"Humor Me" says Robert S. "Bob" Wieder

Monday, November 28, 2005


Michael Jackson has moved to Bahrain, which has evidently welcomed him with open arms. And before you begin rolling your eyes over just how preposterously gullible and shortsighted they are in Bahrain, recall that Oakland did pretty much the same thing with Al Davis. Perhaps this proves a point.

Jackson has relocated permanently to that lucky Arabian kingdom, and has also announced his conversion to Islam, because, states a press release, the tenets of Islam are "closer to Michael's personal beliefs." I didn't think you could get much closer to Michael's personal beliefs than the Catholic church has managed to do, but I am no religious scholar.

The press release also referred to Michael's wish to live in a country that would allow him his rightful share of "personal liberty," and I think we all know what that is a euphemism for, even if we don't. I suspect that it has something to do with the fact that the affections of both young boys and judges are more easily bought there than in Southern California, as unlikely as that may seem in some Red States.

Still, we're dealing with a Muslim country here. Which means an official ban on alcohol. Which means Michael will have to be very cagey with the Jesus Juice. For one thing, he'll probably want to re-name that beverage in accordance with his new faith. Mohammed Mix, perhaps, or Allah Ale. Those kids from the Wahabi schools will swallow anything if you slap the Prophet's okay on it.

I sympathize with Michael's new homeland, both as an American and as a Christian. Good luck with him, you Sunni Jims. Alas, though, I fear the reality will be that--and here comes the most painful punchline of the year--to paraphrase a song from "My Fair Lady":

The bane of Bahrain
is brother to Jermaine

Friday, November 18, 2005


The big $315 million Mega Millions lottery jackpot was claimed earlier this week by seven employees of Kaiser Permanente in Southern California. Asked what they planned to do with their winnings, they gave differing answers, but all basically were pleased that now, as one of them put it, "We can finally afford a decent health plan."

Thursday, November 17, 2005



When Japanese lavatory engineers, clearly thinking outside the stall, came up several years ago with a talking toilet which admonishes males to raise and lower the seat and to mind their aim, I thought we had reached the height of annoying restroomal intrusion. Just what the world needs, I mused: a toilet that gives US shit. But then, more recently, I chanced upon the Wizmark "interactive urinal communicator," an electronic, motion-activated urinal drain cover that, when you stand in to take a leak, automatically lights up, begins displaying a series of visual stills, and delivers a spoken message. To be specific, a spoken advertising message.

Yes, the unthinkably inevitable has finally come to pass. The bastards are now running commercials in urinals. And why not? God knows there is no more captive audience than a male in mid-stream. As irritatingly invasive as this concept is, however, it's hard to work up a serious outrage over it. First, because you have to pity any advertiser who thinks that associating its product with the act of pissing into a public receptacle will be a net plus. And second, we can at last satisfy that long-held desire to literally piss on a commercial without shorting out our TV.


While we’re on the topic of subject commode association, say hello to the Sound Princess, a device consisting of a sensor in a public restroom stall which, when you hold your hand over it, triggers the sound of water flowing quite loudly. It is designed to be used to mask the embarrassing sound of the body's emissions during defecation, and is marketed to schools, shopping centers and white collar workplaces in Japan, where the act of elimination is evidently a far more engrossing and challenging phenomenon, and where the Sound Princess has already sold over half a million units.

The manufacturers see enormous possibilities for their product in the USA, but before you send in your application for a distributorship, consider three drawbacks. First, unlike Japan, in America we are as likely to take pride in our window-rattlers as we are to be mortified. Second, the Sound Princess does nothing about the telltale and even more offensive aromas that result. And third, the flowing water just replaces one dead-giveaway noise with another. "Ralph must have had burritos for lunch again, the goddam executive washroom sounds like Niagara Falls."

