September 2006 – Team Last Call Turns 30

Posted by Jeff on 9/01/2006 12:03:00 AM
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There are worse things in life than turning 30. It's just that right now I can't think of any.

I turn 30 in exactly one week, meaning that, basically, everything that was once good and joyful in my life is about to come crashing down around me in an avalanche of darkness and despair and other words that start with a "d" that in my senility I can no longer remember.

The situation is dire, my friends. This is a full-on crisis. In a matter of days, I will officially be closer to 40 than I am to 20. That's a sobering thought for someone with no savings account, no investments and about as many marketable skills as Paris Hilton. Actually, one less skill, if you count her porn video. What's also sobering is the realization that I'm probably just a few years away from my first prostate exam. I'll give you a few moments to enjoy that visual.

Everything changes once you hit 30. There is no graceful transition, no way to ease yourself into the situation. You simply wake up one day and realize that you have entered an entirely new phase of life, during which your primary goals are to save money for retirement and try to resist the urge to pull your socks up to your knees when you wear shorts.

I can already feel my body preparing for what I like to call the Comb-over Phase, during which the hair from your head falls out and plants itself in places you need two mirrors to see. It's like watching yourself turn into a Wookie one follicle at a time. The irony is that I still cant grow a full beard, which everyone knows is the balding man's number one compensation. Unless you count the beards that are forming on my earlobes. I know, gross.

Did you know it's a common belief among scientists that balding is actually caused by high levels of testosterone? That's actually very good news for me, because although I may end up losing all of my hair, at least I have a good chance of winning the Tour de France.

With each day that passes, my body becomes less like that of a human male and more like that of a marshmallow on estrogen. I'm like a plum on a one-way street to Prunesville.
Now I know what Jeff Goldblum felt like in "The Fly." It's probably only a matter of time before I grow wings and mandibles and develop an inexplicable hunger for sugar and feces. Which is why old people like Old Country Buffet.

I'm starting to feel like the weird uncle who sits at the kids' table at Thanksgiving dinner and tries to sound hip by name-dropping bands he's heard on the radio. Except you know he's not really hip, mostly because he still uses the word "hip." And because the band he name-dropped is Ace of Base.

My under-30 friends have started looking at me with this mixed expression of amusement and apprehension, like at any given moment my adult diapers could spring a leak. Which they almost never do. It's the kind of horrified fascination you normally save for those Discovery Channel specials on liposuction. You can tell that my friends want to look away, but the carnage is just too compelling.

But the reaction I've been getting from my younger friends is still much less disconcerting than the reaction I've been getting from the older ones, who can barely contain their glee that I'm about to become one of them. They keep coming up to me and saying things like, "Welcome to the club!" and "It's all downhill from here!" Then they give me a pained smile and a slow pat on the back, the kind you give to a friend who just blew his children's entire college fund on a single hand of poker.

My birthday is especially hilarious to my wife, who has been waiting anxiously for this day ever since I ran a column making fun of her 30th birthday about a year ago. Actually, it was closer to a year and a half ago. Because, you see, my wife is older than me. Some might say a lot older than me, but I don't think it's necessary to point that out.

Even more upsetting than the fact that I'm turning into a Wookie is the fact that I can't think of myself as a kid anymore. No one's going to think of me as a "hotshot" anymore. No one's ever going to call me a "wiz kid" again. Unless they're trying to make a joke about my adult diapers.

When you're in your 20s, no one really expects you to have your life in order. Your 20s are all about "finding yourself," about being poor and pursuing your dreams and eating lots of Ramen noodles and going without health coverage and not being able to afford new underwear.

But when you're 30, you're supposed to have your act together. You can't run around in your old underwear anymore, because A, you've got cottage cheese thighs, and B, you're a grownup, and grownups are supposed to be financially sound. Not only should you be able to afford new underwear, but you should also have nice khaki slacks and a mortgage and your own set of golf clubs and should probably be able to type the word "underwear" without giggling. Underwear.

Underwear.

Of course, there are plenty of examples of people whose lives were only just beginning at the age of 30. Like Mr. T, who had already hit the big 3-0 by the time he made his big-screen debut in "Rocky III." Plus Jesus he got started at the age of 30 and didn't do all that bad for himself.

