Mad Dog's Tentacles Are Long...

His Street Cred Grows...
Mad Dog, sentenced to life in prison, is running a global criminal enterprise once more. Now, instead of cash, he's dealing in cigarettes, contraband, and a stable of prison bitches. But, you can't keep a Mad Dog on the porch. (Even when that porch has steel bars, sixteen foot walls, guard towers and razor tape.)

When Mad Dog learned that his former associate, Jeffry Picower was being pressured about the $7 billion he had made from Madoff-related investments, Mad Dog took matters into his own hands.

It's amazing what a couple of cartons of Newports will get you these days.

Jeffry Picower was found dead last weekend, at the bottom of his swimming pool.

A victim of a heart attack. (At least it looked like a heart attack.)

Dynamic Douche-o

Batman and Robin?
I was talking to my friend, N., who said she pictured these chaps, attired in tights, sliding down the pole, to jump in the Batmobile. (Which, coincidentally, is shaped like a giant bat.) Then, racing off to fight crime and against good baseball commentary.

I can see it now: Commissioner Selig has the searchlight, which illuminates the skies over Gotham, with a beam in the shape of a baseball. This tells the Dynamic Douche-o that there is a baseball game to be broadcast, with all sorts of annoyingly stupid remarks to be made. For three hours and forty two minutes. On Fox.

"Holy Hardball, Batman! Joe Girardi is not making a pitching change."

Tool Catalogue...

The Lifeguard Offers These Suggestions:

Regardless of your political orientation, sexual orientation, or point of origination, here are three basic rules to avoid being laughed at by The Lifeguard.

First, don't wear your hat backward. Not only does it look stupid (unless you are Jorge Posada, and you are on a baseball diamond), it...well...looks stupid. It looks even worse when the hat is over-sized, the brim is flat, and it covers the tops of the ears. Or, if you are the President of the United States.

Second, if you are over the age of 16, don't wear a Posada (for example) jersey. (Unless, of course, you are Jorge Posada.) This is another one of those douchey things that guys do (in hopes of impressing girls who are impressed by losers in replica jerseys). The only possible exception would be the guy who wears a New York Knights jersey, bearing the number 9. (Bonus points if you know which Knight wore number 9.)

Finally, don't piss me off.

That is all.

I can't be the only one...

When I Heard That Three Runners Died...
I asked myself, "Shot? Stabbed? How?"

After all, it is Detroit.

Homecoming...

Wait!
Last weekend, The Lifeguard journeyed to dear old Wake Forest to partake in the Homecoming festivities, see old friends, and make a few new ones. Oh, and to see the Demon Deacons beat Maryland.*

The beauty of the Wake Forest campus, even after twenty-two years, still brings a tear to my eye, especially given the fondness I have for my alma mater. And, truth be told, this trip meant more to me than any other. If only I could go back....

But, I can't.

*Sadly, The Lifeguard could not stay for the game; and, as such, missed the opportunity to see a Wake victory--a rarity when I was at university--and to roll The Quad.

Yikes!

Not Only Do I Hate The Fox Sports Broadcast Team...
Erick Aybar and Chone Figgins fail to communicate, allowing Hideki Matsui's infield fly ball drop, impotently, to the dirt in New Yankee Stadium. This allowed Matsui to rack up an infield hit--and an RBI--putting the dreaded Evil Empire up, 2-0, in the first inning.

This prompted me to consider a couple--actually, three--things:

First, how do you get "Sean" from Chone? What are they putting in the water in Leary, Georgia that makes mothers give their children ridiculous names? Where is Leary, Georgia?

Second, is it fair that Hideki Matsui's cousin scores the game? How in the name of sweet Jesus was that a motherhumping hit?

Finally, do they not know the "Rule of Nine" in Bani, Dominican Republic? Shouldn't you make that catch for $460,000.00 a year? Shouldn't you make that catch if you want to make more than $460,000.00 next year? Hell, my 11 year old makes that catch (most of the time) for free. (And, if he doesn't, at least he called it.) Oh, and I almost forgot...47 degrees at game time is not an excuse to wear the hood. There are people who go to see the Green Bay Packers play, in December, without their shirts. He's playing baseball, and the excitement of playing in the ALCS should keep him warm. (Plus, he might have been able to hear Figgins tell him to take it.)

F^%$ing Evil Empire.

And The Lifeguard Wept...

I Hate Norway!
Barack Hussein Obama, America's 44th President, who is also not a Muslim, won the 2009 Edition of the Nobel Peace Prize. Said one member of the committee, Olaf Knudsen, "We gave the award to President Obama because he hates America as much as we do. He is just like Jimmy Carter."

