1. The Titanic – And now they can’t recall it. Let that sink in.
2. Disappearing Ink – By the time anyone’s figured out there’s a problem, it’s already vanished
3. Shakespeare Quotes – I don’t even know how you’d recall a quote. I mean I don’t recall any of his quotes.
4. Caskets – If there’s a problem with a casket, the manufacturer just tries to bury it.
5. Auto-Dialer Phones – As I recall, I don’t recall a recaller being recalled
6. The Bean Layer of a 7-layer Dip – Who’s going to remove the bean layer? And then who’s going to buy a beanless 6-layer dip? I’ll tell you who – Dip-sh*ts.
7. Viagra – This product malfunction rarely comes up – so to speak
8. This List – You can’t unsee it. Plus, it’s way too funny to be recalled. Usually it’s shared and goes rival. I mean larval. I mean viral.

1. Police Navidad – Warm Christmas wishes to our officers in Blue
2. I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus – A San Francisco favorite
3. O Little Town of Tupelo – Reverently recounts the birth of little Lord Elvis
4. A Really, Really, Very Noisy Night – Larry David’s spoken word song in response to Silent Night. As Larry says, “If you want a silent night, then you should bring earplugs.”
5. Let it Warm, Let it Warm, Let it Warm – Climate change caroling for a 72° Christmas

Egg Nog Break (Yes, it’s spiked)

6. 

   ♫ And so this is Christmas ♫

   Hark! The Hell’s Angels Sing – Born to be Wild!

7. My Cold Went Viral – Not a carol. I just wanted to state the obvious
8. G-L-O-R-I-A, Glooooria (In Excelsis Deo) – Van Morrison shares his Xmas cheer
9. An early Michael Jackson Xmas hit – I Wanna Flock with You (All Night)
10. O Come All Ye Faithful – The Adult Entertainment Industry celebrates XXXmas
11. Rockin’ Around the Ganja Tree – It’s Xmas in Jamaica man. Yule luv it rasta.

 

Rejects

• Caroling to a Ring Doorbell – Hey screen time is screen time
• Away in a Manger – Motel 6 describes their new lo-budget motel
• The 2^nd Leon – “The First Noel” reworked
• Mariah Carey’s pro-semitic Christmas carol – All I Want for Christmas, is Jews: All of the Xmas Joy without any of the “Is he the Messiah?” drama
• Bad King Wenceslaus – Yule be surprised by his actions

 

 

On the Menu Tonight:

The AppePfizer (brought to you by Pfizer Pharmaceuticals – a druggy division of Milton-Bradley) 

1. That I was once accused of trafficking in counterfeit stallion teeth. Neigh. Tis not true. I got them straight from the horses’ mouth.
2. That I was never able to get either foot all the way into my mouth. And yet people said I managed to do this regularly – whenever I spoke.
3. That my company selling erectile dysfunction drugs went out of business. Why? The competition was too stiff.
4. That I never met Helen Reddy’s Dingo – and now it’s too late. Fun Fact: Ringo had a Dingo named Bingo. He spelled it B-i-n-go, B-i-n-g-o, B-i-n-g-o and Bingo was his name.
5. That what I thought was an authentic Sharon Stone pubic hair (purchased and verified on eBay), turned out to belong to Wanda Sykes.
6. That when I shook the Pope’s hand with a joy buzzer, his Swiss Guard roughed me up.

1. That most restaurants refuse to seat me when I enter with my service ostrich. But it’s OK for Mr. Aristocrat to come in with a handkerchief full of bugers in his pocket.
2. Finding out I had 2 days to live after purchasing green bananas
3. That my hefty investment in the Used Casket business, never got off the ground – in fact it never even got out of the ground
4. That even though I knew it was true, I could never prove Toni Tennile based Muskrat Sam on me. Screw you Darryl.
5. That my fanny crack is horizontal. Very awkward, unless you’re in Japan where its buttocks as usual.

The Entrée 

1. That after attending a Reba McEntire concert, I found out later, I was facing the wrong way

Dessert

1. That Jada Pinkett sent back the toupee I sent her. And then Wil Smith slapped me with a slander suit.

.

.

Yes. Gratitude. I’d like to take a moment to bestow gratitude upon the following:

1. Second Responders – They get no credit at all – in fact I don’t even know who they are.
2. All my Facebook friends – Well, almost all of them
3. The Waltons – Especially John Boy and that cute Mary Ellen
4. Tiny Tim – The Dickens’ one and not the goofy one who tiptoed thru the tulips
5. Mother Teresa – Set such a quiet example of easy selflessness

In fact, let’s be thankful every day, all year. Not in an overly pious way, just in an “it’s cool to be alive” way.

And, most importantly, may God grant me the serenity & wisdom to understand my 14 streaming services: 4 of which I think I pay for, 5 which might be free or cost $38 each, 1 of which I access via a subdural chip they implanted on my person, against my will (part of my court-ordered probation) and the other 4 that all have pluses (+) at the end of them.

Yes. A Happy Thanksgiving to one and all!

