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, along comes news of “male girdles.”

Or “mirdles” as they are called.

Sad but true. An Australian company is marketing the darned things, which is appropriate because this turns traditional ideals of manhood upside down.

They’re pitching it to businessmen who want to look trim without actually exercising or passing on that second piece of pie.

A spokesman even said, "We are focusing mainly on metropolitan and urban areas where people are under the most pressure and stress."

Huh? Don’t pressure and stress cause you to lose weight?

All I know is that if Grandpa had to storm Normandy Beach in a “mirdle,” he probably would have developed severe chafing about halfway up and Germany would be the most powerful nation in Europe.

OK, it is anyway, but you get my point.

Look, dammit, real men don’t wear mirdles.

Either they take up rigorous exercise (golf and fantasy football don’t count) or they bite the bullet and accept that first heart attack at 52.

“Mirdles.” Hmmpphh.

You can wear a “mirdle,” but only if your name is “Myrtle.”

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Ice land, ash air

If you were thinking of jumping on a plane this weekend and flitting off to the French Riviera for some sun ’n’ champagne, you’d better shift to Plan B.

Seems a giant ash cloud from a volcano in Iceland has shut down most air traffic over Europe. And could keep it shut down for a while.

This is serious, folks.

Two-thirds of Europe’s flights have been cancelled. For that matter, also nixed are many European flights to and from the U.S. The economic losses are estimated at $200 million per day.

And it’s no picnic in Iceland either. Heat from the volcano has melted a glacier, causing massive flooding.

Yikes. Mother Nature is getting cranky.

As bad as it is, there’s nothing anyone can do about. No environmental agency can fine the volcano or order it to stop churning out tons of ash.

On top of everything, the name of the darned volcano is unpronounceable:
Eyjafjallajokull.

The only bright side I can see is that ash-cloud cooling has just trumped global warming for a while.

But the cure seems worse than the disease.

What a mess. Whoever thought that tiny Iceland could cause so many problems?

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Next on Larry King: All about divorce!

2010 is shaping up to be a bad year for marriage. The latest blow is the news that famed talk show host Larry King wants a divorce from his wife.

Actually, this shouldn’t be much of a surprise. The Inquisitive One has done this seven times before.

Leapin’ lizards, Larry!

Marriage isn’t like renting an apartment. You don’t bail out when you want a change of scenery.

And sadly – but typically – this celeb divorce is starting to get nasty.

Both sides are accusing the other of cheating.

One report says that Larry’s wife found a credit card statement for a diamond necklace from Cartier’s that apparently went to the Other Woman.

Larry protested his innocence – you know how persuasive he can be – and to “prove” it, he gave his wife the title to three homes.

Leapin’ lizards, Larry!

It’s one thing to feel guilty. It’s another thing to commit economic suicide.

In turn, Larry’s crew says the wife was cheating … with their son’s baseball coach!

Is nothing sacred? (And was the kid at least moved from outfield to infield because of the involvement of the, uh, team mom?)

I think we’ve all learned a lesson here.

Larry may be the king of big-time interviews, but when it comes to holy matrimony, he’s just a pretender to the throne.

Let’s just hope he doesn’t remarry on the rebound.

Someone should tell him that eight is enough.

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U.S. needs tax breaks for mustaches and …

Why the hell not? Why shouldn’t American men who grow mustaches get a tax break?

That’s what the American Mustache Institute is advocating, and I say it’s about damn time.

Almost every other interest group gets a goodie from Uncle Sam.

We need to correct this lingering problem in our society – if the words “fairness” and “equality” carved beneath the Statue of Liberty mean anything. (Uh, they are carved there, aren’t they?)

With a ’stache subsidy, more men would look like Burt Reynolds in “Smokey and the Bandit.” We’d be able to stay outside longer in colder weather. We’d give a real boost to the long-suffering scissors/trimmer industry.

And let’s not stop there. I propose additional tax subsidies for people who:

-- Don’t have “Eat More Beans; America Needs The Gas” bumperstickers.

-- Always leave nice tips, even if the service was so-so.

-- Don’t have T-shirts reading, “I went to (fill in the blank) and all I got was this lousy shirt."

-- Never say, “Jeez, is it hot/cold enough for ya?”

-- Faithfully stop at yellow lights and use their blinkers.

-- Don’t have mullet haircuts.

-- Have signs on their property reading, “No trespassing. Violators – I mean survivors – will be prosecuted.”

The list is endless. You, dear reader, might even have a few more categories of people who deserve a break today from the guv’ment.

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Will the Astros go 0-162?

Of course not. That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone even suggest that?

Oh, that’s right, the 0-7 start.

The fewest runs scored in either league.

Lance Berkman’s bum knee and the realization that he won’t get off the DL soon.

Nagging worries about Roy O and his so-so record last year.

A lineup filled with older players on the downward arcs of their careers.

A tight-fisted owner who is unlikely to stick a crowbar in his wallet for a big-time free agent.

… Still. It can’t last forever.

Hey, the Pirates are in the same division. A good high school squad could beat them.

Eventually, another team is going to have an off night, and everything will click for the ‘Stros. If both things happen in the same game – bingo, you’re looking at a win.

There’s also the slim possibility of a forfeit.

One way or another, the W column is going to get a number in it. I think.

I can say this for sure. There is no way the Astros lose tonight. You can take it to the bank and bet the ranch on it.

Why? ‘Cause they don’t play until Wednesday.

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Fortunately, Phil

So it’s true. The Good Lord does answer prayers – like my plea on Friday not to let Tiger Woods win the Masters.

OK, maybe it wasn’t heavenly intervention. After all, the Man Upstairs has lots of important stuff on His plate.

Still, it was sweet to see good ol’ Phil don the green jacket Sunday while Tiger went off to continue his sex rehab.

Phil is one of the rare nice guys in big-time sports. His wife and mother have cancer. He deserves a break.

Tiger, despite his recent apologies, is more like the typical jock-jerk who seems to win all too often.

And make no mistake about it, if Tiger had won Sunday, the hype would have been massive and sickening.

It would have made some folks forget about his sleazy second life that oozed out Thanksgiving night.

Thank God that has been postponed. Tiger will win another major, of course, and it will come.

But at least we don’t have to watch it in his first tournament back after the multiple mistress merrygoround.

… Now, about those Astros. Maybe I should try another prayer.

