TEAM LAST CALL

I recognized immediately that it was a joke, and the way I knew it was a joke is because babies can't hold their liquor. Not only that, but they're terrible at video games and it takes them forever to work their way through a piece of beef jerky. And that's why, for my friends and me, having a baby is simply not an option. A baby would threaten everything that we, as a group of young, spirited and most of all, flatulent males, hold dear. By which I mean Guys Night.

Because everybody knows that Guys Night and babies do not go together.

First of all, when you're in the middle of a heated competition to see who can fit the most M&Ms up his nose, you can't afford to lose your focus because some baby is shrieking his head off in the background. Just because the baby decided to poop his own pants doesn't mean that he should ruin the night for everyone else. I mean, look at my friend Patrick: he pooped his pants hours ago, and is he sitting in the middle of the floor crying about it? No! He's outside grilling burgers and throwing horseshoes like a real man!

And secondly, no one, and I mean no one, can defeat Sauron's army of orcs and banish the One Ring into the fires of Mordor with a baby in his arms. I'm sorry, but there's just no way you can execute Aragorn's Wrath of Numenor attack move with one hand - not to mention the Orc Bane! I mean, please! While you're at it, why don't you just march into Shelob's lair without activating the light of Erendil? Loser.

So needless to say, when my friend started flapping his lips about babies and fatherhood and responsibility, I didn't buy it for a second. Between playing rock and roll and watching football, most of us barely have enough free time to change our socks each week. Making one of us responsible for the welfare of a whole other human being would be like putting someone who can't even pronounce the word "nuclear" in charge of the deadliest military force on the planet.

I tried to explain all of this to my friend, but he kept insisting that he and his wife really were going to have a baby. I felt bad for him, because I could tell that he really believed it. It was cute, in a little-kid-leaving-milk-and-cookies-for-Santa kind of way. So I just let it go, figuring that sooner or later my friend would realize that having a baby wasn't even in realm of possibility. It would be like a pig flying, or Nickelback writing a good song.

A few months passed, and I didn't give the issue any thought. But then, by early fall, I started picking up on a few signals that made me suspect my friend was right about having a baby. Just little things, like how he painted one of his rooms blue and set up a crib. And how his wife started waddling when she walked, and how her belly puffed up like she was trying to smuggle Emmanuel Lewis around under her shirt. And how someone threw her a baby shower. And how she totally had a baby.

When I first got news of the baby's birth, I felt a little conflicted. I was excited for my friend, but I just wasn't ready for a baby. I needed time. But did my friend ever stop to consider my feelings? Did he have the decency to consult with me before having a baby? No. Evidently, I'm not even part of this equation. Evidently, anyone can just run off and make a baby whenever he feels like it, without any regard for how its going to affect his friends and/or the integrity of their booger-flicking contests.

And that's when it occurred to me that the booger-flicking contests might be a thing of the past. Maybe it's time to grow up. Our whole group of friends is hovering around the 30-year mark. We are old. We have passed our prime. We are like shriveled old raisins floating numbly in the breakfast cereal of life. It's time to accept our fate.

Full of melancholy and regret, I trudged into the hospital to see this new baby, this living symbol of the mundane adult life that loomed on the horizon.

I found the hospital room, rapped on the door and pushed my way in to meet baby Owen.

And there he was, a baby boy, a picture-perfect baby boy with glistening eyes, a wispy patch of hair and these impossibly small hands, his tiny fingers wrapped around his mother's thumb, his little heart bravely thumping away inside his tiny little frame, all warm and fragile and miraculous. He was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen.

I knew immediately that I had to have one. Babies are like iPods - you have to actually hold one in your hand before you realize how meaningless life is without them. They're even better than Guys Night.

There are definitely a few logistical problems I need to work out before I get a baby, like how I'm going to keep my Jack Russell from eating it. And I need to find somewhere to keep it. But then again, babies aren't that big, so finding storage space shouldn't really be a problem. I'll just clear off a shelf somewhere.

And then I guess I kind of need to run the idea past my wife. I definitely need her on board if this baby thing is going to work out. Either that or I need to get my own uterus.

Until I get it all sorted out, feel free to send any extra babies you've got lying around the house to the Fly Magazine office, attention Team Last Call. It would make for a really great Christmas gift, and I'm pretty sure babies are tax deductible. Unless they're not. I don't really know.

Anyway, Happy Holidays from all of us here at Team Last Call.

I personally have a lot of things to be grateful for this year – my family and friends, my Chihuahua, my millions of dollars, my TV show, my porn career …

Oh, wait! I’m sorry, that’s Paris Hilton’s list.

My list would include things like my family, my friends, my iPod whichever of my pets is not the one pooping in my slippers, and Eva Longoria. Plus my wife. But if I had to rank all of the things I’m grateful for in order of sheer awesomeness, at the top of my list would have to be the pineapple chicken wrap.

I discovered the pineapple chicken wrap about a year ago at a local sandwich shop, which, out of deference to our advertisers, I will not name in this article. Let’s just say that it starts with an “S,” ends with a “Y” and rhymes with “Shmandwich Shmactory.”

It’s hard to overestimate the kind of impact the pineapple chicken wrap has had on my life over the past 12 months. It’s taught me how to laugh, how to love and, perhaps most importantly, how to eat lunch for under five bucks.

And so, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I would like to take this time to pay tribute to the wrap, the most beautiful and wondrous of God’s creations.

It’s an ambitious endeavor to try to capture the power and the glory of the pineapple chicken wrap in words. Its beauty transcends language. Attempting to describe it in a single thousand-word column is as futile as trying to summarize Tommy Lee’s entire sexual history in a haiku.

The overwhelming deliciousness of the pineapple chicken wrap is nearly too much for the human mind to comprehend. It’s like staring at the sun with your brain. It’s just one of those baffling concepts – like how scientists can grow a real human baby in a test tube, or how Ben Affleck keeps landing acting roles – that no one fully understands.

The pineapple chicken wrap breaks down to a list of simple ingredients – juicy pineapple wedges, grilled chicken, Swiss cheese, sweet honey mustard, ham. But the pineapple chicken wrap is much more than just the sum of its parts. It has that same intangible quality you can see in a major-label band; together, the members can accomplish things that none of them could have accomplished alone. Unless the major-label band you’re talking about is Nickelback, which defies logic by somehow being even less than the sum of its parts. The members have the collective IQ of a pair of underpants. And that singer really needs to get rid of his perm. It’s hair-ible. (Nice one!) But that’s neither here nor hair. (Again!)

