December 2006 – A Fair and Balanced Response

Posted by Jeff on 12/01/2006 12:08:00 AM
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Dear Jeff,

Well, you finally irritated me enough to write to a columnist in a magazine. A while back ago, I remember reading that you promised to finally drop the Hummer kick, and get off of it once and for all, what happened? Was it a short-lived, after the New Year's resolution? I happen to LOVE Hummers, and have always taken offense to your snide (self felt shortcomings on your part) remarks about them. What is your problem? Is it only that you can't afford one, or are you too tiny to crawl up into one? And now the Republican cracks ... what should we do? Put another Democrat back in office so that he can worry more about getting a b***job than worrying about the state of our world? What did you want us to do, sit back and say, "Well, that's alright, hit us again." And have us do nothing? What are we, a bunch of saps? Cripe sakes, grow up and try saying something worthwhile in your column for once. You also took my favorite holiday and managed to irritate me twice in your column this month. I will keep reading the Fly every month because I like going out to new and different places, and I read your column every month with the hope that one of these months you will wise up and grow up. How about proving me right one of these days?

"Sandra"

Dear Sandra,

Thank you for your recent letter. I enjoyed it so much that I decided to skip my afternoon tree-hugging session in order to address some of the issues you raised.

As I sat reading your letter, my tiny legs dangling from the edge of my tiny chair, I was struck by a profound thought: if I reprinted your letter in my column, I would be 237 words closer to my word count for the month. So, thanks for that.

I experienced several other epiphanies as well, little moments of insight into my own psyche that left me shaking in my booster seat. I'd like to share some of them with you now.

Perhaps the most important realization I had was that many of my snide remarks are, in fact, the result of my own crippling shortcomings. You hit the nail on the head with that one. For example, in the article you're referring to, I made a comment about "the scientific link between driving a Hummer and having extremely tiny genitalia." It's obvious to me now that my comment had less to do with the scientific fact that Hummer drivers have dinky twinkies and more to do with the fact that I am simply too small to climb up into a Hummer of my own.

I realize now that my anger was misdirected. I shouldn't have lashed out at Hummer drivers like that. I mean, it's no more their fault that I'm "vertically challenged," as my therapist likes to say, than it is that they're hung like gnats.

To make things worse, not only did I lash out at a defenseless group of people, but I also broke a promise .. a promise I made to readers like yourself when I announced that I was officially done making fun of Hummers.

I quote directly from a column I published in July of 2005:

"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."

But I just couldn't keep my big mouth shut. I had to go and make even more snippy comments about Hummer drivers, when the only thing they're guilty of is blowing $120,000 on a car that makes them look like a total jerkwad. "What's wrong with me?" I keep asking myself. "Do I really hate Hummers? Or am I just so afraid that Hummer drivers will make fun of me someday that I've launched a preemptive strike?"

Whoa, maybe I'm a Republican after all! Wouldn't that be crazy, Sandra? If I was a Republican all this time and didn't even know it? Ha ha ha ha!

But I'm afraid the awful truth, Sandra, is that I am a flip-flopper. I do one thing and then say another. Sometimes I don't even know WHAT I believe! I guess that's what makes me such a good Democrat! Ha ha ha ha!

Over the course of the past four years, I've devoted entire columns to such hot-button topics as "alien abduction," "pineapple chicken wraps" and "farting" without actually taking a stand on any of them. "What am I so afraid of?" I keep asking myself.

But thanks to your letter, I'm now starting to recognize the great responsibility that comes with my great power. When you're the author of a column as highly influential as mine, with literally tens of people depending on you each month to shape their malleable little minds on important issues, you need to have solid ideas. These people are depending on me! Me! It's irresponsible to just sit around cracking jokes all day. I need to start basing my commentary on actual facts! Otherwise, all I'm doing is spouting crazy rhetoric, like what you see on Fox News.

It's time for me to stop talking and start taking action. I'm not just going to JOKE about eating pineapple chicken wraps .. I'm going to eat one! I'm not just going to WRITE about being abducted by aliens .. I'm going to lasso their ship and climb on board whether they want me to or not! I'm not just going to JOKE about farting .. I'm going to, um, fart, I guess.

As for your request that I "grow up" and "say something worthwhile," Sandra, I will do my best to make this happen as well. I'll start by saying that I've been too tough on Republicans, and I agree that the only real way to protect America from terrorists is by killing lots of Iraqi civilians. Let God sort 'em out, right? I'll follow that up by saying that I'd like to ride to the moon in a rocketship made out of peanut butter and lollipops. I'll conclude by saying that if Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie got in a catfight, who would win?

Oops, look, I couldn't do it! That last one wasn't even a sentence! Well, Sandra, everyone has his shortcomings. Mine just happens to be the inability to say anything even remotely poignant. Look at me .. I'm like a little Bill O'Reilly!

Well, TTYL (talk to you later)! LOL!