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Oh no, not another Tiger triumph!

I said it before and I’ll say it again:

Please, God, make sure that the winner of the Masters golf tournament is not named Tiger Woods.

I am not being vindictive here.

I know that Tiger’s a great golfer – probably the best ever.

Now that he’s out of sex rehab (!) he will resume his relentless march toward Jack Nicklaus’ magic record of 18 majors.

This guy picks up trophies as routinely as we pick up jugs of milk.

But not this one. Not his first one out of the gate. Not the mother of all golf titles!

If he dons the green jacket Sunday afternoon, his false status as a “hero” or “role model” will be back in play.

Despite, of course, a burst of serial cheating and tramp-trawling that Hugh Hefner might have backed away from.

He doesn’t deserve to be worshipped as a jock god again – not ever, and certainly not right away.

It may happen, of course. In fact, it probably will given the twisted way that celebs are judged these days.

For the few people who aren’t so easily fooled, however, it will be a little easier to swallow if his crowning is postponed for a tourney or two.

Let Phil win this one. His wife has cancer, and his career has had more than his share of disappointments.

Phil – and lots of other golfers – deserve a break. You-know-who deserves a few more rounds in purgatory.

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Bike bandit hoax!

Finally, some good news in the world of crime.

Turns out that a bicycling bandit didn’t take down that Dollar General store in Port Neches last month.

The manager of said establishment has been arrested filing a false police report about that bizarre incident to cover up her own theft of the store’s profits.

I, for one, am relieved. I don’t want to live in a place where robbers rides bicycles … and target humble shops like Dollar General!

That is too embarrassing. It’s like we can even produce decent crooks or don’t even have any banks worth robbing.

What’s next, breaking into a thrift shop at night to get first crack at the new load of hand-me-downs?

One thing puzzles me, however: Why would the Dollar General manager say that some dude rode up on a bike, stuck a gun in her face and wheeled away with two bags of cash?

A weird story like that is going to attract a lot of attention. If you’re doing something illegal – like, say, embezzling from your own store – you kind of want to lay low while you’re doing the deed.

I think we’ve all learned a lesson here: When you’re making up excuses, whether for robbing a store or forgetting to do your homework, put a little effort into it.

Take a few minutes and try to come up with a good story.

It’s still wrong, but at least it’s the right kind of wrong.

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Crime, punishment

OK, the justice business is hard. But it’s not that hard.

Why is it that so many sentences are too harsh or too lenient? How hard can it be to split the difference?

Exhibit A (I just love courtroom lingo) would be the Colorado judge who was fired after issuing an arrest warrant for a teenager with an overdue library DVD.

Wow. Put down the gavel and slowly back away.

You’d really have to be a charter member of the lock-’em-up-and-throw-away-the-key club to support something like that.

I’d hate to see what that judge would do to folks who spit on the sidewalk or parked too close to a hydrant.

Wait, let me guess: “Off with their heads!”

At the other end of the scale is the dirtbag who was arrested recently after cutting off his ankle monitor and busting parole.

This shouldn’t have been much of a surprise … because this charming fellow did the same thing in 2008 when he was on parole.

Uh, how many times do you get to cut off your ankle monitor before somebody figures out you don’t deserve parole?

And this creep was sentenced to 50 years for raping two children in 1986, so why was he even given parole in the first place?

I’d have kept him locked up until that sentence was served – in 2036.

If he wanted to cut off something else in his cell as the years went by, well, that would be his business.

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Pink slips/face lifts

Hold the champagne and turn off “Happy Days Are Here Again.”

The recession is not over yet – and the latest trend toward plastic surgery proves it.

According to one source, “hundreds of people in the Chicago area are turning to plastic surgery to keep or land a job.”

And you know what they say: If it’s happening in Chicago, it’s probably happening all over.

(Except, we hope, for the part about city officials walking around with their hands out and dead people voting on election day.)

You don’t have to be an economist to realize that this is serious.

If the jobless need tummy tucks, face lifts or “breast augmentation” to land a new job, it won’t be long before those procedures become another routine part of unemployment benefits.

After all, this is America, where no need goes unmet, even if it just got invented a few hours ago.

If this trend takes hold, it will cause more people without jobs look better than people with jobs, which seems unfair.

And if more people get Botox injections for whatever reason, it will be harder to find anyone able to make any expressions with their frozen faces, leading to all sorts of confusion.

The bottom line is that the economy will get worse, not better, causing more people to get laid off … and call up plastic surgeons the next day.

That would only benefit plastic surgeons, who do OK anyway.

We have to nip this thing in the bud. My proposal: A national “Hire the Homely” campaign.

It won’t be pretty – literally – but at least it will stave off national bankruptcy for a few more years.

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Duke 87, Butler 78

Tonight will be one of those heartwarming, tear-jerking stories that sports fans will talk about for years.

The scrappy underdog Butler is going against the Evil Empire – a.k.a. Duke.

We all know how we want it to end – just like the movie “Hoosiers,” which of course was filmed in the Butler gym.

The skinny, undersized nerds will somehow prevail after all.

They’ll fall behind, of course, because that’s the way these stories are played out.

But a fiery halftime speech by the coach, along with a long-lost dad coming back to sit behind the bench, will save the day.

It will all come down to a last shot – it always does – but that buzzer-beating trey will fall in.

Sure, it will roll around the rim for an agonizing period in which time seems to stand still. But it will drop nonetheless.

Tears of joy will be shed, backs will be slapped, and moms will say “That’s my boy!”

… Unfortunately, that’s what we’d like to see, not what will go down.

What will happen is that Duke will crush Butler like a bug.

Coach K will run his robots in and out with the cool efficiency of a surgeon removing your heart. When he needs points, he sends in a scoring cyborg. When he needs D, he will shuttle in a blocker/intimidator.

The scrappy underdogs will keep plugging away, of course, but they can’t overcome destiny, power and the relentless drive of a Basketball Factory.

If you believe otherwise, you probably think the New York Yankees and Kansas City Royals both have an equal chance of winning the World Series.

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Tiger’s Ten (million!)

So it is true: Silence is golden. Reeaally golden.

As in the 10 million bucks that one of Tiger’s mistresses raked in for keeping her yap shut.

That’s a lot of cabbage for doing nothing. Heck, it’s a lot for doing anything.