So there's still at least a little hope for me. Who knows? With some dieting, a gym membership and lots and lots of steroids, maybe I could be the next Mr. T. Or at least the next Tour de France champion.

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August 2006 – Team Last Call Goes On Vacation

Posted by Jeff on 8/01/2006 12:02:00 AM
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Team Last Call recently ran off to Europe for a month to delivering unprecedented amounts of rock and roll to the areas of the world where unprecedented amounts of rock and roll are needed most. Guess who wasn't happy about that? Our boss, who was kind enough to put together this "best of" column for us. Hey, it's better than nothing.

On His Wife's Driving: 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.

On Dentists: 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.

On Spinning Rims: It's time to take the silly spinning rims off of your wheels. Nobody thinks they're cool but the guy who sold them to you, and that's just because he works on commission. Surely there is some better way you could put that $2,000 to use. Like by feeding the poor, for example. Or by donating the money to the Women & Babies Hospital. Unless you hate babies. It's OK if you do. If that's the case, just leave the rims on. That way we'll know for sure.

On Babies: 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.

On High-Fives: High-fiving is something that frat boys do after one of them lights a fart. It's cheesy and primitive, and usually means that you were born with the mutant chromosome that makes you wear your hat backwards and listen to rap-metal. So basically, you need to find a new way to express your happiness. However, in the event that a high-five becomes unavoidable (i.e. you just made out with Eva Longoria), under no circumstances are you to attempt a high-ten, which is never OK.

On 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 "Theres 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.

On Bellybutton Piercings: 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.

On His Wifes 30th Birthday: 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.

On Hummers: As far as I'm concerned, driving a Hummer anywhere in Central Pennsylvania is like trying to pick a piece of broccoli from your teeth with Ruben Studdard sometimes the situation just calls for something a little smaller. Like Clay Aiken. I mean, maybe, maybe if you're living in the frozen tundra, then perhaps you need a vehicle with a little more oomph to it. Something with an engine the size of, say, an Alaskan oil drill. But otherwise, driving a Hummer down our Pennsylvania streets is like trying to remove a splinter from your thumb with a bazooka.

On Hummer Response: 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.

On Paris Hilton: Stop having sex with Paris Hilton. If you're one of the many, many people who have slept with the hotel heiress and statistics show that most of you are it's time to stop. If we all work together to keep Paris from having sex, thereby cutting off her only real contribution to society, then maybe, just maybe, people will stop caring about her and she'll finally go away. Together we can make a difference.

On Writing: 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.

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July 2006 – Ding-dong, the Hummer is dead

Posted by Jeff on 7/01/2006 12:01:00 AM
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There are a few days each year when we Americans celebrate the people and events that shaped this great nation of ours.

There's President's Day, of course, when we honor America's greatest presidents, and Groundhog Day, when we honor America's greatest groundhogs.

This month we have the Fourth of July, when we celebrate our country's independence by drinking our body weight in Milwaukee's Best and tying roman candles to our cat's tail. Not that Team Last Call would ever do something like that. But we bet it's really, really funny. And disgustingly inhumane. But really funny.

For those of you who have some extra patriotism to work out of your systems and/or leftover Milwaukee's Best, Team Last Call has some exciting news: Something wonderful has happened that has given Americans yet another reason to celebrate.

No, George Bush hasn't been impeached. Yet. And no, Kevin Federline's album hasn't come out yet. What Team Last Call is referring to is the May 12 announcement that the Hummer, that laughably obnoxious vehicle-of-choice for balding, impotent white men across America, has officially been discontinued. Terminated. Schmutzed.

General Motors made the announcement after sales of the Viagra-pill-on-wheels fell sharply in 2006; by mid-May, fewer than 100 had sold across the country. This, of course, is hilarious.

In fact, according to the Washington Post, the entire Hummer group has been outsold this year by the Toyota Prius, a gas-electric hybrid. That's a pretty remarkable thing, if you think about it. The little guy is finally winning. It's like that scene at the end of "Revenge of the Nerds" when they have the big talent show and the nerds win the crowd over with their crazy techno-rap-Elvis song, and then the head nerd puts on a Darth Vader costume and has sex with the football captain's girl in the Moon Room. Know what I mean?

