Today, I make no references to breastages, chemically enhanced love rockets or pop stardom, as the collective national attention drifts elsewhere (and, of course, it does not focus fucked up state of the world, because that is, well, icky and kind of boring and grim).

By the way, “chemically enhanced love rockets” might be a good name for a fakely packaged non-product, as purveyed by maintainers of the pop culture, such as these folks.

I really don’t have much to write today (or arguably most days). But, I was thinking that I wished the Internet was around when I was a kid. Aspiring to be a writer, especially in the sense of the written word being the one constant source of passion in my pathetic little existence (OK, maybe that and the occasional sex toy), yet being too shy and insecure to actually show my writing to anyone or think that I had anything of interest to say, was a joyously impotent way to mispend my youth.

Having a weblog has to be the least risky, most incredibly passive way of getting something out into the world. Unlike, of course, the suicide course of doing stand-up comedy, which I embarked on despite total stage fright. Yeah, that was a fucking great idea. Let’s see, I already think I’m unworthy of your attention, and I’m apt to stiffen woodenly whilst speaking to you the audience, so why not have us all bask in the sheer masochism of the moment and watch me stifle the nauseous belch? Who doesn’t enjoy going to a bar and swimming in self-induced angst?

Oh, by the way, if anyone sees this ‘blog and thinks they might like to see me live and in person, I should clarify I am MUCH better now in public. From my early stilted yearnings, I now can smile and react normally and tend to remember what I meant to say, including the funny parts. And, in truth, it was always much worse in my head. For example, I never actually peed on my shoes publicly and ended up electrocuting myself with a faulty mike cord, as I feared would be my undoing.

Of course, never say “never,” since now I am soon to be 40 and facing the inevitable incontinence of middle age (as magazines and ads would make me believe).

Speaking of that phantom of middle age, I hope any one of my friends who read this bullshit will nudge me when it comes time for me, because of life’s inevitable withering, to never mention sex in public again.

My stand-up comedy has a very carnal base (actually, I don’t think it’s that bad, but apparently nice girls don’t refer to there possession of a vagina, even in context, yada yada, so I’ve been told I’m “edgy.”) Since I can think of at least three women who I have seen the audience visibly cringe at the image of their being half of the beast with two backs (accent on beast), I suspect my time will come. As I neglect the appearance of a beard and let myself slide into my dotage, or however it all manifests itself, the day will come when only a loved one, or a creepy wrinkle fetishist, could conceptualize mounting me. Right now, I believe, I still appear to the world as fuckable. But, how long, how long?

Anyone, send me a brief (out of kindness) email apprising me of the situation, if I fail to notice it myself.

Oh and by the way, from checking my stats and looking at comments, I want to acknowledge and say hello to anyone who (a) stumbles across this vapid wasteland and (b) returns.

Hey, there and thanks!

By the way, there’s one reader in particular who needs to know that the little things count, and he gets a special thanks. If you don’t know if it’s you, then you probably aren’t quite deep as I thought…

… EVER.

As friend and comic, Timmy McIntire points out, Matt Drudge may be the lord kind of hypocrites, decrying the scandal of Superbowl Sunday (and Sunday’s the Lord’s day, even).

While perusing the many articles, here are some thoughts:

Does this meanJason Timberlake is not gay? That would be more newsworthy, wouldn’t it?

(I know I’m stereotyping about boys in boy bands, but we are talking about Justin Timberlake.)

Or maybe he’s just pathetically striking out at the true object of his affection, Brittany Spears. By the way, Brittany’s Foundation is dedicated to helping kids in need. She has a performing arts camp, where presumably at risk kids can channel their wayward energies into art. Thank God there is a way for all of those slutty, slutty preteens to work out there slutty, slutty ways by emulating Brittany and, thus, avoid the endless cycle of UTIs and whatnot that would otherwise be there destiny. Of course, the downside is we may lose a generation of hookers.

Back to Janet’s metal encrusted nip, M. sent me a picture. Isn’t the Internet wonderful, and isn’t that the sweetest thing? Actually, what does it mean when your self-proclaimed metrosexual manfriend sends you a picture of a famous breastage?

In the ensuing bruhaha, and the denials and finger-pointing and all, there has been discussion of the appropriateness for family viewing. So, since fucking when is the Superbowl, or any other major SPORTS event, a family value kind of show? Beer commercials, bimbo cheerleaders, obviously drunken fans and massively overgrown men running into each other with blood, sweat and tears all up in there. Yeah, that’s what little kids should be checking out. If a kid is old enough to watch the game and stay up until about 11 p.m. on a Sunday, the kid is old enough to handle a little titty (um, not handle, exactly, I’m not a pedophile freak). But, come on, little, little kids shouldn’t be watching pro football.

CBS and the FCC and all of the decriers of filth need to lighten up on the wonderful, homespun image of the family gathered together and enjoying an evening’s television that was ruined. Norman Rockwell never painted the joy on a child’s face as he watches 300 pounds of crunching human flesh. Spare us the family rhetoric bullshit.

Of course the best quote was:

[FCC Chairman Michael K.] Powell said his unhappiness with the halftime show went beyond Jackson’s exposure. It “wasn’t even the most offensive part,” the FCC chief said in an interview. “It was the finale of something that was offensive. The whole performance was onstage copulation.” He added, “This really crossed a heinous line.”

I’m guessing it’s a been a while since Powell has actually seen copulation. I think he might need Mike Ditka to show him how hit the hole metaphorically speaking.