Rachel Uchitel sure hit the jackpot. She won’t have to go trolling for Sugar Daddies for, well, for the rest of her life.

Now I know why these gals announced press conferences when the scandal broke.

It seemed an odd way to protest that their privacy had been violated.

Turns out they really wanted to get Tiger’s attention.

In most cases, it worked. One of Tiger’s flunkies would call up the lass in question (Tiger may have even had their numbers on speed-dial) and say, “How much do you want to cancel this little confab and get out of our hair – forever?”

Only it wasn’t fair, because some of the skanks “got several hundred thousand dollars, and others got nothing.”

Hey, whatever happened to equality and fair play and all that?

It’s enough to make some of the scorned working girls go right back out on the party circuit and start trolling for Sugar Daddies.

Unless, of course, they were already occupied in that very line of work.

The real kicker in all this is that Tiger didn’t completely dam the river.

Despite many payoffs to many ladies, some unpleasant details have leaked out.

Like porn star Devon James’ tale about “how she and another female porn star enjoyed a threesome with Tiger while his wife Elin Nordegren was pregnant with their first child.”

Ouch.

Or that during these flings, Tiger was, “Dirty, dirty, he was pretty nasty. He was dirty, bad, bad, bad – in the bedroom.”

Yikes!

If tidbits like that have been served up despite all the frantic check-writing, ol’ Tiger got the shaft.

Somehow, however, I’m finding it hard to work up any sympathy for him.

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Top 10 April Fool’s headlines:

1) “Houston Astros expected to dominate National League this year”

2) “Reality TV shows coming to an end”

3) “Hurricane forecasters admit they flip coins to make predictions”

4) “Obama says deficit must be slashed immediately with major spending cuts”

5) “Glenn Beck says, ‘Deep down inside, I really respect Obama’ ”

6) “Terrell Owens confesses: ‘I was a jerk’ “

7) “Gov. Rick Perry, famous for great hair, wears a wig”

8) “Curling Federation agrees: Our sport is stupid”

9) “Singer Ricky Martin announces he is gay” (OK, that one really did happen.)

10) “Slugger Mark McGwire admits he used steroids!” (Uh, ditto on that one too.)

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Messy Jesse

You have to give biker/jerk Jesse James this much:

He has done something that didn’t seem possible: He has topped Tiger Woods on the Ickiness Scale.

Jesse, of course, has become infamous lately for shaming wife Sandra Bullock with a series of sleazy affairs.

While ol’ Jess may not have been able to beat Tiger in the numbers game – and who could match a pro athlete’s stamina? – he made it up (sort of) by choosing quality over quantity. As in low quality.

First came the report that Mistress No. 1 was Michelle McGee, a skank who has as many tattoos as him.

(Maybe that’s what attracted him to her. Then again, maybe the fact that she was a woman was enough. Jesse doesn’t seem too picky.)

Anyhow, a photo soon surfaced of Michelle decked out in Nazi gear.

Charming. (Not.)

What could be worse? How about a photo surfacing of Jesse decked out in Nazi gear?
Now that’s ickiness squared.

This does seem like a low point in the tale, but I guess we shouldn't underestimate cheating hounds and the tramps they run with.

Whatever happens, however, it’s hard to wonder what a seemingly normal person like Sandra Bullock was thinking when she agreed to marry this obvious dirtbag.

If she comes out of this mess with her sanity and without an STD, she should consider herself very lucky.

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Political prayers?

Finally, prayers for politicians.

If you’re tired of praying for peace, salvation and other big-picture goals, you can lower your sights. Way down.

The Church of England has created special “prayers to help confused and cynical voters ahead of Britain's upcoming election.”

A typical one reads, "Help me not to be cynical about politics and politicians, help me to remember that my vote can make a difference."

It’s about time. And we need it on this side of the pond too. May I suggest:

“Dear Lord: Please lower my taxes to almost nothing and bless our town with a spiffy new six-lane highway.”

“Dear Lord: Please give us senators who can keep their hands out of the pockets of lobbyists, their eyes on the challenges of health care and their you-know-whats away from interns.”

“Dear Lord: Please make those idiots in the other party as smart as the geniuses in my party.” (Applicable to Democrats and Republicans.)

“Dear Lord: Please enlighten more people about the evils of gambling ... after I hit the big jackpot on Powerball.”

And finally:

“Dear Lord: Please direct me to the church safely this Easter Sunday. It is so hard to remember where it is from last Christmas.”

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Surprise! Or not

It’s happened again: Another non-surprise is treated as, well, some kind of surprise.

The latest shocker? Singer Ricky Martin is gay.

To anyone who knew a smattering about pop culture, this is not news. Even before Ricky came out, the rumors had been out there for years.

It was just like the questions that surrounded other gay stars before they decided to be straightforward about not being straight.

There’s been an epidemic of that lately – not stars coming out but bombshells that turn out to be firecrackers.

Like the report the other day that Michael Jackson’s home was chock-full of skin-lightener creams.

Duh. Did anyone actually think his ghost-like complexion was natural?

Even though M.J. periodically denied those questions before died, anyone with an I.Q. larger than his shoe size knew he was lying.

Ditto for slugger Mark McGwire’s recent confession that he used steroids. Double-duh. Who thought he naturally had arms the size of legs?

In case you’re a bit naïve, I’d like to go ahead and spill the beans on some other things you may have been wondering about:

-- Republicans really do want President Obama to fail.

-- President Obama really didn’t want to work with the GOP on health care.

-- Texas Rangers manager Ron Washington was lying when he said he only did coke once after failing a drug test last year.

-- Simon Cowell isn’t really as means as he seems on “Idol.” It’s an act designed to pump up ratings. (Paula Abdul, unfortunately, was as ditzy as she appeared.)

-- When an actor or pro athlete says, “It isn’t about the money,” it’s about the money.

... That’s all for now; I don’t want to give anyone more than he can digest at one time.

Besides, Sunday is fast approaching, and there’s something you really need to know about the Easter Bunny.

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Bizarre books

So what was the nuttiest-but-real book title of the year?

None other than "Crocheting Adventures with Hyperbolic Planes."

But you probably knew that. Heck, you may even have the manuscript in your home library (assuming you have a home and a library).

The competition was the annual Diagram Prize in Britain. The only rule is that the book title has to be real, not something goofy like "What Kind of Bean is This Chihuahua?"