There are currently two main theories explaining the Hummer's decline in popularity. The first comes down to money. The H1's basic model has a price tag of $140,000, which, in case you were wondering, is more than you paid for your house. Add in the fact that Hummers average less than 10 miles to the gallon, and that gas prices have surpassed the $3/gallon mark in most parts of the country, and it's understandable that people are starting to look for alternate ways of showing the world just how big their testicles aren't.

Here's the funny part: if this theory is true, then we have George Bush to thank. We never would have been able to break the $3/gallon mark without him! And here we thought his only contributions were leading America into a war under false pretenses, creating a culture of fear in order to manipulate popular opinion and teaching children everywhere the wrong way to say "nuclear."

The second theory explaining the declining popularity of Hummers is that Americans are finally starting to realize that driving a Hummer makes you how can I put this delicately? a turd.

If this is the case, then clearly there is only one group of people to thank: Team Last Call.
Youre welcome.

For years, we here at Team Last Call have been active members in the fight against Hummers and the people who drive them (turds), as well as the fight against the music of Nickelback and the fight against people not having sex with Team Last Call. But mostly in the fight against Hummers.

We took it on as our personal mission to educate our readers about Hummers. It has been our goal to deliver the facts in a fair and balanced way, so that our readers can make their own informed decisions as to whether or not people who drive Hummers carry the mark of Satan. It would do no good for us to just cram rhetoric down our readers' throats; we find it's much better to arm the people with facts and then let them judge for themselves if people who drive Hummers are trying to compensate for certain shortcomings, by which we mean teeny, tiny genitalia. It's like that old saying: give a man a fish, and he eats for a day; teach a man to fish, and people who drive Hummers are impotent.

Granted, it doesn't take a genius to recognize that Hummers are morally reprehensible; their size alone makes them the most obvious symbol of over-consumption, wastefulness and selfishness (and tiny genitalia) in American culture. Team Last Call is not the first to notice this, and we're certainly not alone in our disdain for these five-ton ass-mobiles. (Check out the website FUH2.com, where thousands of people have posted photos of themselves giving Hummers the one-finger salute. It's kind of glorious.)

And now, at long last, the giant has fallen. Again, you're welcome.

Does this mean the crisis is over? No, I'm afraid not. While we've managed to kill off the Hummer, its evil spawn the smaller but no less offensive H2 and H3 continue on.

It's kind of like one of those horror movie series where the original monster is dead, so you think you're safe, and then BAM! Out of nowhere you learn that the monster somehow found time between all of its maiming and killing to make some sweet, sweet monster love, and now its son is picking up exactly where its father left off. After "Dracula" there was "Son of Dracula." After "Frankenstein" there was "Son of Frankenstein." After "George H. W. Bush" there was well, you know.

It's a similar story with the H2 and H3. They may not be as obviously craptastic as the original Hummer, but they're just as evil in their own special way. General Motors isn't fooling anybody, and neither are the people who buy these things. Just because the vehicles are slightly smaller doesn't make you any less of a turd for driving one. It's like going out in your backyard and trying to dig just half a hole; no matter how you look at it, its still a hole. A-hole.

The way I figure it, if you're going to be a turd, then be a turd. Don't be half a turd. Don't be a card-carrying member of the turd union and then try to hide it. Be a turd with pride. That way, the rest of us can be more certain about whose house we should be egging.

Today, readers, we celebrate. But tomorrow we continue the fight. We must persevere against all opposition, including the incoherent letters we'll be receiving from Hummer drivers after this column is published. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a meeting in the Moon Room. Has anyone seen my Darth helmet?

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June 2006 – Team Last Call Versus The Spiderdoodle

Posted by Jeff on 6/01/2006 12:00:00 AM
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I really hate spiders. I hate them more than I hate anything else on the planet, with the possible exception of Nickelback's music, recipes with eggplant in them, racism, the phrase "freedom fries," Bill O'Reilly, backwards baseball hats, the words "ointment" and "slacks," Hummers, people who drive Hummers, people who make Hummers, people who sell Hummers and people who fail to flip off a Hummer when they see one on the highway. But right after all that stuff, I hate spiders the most.

I mean, I hate spiders. And when I say "hate," I mean I'd rather pierce my tongue with a telephone pole than touch a spider. Which brings us to today's story.

A few weeks ago, during one of the first few warm days of spring, I was leaving the house for work when I spotted on the roof of my car what I could only assume was a poodle that had somehow been turned inside-out.