Have yourself a merry little tryptophan-ic turkey day

1. Womanicotti – It’s much curvier than Manicotti, and more considerate too
2. Tonytoni – A street-smart pasta, shaped like Tony Danza
3. Buttaroni – A favorite of the Kardashians
4. Angel Nose Pasta – As you can well imagine, it smells heavenly
5. Bolo Tie Pasta – Far from Farfalle, it’s popular with cowboys
6. Knocky – Not Gnocchi, but similar
7. Cavatelli Savalas – Shaped like Kojak’s chrome dome
8. Testicallini – Usually served in pairs
9. Spaghetti F’s – If you liked Spaghetti O’s, you’ll love Spaghetti F’s. They are F’n good
10. Vomitcelli – This pasta often comes-up in conversation, and in actuality too
11. Microroni – Macaroni’s tiny little brother.

Buon Appetito Everyone!

 

Omitted

1. Lunguine – We can all breathe a little easier with this pasta shape
2. Service Dog Pasta – The world weary draw nutritional and emotional support while chowing down on pasta in the shape of service dogs
3. Angel Hair – A classic
4. Angel Pubic Hair – A curlicue classic. Did you know, that every time someone starts a podcast, an angel loses their pubic hair
5. Crazo – If you like Orzo you’ll love this looney tunes pasta
6. Crackatini –Not trying to be cheeky here, butt they’re Derriere-licious.
7. Scrotatelli – Much like ravioli, a pillowy pouch suitable for stuffing with meat or cheese
8. Tamponelli – People seem to use it about the same time each month.
9. Groinacolli – Favorite pasta of crotchety old men
10. Spermacetti – Make up your own joke (there’s only 5000)

 

1. Split Pea with Hamlet – To eat or not to eat. That, is the question.
2. Italian-Style Divorcing Soup – A bookend to Italian-Style Wedding Soup. These soups satisfy whether you’re coming or going.
3. Gayspacho – Made with same sex tomatoes. They say once you try it, you’ll never go back…to another soup that is.
4. Chicken Dumbo – One part chicken, one part elephant. I don’t think it’ll ever fly. Kinda ear-rie actually.
5. Greek Alphabet Soup – It’s great. From the Alpha to the Omega.
6. Egyptian Hieroglyph Soup – If you love sideways falcons, symbolic ankhs and more amulets than a box of Lucky Charms, you’ll love this Pharaonic soup. And if you don’t like Egyptian soup, well then Tut Tut.
7. Viciousoise – Not to be confused with Vichyssoise, Viciousoise is a cold and cruel potato soup
8. Cram Chowder – An Asian version of Clam Chowder
9. Tripe Bisque – Most people can’t stomach it
10. Maxistrone – Minestrone on steroids
11. Kit-n-Caboodle Noodle Soup – Oodles of noodles in Kit-n-Caboodle.

Toodles!

 

Omitted

• LGBTQ Alphabet Soup – It’s great. From L to Q. Can’t spell BLT w/o it

 

1. What Yappy Dogs Have Taught Me
   

   My friend has a swell head.

2. Men with Ringworm…and the Women Who Love Them
3. “On the Paper You Urchins!” On Toilet Training Dickensian Orphans
4. Mom Kept Me in a Refrigerator Box Till I was 8: Learning to Chillax Again in a Big Scary World
5. Born Under a Zero: Learning to Live Without an Astrological Sign
6. It Takes Two: Learning to Use the New 35 ft. Intestinal Flosses
7. Can You Eat Animal Crackers and Still Call Yourself a Vegan?
8. I was Born a Virgin, I’ll Die a Virgin:
9. From Shiplap to Beadboard – A Panel Discussion on Paneling
10. Monsieur Papillion Teaches Fencing – Mostly Chain Link and Stockade
11. Pharmaceutical Media Influencers Insist: You’ll Be More Popular than Ever, Once You Have Eczema

 

It’s 1969. AD. I’m 8 years old and happily ensconced all alone in the cozy confines of my downstairs game room where I’m playing pool and groovin’ (yes, groovin’) to Beatles music on our state-of-the-art Magnavox Quadraphonic stereo. I’m the best company a boy can have. And the beauty part is I’m never without me. And while I appreciate the company of other people, I especially like mine. I always seem to know exactly what I want to do and I never have to wait around for me to show up so I can do it. I’ve always been there for me. I have no choice. And being with myself in this special way (in the basement shooting pool and listening to the Beatles) was like a divinely choreographed yogic practice.

 

Sometimes the downstairs game room became my sacred subterranean sweat lodge. A place where I’d forget the world and remember myself. A place where sinking the 9-ball in the corner pocket would take on new meaning when set against the backdrop of John Lennon’s seductive lyrics, “I’d love to tuuurn yooou ooon.” Here in this sacred little kingdom I began to resonate with the background radiation of the universe. Tucked so serenely beneath the predictable tumult of a chattering world, life’s challenges didn’t need to be overcome because they didn’t exist; having disappeared into the side pocket by a combination of my trusty pool cue and a satisfyingly eerie dose of A Day in the Life. This downstairs sanctuary became a swirling meditation of colliding spheres and enchanting sounds – a microcosm of the universe with me at the center of my own time zone. And, like an ordinary iceberg whose superficial display belies its unseen massivity beneath, you’d have no idea any of this exalted stuff was going on if you happened to be outside looking in.