OK, my bad. That was a runner-up this year, along with "Collectible Spoons of the Third Reich."

At least the last one makes some sense. It follows "Collectible Forks of the Third Reich" and "Collectible Knives of the Third Reich."

It is nice to know, I guess, that some authors have really wacky titles for their books.

Then again, the less I know about "Living With Crazy Buttocks," the better.

I suppose the ultimate would be if one of these bizarre books began, “It was a dark and stormy night.”

Then it could qualify for the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Prize, which is given to the most wretched sentence or paragraph penned in the English language over the course of a year.

… And we wonder why the kids these days don’t read anymore.

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Go directly to (kid) jail

Some things just don’t mix, like oil and water.

Or kids’ playgrounds and fake jails.

Incredibly, however, that’s exactly what was going on in New York City, of all places -- by a public housing project, of all places again.

The other day a mom noticed the fake jail and complained. The Housing Authority bureaucrats, ever responsive, promptly fixed the problem.

They removed the word “jail” and took out the fake bars.

Good. We hope no toddlers were traumatized.

But it does seem odd, almost suggesting that kids were gonna end up in the clink at some time in their lives.

However, here’s the really interesting part about the whole story:

The playground was installed ... way back in 2004.

For six long years, nobody complained about the fake jail – or maybe even noticed it. The city even found a second fake jail at another playground.

That’s a minor miracle in a society where taking offense has been raised to an art form.

It also should rule out any lawsuits for emotional distress. (Darn the luck!)

As for the kids, they’ll probably go back to doing what kids have done for generations: Playing for the sheer joy of playing.

Heck, when the grownups aren’t looking, they might even sneak in a game of cops and robbers.

Shhhh.

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Lazy robbers!

It’s happened again: another outbreak of lazy criminals.

What is happening to this once-great land of ours?

In the latest affront to all that is decent, a couple of bank robbers in Fairfield, Conn., called ahead so the employees would have a bag of money ready!

Sweet Mother of Pearl.

What are they teaching the punks these days in Crime 101?

A bank is not like a pizza joint. You don’t phone in an order ahead of time. Especially an illegal one, like robbery.

In the good ol’ days, crooks had the gumption to plan their crimes beforehand, do the leg work, case the joint and then pull the job without taking the easy way out.

Was it harder? Sure, but they had the satisfaction from knowing they gave their all for a job well-done.

A police officer said the clowns in this caper – who were caught, of course – were “not too bright.”

Duh. You could add “not too energetic.”

I hope the judge throws the book at ’em.

If there’s any justice in this world, they will spend the next 10 to 20 years turning big rocks into small rocks.

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Put down the nuclear reactor and slowly back away

Microsoft genius Bill Gates is a nice guy. A little nerdy, but nice.

But I still wouldn’t give him a nuclear reactor.

And this, unfortunately, is what Billy and the Japanese company Toshiba are planning to do.

This is like letting little kids play with matches; nothing good can come from it.

Think about it: Bill Gates, smartest and richest man in the world, teaming up with a computer giant like Toshiba.

That’s scary enough. Give this dynamic duo a nuke, and I think they could pretty much take over the world.

Far-fetched? Don't be naive.

A spokesman for Toshiba said the two sides had just begun to "exchange information" but stressed that "nothing concrete has been decided on development or investment."

Of course not. When you’re planning to take over the world, you don’t tip your hand. Anyone who has watched Dr. Evil in the Austin Powers movies knows this.

The people of planet earth must nip this little scheme in the bud.

I don’t want my kids to grow up in a world where Microsoft is the only legal software and all men must have goofy Bill Gates-style haircuts.

… Actually, I could live with Microsoft and the endless glitches. The haircuts, however, are a different thing. Ick.

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Keep Tiger talking

Tiger Woods has finally done something right.

And no, I am not talking about his latest confession.

He finally dumped spin-doctor Ari Fleischer.

Ari, for those sports fans who don’t get out too often, was the press secretary for President Bush.

As such, he perfected the political art of saying nothing while pretending to say everything – and even sounding sincere about it.

We do not need this from Tiger.

We need him to talk like a golfer, not a governor.

We need all the sleazy details on his sordid life. We need names, dates and locations. Then more of them.

We do not want a bland “mistakes were made” statement released through a spokesman.

That’s what politicians do when they are caught with a staff member or intern (or a goat in the back forty).

Tiger supposedly cut Ari loose because "his very presence gave the impression that (he) was being stage-managed in his return to the public eye."

Duh. Now why would people think that?

With Ari out of the way, Tiger is now free to spill his guts on his secret life.

And given the number of his, uh, girlfriends and some of the weird text messages he sent, sports fans should be entertained – I mean informed – for a long time to come.

Tiger, you may now play through!

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Surprise, surprise: Octomom needs cash

Poor Octomom needs cash again.

She is way behind in her house payments – about a half-million behind – and needs to get some Benjamins.

No telling how she got into this bind. Then again, it could have something to WITH HAVING A FOOTBALL TEAM OF CHILDREN without any visible means of support. Or even a hubby to bring home a paycheck now and then.

Anyhoo, to get through this little jam, she’s making the following options available to her fans, or even people who hate her:

$25, picture of you with her.

$50, autographed picture of you with her.

$75, authentic diaper from Octomom baby.

$100, autographed T-shirt that says, “I visited Octomom and all I got was this lousy shirt.”

If this doesn’t work out, she’s thinking of letting you legally adopt any or all of the kids -- for a hefty finder’s fee, of course.

Outrageous? Crass? Inhumane?

Would you expect anything else from her?

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Marriage material

There’s such a thing as being too organized.

Like the Japanese school that teaches students how to find marriage material.

As the news story puts it, “The Infini school offers various classes for wannabe brides and grooms at a time when many people in Japan are either shunning the institution of marriage or are finding it very difficult to hook up with a partner.

“The school … teaches students how to talk, walk and present themselves elegantly in a bid to capture the hearts and minds of prospective partners and their parents. ...”

Has it come to this?

Don’t the old-fashioned ways of snaring a mate work any more? Such as going to an ice-cream social (if you’re the straight-laced type) or a rowdy bar (if you walk on the wild side).

At this marriage academy, “students also simulate dates, during which their instructors grade their performance and point out what they did wrong.”

Wow. I can hear it now: “Guys, belching during the meal and asking if the lady wants to go Dutch on the bill do not point you in the right direction.”

