Fonzie Rides Again

The Beige One mans the helm this week and posits on celebrity shark-jumping... That's when some sh*theel we could care less about tries to wring out a few more years of career longevity... and holding off before Mephisto comes collecting. Join in the chat.

Bouche de Toilette

"Son of Beech. Sheeet."

Such was the response of some non-descript immigrant to Russell Ziskey in Stripes. An entire classload of English Language Learners duly replied in unison:

"Son of Beech. Sheeet."

Those of you who might have seen the film know that the lesson culminated in Zisky teaching them to sing "Da Doo Run-Run." That'd come in handy anywhere.

Steph Waller, the Incurable Insomniac hosts this week's , paying homage to some choice colloquialisms around the world. This topic strikes close to home. When I moved here in 1984 from Venezuela, the first thing everybody wanted me to teach them was how to swear in Spanish.

I kept trying to explain that there is no equivalent for "f*ck" in the language... at least no direct translation. At the same time, I couldn't find the equivalent for "Coño de tu madre" in English, either. Languages are unique in their nuances and humour. Perhaps that's why I am unable to use my favourite of my mom's many refranes, "Maracucho pendejo muere chiquito," in conversation.

Pay the Insomniac a visit for some other worldly catchphrases.

Casting Call for Roundtable: The Motion Picture

Years ago my friends and I'd have this conversation where we'd decide who we'd like to play us in the movie of our life. Like my friend Chris, for instance:

Chris: Nick Nolte.
Prego: ...But he's over six feet tall and blondish, while you're...
Chris: Nick Nolte.
Prego: Uh... yeah. I could see that.

Girls were the worst at this game. One such acquaintance named Nancy asked me whom I thought should be cast. Needless to say her feelings were slightly hurt when I said Anjelica Huston. I could see her wince, thus forcing me to add, "A young Anjelica Huston."

No dice.

"Um... Why? Who did you have in mind?" I queried.
"I was thinking of Neve Campbell."

Prego: Uh... yeah. I could see that.

I guess the question weighs heavily on self-esteem, self-image and a bit of the delusional. Casting for a biographical film is such a difficult endeavour. Occasionally you have a moment of genius, such as Tom Hulce as Wolfgang Mozart, George C. Scott as General Patton, or Howard Stern as himself -- but more often than not, you end up with a "huh"?

The best example of a "huh?" casting was Rosie O'Donnell as Betty Rubble. I'll have to admit, I had a bit of a crush on Betty as a kid. Between her and Wilma, it was no contest. A cavehussy like Rosie O'Donnell would have sent any self-respecting troglodyte to the nearest monastery or at least drive him to bestiality (which would have had serious repercussions on our species).

Then, there's the occasional "Patsy Cline" treatment in which case the subject of the film actually gets a bit of a favour. Patsy Cline was no slouch, but vintage Jessica Lange? Groooowwlllll....

Trollopy activist Erin Brockovich got such treatment. Marginally. So did Jesus in The Last Temptation of Christ.

Sh*t, back in the day, they didn't even show, Jesus. They'd just have some pious sounding voiceover with an inexplicable echo effect. They showed such reverence for Presidents of the United States, too. They'd usually just film the back of a chair in an office (if the need ever arose to have a presidential character).

Well, I suppose it leaves the question, who'd be the silver screen Prego? That distinction has always gone to Esai Morales - that dude that played Ritchie Valens's brother in La Bamba. For some reason, that response always evoked laughter - either because it's a good choice or because people always remember his pained "Rih-tcheeeeeeeee" when he learned of his brother's death.

Me? I liked the fact that his character was a "struggling artist" and took his brother to a whore house, where he uttered the line "Smells like fish, but it tastes like chicken!" It kind of makes up for the fact that he got his ass kicked by Sean Penn in Bad Boys.

Better yet? He's Hispanic and you actually can say "Um... Yeah. I could see that.

I haven't decided on who'd play Mrs. P. I figured I can get a nice casting couch for the likes of Paz Vega or Rosario Dawson. I'm sure they can pull off an Irish chick... with Lindsay Lohan as a stunt double...

Excuse me.

(What's that? Oh... sh*t, baby? I'm only kidding...)

Mrs. P just informed me that she's casting Matthew McConaughey as her divorce lawyer. F*ck. I suppose I should get Dustin Hoffman's people on the phone. In the meanwhile, I'm curious:

Best biopic casting decision? The worst? Most importantly, who might play you in the story of your life? Wallace Shawn? Jack Black? Karen Black? or (shudder of disgust) Elvira?