Your BFF,

Jeff

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Dashboard Confessional interview

Posted by Jeff on 11/01/2006 12:14:00 AM
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Dashboard Confessional’s new album, Dusk and Summer, is about as celestial and expansive as a pop album can get. There are paper-thin acoustic ballads that waver quietly in the ether and fist-pumping rockers drenched in liquid harmonies that explode into the horizon. It’s the most gratifying kind of ear candy you could write and still claim art as your motive.
More importantly, it’s almost 100 percent emo-free. This is a hugely important fact for singer-songwriter Chris Carrabba, whose tattoos, pompadour and cash-money face have made him the official poster-boy for the genre since he started performing as Dashboard in 1999.
With Dusk and Summer, which debuted at number two in June, Carrabba is proving that he’s bigger than an ephemeral trend like emo – no matter how you define it. His legion of fans has transcended the sensitive teenage kid demographic and now includes lawyers, jocks, punks – and enough of them that his band has graduated to headlining places like Madison Square Garden. And you can bet that those 20,000 people will be singing every word of every line of every song at the top of their lungs.
Team Last Call tracked down Carrabba at his rehearsal space in Burbank, California, to talk about the “e” word, what it’s like to be a sex symbol and how sometimes life is so surreal you can barely get your head around it.
“If you listen closely, you can hear ‘Welcome to the Jungle,’ because we’re practicing right next to Guns n’ Roses today,” Carrabba says excitedly. “Now get your head around that!”

Team Last Call: You took a very long time to record this album. That, coupled with the fact that you dug up guys like [producer] Daniel Lanois to work with, suggests a lot of ambition. Going into it, what kind of album did you want to make?
Chris Carrabba: This one! [laughs] It maybe will be the only time in my whole career where what I really set out to do is what the end result was. That’s why I took so much time – because I knew what it was supposed to be, and things weren’t quite the way they should have been. With all the tinkering and the massive amounts of songs we’d written, I found it, and I presented it on this record. I knew what I wanted, and here it is.

TLC: There is this amazing phenomenon going on at your shows, where people are singing along every word to every song, sometimes even louder than you. What’s that experience like from your perspective up on stage?
CC: It’s really overwhelming. It’s always new. I really keep waiting for it to be like, “Oh, this again?” But it never is. It defies convention somehow, and I love that. People aren’t supposed to let themselves go like that. People are reserved by nature, but somehow we all let our guard down at these shows. We’re free – myself included. We want to sing about it. And they do, and I’m floored. I can’t believe it. I’m like, “I’m not the only one.” We’re all standing there feeling that way.

TLC: What do you think it is about a Dashboard show that lets people have that experience?
CC: God, I really don’t know. It could be the obvious thing of, well, they’re pretty good melodies, so people enjoy singing them. And the lyrics are cathartic on a lot of levels. But I don’t even think it’s that, because usually that means they’re good for private moments. Maybe it’s the attitude that we bring in, that we come in thinking, “Damn it all to hell, we’re going to let it all go.” And when we do that, maybe other people feel it. Maybe it becomes a mob mentality. But that’s like armchair quarterbacking. I really don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet. I’m a bit afraid to figure it out, because what if I ruin it?

TLC: It’s grown to the point where you’re looking out at literally thousands of kids belting words back at you that you wrote in a diary somewhere. Does it ever freak you out that it’s getting so cult-like?
CC: It’s an odd time. I remember the first time I played in New York. It was in a VFW that held about 50 people, probably. This time when we play New York, we’re going to be playing Madison Square Garden.

TLC: Right. It’s crazy!
CC: It’s mind-boggling. But at the same time, that’s the thing that I’m most proud of. Just by accident we have this vast cross-section of people that will listen to us, and really listen to us. And let’s face it, man, people love us or they hate us. We’re nobody’s second favorite band. Which could be damning.

TLC: There is this intense polarization. I think a lot of it has to do with the whole emo label and you being made into a poster-boy for it.
CC: It’s like I’m guilty of something somebody said about me, basically, because the press had decided that that was going to be the term they used for us or the angle they were going to use to write about us. I’m fine with it, because I think all music is emotional. I don’t think the term is very original, but I didn’t come up with the term. But it is polarizing, and I feel like if people don’t like us, it’s probably not because they listened to us.

TLC: Right, it’s because of their concept of you.
CC: Yeah. But I’m not much concerned with that. Life is too short.

TLC: The good news is that with the new album, the emo thing has been fading.
CC: It really has. It’s so surprising, because I thought for sure that was just going to be a fact of life. And even when people ask me about the term “emo,” it’s almost more academic. Like, “Now that it doesn’t apply to you, what do you think of it?” As if I’m a commentator or something like that. I used to be on the team, but now I’m running color for the game.

TLC: And you’re probably like, “Thank god!”
CC: Yeah! It was almost this running joke within the band, especially because I’ve been accused more than once of being pretty buttoned-up, pretty well guarded emotionally. So I think people that really know me are probably the most amused by that [label], as if I’m this guy falling all over himself to be effusive day in and day out, to share myself and my woes and my victories with the whole world. In fact, it’s not the case.

TLC: It’s not like you run to your tour bus and cry in your bunk for hours after the show or something.
CC: Not at all! I wonder if that’s people’s view of me? I’m certainly not dour, not in the least bit. So that’s what I find the most amusing. I’m not quite Robert Smith.