And the ladies may not be much better. One young lass said, "I'm looking for a man who makes more than $110,000 a year, doesn't ask me to live with his parents and takes good care of me."

Duh! And guys want rich gals who look like movie stars!

Good luck, grads. May you find your soulmate -- or at least save a few bucks at tax time by finding someone you can file a joint return with.

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Oh, by the way, sorry about that

Of all the ways to go: Being killed while jogging on a beach by an airplane making a crash landing.

That’s tough. Even more unfortunate were the comments by the pilot – who survived the collision, unlike the jogger.

The story, briefly: Malfunctioning airplane – actually a kit-built job – has to land on the beach near Hilton Head, S.C.

So the pilot puts her down – right on the jogger, unfortunately.

OK, we have an accident here. The pilot didn’t want to flatten the jogger, and landing a disabled plane has to be hairy. (See Capt. Sully, Hero of the Hudson.)

But after the crash, pilot Ed Smith had some strange priorities:

"I've got a lot of issues going on right now," Smith said. "I've got a plane that's all torn up. And I've got a young man that I killed."

Did you catch that: Plane first, dead man second. Hello?

This wasn’t just a bad day for the jogger, Robert Jones. It was his last day, through no fault of his own.

And in the same vein, the president of the company that manufactured the plane “called the landing ‘miraculous’ given the damage to it, but also expressed sorrow at the deadly outcome.”

Again, plane first, dead man second.

Somehow, I think the family and friends of the late Robert Jones will place the order differently.

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Bye-bye, bayonets.

The times, they are a-changin’:

The U.S. Army will stop training its recruits how to use bayonets.

Holy chow hall! This is the biggest shift in our military training since G.I.s stopped learning how to say in German or Japanese, “Put down your guns, you filthy sons of pigs; we have you surrounded!”

Generation after generation of draftees and enlisted men have learned how to wield carefully sharpened bayonets with skill and daring. Or at least enough to pass the basic training course, be loaded onto a ship or plane and dumped in a war zone.

No longer will eager recruits charge straw-filled dummies with fixed bayonets yelling “Yaaaaa!” or “Take that, ya lousy Commie!”

Instead, that time will be devoted to debating the benefits of Myspace vs. Facebook and when it is proper to Tweet during firefights.

I s’pose it had to happen. But the banishing of bayonets calls to mind a strange bit of wisdom from the “Humor in Uniform” section in Readers Digest many years ago.

It seems that a grizzled sergeant (aren’t they all?) was instructing his green recruits in the art of bayonet warfare.

Sarge casually mentioned that if you stuck your rifle’s bayonet into, uh, an enemy soldier’s body and it, ahem, didn’t want to come out easily, don't panic.

Simply fire a round from your rifle, and the recoil would help you pull the bayonet out.

One of the young recruits, wise beyond his years, drawled, “Sarge, if I got a round left in the rifle, I ain’t gonna use the bayonet.”

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Bikers gone wild

Think the recovery is real?

Hah! The recession still rules, as proved by the boom in bicycle-related crimes from criminals who apparently can’t afford cars.

In Beaumont, the cops had to pull over one of these desperadoes last week.

And it was not a piece-of-cake traffic stop. The biker in question was allegedly packin’ drugs and “fought with officers to the point that an officer needs assistance call was put out.”

Wow; that is one tough two-wheeler!

Speaking of which, in Port Neches the robbers have now been reduced to riding bicycles.

This very morning, a biker knocked off the Dollar General and sped away on a Schwinn (or a reasonable facsimile thereof.)

Now that is embarrassing. Why couldn’t the cops catch him? Did their cars run out of gas thanks to budget cuts from this nagging recession?

If things get worse, robbers may have to downsize from cars to bikes to their feet and just run off after pulling a heist.

If it gets that bad, maybe stores should be allowed to keep dogs that could run down the bad guy and hold on to his ankle until some cop could ’cuff him.

… By the way: Willie Sutton famously robbed banks because that’s where the money is. Why would someone take down a Dollar General?

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Please, not another 'Real Housewives' show!

Just what we need; a fifth spinoff of “The Real Housewives of (fill in the blank).”

Is this a great country or what?

Some people thought that one of these monstrosities – the “Real Housewives of Orange County” – was enough.

No such luck.

It was soon followed by the “Real Housewives of Atlanta,” ad nauseum, and now the “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.”

This, I believe, is too much of a good thing. Actually, too much of a bad thing.

If you haven’t had the pleasure, the people on the “Real Housewives” franchise are shallow, vain and uber-materialistic, devoid of real thoughts but overloaded with plastic surgery.

They make the rest of the characters on TV look like the clan on “The Waltons.”

Could it be worse? Yes.

All future episodes of the “Real Housewives” will be shot in high def.

Now we can get super detail on all the places on their suntanned, pampered bodies where silicone has been inserted and wrinkles have been removed.

I think I’ll pass on the “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.”

There has to be something better on, like maybe a special on The History Channel on the many uses of soybeans.

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Snail slime

Whatever happened to the good ol’ days when druggies were content to smoke a joint or snort a line?

Now some pinheads in Florida are swallowing snail snot.

No, that is not a misprint and you are not in a not a drug-induced hallucination. (At least I think you aren’t.)

Snail snot. (Or mucus, if you wanna be fancy.)

And not just any snail. We’re talking Giant African Snails that can grow up to 10 inches long and even eat plaster!

Ick.

You couldn’t pay me to get close to something that disgusting. But some Jim Jones-type has convinced his gullible followers to “do the goo” and, like, see God or something.

Only instead of achieving cosmic enlightenment, they were getting “violently ill, losing weight and developing strange lumps in their stomachs.”

Duh!

The first two are bad enough, but the “lumps in their stomachs” thing will really keep you up at night.

Haven’t any of these morons seen actor John Hurt's eating scene in the first Alien movie?

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Ooh lah lah!

We have long known that the rich are not like you and me.

Now we can add that the French are quite different too. As in, both the French president and his wife are having affairs!

Sacre bleu! And we thought we had something goin’ on when a president was dallying with an intern.

In France, that wouldn’t even budge the meter.

The latest gossip from that strange land across the pond is that the French president (who has a very unFrench name in Nicholas Sarkozy) and his wife, former mega-hot model Carla Bruni, are, uh, violating their marriage vows.