 

When the ethereal opening strains of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds began to permeate the overly-paneled game room, I’m transported to (or reassume) that naturally happy place I remember from before. And like the uncontaminated soul I was, I just assumed everyone was familiar with this place. As an 8-year-old you assume a lot of things and loving ubiquity is one of them. It’s a wonderful life when there’s nothing to fear. Judgments morph into ♫cellophane flowers of yellow and green towering over your head.♫ I was still open to the possibility of all things. Or should I say I wasn’t closed to the possibility of things yet. My hard case (aka my cranium) had not ossified sufficiently to block out the honeyed joy of my source. The Beatles helped me remember that place – the place I had left just 8 years earlier. Sgt. Pepper’s had a way of evoking that memory.

 

There was something so magical and mysterious about some of those Beatle songs. In a very cool and unintentional way they were pointing to a more substantial place. Not this clunky earth, which I admit is a great place if you’re suffering from RPS – Restless Penis Syndrome. But it still seems so makeshift and temporary – like some kind of put-up job for me to buy into and play my part. I can’t explain it (obviously). And I don’t know why I interpret it as I do. It’s not like I took any hallucinatory drug (unless you count a couple sleeves of Oreo’s). There was nothing cross-wired in my head beyond a preternatural urge to rediscover that power behind the curtain. Put another way; as welcomed as my mother’s corned beef hash and eggs were (and they were f*ckin’ awesome) no earthly attraction could contend with the calling of a million suns yearning to radiate from my pineal gland. Y’know, that place just behind where the Hindus put that red dot. Well they put it there for a reason.

 

The Beatles spiritually incendiary songs didn’t seem to be so much created, as they were plucked whole, from a vast ocean of shared experience and presented as the sonic essence of the unseen multiverses at work – not an easy thing for a thin vinyl disc to do. Circling the pool table with what seemed like the cunning mastery of a seasoned pool shark, I absorbed the insistent musical expressions of those Liverpudlian minstrels and felt clothed in the immense power of a warm and knowing presence.  

 

So all this is going on in my head while I’m stroking billiard balls on my grandfather’s pool table. The green felt pool table we inherited when he died in 1969. Shoot pool and grove to the vibe. It’s all I wanted to do. It’s all I needed to do – I didn’t need to Turn On, Tune In and Drop Out. I didn’t need to Be Here Now. I Was There Then. I knew. I remembered.

 

After a spell, this tendril of easy rapture would retreat. And in various turns I’d try to recall it, like those colorful snowfalls I remembered from the other place. Back within the klutzy confines of monochromatic earth I was crestfallen to see white snow falling. Especially when I knew the colorful snowflakes were just a click away. After a rousing session of enlightening BeatlesPool in the downstairs kiva, I loathed to reenter the bumptious outside world of drama, calamity and ♫silly people who run around and disagree and never win and wonder why they don’t get past my door.♫ From where I reposed in the buoyant joy of my downstairs amniotic sac, it was getting better all the time. All else was either intrusive or a pale imitation of what it could be. But it was the only game in town – at least the town of Syracuse where I lived.

 

My downstairs basement (as opposed to the upstairs basement) was, at times, a serene and contemplatively glorious Walden Pond where I played Walden Pool. With enough Oreos I could hold out there all night. I’d groove to the grooves on the 33¹/₃ rpm LPs I stacked one atop another. I felt supremely alone and yet totally connected – the sublime contradiction undressed. My brother or sister might come home from a night out. They’d bound down the stairs and I’d see their whole experience before me while my sonic séance was unfolding in the sanctum of my groovy grotto. I inherently understood their scene (their concerns, their loveliness, our shared experience being in the same family). It wasn’t the 8-year-old that knew this, but rather the soul (call it what you will) within that understood it all while it revolved at 33^1/₃ rpms.

 

I was fairly pure back then and seeing things as they were wasn’t anything I tried to do – it was just done. Inherent. As time marched on I accreted the obfuscating rime of everyday life – its praises, its patterns, its reproofs – and the next thing you know old Jed’s a millionaire. That’s not exactly what I meant to say, but you know what I mean. You can fill in the blanks. Remember them? I know you do. It’s twilight. You’re in a small body looking out the window at all the colorful snowflakes falling from the sky. Your dad pulls into the driveway. There’s an outline of presents in the back seat. Presents for everyone. Your best angels are right there and you remember yourself.

 

Anyway, it’s something like that. Be happy I (or anyone else) can’t describe transcendence in its full dimensional clarity – it’s better than that. Its grace to be savored and experienced, not understood through direct observational perception. It’s that thing you forgot you knew. But don’t worry. Don’t ever worry. The amnesia is only temporary. Meanwhile how about a game of pool? I’ll put on some records. I’ve got’em on mp3 now. And no talking. We’ll just shoot billiards and listen to the waves on Walden Pool.