If the pineapple chicken wrap ever ran for president, I’d vote for it. I think it would have a pretty decent chance of winning, too. Not only is it good-looking and delicious, but it could out-debate the current president on just about every topic I can think of.

In addition to being a natural leader, the pineapple chicken wrap is something of a spiritual touchstone. It spreads peace and joy wherever it goes, like the pope, but without the cool hat. Whenever I enjoy a delicious pineapple chicken wrap, I am filled with serenity. I am tranquil. I am at one with nature. I am accepting of my surroundings, even when those surroundings include coworkers who insist on listening to Nickelback.

Don’t tell my wife I said this, but if the pineapple chicken wrap had legs, I’d probably try to marry it. We’d go on romantic vacations together, travel the world, build a house, start a family. And if it ever got fussy, I’d eat it.

If I were stranded on a desert island and could only bring five things with me, those five things would be, in this order: my iPod, my new corduroy jacket (so I can look fashionable when I’m rescued), a pineapple, a chicken and a wrap. I’d want my wife on the island too, so make that six things. And our little Jack Russell would be there. And a plasma-screen TV. And a computer with a high-speed internet connection. And a powerful record executive who wanted to give me a lucrative five-album contract and unlimited access to the company jet.

What? It’s my article …

In the past, some of my readers have accused me of exaggerating in my columns, of “embellishing” the “truth” just to get a “cheap laugh.” To those “people,” I have this to say: Yeah, totally, I do that. But this is not one of those times. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been more serious about anything in my entire life. Except my new corduroy jacket. It fits just right around the shoulders and has a slimming effect that I just can’t find in other fall-weather jackets. I stole it from my wife’s closet.

But I’m serious about pineapple chicken wraps too. Deadly serious. I’d tell you to go purchase a wrap right now if I could, but I can’t, since it would anger our advertisers and jeopardize my job. So instead, I’ll just ell-tay you to go urchase-pay an ap-wray right ow-nay. Wink, wink.

Happy anskgiving-Thay!

Between you and me, my wife didn’t really take turning 30 all that well. And when I say “didn’t take it all that well,” I mean she freaked out like a vampire caught in the sunlight. Shrieking, thrashing around, trying to bite through my neck – the whole deal. It was like living under the reign of Caligula, but with fewer beheadings.

I’m exaggerating, of course. There were at least as many beheadings.

Death and carnage lay all about. On the scale of natural disasters, my wife’s birthday ranked somewhere between the black plague and the giant meteor that killed all the dinosaurs. It was a full-on crisis, just a few horsemen short of the apocalypse. The only reason you didn’t hear about it on the evening news was that it got edged out by round-the-clock coverage of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes’ engagement. But it still got more coverage than the death toll in Iraq.

It’s been several months since my wife’s birthday, and I’m honestly still a little nervous to broach the subject. That little vein in the middle of her forehead is just now starting to swell back to its normal size.

When I first told my wife I was going to be writing about her birthday for my next column, her head started spinning around in circles and blood came out of our walls. Then she started talking backwards Latin and flinging large pieces of furniture around the room with her mind. Our poor little Jack Russell still hasn’t stopped shaking. Of course, that could just be because he’s a Jack Russell. And because I fed him a bag of espresso beans.

I realize I’m probably coming across as mean and insensitive. I mean, what kind of jerk talks this way about his own wife? This kind of jerk. Because the truth is, my wife thinks this kind of crap is funny, which is why she married me in the first place. Well, it was either that or my love handles and enormous forehead. I’m not really sure.

Actually, that brings us to the real reason why I’m writing about my wife’s 30th birthday: our marriage. Frankly, I’m starting to get a little worried about being the man my wife needs in her life now that she’s becoming a mature woman. Because 30 is the mark of adulthood, of responsibility. My wife is growing up, getting all reflective and sophisticated, yet I continue to be a mental toddler – which is good in that it qualifies me to be the leader of the free world, but bad in that it makes me an immature, bumbling idiot.

Assuming for a minute that it wasn’t my enormous forehead that reeled her in, the best thing I’ve got going for me is the ability to make my wife laugh, and I’m concerned that I might not always be able to do that the way I can now, short of taking off my clothes.

The fact is, I will never, ever stop laughing at flatulence. I’m a 29-year-old man who can be reduced to tears just from someone pretending to pass gas. The old hand-in-the-armpit, the old mouth-in-the-elbow – they get me every time. I’m an addict. I’m a toot-aholic. I’m hopeless.

So what if – I can hardly even bring myself to type this – but what if there comes a day when my wife no longer appreciates a good fart joke? Because unfortunately, my ability to produce them in bulk is pretty much my only marketable skill. The jokes, I mean.

What if my wife just plain outgrows me? What if her needs change? What if she starts to desire a different kind of man, one who knows the difference between a wrench and a screwdriver and can find the little thinger on your car where the oil goes without having to ask for help?

I did manage to grow some chest hair recently, which I think is a positive step towards manliness, but for every “good” hair I grow, an “evil” one pops up in places you don’t even want to know about. It’s a losing battle.

My wife is now spending large quantities of time “taking stock of her life” and planning out things like her career and her future family. As in, she’s planning on making actual babies, like the kind with the sticky little hands and scabby little knees that are always vomiting and pooping and getting lollipops stuck in their hair.

This presents a problem, in that I am nowhere near being prepared for parenthood. I have enough trouble changing my own underwear, let alone someone else’s. I still can’t even say the word “nipple” without giggling uncontrollably.

I need to do some growing up, is what it comes down to. And I need to do it quickly, before my wife’s biological clock starts chiming. I don’t want her to do anything rash just because I’m not good at things like “handling responsibility” or “remembering to put on pants.” I run to the mailbox every day to make sure there isn’t a package addressed to my wife from David Crosby.

Deep down, I know I can handle a child. I’ll be fine as long as I can just manage to stay at least one full day ahead of the baby developmentally. At least until it turns 7 or 8 and starts running around the house making fart noises, at which point I will be stuck in a perpetual state of shooting milk out my nose.

The day my wife outgrows my immature potty humor will be a dark day indeed. But I will cling to the hope that we will never see that day. I will keep the faith. I will not yield to the darkness. I will pass gas into the face of despair.