Well, that is, if they even bothered to take ’em.

Nick strayed from his first wife with a woman who later became his second wife. Even then, he took a walk on the wild side and divorced her after another affair. (Or two or three; hell, who’s counting?)

And his latest diversion is a female karate champ, which is doubly dangerous. Cheese her off, and you just might get a well-placed kick in a place that could hamper your future extracurricular activities.

As for wife Carla, no surprise there either. She once famously said, “Monogamy is boring.” And in her model days, she once posed for a photo without many clothes on. (Actually, none at all!)

And she has already had affairs with – check out this combo! – famous studs like Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton and Donald Trump. Can you believe The Donald is in that bunch!

I’d exclaim “sacre bleu!” but I already did and it’s the only French exclamation I know. (Actually, I don’t even know what it means, but I do know it’s a French exclamation.)

Whatever. What can you expect from a nation that gave its name to the French kiss?

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Ice, ice baby

It’s nice to know that some families still have their priorities right.

Like the granny who camped out at a certain location for 43 hours to make sure her little grandson got what he wanted.

How heartwarming.

Was it a slot in a prestigious school?

Or maybe a chance to apply for a coveted job?

How about an opportunity to do something exotic, like take a cruise around the world?

Uh, no, no and no.

Granny plopped down her behind ... so her grandson could place the first order at a new ice cream store.

And we wonder why we are being out-hustled and out-innovated by other nations.

I just hope that if some country is going to attack us, they have the decency to give us a little notice so we can get ready.

Or at least think about what to do while we pack our mouths with ice cream.

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Going ape

Some day in the not-too-distant future when your child asks you why the federal government is broke, you can say:

“ 'Cause we spent all the money on stupid things like monkey research back in 2010.”

It’s true, taxpayers. $71,623 in stimulus funds is being used to basically study what happens to monkeys when they get high on cocaine.

(As with people, they dance a lot and talk too much.)

A critic called it one of the "10 worst federal stimulus projects in North Carolina." I would hate to see the other nine.

As an expert in monkey behavior – well, I have watched a bunch of National Geographic specials on TV – I can tell you that monkeys are not that mysterious.

They eat too fast like teenagers, yell too loud like sports fans and groom too much like beauty salon regulars.

In other words, they’re just like us, only with more hair.

And at least we can be house-trained.

Uncle Sam ought to take back the 71 grand and spend it on something more worthwhile, which is basically anything else.

I would suggest 10 college scholarships for veterans.

If that’s too simple and we want to “create jobs,” how about two more full-time pruners for the cherry blossom trees in D.C.?

If any monkeys want a piece of this action, they can be unpaid interns.

Remember all this when you’re filing your tax return and getting ready to write that check. ... Your tax dollars at work … or not!

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Put down the chewing gum and slowly step away

Thank God a few people still have standards in this crazy mixed-up world.

I refer, of course, to the courageous city-state of Singapore and its principled decision to continue its ban on chewing gum.

As I told the rest of the old farts at the club, “Here, here! … A round of gin and tonics for all the chaps!”

Good Lord; if you allow chewing gum you open the door to whistling and humming. By then you might as well jump into bed with Satan.

No such slacking in Singapore. And if they catch you with something in your mouth that isn’t food (please, no snarky comments) you might get a good caning like that American punk did a few years back.

The thing is, if you let people just pop a stick of chewing gum into their jaws any time they want, they’ll get other uppity ideas too.

Best to nip it in the bud from the get-go and remind everyone who’s large and in charge.

And if they don’t like it? Well, they can go to North Korea, which is exactly like Singapore except that the people are poor and starving.

Chewing gum; the very idea!

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Fear of flying

We’ve all heard there is no free lunch.

Now, there is apparently no free legroom either.

Starting later this month, Continental Airlines plans to charge extra for coach customers who want a seat with more legroom.

And it won’t be cheap, either.

Extra legroom on a Houston-New York flight will set you back 59 bucks.

Good grief! And you get only 7 more inches of space for laying out all that cash. It’s not like you could camp out or anything.

What could be worse? Try some of these other proposed extra charges that airlines are considering:

-- Permission to unbuckle your seat belt after takeoff, $5.

-- 10 extra sheets of toilet paper, $10.

-- Plastic knife and fork to eat your in-flight meal with, $25.

-- Seating change after finding yourself between two 300-pound passengers, $50.

-- Seating change after finding yourself next to a passenger who gets airsick a lot, $100.

-- Parachute to rent when plane has lost all power and is falling like a brick, $1 million.

… And no, they don’t take checks for that last one.

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Middle school Mayday

The kids these days; what are you gonna do with ’em?

I don’t have the answer to that age-old question, but I do know you should not let them serve as air traffic controllers!

Incredibly, that apparently happened at JFK Airport last month. A controller let his kid make life-or-death decisions for a few minutes, just for laughs.

In one exchange, a child can be heard saying, "JetBlue 171 contact departure."

Then his dad comes on the mike and says with a laugh, "That's what you get, guys, when the kids are out of school."

Fun-nee! I laughed til I died!

This is the Doogie Howser syndrome run amuck. Sure, he could be a TV doctor, but would you want him doing a real-life brain transplant on you?

(I know; the answer depends on whose brain you were getting.)

Look, some kids mature early.

Mozart, for example, was composing at age 5 and performing before European royalty.

That’s why his playground nickname was “Amazin’ Amadeus.”

On the other hand, the Last Emperor took over the throne of China at age 3 and went on to end a thousand-year dynasty. (Hey, who’s perfect?)

I say let the kids have fun while they’re little and stay away from Important Jobs. They can screw things up when they’re older.

That was our career path, wasn’t it?

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TV time tonight

When you aren’t trolling our bodacious Web site for the latest election news tonight, flip over to KBMT-12 to see yours truly providing commentary from 6 to 10:30.

I’ll be chipping in as anchors Kevin Steele and Jackie Simeon report on the returns as they roll in. Check us out; we’re going to have a political party!

… Oh, and if you’re reading this before 7 and you haven’t voted, put down the Cheetos, haul you %$#@ carcass off the sofa and git r done.

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From cool Vancouver to ... sucky Sochi?

The winter Olympics are over, and the Russians are red.

Not commie red. (That’s so ’80s.) Angry red.

You see, Russia is a vast frozen wasteland not good for much except nuclear missile bases and winter sports.