So, every other commercial featuring coy references to a man being a real steel-driving man crosses no heinous line. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

By the way, on the Levitra website there is a discussion of “EQ,” or as they say in the biz, “Erectile Quality.” Surprisingly, in defining what determines EQ they do not mention the component I think most essential — Don’t be an asshole with a hard on.

They also have this quote:

Of course, LEVITRA alone will not give you an erection. You’ll need sexual stimulation for an erection to happen. After you’re finished having sex, blood flow to the penis should decrease and your erection should go away.

I think if you don’t know how your dick works, you shouldn’t be using this shit.

Also, you got to love the spare phraseology of “After you’re finished having sex…”

“Um, Doc, but how will I know when I’m done, and it is now ‘after having sex?’ Will there be any signs I should look for?”

Yeah, how about when you are mopping spoonge off your date?

I couldn’t work at work, so I brought stuff home. Now, I’m home and I’m not working here either.

Here’s the best thing about this website so far, for a second month someone has searched “female belly punch” and found me. What the fuck? That’s not just a search but a repeated one? There was also the less specific “belly punch.” Clearly, there’s a mandate for more punch on this site.

Here’s another good search school yearbook questions to ask sundance and teachers polls. I feel bad that whoever got me. I am of no help whatsoever, unless the question they want to ask is “What the fuck?”

I never want to meet the searcher who was looking for: “old lady fuck a boy.”

A propos nothing, I’m slightly encouraged and worried that my life is syncing up with Sex and the City. Encouraged, I think, because like me the television show has come to a point where accepting bullshit is not an option. In real life, as a friend and I were discussing on the phone, it’s much better to hang out with people (subtextually read “men”) who are not assholes. In fact, I hope never to date another asshole in my life. I think there’s a quota in your life, and I’ve surpassed mine.

Of course, I’m worried, because, um right, it’s a fucking TV show. It’s not real.

OK, now I’m centered in reality. It was touch and go, but I’ll put down the cosmopolitan now and try to get on with my life.

Back into reality but TV based, if I could have an acting job on TV, I would want the job Susie Essman has on Curb Your Enthusiasm.

I did my civic duty as an American and watched the Superbowl. I really wish I could understand, and capture for myself, the enthusiasm of watching sports. It seems like it must be fun to scream at the TV and moan and clap. Yeah, I know I sound like an intellectual, elitist twat, but what are you going to do?

Of course, I totally don’t understand this reaction. “Booyah, our team just won, let’s flip a car over.” It’s tragic that a student died, but talk radio has already begun the hyping of tragedy. Obnoxious, WRKO gasbag, Pat Whitley, was getting a radio-wave chubby with heated rhetoric of the city’s and police force’s failure in protecting the populous. Before seeing the details for myself, from his bullshit I envisioned mad rioting crowds beating a North Carolinian to death. It’s sad that a kid was drunk and senseless enough to haul his SUV into a crowd, but it’s not the LA riots.

I chose to stay on the highway and not cut down Mass. Ave., as I would usually do coming from the South Shore. Glad I was stuck in the new tunnel instead.

The big question in my mind, however, is if I was sitting there watching the fucking thing, how did I miss BOTH Janet’s now infamous titty AND a streaker?

OK, I’m supposed to be thrilled to the marrow of my American bones — It’s Superbowl Sunday. Woo Fucking Hoo.

I don’t think it would be possible for me to care less.

For me, the Superbowl is actually kind of a time management problem. I have a lot of things I want to get done this weekend, but tomorrow at 6:25 p.m. in time for kick off, I will be at my bro’s house in Braintree. If I am smart and lucky and not overwhelmed by my own weekend laziness, I will get my flat tire repaired, pick up my laundry and finish cleaning up a bit, and maybe even work on the stuff I brought home from work. In truth, I probably won’t get that much done, and I will just wallow in my own feelings of inadequacy.

I should point out that cleaning is something high on my list of priorities for a chance (and quite likely for this week only). With M. returning, I would like to suspend reality a bit and not have it absolutely apparent that without him I let everything go to shit. No reason for him to have ample proof of chaos in his wake. (One of the many things that appeals to me about moving out West is that it would require leaving shit behind. Instead of cleaning, I could walk away. Or, it would force me to clean and divest myself of all shit, a simple buddhist future devoid of material goods.)

I think one reason I have a hard time doing everything I want to do in a weekend is I enjoy the solitude and calm of doing nothing instead. If I go to three to five comedy shows in a week, by the end of it, I fucking hate comedy and people and talking. That’s obviously an exaggeration, but really how many times do you have to hear the terminally unfunny try to convince the world they’re not (terminally unfunny). Actually, not necessarily in the category of terminally unfunny, what I really hate is people yelling about meaningless bullshit. During the week, I heard yelling about spinach, muppets, bunnies and some other shit so meaningless I can’t even remember it.

Yell about a lost kitty or your girlfriend or the Bush Whitehouse or anything else that you truly feel brings you pain. But, for fucking Christ’s sake, shut up with the oh so clever (and very overdone) excess emotion of the trivial. Yeah, we all get it’s ironic-like, because, like, it’s not really real, because, like grocery shopping isn’t really something to make you upset. You’re a super actor. Now, shut the fuck up.

Glad I got that out. And, for the record, I’m not being ironic. I really do want to scream when I have to listen to so many people with so fucking little to say. No wonder normal people do not consider stand up comedy to have substance. Most of the time, because I listen to so much crap, I do too.