Lights.

Camera.

Action.

There I Go, Turn the Page

RW started a story... but writers block being what it is... Stop by Chasing Vincenzo to help him flesh it out.

It's one of those 'tag team story' exercises. Let's see which direction it takes.

I'll give you one guess as to what my first activity is in the morning.

(rrrrnnnnnnnttttt) WRONG! It's checking to see what my "fantasy hockey" players did the previous night -- then I take a sh*t.

John Sadowski hosts this week's and would like to know, where does your surfing day begin.

(plop. plip. flush...... That was a mercy flush, brothers and sisters.)

You Dropped an "F" Bomb on Me, Baby.

My brother has become really irritated with me lately. It bothers him that I've become nearly saint-like when it comes to my language. What really bugs him is when I groan at him, roll my eyes or flat out chastise him for commenting that "She was f*cking fire hot," or yelling "F*ck Mel Gibson, that NAZI *sshole."

It's not that I'm pious or priggish. It's that he does that in front of the goddamned kids. He doesn't have the presence of mind that censors one's choice expletives because there are kids in the back seat, the kitchen or the lobby of the Greater Buffalo International Airport.

I, on the other hand, have grown quite accustomed to spelling sh*t out in front of the lads. I'm not that good, though.

Mrs. P: You're a jerk, you know that.
Prego: Eff - you, man. I'm sick of your S-H-I-crap.

My brother, in the meantime, doesn't let me forget that I once referred to babies as "c*nt turkeys," and that I used the "F" word like a mathematician uses parentheses. Those f*cking days are long gone - at least when speaking. Writing is another story altogether.

Suzanne perfects the fine art of procastination by hosting this week's from Seattle f*cking WA. She wants to know what some of your favourite 'choice' words are.

Some in my daily personal repertoire include (besides S-H-I-crap):
What the fudgescicles!
F*ckscicles
Jesus, Mary and Curtis Joseph.
Mother pus bucket.
(I don't give a) flying rat's ass.
Sh*tbird.
Sh*theel.
Sh*tballs.
Shut the H-E f*cking hell up!


That's just the printable tip of the iceberg. Pay her a friendly f*cking visit...

...Put a Nickel in the Drum...

I'd always thought the Salvation in Salvation Army was derived from the term "salvage", as in "Let's salvage that ratty-ass couch and sell it to some college kid for $15."

At some point I made the connection of "salvation" and jesusness, at which point I stopped buying the $15 couches. It also changed the tone of those little bells some schlep has to peal in front of the local Piggly Wiggly. It started sounding less "Hear ye! Hear ye!" and a bit more "Haaaaa-leluia." In either case, I usually bury my head and dart past, unless I have a pocketful of loose change, in which case I toss them in and pay my holiday tax.

SK Waller, the Incurable Insomniac found a bit of "Haaaaa-leluia" actually made her afternoon. Surprising, since she doesn't seem to beat the jesus drum any more than I do. Ring her bell at this week's roundtable. How do you handle the ringers: avoid eye contact by looking at the road salt and poinsettia displays? Toss in a fiver and say "Bless-sed be thou and thine?" throw them a deke by fumbling for your pockets only to pull out your car keys? The Insomniac might need some pointers. We might lose her to the light side.

Instant Hipster: Just Add Ink

About twelve years ago, I was sitting in my mother's living room watching television with my mom and my sister. I scratched my arm, revealing a glimpse of one of my tattoos to my sister. Now nobody in my family except for my brother knew about the encre, since getting inked would invariably piss my old school Venezuelan mother off.

Needless to say that my sister Zilt, Queen of Subtlety, outed me to my mom with a shrilling, "Oh my GAAAAAAAWD!!!! Is that a tattoo????!"

My mother immediately shot a stare in my direction with a look of horror and disappointment.

"¿Què?"

I had to hem and haw à la Ralph Cramden and began to appease my mom, who was lamenting in Spanish that I did not love her.

"¡Tù no me quieres!"

I had to reveal the tattoos to her, one by one while she asked me why I would do such a thing (followed by a derisive "pendejo.")

The real reason, of course, was to get chicks. When you're an average to dorky looking twenty-something, you pull out all the stops in your endless quest for tail (not that it worked...).

"I'm sorry ma, I do love you. I just thought they'd look cool, that's all."

