Breaking News

I am sure some of you have seen the story about Alec Baldwin and the voice message he allegedly left for his 11 year-old daughter, Ireland. Well, we here at This Blog is Not Funny, LLC, a subsidiary of Not Funny Blogs, International, wholly owned and operated by Global Chemical Industries, Inc. Worldwide, wanted to get to the bottom of this thing. I don’t know what you folks did this morning, but my morning was spent in Alec Baldwin’s luxury penthouse suite, interviewing him regarding these recent developments. The results are not easily summarized. So below, I provide you with the full transcript of the interview.

GR - Before we go on the record I want to just say I think you are great in 30 Rock. You play a cold, insensitive, self-serving prick better than anyone. Turns out, though, it may not be all acting.

AB - Now wait a minute, you listen to me you fucking little asshole, you little asshole bitch. I shit people like you for breakfast. When I wake up in my 25 million dollar -

GR - Whoa, hold on. My bad. Turns out we WERE on the record. Oops. By the way, I am not sure that “shitting for breakfast” thing makes any sense.

AB - Well, I was just playing around with you there. Just a little word banter between friends. [Alec takes a long, slow drink from his scotch - but never takes his eyes from me].

GR - So let’s get right down to this voice mail business. From what the gossip sites are saying, you left a rambling, profanity laden, insult-filled voice message for your young daughter, where you called her, and let me quote this, “a rude, thoughtless little pig.”

AB - Well yes, you’ll get this scoop, because I am going to admit right here, right now that I did leave that message - Wait, who did you say that message was for?

GR - Your daughter, Ireland.

AB - Is that why I have been getting hate mail all day long and my publicist keeps calling this “a nightmare?"

GR - I’m not sure I follow you.

AB - That message wasn’t for my daughter, it was for my pet pig, Daphne. I lost her in the divorce as well. . . God I hate that little thoughtless fucking pig.

GR - Um.

AB - You would think an 11 year-old pig would have learned some respect by now. . . My god, that fucking pig. [Alec takes another pull from his scotch glass (his second) and finishes it off. He walks over to the mini-bar and pours himself another] The times we used to have together, and the trouble we pulled. . . I could tell you some stories, that god-damned little pig.

GR - Uh. . . Why -

AB - I remember this one time in ‘98 Daphne and I went to Monte Carlo for the weekend, and there were these two African prostitutes. Hey asshole don’t write that down, that’s not a racist slur, they were actually from Africa.

GR - Mr. Baldwin, why were you leaving a voice message for a pig?

AB - Listen you fucking prick, you can of prick juice, she has a name. Daphne. It means "laurel" in Greek. In Greek mythology Daphne was a nymph turned into a laurel tree by her father in order that she might escape the pursuit of Apollo. All of that seems so ironic now, doesn't it?

GR - So why were you leaving a voice message for Daphne?

AB - That fucking ungrateful, arrogant little shit of a pig. She won’t return my calls. When I do reach her on her cell, she just sits there not saying anything. Her mother made her like that. That bitch, she has turned my beloved Daphne against me. I can see it in her eyes. Just last weekend I flew her to New York to visit me. While we were watching Failure to Launch I could tell that something was missing. It is as if her mind was somewhere else.

GR - Mr. Baldwin, does Daphne speak to you?

AB - What is your name again? Garrett? Okay listen Garrett, don’t be a cunt, okay? Of course she doesn’t speak. Not like you or I. But she communicates with me. We speak to each other in a language no one could comprehend. Our love transcends human communication. But that fucking, rude, thoughtless pig has turned on me. I tell her what time I am calling, and she doesn’t answer. Last week I called her 25 times between 2:00 am and 2:15 am, and not even the common decency to pick up the phone.

GR - Well I think I have everything I need.

AB - Listen to me Garrett. Listen to me. Are you paying attention. Look me in the eye. Look me in the goddamned eye. If you make me look bad, I will stab you. I will straight up kill you. Do you understand? You will die, and I don’t mean one of those easy “oh hey - I just got shot in the face by Alec Baldwin” kind of deaths. I mean you will suffer. I know people. Tell me you understand.

GR - I understand.

AB - Tell me that I am the greatest living actor to walk the planet Earth.

GR - You are the greatest living actor.

AB - To walk the planet Earth . . .

GR - To walk the planet Earth.

AB - Now get the fuck out of here, I have 2:15 massage with Violet.

Joe Francis = Big F-ing Baby

Apparently, American hero, Joe Francis, is a huge fucking cry baby. For those of you who don’t know - Joe Francis is the man who brought you such classics as Girls Gone Wild, Girls Gone Wild: Island Orgy, Girls Gone Wild: Sweet Young Sex Maniacs and Girls Gone Wild: Doggy Style (hosted by Snoop Dogg). Here is the story as I know it: Joe Francis flies around the world on a big-ass jet to exotic locations, where young, tan, nubile girls willingly take their cloths off in front of him and often allow Mr. Francis and his perpetually-erect crew to film them “supposedly” engaged in their "first time” with another woman. Francis is four years older than I, and reportedly makes 29 million a year. It used to be that I would look to Tiger Woods and think, “look what someone my age can do.” Now, I look to Mr. Francis and say, “That fucking prick, I would Heather Mills my right leg for that guy’s job.”