Meanwhile, I’m going to do my best to do some growing up of my own. Yes, I’m going to be a new man. A mature man. A responsible man. And I’m going to start right now by fixing the toilet upstairs that’s been running since June. Can you hand me that screwdriver? What? Oh, sorry. I mean wrench.

And so, in an effort to help you, the Last Call reader, avoid certain incarceration, Team Last Call is proud to present Part Two of our hard-hitting exposé on Ridiculous State Laws: Montana through Wyoming.

Breaking a state law is a lot easier than you might think. In fact, you might be inadvertently breaking one right now, jeopardizing the very freedom that so many French fries have been named after.

For example, if you happen to be reading this column in South Bend, Indiana, and a monkey just walked up and sat down on the bench beside you, and without giving it any thought you casually handed the monkey a lighted cigarette, then you, my friend, are in direct violation of Indiana state law.

Don’t beat yourself up over it. It’s a mistake anyone could make. I mean, who among us hasn’t handed a lit cigarette to a monkey from time to time? Team Last Call is just trying to make the point that there are some very wacky laws on the books that most people don’t even know about.

We know what you’re thinking: “Team Last Call is silly! Some of these laws are hundreds of years old! The cops don’t even enforce these laws anymore!” Go ahead. Laugh all you want. Just don’t expect Team Last Call to come bail you out the next time you’re arrested in Boise, Idaho for fishing while perched on a giraffe’s back.

Before we get started, Team Last Call would like to respond to a few fan letters that came in last month: Yes, all of the state laws we’re writing about are real. No, we didn’t make any of them up. And yes, we are serious about the promise we made to stop making fun of people who drive Hummers, regardless of the fact that their short tempers and Yoda-sized genitalia make them an easy target.

And now, to the laws:

Apparently, in Montana, it is illegal to leave a sheep in the cab of your truck without a chaperone. Sheep get lonely too.

In Hastings, Nebraska, hotel owners are required by law to provide each guest with a clean, white cotton nightshirt. It’s also written that no couple may have sex unless they are wearing the nightshirts.

If somebody shoots your dog in the state of Nevada, the law makes it totally OK for you to hang that person.

Please try to remember that when you’re in New Hampshire, it is completely illegal to ride a camel on the highway.

If you’re in New Jersey, please note that it’s illegal to slurp soup. There is also a law that makes it illegal to wear a bulletproof vest while committing a murder. So please, if you’ve got to kill someone, take off the vest first.

Females are strictly forbidden to appear unshaven in public in New Mexico.

In New York, the penalty for jumping off a building is death. Well, yeah.

It’s actually against the law to sing off key in North Carolina. Also, the state asks that you refrain from using elephants to plough your cotton fields.

In North Dakota, it is perfectly legal to shoot a Native American on horseback, provided that you are in a covered wagon at the time.

If you happen to misplace your pet tiger while in Canton, Ohio, be aware that you have just one hour to alert the authorities. Also, please note that you may not parade your goose down Main Street in the town of McDonald. And in Toledo, throwing a snake at another person is frowned upon.

In Oklahoma, violators can be arrested for making ugly faces at a dog.

In Hood River, Oregon, it is illegal to juggle without a license. And in Myrtle Creek, there is a law prohibiting a man from boxing a kangaroo.

Pennsylvania also has its share of weirdo laws. Did you know, for example, that it is illegal to sleep on top of a refrigerator outdoors? Also, you may not sing in the bathtub. And in Danville, it has been decreed that all fire hydrants must be checked one hour before all fires. Think about it.

In Rhode Island, it is considered an offense to throw pickle juice on a trolley.

The state of South Carolina would like you to know that horses may not be kept in bathtubs.

In South Dakota, if there are more than five Native Americans on your property, it is legal for you to shoot them. Note to Native Americans: Never vacation in the Dakotas.

It is illegal in Tennessee to use a lasso to catch fish. And in Memphis, it is illegal to give pie to fellow diners. However, it’s perfectly lawful to gather and consume road kill.

In Texas, it is against the law to milk another person’s cow. In the town of Kingsville, there is a law against two pigs having sex at the airport. And another thing you should know when you’re in Texas: While it’s legal for a chicken to have sex with you, it is not legal for you to reciprocate. No matter how much it might hurt your chicken’s feelings.

A husband is responsible for every criminal act his wife commits in his presence in the state of Utah.

In Vermont, it is against the law to whistle underwater. It’s also really, really hard.

In Virginia, women are required by law to wear a corset after sundown.

Here’s a good one: All lollipops are legally banned in the state of Washington. Also, if you’re in the town of Wilbur, you can be arrested for riding an ugly horse. And in Seattle, it is illegal to carry a concealed weapon longer than six feet. Like a cannon, for example.

On a positive note, in West Virginia, it is perfectly legal for a man to have sex with an animal, provided that the animal does not exceed 40 pounds. Er …

The town of St. Croix, Wisconsin, prohibits women from wearing anything red in public.

And finally, if you’re vacationing in Cheyenne, Wyoming, please be aware that it is illegal to take a picture of a rabbit during the month of June.

Well, that’s all the weird laws we could dig up. If you know of more, just jot them down on a postcard and send it to: Team Last Call, c/o Pennsylvania State Penitentiary, cell block six …

Did you know, for example, that in Chicago, Illinois, it is illegal to take a French poodle to the opera? Or that in Massachusetts there is a law that specifically prohibits you from transporting a gorilla in the back seat of your car?

Clearly, these are mistakes than anyone could make. For all you know, you might be inadvertently breaking the law as we speak! All it takes is one little violation to land your butt in jail and ruin your entire vacation. One minute you’re casually parading your goose down Main Street in McDonald, Ohio, and the next minute you’re locked away in a five-by-five-foot cell with a guy named Hogfat.

To save you from certain incarceration this summer, Team Last Call made it our personal mission to dig up the weirdest state laws in existence, some of which have been on the books for hundreds of years. By the time we were done searching, we had compiled such a large list that we had to split it into two columns. This month: Alabama through Missouri.

Keep in mind that these are actual laws that are still in effect today. We couldn’t have made these up if we tried.

If you’re planning a trip to Alabama, please be aware that there is a law on the books that specifically makes it illegal to wear a fake moustache that causes laughter in church.

