For over thirty years he has toiled beside radio’s original “shock jock,” but now, no longer will his millions of fans be treated to his four-eyed, quirky, Ozark idiosyncrasies, the product of a “Type A” personality that, by comparison, makes the most rampant anal retentive behavior seem like just a mild case of constipation. No more slicing news stories from the tabloids, paper-clipping them to blank sheets of typing paper, stapling them to their corresponding wire reports, footnoting them in Sharpie pen, and filing them, alphabetically, and by topic, in three columns of five rows each, in a latticework pattern reminiscent of the lace doilies on his great grandmother’s dining room table.

Charles was on the air to report some of the most important news stories in history, including the War in Iraq, the Iranian Hostage Crisis, and the Assassination of President Abraham Lincoln.  A conservative Christian man, his idea of a wild night involved the imbibing of caffeinated soda and wearing only pajama bottoms to bed. Now, he will finally be free to really cut loose, and tend to his many hobbies: dressing up his four Boston Terriers as famous biblical figures and photographing them for his annual Christmas card; collecting Nazi Memorabilia; and storing the severed heads of homeless drifters in pickle jars in a small Amana refrigerator located underneath his porch.

McCord leaves behind his longtime companion, Don Imus, a cancer sufferer, presumably so the old cowboy can die alone.  No matter that his best friend for nearly 4 decades is waging a valiant battle for his life, Charles is abandoning him to go drown worms off the bow of a bass fishing boat with other mouth-breathing goobers. No longer will the airwaves be graced by the velvet toned, baritone voice that brought the lone modicum of sanity to the Imus in the Morning Program.

Charlie we hardly knew ye.  Get out. 


Today the I-Man reaches a milestone: three consecutive years of daily runs on the treadmill. Three years, without missing a single day. That’s 1,095 days, 1,096 if you count “leap day,” and you should, because he ran on that day too.  Why?  Because he is nothing if not committed.  Some people might say that he should be committed, but they don’t understand.  This is the very reason why he’s so successful.  He gets an idea in his head, and he doesn’t just obsess over it, he becomes a full-on, Unabomber-like enthusiast.

For those of us who have been fans of his since he first came to New York, we already know Imus never does ANYTHING in a small way.  When he wanted to get into photography in the 70’s, he didn’t just buy a little Instamatic camera and take snapshots: he spent $385,000 on equipment; turned an entire wing of his penthouse into a state-of-the-art darkroom;  got a couple of eight balls; and spent the weekend teaching himself how to be a photographer.

How can anyone ever forget the Whittaker Chamber years, when Imus’s fixation on the minutiae of the Alger Hiss trial had him poring over transcripts with a zeal that would’ve put Joe McCarthy to shame? He almost used the same exact antique Woodstock typewriter as had been used in the famous case (an anniversary gift from Deirdre) to write his own conspiracy manifesto about it.

And now, it’s running that has tickled his fancy, and turned him into a Southwestern Jim Fixx. Imus has run, every day, without fail, for three years.  Averaging around 6 miles a day, that's damn near 6000 miles.  He essentially ran to Seattle and back, with a 1,000 mile cool down. He ran the length of the Great Wall of China, and then part of the way back. If he’d only gone west, and kept going, he’d…well, he’d be in the middle of the Pacific ocean, which probably would prevent him from continuing to run the following day. But he’s not. He’s here, in the Fox Studios, still doing his radio show, with a vow that he is going to continue running in the same spirit he maintains his sobriety: one day at  a time.

Which, hopefully, would prevent him from the same fate as Jim Fixx, who, ironically, died on a run.  

But if he did, at least we know Deirdre would be able to take a photograph of it.  And then use the Woodstock typewriter to compose a letter to the probate lawyer.



Just when you thought your moon was in Jupiter, or you were a Sagittarius with a Pisces rising, comes the astrological revelation that there is now a 13th sign.  Due to the changes in the equatorial alignment of the Earth in relation to the sun over the past 300 centuries, there are now 13 different periods of the year. The effect of which, now adds a sign called Ophiuchus, which sounds less like a part of the Astrological chart than it does a hideous growth or some  kind of skin condition. “My dermatologist had to give me an ointment to clear up this Ophiuchus I have on the back of my neck.”

Parke Kunkle, a Minneapolis astronomer, discovered that the Earth’s “wobble” has caused an “Equinox Precession,” moving it some 23 degrees since Babylonian times, and, along with it, the constellations. Which means that there is also a shift in the chart; so if you were once a dichotomous Gemini, you are now a bull-headed Taurus. Not something which requires you to change your passport or driver’s license, just your entire personality profile and future. I hate to break it to you, former Scorpio, but where you were once determined and forceful, intuitive, exciting and magnetic, you are now an indecisive, gullible and self-indulgent Libra, which is probably why, when your previous sign’s horoscope told you it was a “good day to take a chance and do something risky,” you lost your shirt after buying all that Enron stock. You should have been looking at the recommendation for Libras: “Stay in bed until the darkness passes,”  Oops.  Hear that?  It’s the Universe saying, “Sorry, my bad.”

