Question...

Is Regis rooting for or against this Slumdog Millionaire movie?

Ah, ah...see its not that easy once you think about it, is it?

O-Bama and A-Rod

Last night was the new El Predsidente's first press conference. He had to talk about his stimulus package. He had to address the faults of his plan, and the arguments of others that it is short sighted. He had to discuss the wars we are in and could be in. He had to field questions on how he has lost the whole "we're not red states, we're not blue states, we're the United States of America" rallying cry just short of a month in office. And then...well then he had to answer about good old A-Rod.

Yep, amidst talk of national crisis a journalist asked the president what he thought about the recent reveal that the high priced Yankees third baseman had taken performance enhancing drugs.

He answered...and he said what you would say about such a thing, but lets put this in perspective.

Picture it (Sophia on the Golden Girls style): You are at work in the middle of an insanely complex task. You are in charge (please note: if you are not in charge at your job, pretend for now you are in charge) and as you go over questions on your project someone comes in and says, "Hey, did you see the piss poor job they did plowing out there!"

Now, perhaps Obama planted this reporter like a woman schedules a friend to call her in the middle of a blind date. "Listen, if I start getting questions about how I only turned over three republican votes on my stimulus package its time to launch Project Q-Rod." Maybe he did, I don't know.

What I do know is that Alex Rodriguez simply does not matter. Not when we are at war, not when people are losing their jobs, and not when we are in the midst of a historic recession.

Honestly, what could he have said there short of...it's bad. It was a lay-up, a meatball, a drop of rain into his outstretch arms (to use three superb sports metaphors). And it had no place in this press conference.

If I were Obama, and I fielded that question I would have said, "I don't think about Alex Rodriguez. I'm too busy trying to balance the economy, get us out of a war safely while maintaining relative peace in the area, introduce new energy policies so we have a world to take steroids in and, well, Valentine's Day is coming up and I am plum out of ideas on what I should give Michelle."

Then you flash one of those loony Dubbya grins he was infamous for, call immediately on someone else after giving them an odd nickname (i.e. Stilts) and go about your day.

Submitting info to my college publication

I have begged my dad for years to submit something to my college magazine that comes out...gosh...I don't know. Monthly, quarterly, ummm....

Anywho, we have one of those alumni sections, but I have always aimed higher. And while I don't think I could get the cover, I do think I could get a nice little write-up.

And still he relents.

Sigh.

So, since I will never be immortalized in the pages of my college alumni publication I can always get the word out here at STFASM. So, without any further adieu:


Dear Publisher of Alumni Magazine of College My Beloved Son Attended,

I am writing to let you know of my son's untimely passing. While it is still hard to even think about the events that led to his demise, his story is one that deserves to be told, and his courage deserves to be commended.

My son was passing an orphanage late one night last week after his regular session of reading to the blind when he picked up the slightest whiff of smoke. He looked around to see a tiny white towel being waved from Our Lady of the Bastard Child Orphanage. Without thinking he stormed into the orphanage just as the flames were about to reach their peak. Unfortunately the stairs were engulfed in flames so he used his swiss army knife to carve out grips for himself in the wall.

Once at the top he fashioned a large slide out of pillows and sheets and started to get the children out. He then went around to each room and made sure that every child was accounted for. When he finally got out one of the children asked him with teary eyes, "What about Bernie and the puppies she just had?"

My son put a hand on his shoulder and told the boy that he would get them. He suffered serious burns as he got the children's dog and all of her puppies, but he smiled brightly as the children gathered around the dogs and sang his name. As he helped to nurse the puppies he heard a tiny sobbing. The sobbing of young Sally Lincoln "What's wrong, dear?" he asked her. She looked up, eyes awash in tears. "My mommy. She died and I only have one picture of her in my room, and now its gone!"

My son looked down at her and said, "Its as gone as this building is fire-proof." Ten minutes later something flew from a window on the top floor. Sally raced forward eagerly and found her cherished picture with a small post-it note on it that read, "stay in school, and always remember to floss." With that the building exploded taking my insanely brave son with it. As they say, the lord only takes the best.

Again, I just wanted to related this little story so that you might update his fellow alumni. His services are being held this weekend. We had to wait as the Vatican has asked to send representatives. Thank you for taking the time to read this letter.


Kindly yours,


Father of BDF



BDF

That's one bad haircut

I have a lot of hair. Not a lot of hair like Bon Jovi, a lot of hair like Buckwheat. It's incredibly thick and I hate it more than I hate terrorism (extreme heat is third). So one of my few pet-peeves is when this thick mane of mine has sprouted like a mushroom cloud of bad styling, and I have to walk around looking like Mr. Kotter (sans mustache, which would make the whole thing OK.)

I share all of this to set the framework for how desperate times can get. A few years ago I had planned to get it cut on a weekend. Three weekends later I couldn't use a pillow anymore and I was in dire straits. Finally, finally, I decided that I could wait no longer. So on a Sunday I hunted down a barber.

Problem with that is the fact that barbers are like God in that they kinda lay low on Sundays. But no need to worry, dear reader, for a bright shining salon was in fact open. And as I saw the inviting neon "Best Cuts" sign I knew I was going to be OK. They offered the best cuts!

So I sat down as my large female barber finished a spirited conversation with a colleague. They were apparently talking about the woman's financial advisor because all I could make out was, "And if he thinks I'm gonna put up with that #$@% forever he is out of his mother *$%^&#$ mind! Taking my money!"

So for starters the woman was giving me a "hate cut."

Things started off badly as she moved my head around as if there were a cord somewhere she could pull to make different sounds come out of me. My only salvation was that she seemingly would not be brining scissors into the equation (a wise decision on my part when I said, "oh just use a number three all over...just take it all off")

As she turned me in the chair I was literally face deep into her considerable stomach as she started a new dialouge with her co-worker on that gosh darn financial investor. Grappling for air I leaned back, only for her to lean in to emphasize a point.

And then...well then it happened. Freed from the girth of my buxom barber I was able to breath again, this turned out to be a mixed blessing. As she worked on my side burns I...well there is no other way to put this than to say I learned in no uncertain terms that my barber had recently used the ladies room and that she must have been in a hurry as she did not allot the proper time for handwashing.

At this point I was frozen. The only thing that moved were my little hands which trembled as my mind wrapped its way around what was going on here.

The horrible thing ended in a few minutes and I walked to my car in silence. As I got in the car I said, "I don't want to talk about it.." to no one at all. I was in shock and I literally wanted to remove my head and put it in a dish washer.

Upon arriving home I walked past two roommates and went directly to the bathroom. I took what I can only describe from the movies as a "rape shower" where I sat with my legs folded up to my chest letting the boiling water try to cleanse me.

I cried myself to sleep that night. And for two weeks after that. Have I gotten over what I consider my worst haircut, you ask? I don't know, do Vietnam veterans ever truly get over the horrors they saw? Yea, I don't think so either.

BDF