In Alaska, it’s a crime to feed alcoholic beverages to a moose. So you can cross that one right off your list.

We’re very sorry to report that it is against the law to hunt camels in the state of Arizona.

It is a crime to mispronounce “Arkansas” while in Arkansas.

In California, a woman can be prosecuted for driving a car while wearing a housecoat. Also – and I can’t stress this one enough – it is completely illegal to drive more than two thousand sheep down Hollywood Boulevard at one time. If you find yourself in a situation where driving sheep down Hollywood Boulevard becomes inevitable, please try to take them in smaller batches.

It is unlawful to lend your vacuum cleaner to your next-door neighbor if you live in Denver, Colorado.

In Connecticut, there is a law preventing you from walking across the street on your hands, and you can forget about walking backwards after sunset. Also, if you go to Hartford, the law clearly states that you may not educate dogs.

In Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, whispering in church has been outlawed.

In Sarasota, Florida, it is illegal to sing while wearing a bathing suit. Also – and this is one of our favorites – somebody in Florida found it necessary to specifically make a law prohibiting sexual relations with a porcupine. Seriously.

If you live in Acworth, Georgia, you are required by law to own a rake. And in Jonesboro, it is actually illegal to say, “Oh, boy.”

In Hawaii, you could be thrown in jail for placing coins in your ears.

Riding a merry-go-round on Sundays is considered a crime in Idaho. Also, in Boise there is a law preventing residents from fishing while perched on a giraffe’s back. For real.

As it turns out, Illinois is a treasure trove of craziness. For example, in Urbana there is actually a law on the books making it illegal for monsters to enter the city. There’s also a law specifically preventing anyone in the state from giving a lighted cigar to a dog or cat. In Eureka, it’s illegal for a man with a moustache to kiss a woman. In Chicago, the law forbids a person to eat in a restaurant that is currently on fire. In Evanston, bowling is strictly forbidden. It’s also illegal to fish in pajamas, in case you were wondering. And here’s the best one: In Champaign, Illinois, it was evidently necessary to make a law decreeing that an individual may not, in fact, pee in his neighbor’s mouth.

In Indiana, bathing is prohibited during the winter. And just so you know, if you’re in South Bend, Indiana, it is completely illegal to make a monkey smoke a cigarette. Please try to control yourself.

In Iowa, kisses may last for as much as, but no more than, five minutes.

It is illegal to put ice cream on cherry pie in Kansas.

When you’re in Kentucky, it is forbidden to transport an ice cream cone in your pocket. And in the town of Frankfort, it is against the law to shoot off a policeman’s tie.

In New Orleans, Louisiana, you may not – I repeat, may not – tie an alligator to a fire hydrant.

The state of Maine kindly asks you to refrain from stepping out of an airplane while it’s in flight. If you do, they’ll arrest you. Or at least, they’ll arrest what’s left of you. Also, keep in mind that in Waterville, it is illegal to blow one’s nose in public.

You’ll be thrown in the slammer if cops catch you swearing while inside the city limits of Baltimore, Maryland. It’s also illegal to take a lion to the movies.

The state of Massachusetts has a law making it illegal to eat more than three sandwiches at a wake. Also worth noting is that, when you’re in the city of Marlboro, detonating a nuclear device is frowned upon. But on a more positive note, in the town of Newton, Massachusetts, the law states that every family is entitled to one free hog, courtesy of the town’s mayor. Bonus!

Walk softly in Michigan, where it is legal for the blind to hunt.

If you are in Minnesota, please keep in mind that the law expressly forbids you to cross the Minnesota-Wisconsin border with a duck on your head. Also, it’s illegal to eat a hamburger on Sundays in St. Cloud.

In Bourbon, Mississippi, we’re sorry to say, you may not hold a turtle race at the airport. But in the town of Truro, it is still perfectly legal to kill your servants.

And finally, in Kansas City, Missouri, it’s OK for children to buy shotguns, but toy cap guns? Illegal!

Well, that’s all of the bizarre laws we could fit into this month’s column. Coming up in September: Montana through Wyoming! Until then, do not – we repeat, do not – participate in a boxing match with a kangaroo in Myrtle Creek, Oregon. Trust us.

Our faithful readers are sending in letters by the truckload asking questions on a variety of summer-related topics, such as “What’s the best way to keep cool this summer?” and “What’s this year’s hottest trend in beachwear?” and “How would you like it if I tore your arms off and stuffed you into a mailbox?”

Yes, I’m afraid that Team Last Call has also been the recipient of some good, old-fashioned hate mail. At first, Team Last Call was very upset. For the life of Team Last Call, we just couldn’t figure out what we were doing wrong. But eventually, we realized that virtually all of the hostile letters were coming from a single source, a small constituency of readers known as “Hummer owners.”

This neat group of people has been writing little love notes to Team Last Call ever since we published our annual column on Hummers last March. We’re not sure if it was because we called them bed-wetters or compared their vehicles to a four-ton Viagra pill on wheels, but something definitely seems to have struck a nerve.

We at Team Last Call are taken aback by the Hummer owners’ angry response. We certainly meant no offense in our columns. Team Last Call would never deliberately ridicule Hummer drivers or the various insecurities that compel them to drive a truck the size of a river barge. Like tiny genitalia, for example. We would never make fun of that. Or impotence. Again, not funny.

The last thing we want to do is make the area’s Hummer drivers feel bad about themselves or their ethically retarded vehicles. Yet, despite our best efforts at remaining neutral, Hummer drivers all across the midstate have made Team Last Call the focus of their unstable rage. Regardless of the fact that we had literally nothing to do with their being born with only one testicle.

It’s like you can’t even characterize a group of people as greedy, wasteful, obnoxious, environment-hating pig-dogs without them getting all huffy.

Actually, huffy would have been OK. We could have lived with huffy. Huffy would have been a vacation compared to the reaction we’ve been getting, which falls somewhere between “totally freaking crazy” and “Courtney Love.”

One Hummer driver called us Nazis. Another compared our persecution of Hummer drivers to the persecution of black slaves by white slave owners. Others psychoanalyzed our columns and determined that we are all, in fact, a bunch of raging homosexuals, which is going to break my wife’s heart. One particularly upset Hummer driver said that we were hate incarnate, which up until that point we had always assumed was Bill O’Reilly.