It’s the most significant thing to happen to newspapers since the brief period of time when the sign for Cancer was changed to “Moon Children,” so as not to force the other, more negative definition of the word on the poor people who were born between the 22nd of June and the 22nd of July. It may not seem like news, unless you consider that 26 percent of all Americans believe in astrology. It certainly calls into question all the advice Nancy Reagan got from her astrologer, especially on the day poor ol’ Ronnie got shot.  Had she been given the right information, the President might have stayed home that day and watched a Jodie Foster movie instead of being in the line of fire of her “biggest fan.” It also might have affected the singles scene back in the 70’s: “I’m a Leo with a penis rising.” Oh, really?

The next thing you know, they’re going to disprove the efficacy of fortune cookies.  Although, the only one that’s ever applied to me is the rib-tickler I get every other time I go to Big Wong’s: “You like Chinese food.” Now that I think of it, I wonder whether this astrological shift affects the Chinese Zodiac as well.  

Forget about the indignity of going from a set of twins to a bull. It would be a damn shame for anybody born in the Year of the Dragon to suddenly wake up and find themselves a Pig.  

The McRib

November 2^nd 2010.  A date that will live…in infamy.  For it is the day when the McRib will return after a 16-year hiatus. 

And some people think there is no God.

It is McDonald’s most mystifyingly elusive sandwich.  Unlike the Big Mac, the Quarter Pounder, and the ubiquitous Angus Deluxe’(with or without bacon), the McRib is not readily available. Although there are a few outlets throughout the nation where stalwart fast food enthusiasts may score its onion and pickle laden, barbecue sauce slathered goodness on a regular basis, it has been absent from the Golden Arch’s national menu since its farewell tour in 2005.  The return of the McRib is cause for celebration among grease aficionados everywhere, as this is the item that single-handedly put the “unk” in junk food.

"nuggets"There is no more unctuous comestible than the McRib, nor one more curious in its construction.  Chicken fingers were always a misnomer, for if pullets had the benefit of opposable thumbs, you can be damn sure they wouldn’t be as easy an entrée as they currently are.  However, just as it is incredulous that Cheap Trick has not been inducted into the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame, you have to wonder how the folks who hand out the Nobel Prize didn’t bestow one upon Mickey D’s for the invention of the McNugget. Bite-size convenience notwithstanding, at least they sound as if they actually are a part of the chicken: you know they don’t have fingers, but they MUST have nuggets. Otherwise, how do we wind up with baby chicks?

Kudos must also be handed out to McD’s for their Hot Apple Pie, certainly one of the more creative desserts a chain restaurant has ever offered. After slamming a quarter-pound of congealed kangaroo meat into my gullet, I usually have a hankering for a fried egg roll stuffed with an apple cinnamon filling and served at a temperature akin to that of molten magma. For me, no visit to McDonald’s is complete without burning the first three layers of flesh off the roof of my mouth, so that they hang at the back of my throat like curtains.

But dreaming up the McRib takes a certain kind of genius.  They could have merely taken a patty of ground pork and served it as the McPork sandwich.  But careful thought and creative design abounded, and the “meat” was formed into the shape of an actual rack of ribs, sans, of course, the bone.

Which, of course, would negate its classification as an actual ‘rib’ in the first place. An ice cream cone cannot be such, without, well, the ice cream or the cone.  You kind of can’t call something a rib if there isn’t a rib in it.  Similarly, you can’t eat a rib as a sandwich, due to the aforementioned bone problem. 

The infamous Double DownThus, McDonald’s created one of the greatest concoctions to grace the existence of modern history since the Salk Vaccine. KFC may have raised the bar by bringing the world the Double Down, a bacon and chicken breast patty sandwich that threw caution to the wind by removing the need for bread by using the chicken itself as the delivery system. But the McRib—completely manufactured, ultra-processed, an ersatz offering of faux food—is the sun-source of all that we hold sacred, of all that is holy.

It is, in short, America. On a bun.

these guys don't get out much

Even for those who were introduced to the original trilogy through one of the countless DVD re-releases, and slept in line waiting for tickets to each of the latter films, Jar Jar was an affront on each of the five senses, including smell, because that’s how bad he stunk. The long, floppy ears, googly antennae eyeballs, the gibberish speech pattern and faux pidgin Jamaican accent…EVERYTHING about that character was beyond annoying.  Jar Jar’s presence was so grating, he made even those who adopted the non-violent doctrine of “The Force” as their own personal philosophy want to dismember him on a table saw.