Though my mom still wasn't happy about it, she soon forgot about them altogether. I had the foresight to get them done above the "unemployment line" (above the short sleeve of a t-shirt), so it's not like they were always in her face.

Now I'm not mentioning this to portray myself as a trendsetter or anything... Nor am I claiming to have put the 'ooh' in cool, but judging by the f*cking Rorschach tests that abound on the haunches, limbs and ankles of our youngsters, I'd say that the ink-fest has run its course.

No longer the mark of a convict, biker, stripper or general ne'er-do-well, tattoos dot the fleshy landscape like barnacles on a cruise ship. Hell, even one of my kid's teachers has a non-descript sh*tty ink job all over her neck. (Something tells me she'll be donning a turtle-neck type gown at her daughter's wedding some day)

Scholars and dolts alike decide to decorate themselves with a myriad of designs. I was DJ'ing at a bar a few years back when some dipsh*t enters the booth, showing off his fresh one.

"Uh, can you play some Black Flag in my honor?" he says as he demonstrates the logo of the punk rock band on his bicep.

"I didn't bring any, bro."

I lied. But I knew if I reached for Damaged or Slip it In I'd be tempted to jam it in his ass sideways. That's one rule for the guys: You don't tattoo a rock band anywhere on your body unless you were in it. There is no guarantee that a Hoobastank, Blink One-Eighty-Crap or Queens of the Stone Age tat will bring back sweet memories.

There's really no way to regulate them. It'd be tough to put together a Tattoo Commission or Review Board:

"Ms. Van Doren, we're happy to approve your request for a caduceus on your shoulder. We realize you're very excited to get into medical school. Congratulations."

or

"John, I'm getting pretty f*cking sick of these requests for 'tribal' sh*t on the small of the back. I'm denying this one."

Perhaps if this was in existence, I'd have been spared the sight of a water-buffalo pulling up her shirt to reveal, in addition to about 42 lbs of flab hanging over her belt, a crappy tribal job about nine inches above the crack of her ass. This, while she's puffing on a dangling cigarette, dropping her daughter off for kindergarten.

Those ubiquitous and tacky tribal jibbers creep up along with thong shot on our more svelte young ladies, but on occasion you get treated to a tattooed breast. Yeah, that's appealing.

Ladies, it just might be the old-fashioned in me, but the nipple is decoration enough for that titty. Pink, brown... small or the size of a stop sign, we don't care - just tweeze the hairs out. It's good enough. You don't need that jailhouse rose on it.

Maybe I just have to get with the times and be a little more open minded. I suppose I'll also have to stop cringing at those horrid looking facial piercings. You know the ones... where the marginally unattractive decide to make matters worse with a nice stud connecting their upper lip to their nostril.

I must be getting old... or not?

Have we actually changed our collective attitudes on tattoos?

Firmly Insert Foot in Yap...

Hairshirt's Joe Wack hosts this week's and asks us to hark back to a moment in miserable existence where we might have said something we wish we hadn't - not something necessarily offensive, just something that might have made us feel plain dumb.

Heh. I remember getting set up in the sh*tter in high school, where a couple guys started in on talking about a guy I didn't know very well, but didn't much care for. I decided to chime in my less than favourable opinions on the chap and probably used a few expletives do describe him when he comes out of the stall, saying, "You guys don't know what the f*ck you're talking about."

I felt about an inch tall.

Pay Josephus a visit and 'fess up. What's the dumbest thing that was ever expelled from your voicebox and how much of a jackass did it make you seem?

Keeping it on the Download.

Billy Bragg's Workers Playtime album has a unique distinction in my musical collection. No, it's not the greatest album ever... That honor goes to either Menudo's landmark Reaching Out or Fabio's After Dark opus.

Mr. Bragg's album released almost exactly 16 years ago (shudder) is the only musical release that I've acquired in cassette, vinyl LP, CD and digitally. I bought the cassette when the album was first released, the LP when I bought a turntable and it was one of the first CDs I bought when that now archaic technology first reared its $14.99 head on the shelves.

The last listen it got was on my 40 gigabyte iPod, where it currently resides with approximately 700 other albums or nearly 7900 songs.

This large volume is both a blessing and a curse. In one way it consolidates a portion the approximately 1200 CDs I own in a convenient device that weighs about as much as run-of-the-mill paperweight, but it also changes the way I listen to music. Rather than listen attentively to a whole album, appreciating the craftsmanship that went into it, I put it on shuffle play in the house and have frankly forgotten what the f*ck I put in it or who is singing half the songs.