Upon closer inspection, however, I discovered that it wasn't an inside-out poodle at all. It wasn't even a right-side-out poodle. It was, in fact, the biggest, ugliest spider in the history of planet earth.

This caused a real predicament. I worked too far away to walk, but there was just no way I was going to get within 10 feet of the Spiderpoodle. So I did the only thing I knew to do. I ran back into my house, called in sick to work and hid in bed for the rest of the day.

I used to feel ashamed about my little phobia. But after doing some research on the internet, or as I like to call it, the Truthnet, I now realize that there are plenty of other men out there who are just as afraid of spiders as I am. Like Justin Timberlake, for example. And Andre Agassi.

And Robert Redford.*

I also learned on the Truthnet that Mark Wahlberg has a third nipple. Just so you know.

I had an astronomy teacher in high school who once tried to convince me that most adults are afraid of spiders because they were abducted by aliens as children. Here's what happens: the aliens who apparently have long, spider-like arms and legs kidnap little children and perform terrifying experiments on them, which may or may not explain how Bill O'Reilly turned out the way he did.

Afterwards, the aliens zap the children's brains and erase all memory of the abduction. However, the sight of spiders often awakens the terror locked in their subconscious. Makes sense, doesn't it?

No, of course not. It's crazy, which is why that teacher is in jail now. For real.

On the Team Last Call Scale of Craziness, it comes in somewhere between the swan dress that Björk wore to the Oscars and the episode of "Oprah" when Tom Cruise jumped the couch.

Did you see that episode? Oh, wait. That's right. You were probably busy working. Well, those of us who surf the internet and eat Krispy Kremes for a living witnessed Cruise jumping up on a couch, pumping his fists in the air and dancing about in front of poor, startled Oprah while declaring his undying love for his child-bride, Katie Holmes. Cruise worked himself into such a frenzy that the phrase "jumping the couch" is now used as a slang term for "losing your marbles." It's even an official entry in the Urban Dictionary (www.urbandictionary.com).

"Jump the couch A defining moment when you know someone has gone off the deep end. Inspired by Tom Cruise's recent behavior on 'Oprah.'"

Sample sentence: "When I saw the spiderpoodle in my car, I totally jumped the couch. I also jumped the mailbox and the rhododendron and didn't stop until I was in bed with three locks on the door and a fully charged Supersoaker by my side."

I discovered the whole "jump the couch" phenomenon while I was scouring the Truthnet to see if the whole fear-of-spiders theory holds up. How I ended up watching clips of Tom Cruise on "Oprah" is something for me to know and for you to not tell my boss about.

Heres the kicker: Apparently, the alien abduction story checks out (aliensthetruth.com). Many people who were abducted by aliens now claim to have a terrible fear of spiders. Therefore, by applying some simply logic, we can conclude that anyone who is afraid of spiders has been abducted by aliens.

The Truthnet also says that abduction victims sometimes get nosebleeds. Here's the thing I sometimes get nosebleeds. I mean, not often, but I get them.

I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that I've been abducted by aliens. On one hand, this explains a lot about my life. On the other hand, it's sort of a disturbing thing to realize, especially right in front of about 42,000 readers, most of whom are on the toilet.
I'd better go get this all sorted out. Until next month, live long and prosper.

* While Robert Redford isn't technically afraid of spiders, he is playing the voice of Ike, the arachnophobic horse, in the new version of "Charlotte's Web" (www.rottentomatoes.com). Which is good enough for me.

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May 2006 - Team Last Call Takes A Victory Lap

Posted by Jeff on 5/01/2006 11:59:00 PM
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This month, Team Last Call completes its fourth year as the World's Funniest Columnist, as voted by our mommy.

Over the past four years, Team Last Call has become something of a local celebrity. People are always coming up to us in restaurants and asking us things like, "How do you manage to be so funny all of the time?" and "Doesnt it ever get tiring being such a comedic genius?" and "Which is worse, being 29 and balding, or being 29 and still not able to grow a full beard?"

The answer is C) being 29 and still thinking that flatulence is funny.

You see, we here at Team Last Call have a little problem with maturity. We're basically like a gigantic toddler with a receding hairline. Which is the long way of saying we're like Fred Durst, except without the homemade porn films.