Well, Joe Francis got into some trouble with the law. Actually, Joe Francis has been in a lot of trouble with the law. The complaints against him are too numerous to list here, but lets just summarize them to say they involved some alleged underage activities, alleged rapes, and alleged calling of women “bitches” and “whores.” That’s right. He is a tough, but sensitive guy. A friend to women, if you will. Well apparently seven girls are suing him because he “allegedly” filmed them while they were underage. During settlement talks, Mr. Francis (always the level-headed man that he is) shouted profanities at the women, and threatened to “bury them.” This pissed off a federal judge, who ordered that Francis be arrested for contempt of court. Francis, being the tough guy that he is, refused to be arrested and called the federal judge a “judge gone wild.” Clever, isn’t he?

Finally, Mr. Francis took a break from masturbating while looking at underage areola to be arrested. While in jail, Francis “allegedly” offered a jail guard $100 for a bottled water. When the guard refused, Francis (who may have been parched from the amount of semen he was already forced to swallow by The Sisters) showed the guard $500. When they searched his cell (may be code for “ass”), the po-lice found prescription sleeping pills and anti-anxiety medication. He was then charged with bribery, three counts of possessing a controlled substance and five counts of introducing contraband (cash and drugs) into the jail. He could get up to five years in prison for each count.

Here comes the good part. You all now know that Joe Francis is a tough guy, who loves him the women (even if he “allegedly” loves them while they are sleeping from drugs he gave them). Well tough-guy Francis apparently pulled a Johnny Sack, and as he was being leg from the courtroom in cuffs wept for his parents, as his mommy blew him a kiss. What a fucking baby. I have to go with Phil Leotardo on this one and say, “take it like a fucking man, asshole.” What did you think was going to happen? You smuggle drugs and cash into a federal jail, offer some of the cash to the guard for a bottle of Perrier, call your judge “judge gone wild” and film underage girls showing their breasts on camera, and then you cry for your mommy when you get arrested. What a douchebag.

Joe Francis, millionaire douchebag.

Somebody Call 911! Lickety Split

There is no secret to the fact that I am a glutton. Ninety-nine percent of the things I do, I do in excess. Drinking, gambling, womanizing and cross-dressing. I also enjoy gorging myself with all kinds of food. Easter candy is no different. I know, I know - it is a little late to be writing about this, but it is topical nonetheless because as I write these words I am dying. Actual, real death. The things I am saying right now may very well be the last things I ever write. Ever. Fuck, I had better say something smart-sounding. Sesquipedalian. How’s that bitches?

Anyway. On the Saturday before Easter I went to my local Walgreens, where I purchased a four egg set of Cadbury Creme Eggs. I decided to wait until Sunday to eat those eggs. Sunday came, and I celebrated Easter by drinking beer and watching golf. (You know, in honor of Jesus being raised from the dead and all. I figure he died for my sins, so I certainly don’t want his death to be in vain. This is why I try and sin as much as possible. Logically, it is the only way to be a good Christian. It’s all logic.)

Creme-filled chocolate eggs don’t go well with Quesadillas and beer, so I decided to wait until Monday. I brought all four eggs with me to work on Monday, and I ate all four of them in a span of 6 minutes for lunch. Then I got to thinking. You can’t buy these eggs at any time other than Easter. That means I am going to have to wait an entire year to eat these again, and I only ate four. Four in one year is not very many. That equates to one egg every three months. That is nothing. So last night I went to my local Walgreens to purchase some more.

Walgreens seemed to want to get rid of their Creme Eggs, because they had them on sale for 50% off. I like Walgreens, and I want to help them out. I would hate for these things to go bad, or for some Walgreens manager to have to take a bunch of them home to her kids. You know, because childhood obesity is a problem and all. So I bought a few.


First, I bought 4 more of these:





Then, I bought 3 of these - just three eggs, not three cases. (because I like Baby Ruth and wanted to give them a shot):

Then, I bought 2 of these (because caramel is good in anything, especially chocolate eggs):





Then, I bought 3 of these - just three eggs, not three cases. (because my Grandfather loved Butterfingers, and he died a few years ago - so this was in his honor):

I went to the counter and purchased 12 chocolate eggs. Nothing else. (Strangely the cashier scanned each one individually, even though they were the same price).

For lunch today I ate 12 chocolate eggs, filled with various things. And now I will die. My hands are a little sticky, but I am scared to get up from my chair for fear of vomit.

In case you were wondering, the classic version is my favorite, followed by the Baby Ruth version.

My Triumphant Return

Yes, I know. I know. I have done this to you before and I came back with excuses and promises. Once before I sheepishly returned, roses in hand, promising that it was a one-time thing - that I was drunk. Over the past month I have received many, many e-mails and comments expressing kind sentiments such as: “What the fuck? Update, asshole!” and “Dude, write something (although this blog is just as good when you don’t write, as when you do.” However, my favorite has to be “Are you really surprised your sister got knocked up? She has always been kind of slutty.” (Now that I write that one out, I suspect it might not have been about the blog, but more meant for me personally).

