* Are we in a news slump or what? Filling these shows is getting to be murderous. Old stories or lame stories? YOU decide! It’s the news producer home game.
* A loyal reader pointed out the absurd number of typos in yesterday’s blog. As previously mentioned, WordPress flips out whenever I make links or insert italics or bold-face. When that happens, it randomly deletes a space between the words, so you’ll frequently see them jammed together. You will probably see this in the future. A man can only proofread his work so many times before he loses his mind.
A viewer writes in: “What kind of sex are viewers having that they would give it up for FOOD?! I have never heard anything so ludicrous!”
Look at it this way. What if you’re Bill Clinton? You can have your favorite food in the world or join with Hillary to make the beast with two backs. I know which one I’m choosing.
* In not-remotely-connected news, 20 million American couples are in sexless marriages. I’m married to my job. And it regularly sticks it to me.
* Perhaps daunted by sexless marriages and watching our friends marry complete morons, fewer people are getting hitched. I keep trying to reverse the trend, kneeling on the corner of Michigan and Chicago for hours, thrusting a ring at any woman who passes by. Believe it or not, girls don’t fall for it the way you think they would.
* The recession is apparently good for romance. I guess if you don’t have to pay for it, yeah…
* Speaking of my typical Friday night, this article examines whether a $5,000 prostitute is worth it. Probably depends on who she is and what she can do, right? I mean, are we talkin’ standard street walker or Cirque du Soleil acrobat with a need for extra cash?
* Everybody’s favorite 13-year-old father will have a DNA test to determine whether he is, in fact, the dad. At least two other guys say they plowed the fertile fields of then-14-year-old Chantelle Steadman. If there is a God, we will see the results on Maury Povich.
* You cannot kiss at the Warrington Bank Quay train station. You’re virtually assured a makeout session at the Addison CTA stop after a Cubs win. It usually comes from a drunken, aggressive, overweight walrus-man who’s covered in stubble and peanut shells, but beggars can’t be choosers.
* Another CTA-related item: We’re back at Doomsday. Seriously? In the last five years we’ve had at least two fare hikes PLUS a sales tax jump to pay for this money vacuum. Let’s kick off all those seniors riding for free. Better yet, slap harnesses on them and make them drag the trains and buses around the city. Budget crisis solved.
* This morning we ran a story about the Algerian guy who eats fluorescent light bulbs, candles, sawdust and nails. The closest I’ve ever come to a stunt like that is when I was a kid and I shoved a Tic-Tac up my nose.
* And now, 7 things to do when you’re angry. Here’s my list…
1. Punch something.
2. Kick something.
3. Write threatening graffiti.
4. Punch something with your other hand.
6. Set fires.
7. Weep openly and bite your arm to punish yourself for weakness.
* When the economy gets so bad that you pit your mistresses against each other to see who gets to stay with you, watch out for the one who loses the beauty contest portion. (But that’s just common sense, right?)
* The Academy is lame, so the Oscars are going to suck this year. I still believe “Wall-E” was the best movie of 2008. “The Dark Knight” also deserved consideration. You’ll remember those movies in 10 years. The 5 Best Picture nominees? Not so sure. I suppose it could be worse. We could have a “Shakespeare in Love” over “Saving Private Ryan” tragedy again.
* Night owls are more creative than early birds. Probably explains my extreme brainstorms in the middle of the night. If I woke up just before rolling in here, I’d barely be able to form a coherent thought, and I’d type in a made-up language that only makes sense to my bloodshot eyes.
* Here’s a handy list of 13 things to keep to yourself in the office. In this blog alone, I’ve divulged 12. At least I haven’t admitted my proclivity to put a Vaseline-covered ferret down my pants before I start writing every show.