Even worse is that tendency to listen to snippets of songs here and there. With that much music at one's disposal it's tough to resist listening to 28 songs in a fifteen minute drive.

Stephen V. Funk, host of this week's feels like the lone holdout on the iPod front. Homeboy is still cruising the aisles of the local record and CD scores, rather than inviting a friend over with a full 80 gigger to poach his eclectic bounty.

Heh. Half of me wants to throw on side two of the Velvet Underground & Nico album on the ol' turn table, but I know as soon as I do the Fletchmonster's peanut butter-coated paws are going to slap that stylus right across "There She Goes Again" to "the Black Angel's Death Song."

Stop by Mr. Funk's viridescent blog and try to get him to switch to the dark side. As for me and Mr. Bragg? This might be the end of the road. If they have to jam the microchip of Workers Playtime up my ass for me to enjoy it, I think I'll pass. The cassette's long gone, but I think the record's still on the shelf.

Roundtable on Bumpin' Uglies

Sex is interesting, but it's not totally important. I mean it's not even as important (physically) as excretion. A man can go seventy years without a piece of ass, but he can die in a week without a bowel movement.

- Charles Bukowski

Throw in your two minutes cents on the topic at metaphorvoodoo for this week's .


Me? Yeah I dig it... Unfortunately in the midst of the throes we are usually interrupted by one of the little men, suddenly awake and screaming from their bedroom:

"Mommy! Mommy I want you!"

"So do I, you little bastard. Just let me keep her for 20 more seconds."

Making the Rice

"Making the rice" is an inside joke my friends used for a while based on the lame excuse my friend Jon once used when bailing out of "good times."

"Gee, I'd really like to stick around and drink more beer with you guys, but I have to go put on the rice for Jen."

For months (years) henceforth, whenever he'd decline an invite somebody would inquire, "Making rice?" Eventually it was just shortened to, "Rice."

This week's roundtable, hosted by badass Atul takes a look at ridiculously "convenient" kitchen gadgets. When you stir the pancake batter, do you plug in the wooden spoon? Do you use an electric jar opener? When Jon 'makes the rice', does he use one of these?

Pop by "Things I've Noticed" and fess up. What kind of sh*tty gadget do you plug in to make yo'self some chitlins?

By the way, we just got dumped on by Jack Frost here in Western New York. More on that later. In the meanwhile:

Q: How do you turn your dishwasher into a snow thrower?
A: Click here.

Sherpan Strippers? Japanese Country Singers?

RW Chases Vincenzo around the world in this week's roundtable and poses the 'product of the environment' question. What would you be like if you grew up in a Muslim household in East Timor? Would you still have a penchant for poker, Hooters french fries and Lucky Lager? How much of "who we are" is shaped by where we live or where we were reared?


Get your passport stamped. We're waiting at the airport bar.

When the Tapeworm Speaketh

John Sadowski holds this week's roundtable. He's wondering: what appeases your tapeworm? You know, that fatty, salty plateful of unhealthy that satisfies that craving. You could feel your blood start to flow like toothpaste with every bite.

Gyros, tacos and Ramen - Oh my!

I'll have to admit, after a late night hockey game, the steering wheel on my car starts to pull to the right as I pass Taco Hell for a 7-Layer burrito with two percent milk.
The idea of putting seven layers of anything in my breadbasket....

Shoulda, Coulda Woulda

Roundtabler Suzanne of Perfect Procastination ponders the what-ifs of our miserable little lives. For instance, "What if I'd played 6-42-26-32-53-3 in last month's lotto?" or "What if I'd stayed home that night? It might have saved me from a penicillin shot.

Check it out.

LATER - Pre-teen Prego almost drowns. Stay tuned.

Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

Last month, blogger Carmi Levy wrote an article about homelessness that struck a chord. Carmi is a Canadian journalist & 'tech-y' guy and all-around gentleman... basically the anti-thesis of me. I'm far from Canadian. Anyway, he posits that we should all look out for the homeless and destitute, since any of us could wind up saturated in our own piss, talking to buildings and extending our nicotine-stained hand out to passers by to eke out a living.

In response to his post, I wrote:

...Yeah. We're all a lawsuit/bender/divorce away from being indigent or destitute, but I think most of us have the capacity, resourcefulness and will to avoid such a fate...

Sure, it could be any of us, but I don't find myself to be all that charitible to neighborhood cadgers anymore. This might be due to the fact that I live in an area with a high panhandler to regular person ratio.