Yes, great. BHO gets a cool mill (after taxes), gets a medal, and guarantees himself a steady stream of invites from the likes of other America haters such as Robert Mugabe, Hugo Chavez, Raul Castro (and don't forget Fidel), and any other tin-pot dictator who laments America's (or the West's) pre-eminence in the world.

I mean, really...why BHO (except for the fact that he talks a good game)?

President Reagan defeated communism. President Bush 41 presided over the dismantling of the Berlin Wall (and formed a coalition of nations to kick Saddam Hussein's ass back to Baghdad). President Clinton got tons of ass. (Literally, tons of ass. I mean, really, did you see Monica Lewinsky?) President Bush 43 finished the job his father started, forming another coalition, enforcing 17 breached UN Resolutions, and driving a murdering, raping thug from power. Did any of these guys get the Nobel? Not a chance.

Instead, President Obama wins it.

If he were really that smart, really that patriotic, he'd have told the Nobel Committee that he didn't want their stinking medal. Instead, a president with nearly no accomplishments in nearly a year in office takes the medal, shits on America, and gives the post-American world something to cheer.

The sad part? There is no where to run. No where to hide.

For their efforts, The Nobel Committee wins the coveted "Dumbass of the Week" award. Unlike the Nobel Peace Prize, this award comes with absolutely nothing but The Lifeguard's scorn and ridicule.

jetBlue?

jetBlows is more like it.
Cheap seats, 35 channels of DirecTV in the seat back in front of you, leather seats, no baggage fees. All good things, indeed.

However, cheap travel also brings with it a glorious collection of retards and nitwits that would, without jetBlue (and AirTran, et al.) be doggin' it.

As I boarded my flight this morning--a short hop from one Northeast airport to another Northeast airport--I endured (albeit with 35 channels of DirecTV in the seat back) the twentysomething couple next to me who attacked each others faces like a ravenous wolverines attacking a...well, whatever ravenous wolverines attack. I might have suggested that the two lust birds get a room; but, that seemed redundant since she had her own pillow.

Now, The Lifeguard is not one to judge anyone (well, yes, I am); but, who in the crikey fuck brings a pillow on a plane? (Especially one that quite clearly doesn't have a clean pillow case and the 3000 threadcount linens that The Lifeguard prefers.)

Across the aisle, the African couple, complete with native headdress and obviously fake gold jewelry, sat down to enjoy their repast of goat fritters and emu egg omelets. The smell--which is to say "stench"--of their sustenance polluted the cabin air for the duration of the short flight. I am rather certain that their carry-on bag contained the family chickens and a small collection of native herbs and plants (or, what passes for health care in Sub-Saharan Africa).

Finally, The Lifeguard was forced to endure the indignity of the day sans Starbucks (since The Lifeguard flat out refuses to drink Pike's Blend), or a tall glass, filled with ice, Grey Goose, and tomato juice.

Fuck, the flight for the next leg of my journey is now being called.

Although The Lifeguard is traveling, The Lifeguard is back.

Regular posting resumes today.

(And, as my friend J might ask: "Are ya busy?")

It's been awhile...

The Lifeguard Has Been Doing His Part!

October, as y'all know, is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. (Frankly, The Lifeguard is aware of breasts twelve months a year, but that's another story.)

So, learn how to perform an exam, ladies. Have a mammogram. Call The Lifeguard. Whatever. Early detection is the key.

Next month, Colorectal Cancer Awareness Thursday. (Face it, the asshole is just not as appealing as a beautiful pair of breasts.)

I was pissed....

They Gave Me A Rolex!
My next-door neighbours, a young lesbian couple, asked me what I wanted for my birthday.

I told them I wanted to watch.

HFWTFMF!?!

MAYBE SHE NEEDS TO EAT MORE TUSCAN KALE?
The First Lady, the Empress Michelle Obama, was in a pickle. (An organic pickle, naturally.) She was out of organic Tuscan kale, so she fired up the motorcade, grabbed a crack team of security personnel, and fucked up Washington D.C. traffic so that she could run to the local farmers market to buy some certified organic veggies.

Now, I don't have a problem with the First Family eating healthy foods. I don't even have a problem with the enormous cost of eating foods that are certified organic. I do, however, take exception at the mobilisation of men and machines so that Mrs. Obama can have a photo opportunity.

So, after a long hiatus, The Lifeguard awards First Lady Michelle Obama the coveted "Dumbass of the Week" award.

And, for the record, she does not have great arms and a fantastic figure.

It wasn't what I thought...

The Lifeguard Was So Excited To See This!

I drove a little farther, hoping for something to break up the monotony of the Chevy HHR and my holiday.

