Check it, Peons: Your CNN Humiliation Compartmentalized

Thursday, June 28, 2007


Last night I came home and there was a message from my mom on the answering machine. Now, I must point out that she habitually leaves weird, random messages. And, despite her obvious Finnish accent, she always states who she is first. As in: "Terve, Aiti-Kaisa here." She must assume that there are hundreds of other 60-year-old Finnish women leaving daily messages on my machine. Messages I've received in the past include:

1.)"You know, that Michael Jackson person...he's really weird."

2.) "All of a sudden, your father won't eat swiss cheese. I don't know why. What's wrong with swiss cheese?"

3.) "I saw on the news that it's raining in New York. Do you have rain boots? Don't be vain about it. I know you like those high heels but there is no reason to ruin good shoes. And everyone knows you're short anyway. You're not fooling anyone."

4.) "I saw that there are bedbugs in New York. Even the fancy apartments have them. I think you should wash your sheets tonight."

5.) "Do you think that John Travolta person wears a wig?"

Anyway, last night I got this:

"Who is this terrible man on the TV that looks like a fat penis? Bald man with a mustache. Telling everyone what to do with their lives and he has a southern accent and looks like a fat penis. I hate him. Why do they let people like this on the TV?"

I don't know. What do you think? Should I give her the number to the Dr. Phil hotline? I'm sure he'd love to hear from her.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007


Which former CNN VJ, who now lives in New York, and whose last name rhymes with button, drank too much last night and woke up this morning on the sofa with a piece of deli meat in one hand and an unknown stain on her Don Ho shirt?

Monday, June 25, 2007


I recently took (a very minor) part in the 48 Hour Film Project. It's a great competition that happens in various cities once a year. You are given 48 hours and a few guidelines to create a film. The genre provided was "Superhero", and the mandatory line was "If you must know, my father told me."
My role in this artistic endeavor was pretty limited. However, true to form, I sported a fabulous viking costume.
Check it out:


A little while ago, I was out with some friends who told me that although they are not anywhere near eligible for AARP, they have taken Viagra, just to heighten the sexual experience. The only issue, said one of them, was that he had a hard on for 12 hours.
12 hours!
It got my wheels spinning, imagining what the experience must have been like for this hapless young fellow. So I came up with this...

I suppose most people view Erectile Dysfunction drugs as a means for old men to terrorize their fossilized wives and young mistresses, and as fodder for stale jokes about failed politicians. But the way I see it, you hear what you want to hear with the ad campaigns for these drugs, depending on who you are. Gramps hears that his long dormant pecker might actually twitch when the nurse bends over. I hear that my dick will be harder than Michigan steel, a California Redwood and a New York D.A.’s soul.

I probably don’t have to tell you that I find this concept fascinating.

Now, I hasten to add that I'm 28 years old I don't have any problems in this department, so the attraction was more like those college kids in the 1950's that tried to see how many people they could cram into a phone booth. You know, exactly HOW HARD for HOW LONG could I get? The idea appealed to the scientist in me. Of course, I didn't have any idea that the experience would last 12 hours.

12 hours.
That's 720 minutes.
That's 43,200 seconds.

That's a mighty long time for your member to stand at attention.

So in the spirit of empiricism, I decided to keep a precise log of each hour that passed. The results are printed below for the benefit of future drug-fueled sexual swashbucklers:

HOUR ONE: Great. I have sex four times with my girlfriend. She knows she's in for the long haul, so she came prepared with KY Jelly, the massive "anti-family pack" of condoms and Pizza Hut on her cell phone speed dial. We know we aren't going anywhere tonight. The sex is stellar. She moans, cries and makes some noises you normally hear from the fatty in Human Resources as she devours a Hostess ho ho.

HOUR TWO: Still great. Although, now I have to pee, and my dick is still rock hard. I try to twist my pelvis over the toilet and point my dick down into the bowl. But, I ultimately face the shame of sitting on the toilet like a girl, my rod (and yes, in the condition it's in, it makes sense to call it that) resting against the rim at a rigid 45 degree angle.

HOUR THREE: More sex. I explore her in every position possible. We get a little winded and decide to try less athletic things with my dick. We measure it with a ruler, hang a spoon on the end of it and don a shotglass on its head.

HOUR FOUR: She gives me head, but it isn't very fun because I can't come and after 15 minutes, she has a slight case of lock jaw. We are alarmed at first, wondering how we would explain things if she had to be rushed to the hospital: Me with a visible hard on, and her with an open mouth like a German blow up sex doll. Fortunately, her mouth returns to normal and we order pizza.

HOUR FIVE: Eat pizza. Wang still hard. She takes a bath.

HOUR SIX: We consider doing it again, but watch a Seinfeld rerun instead. I wonder how Jerry got so many attractive women with his stupid bleached white tennis shoes and suburban pantry-stocking housewife jeans. I don't say anything, because if my girlfriend thinks he's hot, I don't want to know.