Now, in 3-D, with those tendril peepers reaching out to us in the theatre, not only will we want to impale him with a YoshiBlade ceramic knife, we will then want plunge it into our own eyes.
 
Even though the wisdom of the ultimate Jedi Master, Yoda, would advise us that: “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate.  Hate leads us to suffering.” 

Maybe it’s our inner Vader, but…Jar Jar cannot suffer enough. 

Despite nature’s many attempts to convince human beings that animals are not interested in any kind of anthropomorphic behavior, we insist on forcing them into situations that totally belie their instincts. Yes, contrary to what you might surmise from watching them at the circus, Brown Bears don’t actually enjoy wearing tutus and balancing on giant rubber balls, and chimpanzees, while hilarious doing just about anything, are not themselves amused by wearing pants and riding bicycles while smoking cigars. So when you put the “King of Beasts” in a glass encased cage, essentially humiliating it in front of a bunch of greasy, sweaty tourists in Bermuda shorts, you can’t blame him for taking it out on the nearest human.

The video shows the majestic feline in his casino-designed, brightly lit, fiberglass, faux den, regally resplendent in a prone position, just seconds before the attack. You can almost hear his thoughts…

“Look at me. One minute I’m in Africa, chasing antelopes, and the next I’m  some sideshow freak on display for the sole amusement of every fat, tourist west of the Mississippi. Hey, what are you lookin’ at?  Yeah, that’s right, I’m talking to you, Tubb-o. Yeah, you, Chucklebutt, in the Criss Angel ‘MindFreak’ t-shirt, trying to take my picture with that cheap imitation iPhone.  Thank God I can’t actually hear you through this bulletproof glass, because I think if I knew just how clueless you were in trying to impress your girlfriend with facts about me, I might actually upchuck the rump roast the guy who comes in every morning to hose down the habitat brought me for breakfast.  In town for a convention, Sparky?  Or did you just have a hankering for nickel slots and 99-cent shrimp cocktails?  Mouth-breathing pipe fitter. Jesus, if you only knew how stupid you look in those white socks and sandals.  What are you, European?  You’re not impressing anybody—you know that, right? I got news for you, Spartacus, I could have your woman if I wanted her. That’s right. You know why?  Cause I’m the king of the effing jungle, son. And I take what I want. Oh, wait…oh no, no, no. You’re not MEOWING at me, are you? That make you feel good? Trying to diminish me in front of MY woman?  I don’t think so. Okay, well…wait. I can’t take it out on you, because I’m imprisoned here behind this glass. But I can…um…take it out on him!  See this trainer here next to me?  Watch this!   You see that?  I came THIS close to taking a chunk out of that boy’s ass!  You like that?  Hey, what’s that I smell?  You just soil yourself did you?  Uh huh. Yeah. That’s right. Who’s the King of the Jungle, now, huh?  SAY IT!  Now get your fat ass down to the all-you-can-eat buffet. I’m about to be tranquilized.”

The Academy Awards, notwithstanding Cher’s black, sequined Mayan princess outfit and Bjork’s swan dress aside, pale in comparison in terms of the crazy couture on display at the annual event. Since the very first VMAs in the 80’s, we’ve seen everything from Britney Spears’ leather B&D Nazi uniform and Lil’ Kim’s Half In / Half Out, One Pasty-Clad-Breast Revealed Jumpsuit to Flava Flav in pajamas, oversized Mickey Mouse slippers, and Batman sunglasses. Each year, the bar is raised exponentially, so it must be increasingly difficult for artists to make a splash. Even so, you’d have to admit…Lady GaGa was just a little over the top accepting her award for Video of the Year clad in a suit made entirely of meat.

who's a bigger freak show?But the competition to be noticed was particularly high in a year where Nicky Minaj, in a shiny pink vinyl spacesuit, did a duet with Will. I. Am., resplendent in a superhero action figure outfit and a plastic hair helmet. You have to REALLY take a brave fashion leap if you’re going to outdo Ke$ha in a dress made out of a Hefty CinchSak trash bag. Lady G began the evening in a billowy gown with a feather headdress that resembled Chicken Little in a Perdue commercial.  For her next acceptance, she rocked a black metal spiked Mohawk. But when she took the stage accepting the Video of the Year award from Cher, (who was wearing the costume from her “Turn Back Time” video that made her look like her own female impersonator), Gaga looked as if she was a chart on the wall of a butcher shop illustrating where various cuts of beef are located on the cow.