So usually, at the Winter Olympics, the Russians are a true superpower. This go-around, they looked like the Dallas Cowboys in a playoff game.

The Russians won only 15 medals – with just three golds. That’s one of their worst performances since Boris Yeltsin was sober.

And they’re not happy about it.

Russian leader Dmitry Medvedev moaned that Russia “ has lost the old Soviet school ... and we haven't created our own school.”

There you go again, Dmitry, pining for the good ol’ days of steroids ’n’ gulags. Get with the program, comrade!

The Russkies especially need to turn around their Olympic program because in four years they’re hosting.

And already, people are predicting another disaster – and not just in the medal count.

The reason is that the games will be in Sochi, a resort town in southern Russia on the Black Sea.

How southern? Real southern. You can’t go much further south in Russia before winding up in Armenia.

Unlike most of Russia, Sochi is not a frozen wasteland. Fact is, it’s kind of sunny. Sort of like Miami with a bunch of bad cars on the streets and fat people on the sidewalks.

"It would be very hard to find a place in Russia that has no snow in the wintertime, but that's just what (Vladimir) Putin did," said Boris Nemtsov, a former deputy prime minister and Sochi native.

"Sochi is the warmest place in Russia, with no infrastructure, no experience in winter sports – it doesn't even have a hockey team – and many other problems."

And one of those problems is corruption, with a capital C.

Hoo-boy. I can hardly wait for these winter Olympics: Balmy with a chance of bribery.

Let the games begin.

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Chimp cruelty!

Those darned Russians are at it again.

They’re being mean to a poor, innocent chimpanzee!

It’s true, animal lovers. Zhora, a chimp in a Russian zoo, has picked up some bad habits, such as smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. (No word if he’s hooked on reality shows too.)

"The beer and cigarettes were ruining him. He would pester passers-by for booze," the Komsomolskaya Pravda paper said. Well, duh!

So now the Russkies want to send Zhora to rehab and make him quit cold turkey! Oh, the humanity!

If you were a chimpanzee (and I’ve long suspected that some of this blog’s readers are) would you rather smoke Marlboros and swill Budweisers or eat rotten fruit and slurp stagnant pond water?

No contest with me.

Gee whiz, why not let Zora live out his remaining years in peace, puffing and boozing away to his heart’s content?

Hey, he’s a chimp in a cage. What else does he have to look forward to?

Besides, if you stick him in rehab, he could end up rooming with Amy Winehouse or Tiger Woods and pick up some really bad habits.

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California schemin'

The California legislature has finally taken care of this persistent myth that folks in the Golden State are trendy loons. I think.

It has declared the first week of March as “Cuss-Free Week.”

If you’re like me you’re thinking, “It’s about time!” (Or maybe, “What are those morons up to now?”)

Hey, it’s worth a try. And this new effort might even raise a few bucks for a state that’s teetering on bankruptcy.

One lawmaker is distributing no-cuss jars to all 120 legislative offices in the Capitol. If a bad word comes out of your mouth, some money comes out of your wallet too.

We shall see if it works out. If it does, it could be followed with:

“No Bad Clothes Month” for April. People who wear high-water pants or socks-and-sandals or try to match checks and stripes would be charged with a Class A misdemeanor.

“Good Hair Month” for May. Clueless types who aren’t familiar with combs or shampoo would have their heads shaved on the spot.

“Stupid Expressions Are Banned Month” for June. Residents would be forbidden from saying things like, “Jeez, is it hot enough for ya?” or “He who smelt it dealt it.” Violators would have to move to Utah.

That’s all the Legislature could come up with before it got distracted by a Republican and a Democrat who got into a fistfight over who was more statesmanlike.

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Jailhouse crock

When it comes to hijinks and practical jokes, you can’t top most jail inmates.

Like the gang in Uniontown, Pa., that has repeatedly clogged up the jail’s toilets with sheets, pants, light bulbs, etc.

What fun-loving pranksters!

Unfortunately, the county commissioners there aren’t laughing. That’s probably because they have to continually pay big bucks to clean out and repair the jail’s old sewer lines.

I imagine that taxpayers in that county aren’t chuckling either.

Maybe the county jail could shift to an alternate form of waste disposal.

As in, the toilets would be removed, and each cell would be issued … a bucket!

I’m sure the inmates would appreciate being on the receiving end of a joke for a change.

And if they didn’t, well, tough s**t.

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You know you're too fat when ...

… When firefighters have to cut out a window and a wall from your second-floor apartment to get you to the hospital.

Incredibly, that’s what happened to 400-pound Houston woman on Sunday.

She fell in her bathroom and broke her leg, but ambulance crews couldn’t get this plus-sized gal out through the doors.

So they had to do some major surgery on her apartment so she could go to the hospital for some major surgery on her.

This should not have happened. The lady in question should have realized she was too fat when she could barely fit through the doorways to her pad, which apparently consisted of a kitchen, a dining room and nothing else.

Tsk-tsk. There are some warning signs you can’t miss if your’re starting to get too big for your britches. Literally. I mean, you really should know you’re too fat when …

When someone asks you if need a forklift instead of a wheelchair to get around.

When the ambulance calls for an 18-wheeler as a replacement.

When the hospital gives you your own semi-private wing.

When they weigh you on a truck scale.

When you’re too big to get to the competition for “Biggest Loser.”

When you have to wear a tent instead of an XXXL dress.

When the health club revokes your membership because you crushed a treadmill.

… That’s all for now. I’m getting hungry.

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Canadian achin'

As the Winter Olympics drag on – I mean continue their exciting run! – everybody seems to be having a dandy time up there in Canada.

Except the Canadians.

Before the games began, the Canadian Olympic Committee made some very unCanadian boasts. They said they were gonna smoke the rest of the world and win the medal count.

They even called the effort “Own the Podium.”

Alas, it has turned out more like “Rent the Loser’s Bench.”

Poor Canada is lagging along in fourth place in the medal count, with nine total.
They’re behind tiny Norway – and tied with smallish South Korea!

They even lost at hockey – their national sport! – to the U.S. team.

Woe, Canada.

Many Canadians felt uneasy with all the pre-games trash talk.

Canadians, for the most part, are low-key, easygoing folks.

I hear they’re even reluctant to brag about how much snow they get each winter, which is a bunch.