HOUR SEVEN: Schlong still hard, and I start to get a little irritable. To cheer me up, my girlfriend tries hanging various items of clothing on it. We start slow, with just a sock. We proceed to add one glove, a scarf, and a pair of boxers. Finally when we add a tank top, it droops a little.

HOUR EIGHT: Still hard. We have more sex, but it's kind of like eating the last serving of mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. They tasted good at the beginning, but you don't really want a third helping. On the other hand, a third helping won't kill you. So you eat them, but they’e kind of cold, and you don't feel so great afterwards. Then you wonder why you had the third helping.

HOUR NINE: Had enough of my hard on. My girlfriend asks if it's possible to O.D. on an Erectile Dysfunction drug, and if there is some kind of hotline to call. She then admits that if there is a hotline, she wants the job of being the operator on the other end. We imagine all the different people calling in: "I gotta get to work in the morning!
How can I meet Mr. Beasley from accounting in this condition?” We picture Elmer Fudd and Yosimite Sam with everlasting hard ons, calling the hot line. Funny, except my girlfriend’s Yosimite Sam impersonation sounds more like rabid televangalist. You’d think the idea of my girlfriend sounding like rabid televangalist would automatically cause my penis to soften, but it doesn’t.

HOUR TEN: Hard on jokes are not funny anymore, as my pecker is still rigid. This is one of those: “This will be so funny in hindsight” situations. But right now it sucks. I try to sleep, and find that I am in the realm of pregnant women and women with large boobs in that I cannot sleep on my stomach. As this is how I normally sleep, I cannot get any rest. I am a prisoner of my hopped up dick and I don't like it anymore. I slap it back and forth a few times, watching it spring back up and then decide to masturbate.

HOUR ELEVEN: Even though this is the city that never sleeps, it feels as though my penis and I are the only two citizens of New York who are not sawing logs. We watch late night infomercials, and I make a mental note to buy myself Time Life's Soft Rock Collection and improve my abs.

HOUR TWELVE: At last I'm free! I've never been so happy to be flaccid in all my life. My dick looks curiously deflated and worn out as it droops woozily, and I finally slip into bed and fall asleep. It occurs to me that I will not be trying this again until I’m at least 75.

Friday, June 22, 2007


Yesterday I received an e-mail from a Peon Confidential reader who sent me a link to the website for ALLI, a magic new weight loss pill. She wrote, "This was sent to me by a friend. I wasn't researching ways to blow out my colon...Why I thought of you immediately when I read this remains a mystery."
Well lady, I'm certainly glad you did. The ALLI WEBSITE is filled to the brim with hilarity. At first I really thought it was some type of colossal practical joke. Honestly, I thought, is anyone that desperate to lose weight that they will structure their entire day, travel plans, social events and wardrobe around shitting? Then I read the forum, where women with screen-names like "deprivedwife" ask earnest questions about whether they can have 15 grams of fat per day or per meal without experiencing "treatment effects". What are "treatment effects"? Why that's just ALLI's ultra-clinical euphemism for "shitting your brains out" and "embarrassing yourself at the PTA meeting by soiling your Oleg Cassini sweatpants with wet, oily, stinky farts".
This is truly the weirdest weight loss idea ever. It basically works on fear: "Don't you DARE eat that Whopper, because if you do, you will have to make a quick dash to the Macy's bathroom, where you will be hunched over, sweating, easing out greasy, nasty stools."

Note some of the handy tips on the website:


(Wearing dark pants IS a smart idea. Because then when you poop your pants, people may smell it, but they can't see no one in the office can pin it on you! Now that's using your noggin.)


(Really? At my place of work, when we have to fart, we head to the center of the newsroom, raise our fists in the air and say; "Hey Carl, listen to this one!")


(Dear Diary,
Last night I went on a date with Bill to the Olive Garden.
We were having a wonderful, romantic evening until I made the BIG mistake of ordering the Alfredo sauce instead of the Marinara sauce...well let's just say Bill won't be calling anymore. Let's also say that I'll be shopping for a new cream-colored Liz Claiborn pantsuit...And that I've been banned from ever setting foot in the Olive Garden again.)

Tuesday, June 19, 2007


The story I'm about to entrall you with intrigued me because I have a garden gnome named Larry on my terrace. He's a pretty cool fellow, and does an admirable job of keeping an eye on the place. But some gnomes are not so civic minded. According to The Associated Press, some have taken to a life of crime:
It seems that during a routine check of international mail on June 10, an Australian customs officer discovered two snakes and three lizards stuffed inside three garden gnomes in a shipment from Britain. It is against Australian law to bring live reptiles into the country without a license. No one was arrested over this bizarre incident, but customs said its investigation was continuing.