Sadly, it wasn't a quickie. It was a speed bump.

HFWTFMF!

The Chevrolet HHR...

The Lifeguard rented one of these beauties when he was on holiday. It was ugly, uncomfortable, shoddily assembled, ugly, underpowered, (most assuredly) overpriced, cramped, ugly, lacking storage, and ugly. There is no doubt in my mind that the woes at The General are due, in large part, to the fuckwits who designed cars like this one.

Really, as much as The Lifeguard wants to blame the unions for the decline of the American automobile industry, I just can not. It is the fault of the designers who cobbled together this abortion (and others like it). In fact, this car was surely supposed to be a Chevy Tahoe...before it was aborted in the second trimester.

I was happy to have the vacation end so that I could turn in this piece of crap.

Kinda makes me wish I were French...

The Chickens Come Home to Roost

President Barack Hussein Obama (who is not a Muslim) gave British Prime Minister Gordon Brown some DVDs that wouldn't play, and took many opportunities to shit on our oldest--and best--ally. Now, we find out that the PM was working, behind the scenes, to see that Pan Am Flight 103 bomber, Abdulbaset al-Megrahi's release--on humanitarian grounds--was not hampered.

To make matters worse, President Obama (who is still not a Muslim) had no objections to al-Megrahi being freed on humanitarian grounds.

It is enough to make The Lifeguard scream, I tell you.

This murdering son-of-a-bitch participated in the deaths of 270 innocents, then went home to a hero's welcome after being freed because he had terminal cancer. Because someone thought it was the humane thing to do.

As noted previously, if it was a hero's welcome he was going to get, the US Air Force should have provided the fireworks. Or, perhaps today, a little present, delivered on the nose of a cruise missile.

Now I know where the Size 28 stewardesses went...

The Golden Days of Air Travel Are Gone!

In a rare departure from the norm, The Lifeguard boarded a USAirways flight from Logan, headed to parts unknown. From the twisted policy that demands a $20.00 per bag handling fee to the aged, dumpy and overweight flight attendants, it is no wonder that the airlines are in such bad shape these days.

First, the airlines have adopted a policy that encourages people to carry bags on the plane. Add the infrequent travelers to the over-privileged douche bags that already carry on their luggage and you have one crowded aisle with people struggling to lift their personal possessions into a tiny luggage bin. Imagine two hundred people stuffing three hundred bags into space for one hundred and fifty, and you've got modern air travel. And, should your checked bags (for which you have paid a hefty premium) fail to arrive at your destination, do you get your money back? I don't think so.

Second, the flight attendants were all old, dumpy, and fat. (I was particularly fond of the peroxide blond with the short skirt and tight sweater...both of which were just too damned small.) Now, I have nothing against people who are a little heavy; but, when I might just have to rely on an old, out-of-shape woman to save my ass, I get a little leery. (I note that I feel much the same way about policemen and women who have had one doughnut too many.) When the flight attendant can not get down the aisle because of her size (I am not joking about this), it's time for her to go.

Finally, when the flight attendants can not make coherent announcements, as relate to the safety or general operation of the aircraft, I think we have a problem. As we were on our final to Large North Carolina Airport, the connecting flight information was read...poorly, and inaccurately.

Then, this:

"This aircraft is continuing on (argh!) to Cancun, Mexico. All passengers continuing on (again, argh!) to Cancun must deplane from the airplane (huh?!?) with their personal belongings, then recheck-in (can you do this?) with the agent at the top of the Jetway. This is due to security concerns because this plane will be going into international waters."*

The plane was going into international waters? I am glad that I got off when I did.

Fortunately, The Lifeguard arrived safely at his destination. Just in time to hear that the Libyan terrorist responsible for blowing up Pan Am Flight 103 (who is also a Muslim) arrived home to a hero's welcome. If The Lifeguard were in charge, I would have arranged for some fireworks for his arrival. I would have had the US Air Force deliver them.

*I wrote this down right after I heard the announcement. This was confirmed by at least one other passenger.

The Michael Jackson of His Day!

The Questions Surrounding Mozart's Death Remain
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, in late November of 1791, took ill. By the beginning of December, he was dead.

The death of Mozart has led to much speculation: Was it an overdose of laudanum administered by his doctor? Was it syphilis caught while banging groupies in his carriage outside of the Vienna Opera House? Or, was he capped by Franz Joseph Haydn because he tapped Mama Haydn?

Few remember the tortured recovery after Mozart's hair caught fire while performing in Leipzig. And, few remember his bouts with addiction to everything from opium to sex. From wine to sex. (Hey, what can I say. Wolfie loved his poon.)