At times, our immaturity can be disheartening. But we know we're not alone. After all, you're the one sitting here voluntarily reading a column destined to be filled with fart jokes, so it looks like we're in this together. Toot!

Which brings us to our point: Team Last Call's immaturity is actually the secret behind all of our success. By "success," we're referring to the millions of readers we've earned over the past four years. And by "millions of readers," we mean our mom. Thanks, mom.

But for real, it makes us feel a lot better to know that you're out there, that we're not the only ones around here whose idea of a good time is a room full of friends, a can of beans and a lighter. And possibly an extinguisher.

Our four-year anniversary is a very momentous occasion for us here at Team Last Call. We're proud of what we've accomplished during our tenure here. We're an example of the American Dream in action. Our career is a victory for the little guy. We know what you're thinking: "Team Last Call's career is a victory for Ryan Seacrest?" Yes, but not just Ryan Seacrest. It's a victory for all tiny TV show hosts, including Sylvester Stallone (host of "The Contender"), who, Team Last Call recently learned, is rumored to be as short as 5-foot-7.

We also read that rapper Ja Rule is just 5-foot-6 (he's just a little thug!), Madonna is 5-foot-4 and Prince measures in at a teeny-tiny 5-foot-2. We discovered all of this priceless info on www.shortsupport.org, which is an actual online resource designed to "provide inspiration to short people to help better their lives and attitudes." Heh. Heh heh. Ha ha. Hahahahahahahahaha!

See, as respected heavyweights in the field of journalism, we here at Team Last Call consider it our duty to stay well informed on topics such as current events, politics and, most importantly, Lindsey Lohan. As part of our unswerving commitment to you, the Last Call reader, we literally spend hours of our time each day researching these topics (especially Lindsey Lohan) on such valuable resources as the E! Channel and People magazine. Sometimes our research involves napping.

But when you're looking for factual facts such as the kind we use in our columns, there is only one resource you can really trust: the internet, or as we like to call it, the Truthnet.

The Truthnet is where we stumbled upon www.shortsupport.org (no pun intended). It's also where we visit sites like www.weirdpicturearchive.com, which features such eye-opening photos as a mouse with a human ear growing out of its back and a dude who can stick his finger up his nose and poke it out through his eye socket. Oh, by the way, skip this paragraph if you just ate.

The Truthnet is also home to such classic sites as samugliestdog.typepad.com, the online home of the ugliest dog to ever walk the planet. And don't forget about www.selfnutpunch.com/enter.html, a site devoted entirely to videos of young men smacking themselves as hard as they can right in the how-do-you-do.

I guess what Team Last Call is trying to say is that the secret to our staggering success thus far has been the combination of our immaturity (Toot!) and our hopeless addiction to the Truthnet specifically to ebaumsworld.com, where this morning we saw a video clip of a man squirting milk out of his eyeball.

Being a famous columnist can sometimes be a thankless job. Each article requires countless hours of painstaking research, during which we consume as many as two boxes of Krispy Kremes. But when the going gets tough, we ask ourselves where the world would be without our monthly dose of witticism. We picture a world without fart jokes, a world where no one is brave enough to call out Hummer owners for the obnoxious turds they are, a world where people float through life without ever suspecting that Rocky is practically a midget. And to that world, we boldly say, "No, thank you!"

If you're an adult who's obsessed with flatulence and has high-speed internet access at work, then you too could be a famous columnist. Not only can you exercise your creativity but if you market it properly you could be raking in literally tens of dollars each month! It worked for us, and it could work for you! Just send $10 (check or money order) to Team Last Call, c/o Fly Magazine, 22 East McGovern Avenue, Lancaster, PA 17602, and we'll get you started with our no-risk beginner's kit, including a pen, a notepad and a Team Last Call figurine, complete with receding hairline and a lifelike potbelly. Toot!

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April 2006 – Mom Gets Equal Time

Posted by Jeff on 4/01/2006 11:58:00 PM
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In early March, we here at Team Last Call found ourselves in a real bind.

See, Team Last Call's band was getting ready to head out on the road to unleash devastating amounts of rock and roll on the unsuspecting nation. The problem was, we ran out of time to write our Last Call column.

But who was there to help us out in our time of need? Our mommy.