But what’s really been creeping us out are the threatening letters. Some of them talk about what the Hummer owners would do to us if they ever caught us walking alone in an alley on a dark night. Others list various things they would like us to do to ourselves, most of which would require us to be double-jointed. Almost all of them end with some variation of, “Your a awful riter.”

Many of the threats have come from a certain Harrisburg-area bar where evidently a lot of Hummer owners congregate. I guess it’s like a Hummer club. They probably sit around all day just talking about Hummers, washing and waxing their Hummers – maybe even trading Hummers. Yep, they probably sit around all day just swapping Hummers back and forth. First one guy will give the guy beside him a Hummer, and then that guy will give a Hummer to the guy beside him. It’s a very tightly knit community.

We admit that all of the attention we’ve been getting lately is flattering, even if it is in the form of grammatically questionable threats. But it’s not really the kind of recognition Team Last Call was hoping for when we started our column. We were imagining something more along the lines of internet fan sites and television interviews, as opposed to e-mails telling us to “take a long walk off a short pier,” which is only a clever threat if you’re trying to make us die of boredom.

Despite their lack of creativity, the threats have actually been kind of scary. In the words of Toby Keith, it seems that we’ve “rattled the big dog’s cage,” and now the Hummer drivers want to “put their boot up our ass,” because “it’s the American way.” Of all the ways a person could die, we never thought ours would involve getting run over by a four-ton automobile with Yosemite Sam mudflaps and a sticker in the back window that says “Kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out.” If the actual vehicle doesn’t kill us, its tackiness surely will.

And so, in an effort to not be murdered, we at Team Last Call are ready to call a truce. We solemnly swear to do our best not to talk about your comically small genitalia, as long as you do your best not to overcompensate for it by driving a vehicle with the gas mileage of Mount Rushmore.

Obviously, we can’t promise that the occasional joke won’t slip through the cracks. Like, “How many Hummer owners does it take to screw in a lightbulb? None: they’re too busy ‘off-roading’ their way to a gas station to fill up their 8-mile-per-gallon tanks.” For example.

But seriously, Hummer drivers, as far as Team Last Call is concerned, this is the last column we will ever write about you and your turd-mobiles. We’ve said what we needed to say, and the ball is in your morally bankrupt court. If you choose to continue driving your Hummers around, therefore condemning yourselves to purgatory where you will spend the rest of eternity questioning what it was that made you want to drive a vehicle so obnoxious and mind-bogglingly illogical that it made everybody on heaven and earth hate you, then that’s your decision, and we respect it. We’re not here to judge.

There she was, a spoon in one hand, a bowl in the other, whizzing through our neighborhood at 40 mph with the steering wheel pinched between her knees.

She was obviously crazy. Not the harmless kind of crazy that makes people buy Toby Keith albums or get excited about watching cars race around in circles. I’m talking about the kind of crazy that leads to people biting off other people’s ears during boxing matches or trying to privatize social security.

I decided that I couldn’t keep quiet about it. No matter what the consequences, I had to let this woman know that her behavior was simply unacceptable.

So I turned to her and said, “Honey, can you please not eat cereal while you’re driving!”

But my wife wouldn’t listen.

Remember how in Driver’s Ed. class your teacher always instructed you to drive defensively? It’s because he knew that one day you’d be sharing the road with my wife.

Whether she’s putting on her stockings or trying to balance her checkbook, you can be sure that at any given point while she’s driving, my wife is performing at least one other task that requires the use of both hands and usually a foot or two. I’m pretty sure I once caught her in the middle of a yoga pose while she was driving us to the mall, although I couldn’t prove it.

You know how when people are bowling they do that little dance to help steer their ball away from the gutter? That’s me whenever I see my wife driving down the street, only in my case, the gutter is the oncoming lane of traffic and the pins are the neighbor kids. She is to a highway what a tornado is to a house of cards. If she were a professional wrestler, they’d call her “Royer the Destroyer.”

Riding passenger in my wife’s car always makes for a rather transcendent experience. Watching kitties bounce off your windshield really has a way of putting the rest of your problems into perspective. The fact that I have no clean underwear for work tomorrow, for example, seems like much less of a crisis as my wife and I are plowing through our neighbors’ trashcans or taking out a rhododendron bush.

Whether we’re speeding the wrong way down a one-way street, turning a curve on two wheels at 70 mph or ripping off our bumper as we back into the garage, I can just sit back and relax as what I thought were my biggest problems simply melt away.

There is one small problem that won’t go away, though, and that is the fact that, thanks to my wife’s rather relaxed approach to driving, our car looks worse than Michael Moore in a pair of Daisy Dukes. From the scrapes running the entire length of the car to the ominous poodle-shaped dents on the hood, this vehicle is in sad, sad shape. Any day now, I expect it to follow Vin Diesel’s acting career right into the Cosmic Crapper.

On a good day, the car moves with all the enthusiasm of a fat kid who just got picked for the skins team in gym class, which is a subject I know a thing or two about. It’s really a minor miracle that it even starts at all. Although, once you get that car rolling downhill, it’s a force to be reckoned with. Just ask our neighbors’ cats.

The only thing that looks worse than our car’s exterior is our car’s interior. I’m not sure what happened in there, but it wasn’t good. If I had to make an educated guess, I’d say that at some point a grizzly bear and a mountain cat must have broken into the car and had a wrestling match in the front seat in a vat of pudding. I mean, there are actual chocolate stains on the ceiling. But I guess that’s what happens when you take a speedbump at 70 mph with a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles in your hand.

So basically, we need a new car. The problem is, I have a hard time justifying going even deeper into debt just so my wife can have a new, more luxurious vehicle with which to terrorize our neighbors’ mailboxes. Although, for as much time as she spends in her car waiting for the cops to fill out accident reports, she might as well have reliable heating and air conditioning.

When the subject comes up – which is only as often as my wife hits something with her car, by which I mean daily – my wife swears that things would be different with a new car. She’d be careful, more responsible. No more backing into our garage when the door is closed. No more sideswiping old ladies walking down the street. She even promises to steer with her actual hands. Which is comforting, if not entirely believable.

I don’t know. Maybe I should be more trusting and just get the new car. Then again, her current car was new when we got it, and now it looks like it’s been trampled by elephants. If we get another car, how do I know that she won’t just get bored with it three weeks later and start using it to knock coconuts out of trees or something?