But, historians have done it. They have learned the true cause of The Great One's death.

It was Antonio Rosetti, a contemporary of Wolfie's, who bust a cap in he ass. All because Wolfie had done dirty, dirty things to Rosetti's twin daughters.

Mystery solved.

I barely understood a word...

Damon Weaver Is Eleven Years Old...
and is a reporter (which is good, because most reporters these days have about the same degree of intellect). Because he is eleven, I hesitate to make any mean comments. But, because he has decided to grab his fifteen minutes of fame, I figure the little scamp is fair game.

Mush-mouthed Weaver, a fifth-grader from Pahokee, Florida, became the youngest person to interview a sitting President of the United States...and, he became the President's homeboy, too. (Whatever the fuck that means.)

Weaver asked questions about school lunch (it sounded like he wants every lunch to be something incomprehensible and French Fries), whether he could meet the First Daughters, and how to make schools better with less money. (Okay, so I made up the shit about the First Daughters.)

You watch it and decide.

Things to do before I die...

Former President Bill Clinton Secures Their Freedom!

Then, when they got on the airplane home, the former president said, "I got you off, now you get me off. Heh heh heh."

Conjugal visits, my ass...

"Thanks, Helen."
The tray had a china cup, filled with strong, black coffee, a croissant, and The Wall Street Journal. Mad Dog propped his feet up on the desk and snapped open the paper, sipping the steaming coffee as the warden's secretary closed the door behind her.

Moments later, the door opens, and the warden, arriving a few minutes late, drops his attache case.

"You're late," Mad Dog says.

"You're in my office," says the warden.

"Yeah, about that. I'll need the desk for at least three hours a day. I am handling some investments for the guards, and I need to be able to take care of business."

"Listen..."

"Warden, are you forgetting who runs this place? Oh, and I think Nushawn slipped in the shower. Damned mess, if you ask me."

"Yes sir, Mr. Madoff."

"Call me 'Mad Dog,' warden."

Mad Dog collects his things and leaves the office. Over his shoulder, he says, "I have a conjugal visit this afternoon. Can you see that a bottle of Pol Roger is on ice for me? My wife loves champagne."

Next, Mad Dog gets busy....

Shawshank II: Mad Dog Gets His Ink

Mad Dog = Bad Ass
Mad Dog sat impassively, smoking a Camel, as DeShawn finished the tattoo, a snarling, evil-looking bulldog. Even some of DeShawn's hangers-on were frightened by the sight of the cur, which seemed ready to leap off Madoff's sinewy forearm and rip out their throats.

"Who knew that you could make a tattoo gun out of an old Nintendo," Mad Dog said.

"Nushawn's lookin' fo' you, man," said LaTonda, one of the prison bitches that Madoff runs as a part of his growing prison enterprise. "He say he gonna cut you."

"Fuck him," said Mad Dog. "That, by the way, is rhetorical. I don't actually want you to fuck him."

LaTonda giggled, handed Mad Dog a carton of Newports, then scampered off to take care of the next of Mad Dog's growing list of customers. "At least you didn't rat nobody out, Mad Dog."

The inmates respect a man like Mad Dog. He had the balls to screw everybody, then take the fall, like a man. None of this pussy-ass shit where you sell out your co-conspirators to get a better deal. He was a stand-up guy, and for that, he has become the boss of the prison. He is the man, more powerful than the warden. He handles investments for the guards, he controls the cigarette market, and he has a string of prison bitches that he farms out like so many...well, prison bitches.

And, Nushawn don't like that one bit.

As Mad Dog makes his way to the shower, he is cornered by Nushawn, still smarting from the ass-whuppin' he got just days earlier.

"Yo ass is mine, Jewboy."

The bulldog seems to grimace, then snarl, silently, as Mad Dog's body switches itself on. His muscles ripple--he is, after all, trained in Omnite--and his hand tightens on his soap-on-a-rope.

There is a shiny, black flash as Nushawn seeks the advantage. Mad Dog, however, bends like a reed, allowing Nushawn to overshoot his objective. Grabbing the rope, and pulling, Mad Dog pulls eighteen inches of thin wire out of the soap--his cleverly crafted garrote--and moves behind Nushawn. There is a gasp, and a sickly moan.

In an instant, it is over, blood flowing freely from Nushawn's almost completely severed head. Mad Dog walks away, calmly, and to the shower, where he disposes of the wire in the drain. As the warm water beats down upon him, he lathers away the dead man's blood, leaving him clean and new.

"Don't fuck with me!" he says, to no one in particular...but, they hear him. Loud and clear.

Next, Madoff makes his first million (cigarettes)...