Here's a historical glimpse of such characters:

A fifty-some year old guy who for a span of three or four years would approach people in front of a convenience store, asking for money "out of desperation." How long can one be 'desperate'? I think after three or four days it ceases to be desperation and becomes a flat-out nuisance.

A thirty year-old bearded hippie who spent a couple of summers rustling up some change to catch a bus - at the same stop, for hours on end.

The short pigeon toed dude with the fake "shakes" and the plaintive f*cking expression on his face. He'd waddle back and forth in front of the Blockbuster Video store looking like he was about to cry. This was his post for a couple of years.

The grizzled 'Vietnam Vet' guy who'd sarcastically respond "God Bless America," whenever you'd pat the pockets and shake your head as you walked by.

Then there's the 'ran out of gas' routine... That's a winner. F*ck you. Especially when I'm paying 3.02 a gallon to keep my rusty piece of sh*t on the road...

Yeah, it's enough to make anybody calloused. In a way, though, Carmi's right. It could be any of us. A few months ago I started running into an old acquaintance of mine named John. I hadn't seen this guy in about eight or nine years. He used to be normal. At least normal enough to bag one of my old female friends back in the day. Now he starts appearing out of the blue and chats me up for ten painful minutes with some kind of incoherent babble. I don't like to talk to regular people for half as long. As f*cked up as he sounded, he starts rattling off stuff about people we knew and we parted off with a 'nice to see you.'

A couple weeks later I run into him again, looking a little messy. Now I'm thinking, "Man, what kind of f*cking drugs did this guy start taking?" as he goes on and on about the same sh*t as our last encounter. I kind of tugged at my collar and herded the family along and gave him the 'nice to see you, again.'

One or two days go by and here he comes again, looking far more deteriorated and disheveled. He introduces me to some teenage kid he refers to as his friend. As I try to make my getaway with my dog, mother-f*cker hits me up for a "couple of bucks to get some drinks with the ladies."

I gave him the "bunt sign" (patting pockets to indicate lack of monetary content) and rushed off, as he shouted a couple of "Aw... Come on's."

Did I feel like an a**hole for not helping him out? Maybe just a little. I kept thinking that if I really wanted to help him out, I'd give him a ride to the local Bry Lin Treatment Center next time i saw him, but giving out a couple of quarters everytime I see him or any of those other 'destitute' f*ckers on the street is bull sh*t.

I take care of my more resourceful vagrants by leaving out my empty returnable bottles and cans on garbage day. The ill feeling I got standing behind a fat housewife or houseband with 73 empty diet pop cans at the supermarket just wasn't worth the $1.55 I'd garner on an average load. I also 'give at the office' with the United Way and any other legit charity I deem worthy.

I pose this question. At what point should I toss out a quarter? Am I just a cheap bastard or does anybody else get annoyed in this situations. Does it, in fact, make me a heartless a**hole?
As much as I hate to say it... John, next time I see yo' ass, I'm probably crossing the street. You need a little more help than I'd be able to give with $0.73. I hope you find it.

Siskel and Roper Gave it "the Finger"

My friend Skip and I were swilling a couple of wobbly pops Tuesday night when some goofy comedy came on. It was some POS called Without a Paddle and, despite increasing crapitude as the film progressed, we watched the whole thing. There was enough comic genius thrown in to warrant one sitting, but that's about it.

About halfway through the 'film', Skip laments, "They don't make movies like they used to... Like Easy Money..."

I begged to differ. I said, "Yeah they do, Skip. It's just not about us anymore. In a few years all the little f*ckers you see around us are going to say, 'They don't make movies like American Pie anymore.'"

Every once in a while you have to sit down, crack open the cranium, plop the grey matter down on the mantel and sit down for some crappy Hollywood viewin'. There's a goddamned crapload of it, that's for sure. I usually reach for the comedies, since they lend themselves to mindlessness.

Joe Wack of Hairshirt fame hosts this week's . In an ode to Cliffhanger, the Sly Stallone vehicle that he considers the "Sh*ttiest Film of All Time," he invites you to pay homage to what you consider the worst movie ever - so crappy that you watch it over and over again and mire in its grandiose crapulence.

So what is it? Beaches? Red Dawn? Youngblood? Boys on the Side? It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World? Hangar 18? My brother still breathes fire about that one.

Get your tickets, walk over to the snack bar and make your way up the sticky aisle of Hairshirt Cineplex. Boo and hiss to your heart's content.