Team Last Call can always count on our mommy. She's caring, intelligent and lots of fun. Granted, she's a little misguided when it comes to politics in fact, she's a staunch Republican but we're not about to sit here and make jokes about it. Because senility is no laughing matter.

So without any further ado, here is Team Last Call's mommy:


Hi. Jeff's mom, here. No, no, don't get up. I'm sure there are many people who are more famous. Like don't press me here, Bucko. I'll think of some later.

It is a little known fact that being funny is genetic. I am living proof, as I got it from my son. But do I get my own column? Noooooooooo. And why is that, you ask? It is because we Republicans never get equal press. Unless you watch FOX, which would be appropriate, because I am, after all, a fox.

>Now, I know Jeff better than any of you. I was even there when he was born. He came out looking like all babies do, rather like Hillary Clinton. That is to say, obviously, a small chest, large chunky thighs and the attitude that the world revolves around you. There is a difference, however. A baby's diaper is a smaller size.

It could have been worse. He could have looked like Bill Clinton, with a nose large enough for its own zip code. Plus, we would have had to separate him from all the girl babies within cooing distance. But enough low blows. Oops.

Well, we took Hillary, I mean Jeff, home. Immediately, he started to do these annoying things that I'm sure other babies don't do. Like make noise. He was already showing signs of being a Democrat, as he would make a lot of noise without really ever saying anything. I should have known.

His repertoire was rather limited. President Poopypants would eat, pee, poop, re-eat, re-pee, re-poop. The good thing was, his talent for producing so much of poop quality was good practice to be a Democrap (typo).

But no, I didn't catch on. I fed his little idiosyncrasies, like his continuous demand for the breast. But enough about Bill.

Then things worsened. He played constantly with his "Welfare Can Be Fun" video game. His favorite movie was "The Horrors of Al Frankenstein." His favorite book was "Nancy Pelosi And Other Tales From The Crypt."

Sometimes he would stiffen up like an Al Gore doll; his eyes would roll back and he would coo stuff like, "Pick me, pick me!" I personally thought it was rather unflattering and made him sound like a booger. Jeff also started playing his guitar rattles. This, I have to admit, was appropriate, since being a rock star makes you an expert in politics.

Before long, he was holding press conferences and doing weird things like Jesse Jackson impersonations. He was telling the whole world how other families are better than ours and how his family leaders needed to be replaced. Maybe it was the starched diapers. We held family elections, but our relatives in Broward County, Florida, couldn't get the hang of the ballots. Seems they required a third-grade education.

So, as fate would have it, he eventually became a Democrat. Which also comes back to genetics. He couldn't help it. I think his great-great-great grandfather was a mass murderer or something. Every family deals with this at some point.

Do I sound bitter? Nosireebob. It could have been much worse. I could have been the mother of, say, Teddy "Chappaquiddick" Kennedy. Or John "The Traitor" Kerry. Fortunately, our last name begins with "R," so we skipped that whole "last name begins with 'K'" curse thing. That's where that old adage originated: "Feed a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Name him something starting with 'K,' and he will never develop morals." Don't blame me. I didn't make it up.

If you are reading this, it probably means I have gone to the great White House in the sky. Jeff is now feeling guilty, and is hoping to make up for his misguided politics by printing this article.

We here at Team Mom will admit to copying Jeff's style. And his ideas. OK, and his lines. But we are not too worried about him suing, as he knows we could cut him out of the will. He would miss out on the $35 and the George Bush calendars.

Before you get the wrong idea, I love Jeff more than life even more than chocolate. We get along even better than Harry Belafonte and Hugo Chavez. He is the best son in the world. This is true, even though for Christmas he bought me Teresa Heinz Kerry's book, "I'm Rich & You're Not. Loser. Hiccup."

But how did Jeff become one of "them?" I have no idea. It couldn't have been the dresses, because he gave them up years ago. Maybe it was the constant constipation, which cut off the blood supply to the brain. But my best guess is that he just wasn't paying attention during our discussions on family vacations. In our Hummer.

Hugs and kisses,

Mom

P.S. Don't be writing me any protest letters, or you will be grounded for your natural lifetime. Or till John Edwards is smart. OK, I'm being redundant.