It’s a real conundrum. Until I get it all sorted out, all I can say is, watch your back. My wife is on the move, and the Wheaties are missing from the cupboard.

Once you’re done throwing up, listen to this: It appears that the young man’s nose-skewering technique just might become a trend. People all across the nation have started jumping on the “pierced eyeglasses” bandwagon. Apparently, the fact that they need to have an extra hole drilled into their heads with a power tool isn’t much of a deterrent. Let’s just hope these people never have a problem with their pants sagging.

The development of pierced eyeglasses is a major breakthrough in the world of body piercing. Suddenly, not only can your piercings be fashionable, but they can be functional too. Just think of the possibilities!

Are you tired of walking out of the house without your wallet? Why not attach it to a big chain, and then connect that big chain to a big ring, and then put that big ring right through your tongue! That way, it would alwayth be thwinging right in front of your fathe. It’d be nearly impothible to forget.

Are you constantly spilling coffee on your shirt during the morning commute? Why not just pierce your nipples and mount a little cup holder onto the studs! We can call it the Nip & Sip.

Are you always embarrassing yourself by leaving your baby behind at places like the laundromat and grocery store? I’m calling the cops.

I myself used to have a few body piercings, although that was back in the olden days when they were just for looks. Like mink coats, or Jessica Simpson.

One day when I was 18, I decided that I simply couldn’t go on living without having my own bellybutton ring. That decision now ranks up there with the day I tried to stuff 20 marshmallows in my mouth and the day I tried to snort a line of salt, which were the same day.

I’m all for being frugal, and I agree that there are some things that you definitely should go price-shopping for, such as cars, groceries, or, in Donald Trump’s case, wives. But if there’s one area where you really don’t want to be cutting corners, it’s body piercing. Trust me. I mean, if you look long enough, you can always find some dude who’s willing to pierce any part of your body in the back of a van for $5 and a sandwich, but that’s not always the best solution.

When it comes to piercings, I like to live by this simple rule:

If it’s in an office, pierce that orifice.

If it’s in the back of a van, get a medical plan.

And here’s another rule: If the guy’s name is Luke, run.

I found Luke in a Harrisburg phone book after calling about a dozen other places. It took him about 10 rings to answer the phone, and another two minutes to catch his breath, and then another two minutes to remember that he had placed an ad in the yellow pages about body piercing. But the fact that he was the only piercer who could schedule me that same day – and the fact that he was about $20 cheaper than every other place I had called – made him my go-to guy.

All I could think about was how proud it would make my parents that I was being so responsible with my money.

One hour later, I was on my back in a sticky leather recliner while Luke, sweating profusely through his yellowed undershirt, chain-smoked and searched around in a drawer for a clean needle.

Once things were all set, he drew a purple dot on my belly with a marker and got out the “needle,” which was actually a hollow metal tube approximately the same size around as Michael Moore.

Then Luke looked at me and said, “Grip my thigh.”

“Grip what now?” I said, sliding back in the chair.

“Grip my thigh,” he repeated.

I didn’t get it. “Why do I need to grip his thigh?” I wondered. “What’s the big deal? I’m just going to lie here and relax, and he’s going to numb my belly and pierce it and holy crap that’s a huge needle and why hasn’t he used any anesthesia aaaaah!”

And just like that, Luke plunged the needle right into my belly. I looked down at the giant tube jutting through my skin. Then I threw up. Then I passed out. I should have gripped his thigh.

When I woke up, in addition to a splitting headache, I had a brand-new ring running through my belly. And probably several communicable diseases.

I was awfully proud of that ring and kept it around for several years, showing it off like a battle scar to everyone I met. Until the day I looked in the mirror sideways.

Apparently, my belly didn’t get the memo that the rest of my body had decided to stop growing. In the six or so years since I had gotten my piercing, my belly had expanded from a normal, boy-sized tummy to a bulbous mound of jiggly, wiggly pudge. Suddenly my bellybutton ring was less like a cute little accessory and more like a giant flashing beacon perched on top of Mount McPlumpy.

No matter how many layers I wore, you could still see the ring parading around under my shirt like a mouse under a rug. It was like having a tiny circus barker strolling around on my belly with a megaphone, calling one and all to witness the freakishness poking out over my belt. “Step right up,” it said, “and behold the pudge!”

Further complicating things was the fact that my piercing had more infections than a Kid Rock groupie. Every other week, my bellybutton would swell up like a ripe tomato. It looked like I was constantly trying to smuggle a poodle around under my shirt.

And so, with great sadness, I had to say goodbye to my precious bellybutton ring. All I have left to show for it now are two little holes. Which, now that I think of it, would be an excellent place to mount that cup holder …

A year ago I wrote a column about Hummers and the people who drive them – a group that scientific studies have shown is comprised of irritable, rich white men who are about as blessed below the belt as Kermit the Frog.

Over time, I’ve realized that the article didn’t quite have the global impact I was hoping for. It seems like more and more of these weenie-mobiles are popping up each week, clogging up our streets, polluting our environment and otherwise serving as a constant reminder of why the rest of the world thinks that America is the devil.

In fact, the Hummer company is currently gearing up for the debut of the H3 this spring, meaning that Hummer lovers the world over will soon have yet another vehicle in which to boldly display their giant protruding brows.

Apparently, my primary message – that Hummers are obnoxious and dangerous and make much more of a statement about what’s in your pants than what’s in your wallet – didn’t really sink in.

But maybe the fault is mine. Maybe I should have taken a more diplomatic approach to my first Hummer article. Perhaps I should have spent a little more time on the bigger issues and less time making references to Hummer owners’ teensy little genitalia. Because it’s not their fault that they’re like a Ken Doll from the waist down.

So I’m giving it another shot, but this time around I’m going to be much more open-minded about it. This time, I’ll try putting myself into the Hummer owners’ shoes. I mean, if I were rich and unfulfilled and self-obsessed and very, very impotent, I’d probably want to buy a Hummer too, and I’m sure I wouldn’t appreciate it when some snot-nosed journalist tried to make suggestions about how I could have put that $120,000 to better use. It’s my money, and I can spend it any way I choose. If the tsunami victims need money so badly, let them go out and do an honest day’s work for once and stop waiting around for handouts from hard-working Americans like me.

