I may be way off on this, but I don't remember Wonder Woman looking like Sheryl Lee Ralph.
That may be just be me being bitter and clinging to Lynda Carter.
An appreciative nod to Katherine.
Three words I never want to think about again:
Mascot camel toe.
Cross-posted at the all-new Salad Spinner Tumbleblog.
More photos from the judging room at the National Pie Championships can be found here.
The Great American Pie Festival continues today in Celebration.
When will the madness end? When will this great nation return to the days when freedom of expression was respected and venerated, when men had the unfettered luxury of dangling fake testicles from the trailer hitch of their vehicle without fear of scorn and repercussion?
I don't believe I want to live in a country where Truck Nutz and Biker Balz are not allowed for public consumption. Especially the illuminated ones, because that, my fellow countrymen, comes down to a public safety issue.
Plus, it would really scale back my Adventures in Traffic photo opportunities.
PREVIOUS ADVENTURES IN TRAFFIC:
We've got wood.
Timing is everything.
Haten and hogs.
Jimi Hendrix Edition.
Sit on it and rotate.
I'm your private antenna dancer.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Welcome to Springfield.
Orange you glad you're not this guy?
Everything's better when it sits on a Ritz.
Porn as a windowshade.
Jonathan Livingston Redneck.
Buc off, pal.
Such a dirty mess.
How cheep can you be?
I'm super! Thanks for asking.
Would you like an apple pie with that?
Hearse so good.
Drive fast, take chances.
Riding with Fab the deejay.
Beware of the Death Explorer.
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right.
My other car is a rocket-propelled grenade.
Live long and prosper. In an Altima.
Just two good ol' boys.
Nicotine is my crash helmet.
Jazz hands moms.
Ugly lug nuts.
My honor student can kick your ass.
Horse and buddy.
My thanks to everyone who has called and e-mailed to check on my employment status as a result of the news this week that the Tampa Tribune is offering buyouts to half of its employees.
It's been quite a week. It's a fairly surreal experience to look around at your workplace and wonder which half of the chairs will be filled in two month's time. It's also more than a little bizarre to read comments about your own employment situation on the Web site you work for.
Several times this week, I've had a moment like the one in "Wall Street" where Hal Holbrook as the character Lou Mannheim drapes an arm around Charlie Sheen's yuppie stock trading character Bud Fox and walks him down the hall right before the SEC arrests the young man. Holbrook imparts this wisdom: "Man looks in the abyss, there's nothing staring back at him. At that moment, man finds his character. And that is what keeps him out of the abyss."
I know that feeling all too well.
I've done some soul searching, considered my options and thought long and hard about what to do next.
Greetings to everyone who is tripping into the Salad bowl from our newest, bestest buddy, David Chalk over at the Tampa Bay
Devil Rays page at Bugs and Cranks.
David took a liking to some photos of a mini-brawl in left field that I took during the Rays' opening home game against the Seattle Mariners.
I would comment more, but I think I'll follow the follow the advice of Billy Joel to, "Leave a tender moment alone."
Besides, Dan Ruth put it so perfectly:
There is something magical, even in a FEMA trailer with a gland problem like Tropicana Field, when you walk up the stairs into the stands and there, suddenly spread out before you, is the field in all its glorious (albeit artificial) greenery.
It's a moment of promise. A game is to be played. There will be - fun.
Of course, there would have been an awful lot more fun if only there hadn't been so many other people who insisted on attending the same game.
Nothing spoils a nice time more than having to share it with complete strangers, like the vile, hideous, loathsome children around us.
First, there was the extra from "Deliverance" who appeared to be bent on setting the world record for how many times we had to stand up to let him leave his seat. Unfortunately, he kept coming back.
Then there was the dreadful youth of about 11 or so who decided to start violently punching his brother directly across the aisle from me.
One of my many charming talents in life is the ability to scare the absolute bejabbers out of children. And although it's been awhile since we had the pitter-patter of little feet around the manse, it's nice to know I hadn't lost my touch.
"Excuse me," I seethed to the Inmate-In-Waiting, as he was busily pummeling away. "Is my trying to watch this baseball game interfering with your beating up your brother?" The thug-lite looked stunned, as if not even a parent had ever spoken to him like that before.
"Knock it off, shut up, sit down and grow up," I glared at the lad like a drill instructor. And he did - quiet as a church mouse for the rest of the game. I should rent myself out to terrify horrible tots.
My University of Florida college friend Jacqueline at the always impressive and influencial JD Land shares this video clip from YouTube. It's a commercial for Skeeter's Big Biscuits, our favorite late-night eating establishment in Gainesville during the 1980s.
It's from, as she put it, "1986 no less!"
When I think of the times that I deployed their hubcap-size pancakes in the Asher Special as an absorbant boom for my liver, it brings goose flesh to my skin. (You young'uns may now ask your parents, "Mommy, Daddy, what's a hubcap?")
As one commenter mentioned on the RoadFood.com message boards:
Here in Gainesville i miss Skeeters. it boasted "biscuts as big as your head" it was downtown, and open all night. so we would lurch in there feet hurting ears ringing after a night of dancing at 80's old wave night at the University club and eat a huge breafast. Its now a nasty nasty little club.
Ah, the run-on sentences, poor punctuation, capitalization and tense disagreement. Must be a Gator grad. Or a former Alligator editor.
I keeeed. I keeeed. I am a keeeder.
JD's other comment:
"Waaah, I want an Asher!!!!!!!!!"
I've been trying to tap into my brain to remember what this commercial's production values remind me of.
Ah, now I've got it:
I'm very proud of having written this story about one of my comedy heroes. Something about it appeals to the 12-year-old in me.
Which, if you know me, is only barely below the epidermis.
It measures from here...
... to here.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Daily Belch.
Experts say eye contact facilitates more effective communication.
Experts are correct.
They're so cute when they catch the aroma of fatty human tissue.
Dropped some spittle on the window there, Cujo.
Okay. The window moved. Down.
Mommy, I just made boom in my pants. I sorry.