Oh well, that’s the way the puck drops. (That’s the Canadian equivalent of, “That’s the way the ball bounces.")

If it will make them feel any better, many Americans are deeply disappointed that our curling team has tasted the bitter ashes of defeat. Once again, there will be no gold medal coming back to the states, or even a silver or bronze.

The curling community is said to be in an uproar, demanding action!

I feel their pain. As soon as I figure out what curling is, I intend to be outraged too.

Until then, let us commiserate with our Canadian neighbors.

Maybe they can comfort in the fact that Tiger Woods, Amy Winehouse and Roman Polanski aren’t Canadian.

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Tiger's tart

If you can stand one more twist to Tiger’s tawdry tale, consider this:

One of the tramps he cheated with wants him … to apologize to her! And on top of everything, she’s a porn star!

It’s true, sports fans.

Joslyn James watched Tiger Woods’ confessional video on Friday – with her attorney at an L.A. radio station.

That last part is important, because skanky Joslyn wants the apology, as the news story put it, “for the unwanted attention the scandal has brought her.”

Huh?

Correct me if I’m wrong, although I think we both know that I rarely am, skanky Joslyn’s affair with Tiger was unknown to the world … until skanky Joslyn called a press conference to announce it!

In other words, she spilled the beans and is blaming Tiger for the mess on the floor.

And how do you insult a porn star?

Still, she wants an apology – and not just a long-distance one.

“I would be open to a telephone apology from Tiger, but I really feel that I deserve to look at him, in person, face to face, in his eyes, because I didn’t deserve this.”

Puh-lease! Skanky Joslyn has just redefined unmitigated gall, which is quite an accomplishment because she sure can’t spell it.

Once again, I think we’ve all learned a lesson here:

If you roll around with a pig, you’re gonna get muddy.

... Tiger’s wife must be cringing. Not only did he sleep around, he chose some tarts that self-respecting drunks would turn down.

Yecchhh.

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Tiger's troubles

It’s amazing how the world’s richest athlete continues to make stupid decisions that will prolong his misery.

Yes, I am talking about none other than Tiger “Share the Love” Woods.

The latest twist in Tiger’s tawdry tale will be Friday morning's carefully controlled press conference about his, er, adventures with women who were not his wife.

Tiger, ever the control freak, thinks he can still call the shots here. That’s as wrong as using an iron on a long drive.

Tiger plans to read a prepared statement to a small group of selected reporters.

That’s it. No questions will be allowed. Only one camera will film the spectacle.

Maybe Tiger thinks we’ll all be satisfied with this spin show and go back to watching the Winter Olympics.

His high-priced consultants should stop telling him what he wants to hear and level with him.

The only way for him to put this mess in the past is to take the plunge. That means going on Oprah or Larry King and taking some hard questions.

The more he tiptoes around it, all he does is give a new lead on an old story.

Sure, a lot of us will watch Friday's follies. But somebody needs to tell Mr. Know It All that it’s like giving a starving man a whiff of a steak dinner.

We want more. One way or another, we’ll get it.

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Shami, we hardly knew ye

Like a candle in the wind, or a fart in a hurricane, the Farouk Shami campaign for governor is fading fast.

Five top staff members resigned Wednesday, citing rampant chaos at the campaign HQ.

I suspect those were the only Shami staffers who knew Shiite from shinola when it comes to Texas politics.

Shami, for those of you who have been locked in your uncle’s closet for the past few months, is a hair-care millionaire seeking the Democratic nomination for governor.

He seems like a nice man, but he has zero political experience and has made one boneheaded statement after another on the campaign trail.

My favorite was when he had to admit he didn’t know who his own state representative and senator were. (“Details! Details!”)

Anyhoo, the truly hilarious thing about the staffers resigning is that it is connected to an e-mail that went out statewide Tuesday, even though it was supposed to go from one staffer to another.

I got the e-mail, and it is reprinted below. It is freaking hilarious:

“Who in the hell is David Diaz? He is not authorized by the campaign to send out any press releases and we keep seeing them out there, apparently "authorized" by Jessica Gutierrez? Isn't she Farouk's public relations rep for his company? Why are these amateurs with aol.com email addresses sending out these awful statements? These are the same people that give him quotes like great one about Mexicans and sunshine. No one with the campaign has authorized these statements and whoever they are, they are sabotaging every bit of legitimacy Farouk has as a candidate.

“We have a communications director, a press secretary, and a policy/strategy team for the campaign. The entire paid staff has worked very hard on strategy for this candidate and have been chopped off at the knees by these incompetents! The staff could probably work with his "unique" statements, but these people that think they are helping him are feeding him their stupidity. Seriously, can we hunt these people down and muzzle them? This is highly unprofessional and must be resolved immediately.”

Oh, well, since the governor thing didn’t work out, Shami should try to bounce back strong.

I suggest a run for president in 2012. We could use the comic relief.

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How to handle a psycho killer

I have never been on the receiving end of a mass shooting. And I hope I never am.

But if I do find myself in that unfortunate situation, I won’t be nicey-nice with the deranged shooter/killer.

Take that incident at the University of Alabama in Huntsville last Friday, when a truly nutty professor opened up on her colleagues in a faculty meeting.

The psycho, Amy Bishop, killed three professors and wounded three others.

It was a highly unusual workplace shooting, in that the deranged shooter/killer was A) a woman, and B) a Harvard-educated neurobiologist.

Most brainiacs, particularly the female kind, aren’t into violence. The worst they might do is toss off a multi-syllabic insult with footnotes available.

Another odd thing about this shooting was the reaction of one victim.

According to the news story, “ … Bishop aimed the gun at (Debra Moriarity, a professor of biochemistry) and attempted to fire. When the gun didn't shoot, Moriarity pushed her way to Bishop, urged her to stop, and then helped force her out the door.”

Thank God Moriarity wasn’t hurt. But I think I’d have done a little more than “urge” the shooter to stop and “force her out the door.”

As in, I would have tried to put her on the ground quickly and violently.

This is a nut case who has just murdered some of your friends and is now gunning for you.

This is not a time to urge or push. It's a time to swing for the fences.

The shooter needs to get unconscious ASAP – and if she never wakes up from that condition, well, there’s one less creep in the world.

... At least the shooter’s attorney can’t trot out the usual claim that she should be spared the death penalty because she’s mentally retarded.

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