Well my lovely little friends, I am back. And once again, I have an excuse. Here is my story. Before we begin let me just say this: I am not ashamed of the things I have done, only those which I did not do. Also, the world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think. Additionally, humor is the only test of gravity, and gravity of humor; for a subject which will not bear raillery is suspicious, and a jest which will not bear serious examination is false wit. Finally, allow me to impart to you that men acquire a particular quality by constantly acting a particular way. . . you become just by performing just actions, temperate by performing temperate actions, brave by performing brave actions. I hope that you will take these words of wisdom I have to offer and learn from them. Tell the world my story so that others may learn what you have learned. (Or will learn in just a few seconds after reading this story).

Just under a month ago, I was up late one night preparing a blog post for your pleasure, (because I am all about your pleasure), when I get an e-mail. It is from our little friend over at Hobocamp, A Lover and A Fighter. Now, every single one of you who has been to her blog know just about everything about her. You know about her roommates, you know about her pretend work crushes and you know how her grandmother was once injured because of her gigantic, anatomically correct vibrator. Despite the fact that everyone knows all of these things, in addition to her name, I was once greatly chastised for referring to her by her first name in a comment. Therefore, we will refer to A Lover and Fighter for the length of this post as “Oprah.” So, anyway, Oprah e-mails me. I e-mail back, and then we begin an Instant Message chat that will forever change my life. I, being the nice fellow that I appear to be, ask how her day was. On a normal day I can assure that Oprah is as sunny as the day is long. However, on this particular day she was a bit down. Your hero (me) asked her what was wrong. Oprah launches into a tale of dismal, bleak, cold, big city life. I won’t get into the details, (men trouble), the particulars (run ins with the law) or the finer points (the racism allegations). Instead, I will just say that she was having a bad day. We continued to chat well into the night. Before I knew it we had been IMing all night long. By morning time I was online purchasing her a plane ticket to come for a visit. This may seem like a quick step to some of you, but when you IM with someone on your laptop at the same time you are urinating (I had to sit down to do so, and I don’t want to discuss it) you get pretty close with someone pretty quickly.

Two days later I was at the airport to pick up Oprah. You might think that meeting someone for the first time like that would be awkward, but it really wasn’t. We immediately hit if off. For those of you who saw her “This is Me Posing in My Underwear Because I am Not Ashamed of Semi-Nakedness” post before it was taken down, you will know I am telling the truth when I say that she is even hotter is person than she is in that picture of her with her black bra on the outside of her shirt.

Her trip was supposed to last for the weekend. We soon both realized that her visit would have to be extended. One week quickly turned into two, and the second week quickly turned into two weeks and two days. Before I knew it I was waving good-bye as her plane took off, and a single tear traced its way down my cheek. After two weeks and two days, I was left only with some photos of her visit, and a pair of her underpanties that she ‘accidentally’ left behind. I’ll share the photos now.



Shortly after she arrived, we went for some coffee and muffins. We took them to the park where we watched a spontaneously formed frisbee golf game and munched on the muffins. Oprah plucked a fresh flower for me and snapped this photo.



We went from the park to "inspiration point" where we hiked to the top of a peak and watched the sunset. She remarked that I reminded her of the Greek gods from the stories of her youth and commented that she wanted to take this photo as a constant reminder of the majesty of the "male form."



Over the next few nights we went to a variety of clubs and dance halls. We saw everything from rave clubs, to piano bars, to a "swingers club." I am not sure exactly what that last one was, but Oprah seemed to be pretty comfortable there. On the night we visited the piano bar, when the jazz pianist took a break, Oprah jumped on stage and began to play. At this moment she is transitioning from her introductory, Chopin's "Prelude in E minor" to Scott Joplin's "Maple Leaf Rag." I know she looks odd in that photo (a little child-like), but the lighting was "off" in there.


We even had a chance to run in a small marathon. Here is Oprah warming up before we left the house. She is very limber. I don't recall why she stretches naked.

On our final day before she left we took a walk in the park along a winding canal where merchants and street performs lined the sidewalk. At one point we stopped to watch a painter go about capturing the scene in an abstract work of art. As we stood there watching, the artist looked up at us and stopped painting in mid-stroke. He gasped a little and exclaimed, "YOU are a work of art standing there, I must capture you." We both demurred. He insisted. Over the next two hours we stood and modeled for him. The result is now hanging above my fireplace:



You may have noticed that our little friend, Oprah, has only been posting sporadically over the past month. She asked me not to say this, but she posted from here. She even e-mailed her friends, acting as if she were just at home with an illness. She said she needed to "keep up appearances so that others don't judge." Because she implored that I not, I will not regale you with our exploits. I only say that I am changed, and each night that I look up that portrait, I am reminded of the pilfered underpanties tucked neatly under my pillow.

The lesson, you ask? There is none, I just wanted to keep you reading until the end. It is a literary technique. Writers use it. Because that's what I am, a writer.

(also I promise I will never disappear again).