I had no idea garden gnomes were so shady. But in light of this new found information, here's a list of possible garden gnome gangster names:

1.) Randy "Little Smuggler" O'Mally
2.) Guido "Giant Balls" Gigante
3.) Carlos "Red Cap" Fuentes
4.) Norm "Gnominator" Smalls
5.) Larry

Monday, June 18, 2007


I expect we've all heard the sad news that Toucan Sam might be out of a job. According to The New York Times, The Kellogg Company has established new nutrition standards. Only products with up to 12 grams of sugar per serving can be advertised to children. This means unless they reformulate Pop-Tarts, Apple Jacks, Cocoa Krispies and Froot Loops, these products will no longer be pitched to kids.
I bet it's only a matter of time before General Mills follows suit.
And you know what this means:
A whole lot of beloved cereal mascots will be in the unemployment line...
Some will take low-paying, humilating jobs just to make a buck. Some will opt to get out of the cereal racket and play shuffleboard in Florida. Some will parlay their cereal fame into new avenues. Some will fall in with a bad crowd. In two years time, just imagine where these mascots could be...

TOUCAN SAM: Official mascot for NYC Gay Pride parade
TRIX RABBIT: Blinded after taking a job in a research lab to pay for coke habit
COUNT CHOCULA: Writes tell-all about sordid nights with Boo Berry and Franken Berry
LUCKY CHARMS LEPRECHAUN: Arrested for racketeering
COOKIE CRISP WIZARD: Cameo in a Harry Potter film
SONNY THE CUKOO BIRD: Tragic accident. Winds up battered, fried and thrown in a bucket of KFC, devoured by a family of four in Poughkeepsie
SUGAR SMACKS "DIG 'EM" FROG: Internet porn. Most popular title: "Sugar Smack that Ass"

Due to interest in the comments section, behold, it's FRUIT BRUTE

Thursday, June 14, 2007


I think it's pretty safe to say that Talk Back Live was horrendous programming. Irredeemable, actually. Boring guests, lackluster audience participation, ugly set, terrible locale, unlistenable theme song.
As such, when I came across Rob Lathan's blog on a friend's website, I had to share his story with you. The YouTube links are included. The best part of the story is that the man was simply delivering a cake to a CNN conference, and they seized the opportunity to hold him hostage to that awful show. I mean, how often did that happen? How many Fed Ex guys, Jehovah's Witnesses, dog walkers, and singing telegram people did they trap in this same manner? Check this out:

"I finally uploaded the footage from my Talk Back Live appearances on YouTube. The footage is from 1997 - when I was crazy. Now I’m completely sane. (Yeah right.) The first vid is from my very first appearance - which also happened to be my TV debut. At the time I was working as a cake deliverer in Atlanta for a company called Piece of Cake. After dropping off a cake at a CNN conference, a producer asked if I wanted to be an audience member for a show they were taping called Talk Back Live. The producer explained that audience members could ask questions to a panel of experts about a certain topic and that day’s topic was the OJ Simpson Civil Trial. I said yes. Before I went on the set I called my college buddies and told them to tape it. The footage is a little choppy now and the sound goes out at one point, but you should still get the idea. Let’s see if I ask an intelligent question.

At the next commercial break two security guards tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that I was being kicked off the set. And so I went back on my route delivering cakes. But that was not the end of it for me. I went back to CNN Talk Back Live a few days later - this time in disguise. Of course one of the producers recognized me and said under no circumstances was I allowed back on the set again. But after pleading with her for several minutes, she finally relented but said I was strictly forbidden to ask any questions. And so I sat through the entire show without asking anything. But at least I got to express myself with my awesome costume. Let’s see if you can spot me in the audience.

I kept going back to CNN Talk Back Live every single day - each day in a new crazy costume and each day while I was supposed to be out on my route delivering cakes. But I think after a while I just wore everybody out who was involved with the show. On my final visit, I was told that I was officially banned from ever setting foot there again. If I stayed any longer they would call the cops and have me arrested. After a long back and forth of this, I finally agreed to leave and we parted way forever. I went back to delivering cakes without visiting any political talk shows. And CNN Talk Back Live went back to airing programs with mostly normal people in the audience. Eventually CNN Talk Back Live was canceled. And eventually I stopped delivering cakes. But I’ll always look back on those days with fondness. Of the few TV appearances I’ve had since, nothing has been quite as sweet as the time when somebody finally put “The Juice” in his place."

As a side note--does anyone who had the misfortune to work on this show remember this guy and his crazy costumes?

Friday, June 08, 2007


Just found out that apart from the delicious food, the gorgeous architecture, and beautiful people, Rome offers up another pleasurable surprise for tourists and locals alike:
According to Reuters: "Scientists have discovered particles of cocaine and marijuana, as well as caffeine and tobacco, in the air of Italy's capital, they said on Thursday. The concentration of drugs was heaviest in the air around Rome's Sapienza university, though the National Research Council's Dr. Angelo Cecinato warned against drawing conclusions about students' recreational habits."