Saturday, November 12, 2005


According to news reports regarding the terrorist hotel bombings in Jordan, one of the suicide teams consisted of a husband and wife. The al Qaeda internet posting that claimed responsibility implied that this was a wifely expression of loyalty and devotion to hubby and to Islam and jihad, jada jada. I think we all see through this tissue of bullshit. The truth is, Mrs. Achmed considered the proposition of Mr. Achmed going off to terrorist heaven as a holy martyr all by himself, considered how much he could be trusted amid 72 virgins, and said the Arabac equivalent of "No freaking way." This strikes me as a grievous waste of 72 perfectly good virgins, and a stupid, hateful, pointless death made, if possible, even worse. What the hell ever happened to the time-honored "til death do us part" principle?

In related news, it turns out that the bombing took the life of the guy who produced all the "Halloween" movies, which probably leaves a lot of us with mixed feelings. For my part, I'd just like to know where these vile little suicide bombers are when Adam Sandler is hanging out in a hotel lobby.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005


AP--Miami--11/7/05 -- The Seabourn Spirit, a luxury cruise ship operated by a subsidiary line of the Carnival Corp., was attacked by a gang of pirates about 100 miles off the coast of Somalia today...


Passenger Becca Hempel, Scottsdale, Arizona: "It was terrible, the way the pirates swept over the aft deck and into the dining room. It was just before lunch, and they simply poured in and just...took over! A horrible man with tattoos on his face, on his face! just reached out and grabbed the crab cakes right off mother's plate! And there was this one huge pirate, with these horrible long dreadlocks and a hook on one hand who kept stamping his feet and bellowing, "You call this a buffet? Aaarrhh!"

Lounge Steward Bahkti Chimmichacorn, Ceylon: "My first thought was 'Vishnu, take me, it's another bloody training exercise, like the iceberg alert! The brass at Carnival is always pulling these little fake surprise emergencies. But then I realized the boys at corporate would never spring for the money for all that costuming. Also, there was the damage from the rocket propelled grenades. And of course, when they tied the activities director in chain and threw him over the side."

Amos "Peg Leg" Mursali: "The recreation facilities weren't at all what I was hoping for. I think that put a number of us out of sorts, for one thing. I personally felt that the rock climbing wall was, for me, rather a slap in the face. You can see why we lost our tempers. Although I do regret the impalings. In any event, Carnival has certainly seen the last of my business."

Tuesday, November 01, 2005


As a rule, or at least as it happens so far, I do not do postings of a personal nature, by which I mean I don't write about me or things that happen to me, my theory being, in a nutshell: Who the hell cares? But this entry has to do with a dream that I had last night. I'm not sure I could precisely categorize it as a dream, because it was rather too...I don't know...organized to be a dream. Too calculated. Scripted, even. And it was a concept dream. Not a narrative or plot driven dream, or some ethereal fantasy or upwelling of hoodoos. The dream was, very precisely and clearly, a series of takes on this concept:

Different scenarios of misfortune befalling dyslexics who mistakenly and tragically misread signs or instructions.

I have no idea why such a theme should occur to my unconscious. Certainly it would never occur to my conscious.

The first take, as I recall, was something like this:

Dyslexic comes upon a sign reading Golf Course, unwittingly embarks on what turns out to be a kind of gauntlet in a sadomasochistic park: in short, a "flog course."

Mind you, and I'm not kidding, this was not consciously conceived; these are all recalled dream elements, unscripted and certainly unbidden.

Another one was: guy in biological testing lab comes upon a cup in the fridge with a hand printed label on it which he dyslexically reads as "ssip." And does.

Also, a guy goes into a barber shop and says "Take off an inch." It's not true dyslexic rearrangement, but in the dream, "inch" becomes "chin" with all the unpleasant ramifications attendant thereto.

By now the dream structure has abandoned pure dyslexia for a kind of anagramica, and let me say right here that I have never in my life been interested in or possessed of any aptitude for anagrams, but my dreambrain in its sublime imbecility came up with: Old guy suffering dementia walking, like, the grounds of a veterans' hospital, and comes upon some ground cover with a sign reading "Thistles," which his mind reads as Lets shit.

Let me emphasize again and most sincerely: this is not a bit, not concocted, but a straightforward report of a highly uncommon and inexplicable dream experience.

I guess we can both agree at this point that it's time you moved on to Fark.com.