Perhaps it was just homage to Mudvayne’s white tuxedo jacket with bloody gaping head wound makeup that inspired this vegan’s fashion nightmare. Apparently unsatisfied to appearing as if she were wearing a cart of steaks at Morton’s, Gaga added a boneless Rib Steak had, presumably for “effect.”

And Lord know we were all hoping there’d be a “related story” this morning, where a drug-sniffing security dog at the after party attacked GaGa and ate most of her chemise.

Good dog.

some guy doing the Cabbage Patch dance. he doesn't get out much.

It seems people have an intuitive understanding of what makes a good and bad dancer. Using biometric analysis, the scientists calculated precisely the kinds of movements that cause women to find some men healthy physical specimens “good for breeding,” and others better suited for breathtakingly, spirit-crushing ridicule. 

The researchers had anticipated that arm and hand movements would be the ones found most attractive to members of the opposite sex.  But after using twelve cameras to tape non-professional male dancers, uploading their movements to computer generated avatars, and then showing them to a random sampling of women, they discovered that was simply not the case. Hence the ineffectiveness of picking up that hot bridesmaid at your cousin’s wedding last month with your pathetically lame performance of “The Raggedy Ann.” Seriously dude, you CAN’T POSSIBLY think that looks cool. You might as well rock a white polyester leisure suit with matching patent leather loafers. 

The study also found that women pay more attention to the core body region—the torso, neck and head—and to the speed of the movements, with their variability scoring the highest. Ultimately, the men who were twisting, nodding and, interestingly enough, running in place, were the ones who got the ladies the hottest.

a bunch of people unfortunately doing The MacarenaSo if Chubby Checker just jogs a little on the dance floor while emphatically agreeing with his partner, he’ll be getting some SERIOUS action. You, on the other hand, doing the “Macarena” in your powder blue velour tuxedo, looking like a rabbit in the throes of an epileptic fit, will be spending the end of the evening alone, eating Nachos and watching Cinemax, accompanied by a Costco-sized tube of Lubriderm.  

And to think you wasted all that money on lessons at Arthur Murray, when you would’ve been better off just hiring a hooker.

The Bieb

Other than his Bang-Laden, Beatle-Style, Bowl Haircut, there isn’t much to distinguish the young lad from every other Teen Pop sensation that’s come down the pike, from Paul Anka and Ricky Nelson to Bobby Sherman and Donny Osmond. Except that Justin Bieber, unlike Paul Anka and Ricky Nelson, sort of sucks, in a Bobby Sherman, Donny Osmond kind of way.  His fans, however, are, to say the least, more of the rabid variety than even those smitten teens who were moved to snip a lock of Ringo’s hair during The Beatles’ first US tour.

Some of them camped outside Rockefeller Center FOR THREE DAYS just to get a choice location at Justin’s outdoor concert on the Today Show. (It’s probably safe to assume they were there for Bieber, and not to catch a glimpse of Al Roker). Then there are the fans who sent death threats to Kim Kardashian after a photo of she and “The Bieb” was published and Justin jokingly tweeted, “Look, it’s my girlfriend.”  There is, of course, no evidence to suggest that one of those people was rapper/singer Ray J, who starred alongside Ms. Kardashian in her infamous sex tape. But the idea of Mr. “J” and the Biebs engaging in a Greco-Roman style bout over a Kardashian has Pay-Per-View event written all over it.

Then there was the 16 year old New Zealand girl who got the chance to visit Bieber backstage, and snatched a bottle of sparkling water he had drank from and fetched $624 dollars for it on an EBay-like site.  Do you think 624 bucks is a lot to pay for a half-full bottle of mineral water? There’s Bieber DNA floating in that puppy, pal. And if you just freeze that container until modern science finally perfects the cloning process, you’ll be in high cotton.

Just as every celebrity has their supporters, Justin also has a myriad of haters, those who have dedicated their lives to ruining his. So much so that some have created lurid “Hot Searches” on “Google Trends” that are, to say the least, not terribly flattering. Those searches include: “Justin Bieber Takes Estrogen,”  “Justin Bieber Syphillis,” “Justin Bieber Removes Testicle,” and  “Justin Bieber Impregnated His Mother.” It’s only a matter of Not Goodtime until Google Trends shows up with a Hot Search resembling a “Paul is Dead” type of conspiracy rumor, where hidden messages can be discovered by playing Bieber songs backwards to suggest that the Pop Tart has mysteriously been killed in a tragic blow-dryer accident.

The only problem is that Justin Bieber’s songs, whether played backwards or forwards, sound pretty much the same.  In that Bobby Sherman, Donny Osmond kind of way.