Ah, Roma. A truly intoxicating city. Surely this added bonus should be included in their tourist brochures. With the lousy dollar-to-euro exchange, it's nice to know a person can get something for free.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007


Aloha Magnum P.I. fans- Prepare yourselves for some high-octane excitement!
Tonight, Tim O'Mara, Pete Olson, Mike Ser and Mama D are presenting you with a rare cultural artifact...Yes, the rumors are true. We've unearthed "The Lost Episode of Magnum P.I." Hidden for years, it took the talents of four exceptional writers to decode it for your pleasure. But that's not all. You'll also enjoy Mike Maloney's raucous tribute to famed TV theme composer Mike Post and a chance to win Magnum-themed prizes. This is top quality entertainment. The best around. You don't want to miss a single Selleck-sational moment!

WARNING: One of us WILL be squeezed into tight, yellow, ball-cupping 1980's style, Magnum P.I. approved Op shorts.

TIME: 8:30pm
PLACE: Jimmy's No. 43 (backroom)
ADDRESS: East 7th (Btw 2nd/3rd)

See you there!

Monday, June 04, 2007


Quiz time:
The following pieces of shithouse literature, displayed upon various stall walls have been discovered at:
1.) A global cable news organization
2.) A local New York news affiliate
3.) A crappy Lower East Side bar

Can you tell which piece of literature comes from which place?

A.) Hello ladies,

Please I beg you, I beg of all the women using this bathroom.

When you flush the toilet, please take a moment to look and see if everything flushed.

If it did not, please take the time to flush again and keep flushing until it is all gone.

I am more than confident that no one wants to see someone else's mess when they walk into a stall.

We would all appreciate the common courtesy of a clean stall.

B.) Here I sit, brokenhearted,
Came to shit,
But only farted

DO NOT leave your hair or cosmetic spills in/on the sink. (clip art of sink)
MAKE SURE everything goes down before you leave the stall. (clip art of toilet)
Use air freshener whenever possible. (clip art of air freshener shooting out fumes)
And always remember...
If you sprinkle while you tinkle please be neat and wipe the seat. (clip art of toilet roll)
Let's have a little more consideration for the next person coming into the stall. (clip art of smiling sun)

Friday, June 01, 2007


So, by now we've all heard the odd story of personal injury lawyer Andrew Speaker from Atlanta, who has a drug-resistant strain of TB. Although at first he did not know his TB was so severe, he knew he had TB. Yet he STILL chose to travel for his fabulous destination wedding in Greece, make a stop in Paris, then honeymoon in Rome, then jet off to Prague, then fearing he could not get proper treatment for his vicious strain of TB, fly into Canada to sneak into the U.S. despite being told by federal officials not to get on a long commercial flight...
I think this guy is a selfish prick.
I don't care that his neighbors say he's a nice guy. They weren't sitting next to him in a cramped plane without proper ventilation. I don't care that his doctors only reccommended that he "put off his wedding" but did not explicitly tell him not to go. Use some common sense. If you know you have TB you should respect the people who will be forced to sit by you for 8 hours on a plane. If he really wanted to get married, he could have just done it in Atlanta, and not risked infecting innocent people in an enclosed space.

However, that is not the point of this post. The point is:

This story has all the makings, with just a few tweaks, of a great made-for-TV movie. Plus, the fact that his father-in-law is a TB specialist already reads like fiction. But in my fictionalized made-for-TV movie, the father-in-law personally infected him with TB. He injected it in his arm on a balmy Atlanta evening after a lavish outdoor gala because:
A.) he never thought he was good enough for his little girl
B.) so he could have a case study at his disposal and not have to travel to remote parts of Russia and Asia.

And no, I don't care if that's not possible medically. This is a TV drama. And a bad TV drama at that.

Also, have you seen what the wife looks like? Southern belle, with white-blonde hair and shapely legs. Again, perfect for my movie. In my fictionalized movie, he is torn about going on the trip, but she coaxes him into it with her sexy charms.
Naturally, in my movie he has to start hacking and wheezing on one of the trans-Atlantic flights, possibly spitting up blood, causing pandemonium and at least one over-turned food cart. On the plane there would be a couple of nuns, some acrobats, a famous movie star, and a rascally stowaway kid with a cute puppy.


FATHER-IN-LAW: Patrick Duffy
NUNS: Valerie Bertanelli and Donna Mills
ACROBATS: The Vegas cast of Cirque de Soleil
FAMOUS MOVIE STAR: Morgan Fairchild
RASCALLY STOWAWAY KID: Any Fanning sibling will do
THEME SONG "My Cough Will Go On" SUNG BY: Celine Dion
COSTUMES BY: Nolan Miller