Yep, this time around I’m determined to take a much more balanced approach. You won’t see me making any rash statements like, “Nine out of 10 Hummer owners are bed-wetters,” no matter how true they may be. Nope, this time I’m going to keep it clean. I’m calling it quits on the silly generalizations, like, “All Hummer drivers are addicted to Viagra.” So just know that you’re not going to be seeing any more immature commentary from this writer. Like, “Statistics show that Hummer drivers like to prance around in their wives’ underwear when no one’s around” -– that’s another example of something you won’t see here.

In the spirit of fairness, we’re going to weigh the arguments for and against Hummers with complete objectivity, so that you, the reader, can judge for yourself who is right and who is a selfish, stupid Hummer driver.

Let’s begin with a look at the top reasons why someone should go out and buy a Hummer.

1. Because you never know when the local supermarket might decide to replace its speed bumps with six-foot dirt piles

2. Because your “What Would Satan Do?” bracelet tells you to

3. Because you’ll be in the company of several top celebrities who endorse Hummers, including Mike Tyson and MC Hammer!

4. Because under Bush’s Economic Stimulus Plan, business owners who purchase vehicles weighing over 6,000 pounds receive a $100,000 tax break. No Hummer left behind!

5. Because you’re a rugged individualist who will use your Hummer to navigate lots of challenging off-road courses just as soon as you drop the kids off at soccer practice, diversify your stock portfolio, get porcelain veneers and play a quick nine at the country club

6. Because if there’s one thing you hate, it’s the environment

7. Because you’re helping to teach poor people everywhere a valuable lesson about how good life can be if you’re hard-working and ambitious and white and have rich parents

8. Because they make you terrorism-proof!

9. Because you always survive car crashes, and the people in the other car were going to die someday anyway

10. Because you are the freaking devil

Now, let’s examine some of the reasons why someone might not want to drive a Hummer.

1. Because everyone hates people who drive Hummers

2. Because it’s a lot easier to just tape a sign on your back that says, “My winkie is very, very small.”

3. Because of that whole “war in Iraq” thing

4. Because of their massive size, Hummers are exempt from meeting any emission standards, and consequently emit over three times more carbon dioxide than the average car. Oops!

5. Because it’s a lot cheaper to just stuff some socks down your pants

6. Because you could take the $120,000 you spent on your Hummer – plus all of the money you dump into your 8-mile-per-gallon tank – and give it to an orphanage. Unless you hate orphans or something.

7. Because we’re all laughing at you, and our stomachs hurt

8. Because one day we might run out of wildlife reserves to plunder for oil

9. Because I’ll never stop carving “butthead” into your paint

10. Because people who drive Hummers can’t get into heaven

Thus concludes our objective study on the pros and cons of purchasing a Hummer. I’d like to take this time to thank the many research assistants, fact-checkers and proofreaders on “Team Last Call,” without whom I never would have been able to produce an article of such integrity, uncompromised vision and absolute factual accuracy.

As for you, the reader, the gauntlet has been thrown. You have been equipped with the facts, and now you must decide for yourself which path you will walk – the way of truth and light, or the way that leads to me lighting a bag of dog poop on fire on your front porch. Good luck.

See, I sort of forgot to show up for my last six-month checkup. Actually, I missed about 10 of them in a row. Which is really no big deal, unless you’re into that whole keeping-your-original-teeth thing.

For the past five years, my teeth and I have been a pair of free spirits, cruising down the river of life on a raft called freedom, racing across the deserts of time like Thelma and Louise, treating the world as if it were our own personal playground, like Paris Hilton, but without all the internet sex tapes and Chihuahuas. Well, without the Chihuahuas.

But our holiday came to an abrupt halt when my wife took it upon herself to schedule a dentist appointment for me. It was the worst case of betrayal since that episode of “The OC” where Summer totally breaks up with Seth and then gets together with that creep Zach even though everyone knows that Seth is the one true love of Summer’s life. Or so I’m told.

“There’s no way I’m going to the dentist,” I assured my wife. “I’m sorry to have to do this, but I’m putting my foot down. It’s going down as we speak. I’m the man in this relationship, and I’m telling you right now that I’m simply not going to the dentist. The foot is down now.”

As I pulled into the dentist’s parking lot, I was more nervous than Billy Joel at a sobriety checkpoint. But then I started thinking about how completely overrated the whole going-to-the-dentist thing really is. I mean, all dentists really do is poke around at your teeth for a few minutes and then hand you a free toothbrush. Then they hand you a bill with more zeros on it than a bus full of high school mathletes.

It’s not like anyone’s ever died from not going to the dentist. Really, what’s the worst that can happen?

Apparently, the worst thing that can happen is your teeth will start to decay faster than Britney Spears’ career. And unfortunately, unlike Britney’s career, you can’t fix your teeth by putting on hot pants and flashing your boobies. Not that I didn’t try.

Evidently, I had spent the past five years cultivating the perfect storm of cavities, a magnificent black mass in the back of my mouth just a little smaller than a Ford Explorer. Which explained the throbbing pain I’d been feeling in my molar for the past four months that hurt so bad it just made me want to die.

I was sort of in love with my cavity at first, in the way that kidnap victims can come to sympathize with their captors. The idea that I’d been walking around with this disgusting thing rotting away inside my mouth was kind of hypnotizing. It was like meeting a little brother I never knew I had, except my little brother lived in my mouth and gave me headaches when I ate something cold. I named him Barry.

“It appears,” said the dentist, “that you have a cavity the size of Rhode Island.”

“That’s Barry,” I said.

“Well, I’m afraid Barry’s going to need a root canal.”

“Oh, no!” I squealed. “Is that painful?”

“Well, let’s just say it ranks somewhere between falling down an elevator shaft and giving birth to Michael Moore through your nostril. Can I assume you’ve got dental insurance?”

“No!” I whimpered. “How much are we talking?”

A few smelling salts later and I was back on my feet, scheduling my big root canal appointment with the office manager.

I returned the next week for my date with destiny. I climbed up into the dentist’s chair and immediately launched into a little self-defense mechanism I like to call nervous gas. I blamed it on the dental assistant.

Once things were under control, the dentist began the process of anesthesia by stabbing me repeatedly in the gums with what I could only assume was the harpoon they used to catch Anna Nicole Smith. In between stabs – and this is way too weird for me to make up – the dentist thought it would be a good idea to tell me about a horror movie he once saw called “Dentist 2,” in which a crazed dentist ties a woman down and systematically pulls out all of her teeth. I found this to be exceedingly creepy and inappropriate, but forced out a little laugh anyway since he was the one with the harpoon.