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March 2006 - A Load Of Blarney

Posted by Jeff on 3/01/2006 11:55:00 PM
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St. Patrick's Day is just around the corner, that special time of year when we all take a moment out of our schedules to celebrate the conversion of the pagans in fifth-century Ireland. By which I mean throw up green beer in the back of our friend's car.

St. Patrick's Day is celebrated in more countries around the world than any other holiday, which Team Last Call knows is true because we read it on the internet. We also read that Hurricane Katrina was caused by a Russian-made electromagnetic generator that the Japanese mafia used in order to avenge itself for the Hiroshima bomb attack (www.weatherwars.info). Just so you know.

Considering that St. Patrick's Day is the single most popular holiday on planet earth (as we recently learned), it's amazing to think about how little we Americans actually know about the "reason for the season." With every other major holiday, you at least have a vague idea about what you're throwing up about. We know that Thanksgiving, for example, is held to commemorate the day the pilgrims invented cranberry sauce, after which they invited all of the Indians over to their house to feast and trade goods. After which they killed them. Then there's Easter, named after Easter Island, which is where Jesus discovered a rare breed of rabbit that lays plastic eggs filled with M&Ms. And Christmas, which of course is Santa's birthday. And don't forget Election Day, that special time when we Americans celebrate the fact that we live in the most hated country in the world by re-electing the man who made us that way. Hooray!

But the story behind St. Patrick's Day remains a mystery. St. Patrick himself is quite the elusive character. You're about as likely to find a believable account of his life as you are to find someone at a Larry The Cable Guy concert who's still got all of his original teeth. According to the internet (or as Team Last Call likes to call it, the Truthnet), most of what we do know about St. Patrick is highly questionable anyway – including the assumption that he was Irish. He was actually born in England in the year 385. Or in Scotland in 373, or in Wales in 402, depending on which Truthnet site you're reading. One site (www.stpatsmadison.org) also states that St. Patrick invented the monkey wrench and introduced the world to calculus. If we hadn't found it on the Truthnet, we never would have believed it.

Incidentally, while we were conducting our research – by which we mean when our interns were conducting their research – Team Last Call also stumbled across a rather disturbing news report about how space aliens are using e-mail pornography to seduce Earth women, a practice that astrophysicist Dr. Paul Winterhoof says is just the first step in what is actually a massive conspiracy to mate humans and extraterrestrials (www.weeklyworldnews.com). We just sort of felt a responsibility to share that with you. That's just the kind of people Team Last Call is made of. The kind that ends a sentence with a preposition.

While St. Patrick accomplished a great many things during his time in Ireland (or Scotland, or India, depending on which Truthnet site you're reading), he is most celebrated for driving all of the snakes out of Ireland, a feat that would be even more impressive had there ever been any snakes in Ireland to begin with. Not that we're trying to discredit St. Patrick. Team Last Call is as pro-St. Patrick as the next guy. We're just saying that taking credit for driving the snakes out of Ireland is like taking credit for driving all of the three-toed, double-jointed, fire-breathing half-dragon-half-gorillas out of Pennsylvania. Because according to the Truthnet, those never got any farther west than New Jersey.

Some scholars theorize that the "driving the snakes out of Ireland" thing is an allegory that church leaders developed to illustrate the success St. Patrick had in converting pagans into believers. Which is something that's hard to joke about, so we'll just leave it alone. But what we will joke about is how a holiday honoring a religious saint has evolved into a day when people put on green plastic hats, drink themselves into oblivion and wake up in the neighbors' bushes with three dozen strands of Mardi Gras beads around their necks. But let's not drag the Bush twins into this.

Here's an interesting factoid: according to the Truthnet, green is actually not a very popular color in Ireland. In fact, it's considered downright unlucky (www.nationalgeographic.com). Legend has it that children who wear too much green are in danger of being kidnapped by leprechauns, who are tiny little men in tiny little suits who like to prance around under a rainbow, kind of like an Irish version of Ryan Seacrest.

Our final – and, I might add, most shocking – discovery on the Truthnet was that people in Ireland like to drink (alcoholism.about.com). A lot. Which we're thinking has something to do with their belief that tiny little prancing men will kidnap their children if they wear too much green. But we could be wrong. Anyway, as they say in Ireland, Erin go bragh! (Gaelic for "Ireland go bragh!") Have a safe and happy St. Patty's Day!

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