Then the dentist reached under the chair and pulled out a drill so devastatingly massive and incomprehensible it could have run for governor of California. “Ya, I am going to drill your sissy teeth into powda until you are begging for the stopping of the drilling. Hasta la vista, cavity!” said the drill. Although that may have been the anesthesia talking. Either way, I was terrified.

And then something miraculous happened. After several minutes of drilling my teeth like I was the last Alaskan Wildlife Reserve on earth, the dentist set down his drill and looked dejectedly out the window. “Know what?” he sighed. “I don’t think you need a root canal after all.”

“Blubbity blap!” I yelled, my numb lips flapping in the wind. “Blat’s bleat!”

I shot out of the chair and raced out the door before he could change his mind. It was the fastest I’d moved since the day the first New Kids on the Block album was released when I was 13. That’s right, I said it.

Anyway, it was a good day, one that I won’t soon forget. Mostly because my tooth now hurts way worse than before I went to the dentist. I haven’t been able to chew on the right side of my mouth for a month. Let’s just be glad that general practitioners don’t take the same approach to healing, or every time someone complained of a headache they’d get smacked in the face with a shovel. Which is only funny if that person is Clay Aiken.

So, thanks, doc, for “fixing my cavity.”

I hope you enjoy my check, which “totally won’t bounce.”

I know what you’re thinking: “What about the hammer dulcimer? You can’t have a party without a hammer dulcimer!”

And you’re absolutely right, provided that you’re going to be partying with a bunch of theater people.

Ah, theater people, those dancing, prancing champions of the unitard! Those hand-waving, foot-stomping bearers of top-hat and cane, gallivanting about in a dream world where the spotlight never fades, where the curtain never falls, where every new emotion is an excuse to break into song! Tra-la-la!

My wife is an actress, which means that I’ve spent a disturbingly large portion of my life around theater people over the past few years. Time and time again I’ve found myself backstage after a show, backed into a corner by a dozen or so manic people kicking their legs into the air, waving their jazz hands in my face and singing songs about Chicago or New York or Gary, Indiana, their stage makeup caked to their faces, their bodies jiggling around in little black tights, their thin mustaches glistening with sweat. And those are just the women.

I usually think of myself as a reasonably tolerant person. Blacks, whites, gays, straights, even Creed fans – I believe that all people have a right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Unless those people root against the Eagles or are some kind of Nazi. Which is, of course, redundant.

But I really draw the line at theater people. Theater people should be herded together and shipped off to a desert island, where they could start their own country. They could call it the United Federation of Flamboyance, or maybe the Republic of Obnoxious Peoples. Their national anthem could be “There’s No Business Like Show Business,” and their flag could have a picture of a dozen or so men snapping their fingers and doing that crouch-walk.

One nation, under Robert Goulet, indefatigable, with feather boas and sequins for all.

My wife, fortunately, is a clear exception to the theater people rule, mostly because she’s missing the mutant chromosome that causes them to randomly launch into songs from “A Chorus Line” in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

But that doesn’t stop her from going to cast parties, and it doesn’t stop her from dragging me along with her when, given the choice, I would rather run through an alligator pit with nothing on but an all-beef speedo.

I know, I’m being a little dramatic. But then again, so is my wife! (Thanks, I’ll be here all week.)

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be on acid, go crash a cast party. It’s like going to a psychedelic circus where all the clowns are wearing “Phantom of the Opera” T-shirts and the big-top attraction is – that’s right – the theater people, who never fail to take advantage of a captive audience, even if that audience is made up of one grumpy husband. They never, ever – not even if you fake a seizure – stop performing.

I think my favorite cast party took place last winter at a relatively upscale eatery. My wife and I were scrunched into a table of 20 or so theater people and were enjoying some post-show cocktails and hors d’oeuvres when one of the cast members suddenly disappeared under the table. He popped up a few moments later and pulled out – this is way too good for me to make up – a real hammer dulcimer, plopping it nonchalantly on the table like a dinner napkin. He then proceeded to serenade the entire restaurant with a particularly piercing rendition of Crosby, Stills & Nash’s “Southern Cross.”

I was absolutely mortified. I tried to shrink down into my chair to avoid the accusing stares coming from the surrounding tables. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the playing stopped. The dulcimer player quietly slid his instrument back under the table, picked up his fork and, in the embarrassing silence, began eating. Just like that.

OK, I thought, that wasn’t so bad. That’s about the time that Gene, the gaunt photographer with a ponytail and black turtleneck, decided to pass around his portfolio. When the photos made their way to my end of the table, I studied them with curiosity. They were black and white shots, sort of blurry, with lots of strange orbs and blotches.

I picked up one of the photos and held it close to my face. Was that a turtle? Was it an arrangement of fruit? And that’s when I realized that the entire portfolio, every last shot in the book, was of Gene, naked as can be, from places you didn’t even think a camera could fit.

And why not? Why shouldn’t someone bring a book of naked self-portraits to a dinner party? Why shouldn’t someone hide a dulcimer under the table?
This is theater! Tra-la-la!

From the restaurant, the party moved to the house of one of the producers, a spacious house plastered with lots of theater memorabilia and, naturally, an entire room filled with bongos, acoustic guitars and Casio keyboards – the holy trinity of musical annoyance.

“Here, you play these!” yelled one theater person, shoving a pair of bongos into my hands. “Who knows the opening number from ‘Cats?’”

He might as well have asked, “Hey, who here has ever fantasized about making out with Orlando Bloom?” The entire ensemble flew out of their seats like they’d seen the ghost of Ethel Merman and began prancing around in circles like rabid woodland creatures, each desperately trying to out-obnoxious the other, and each one somehow succeeding.

There they were, 20 grown men and women, all flapping and hollering, all desperately trying to be the center of attention of an audience made up entirely of people trying to be the center of attention, people who no one but themselves will pay attention to in the first place.

Simple people, complicated situation.

The world of theater people is an ugly one. If you’re not in it, don’t join it. And if you ever get sucked in, well, you can hang out with me at the cast parties. I’ll be the one with a glass of wine the size of a Subaru. Tra-la-la!