TLC: When you think about where you’re at now – playing Madison Square Garden, selling millions of albums, touring with bands like U2, seeingyour album debut at number two – can you really wrap your head around how big this whole thing has grown?
CC: I don’t think entirely, which may be lucky. I think I’m humble because I’m a little foolish about it. I can’t quite wrap my head about it, and it serves me well. Because if I could, my ego might get in the way or I might find the weight of it crushing, as far as expectations.
Where we debut on the charts – it’s exciting when you get the call, but I have yet to figure out what it all means. I’m lucky that that stuff hasn’t had a direct affect on my writing. We’re in trouble – I know it – if I start saying, “What kind of songs do I have to write to debut at number one?”

TLC: You’re like the first emo pinup model. How do you react to being treated like a sex symbol?
CC: Well, the truth is, Jeff, I’m very good-looking. Even if I was working as a ditch digger, I think I’d be dealing with that in my life somehow or another. [laughs]
I don’t know. It is what it is. If I didn’t play guitar, I wouldn’t be anybody’s sex symbol. It’s as simple as that. But you’re damn right I picked up guitar to get girls, so it’s working!

TLC: Do you have any way of mapping out or even guessing where you want to go next?
CC: Well, yeah. I want to challenge the convention of what I’m doing. So the convention would say that I would write a bunch of hit songs on my next record because we’re pinned for success right now. But I want to write something important, and the thing that I’m drawn to right now that feels important is a more stripped-down record. So hey, man, we may not ever be talking again, because it may be career suicide. It might be.
*Reprinted from Fly Magazine

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November 2006 - Concerning my alien abduction

Posted by Jeff on 11/01/2006 12:06:00 AM
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I recently came to the conclusion that I was once abducted by aliens.

This realization began last May while I was writing my Last Call column on arachnophobia, which you probably remember reading. What's that? Oh, you're not my mom? Then I'll give a brief recap.

I was first made aware of my abduction in high school, thanks to a certain astronomy teacher of mine. His argument was based on the fact that I suffer from a paralyzing fear of spiders, which he said was a common trait among abduction victims. It's probably worth mentioning that my teacher turned out to be a total nutjob.

He explained to me that the reason I didn't remember being abducted was because the aliens zapped my brain once they were done. This would also help to explain why I thought majoring in English would be a good idea.

But I didn't pay too much attention to my teacher's diagnosis at the time, mostly because he was arrested and jailed a few weeks later for child molestation. Which is inconvenient for me, because child molestation is really, really hard to joke about. Hopefully next time he'll have the courtesy to get arrested for something funnier, like farting nonstop during a court trial.

Which brings us to last May. While researching arachnophobia for my column, I was shocked to discover that what my teacher said all those years ago was true: Most alien abduction victims do have a fear of spiders! Therefore, by applying some simple logic, we can also conclude that most people who are afraid of spiders have been kidnapped by aliens at some point in their lives. For more on this type of logic, visit www.republicans.org.

By that point, I knew I had probably been abducted, but I needed more proof. So once again, I turned to that irrefutable fountain of facts I like to call the Truthnet.

The first irrefutable fact I learned was that, according to www.aliensthetruth.com, abduction victims often suffer from headaches. Get this .. I totally get headaches! Things were really starting to get freaky. But what really sealed the deal for me was the website www.kuro5hin.org, which reports that people who have suffered alien abductions also tend to suffer "fairy abductions and demon attacks," which is totally in line with that time I was kidnapped by Lance Bass and beaten up by Orcs.

I don't mind admitting I'm a little freaked out by the fact that I've been abducted. It's not every day you learn you've been kidnapped by little space men, paralyzed via mental telepathy and, more likely than not, anally probed. I was going to put another joke here, but I think we can all agree that the phrase ..anally probed.. is funny enough.

It was some compensation for me, however, to learn that I'm not alone in my abduction experience. You wouldn't expect this in a place as grounded in science as the Truthnet, but as it turns out, there are many, many online accounts of alien abduction. I even stumbled across a blog at www.iwasabducted.com from a guy who is being tortured by aliens right now! Each day he gives a play-by-play commentary on the various probing he's being subjected to. At least the aliens are nice enough to give him free internet access.

You might be thinking, "Oh my gosh! Maybe I've been abducted by aliens and don't even know it!"

Yes, you probably have. But the only way to know for sure is to take this quick survey.
1. Are you afraid of spiders?
2. Have you ever gotten a headache?
3. Have you ever been to a Star Trek convention?
4. Does it hurt to sit down?
5. Were you ever abducted by aliens?

If you answered yes to one or more of these questions, then I can say with certainty that you have been abducted by aliens at some point during your life. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you.

It gets worse. According to the Truthnet, once someone has been abducted, the chances of a second abduction increase dramatically. Now, I don't know about you, but I personally am not a fan of the anal probe. Or the Ford Probe, for that matter. In fact, I'm pretty much an all-around anti-probe kind of guy. So it goes without saying that I'd like to avoid additional alien abductions as much as possible.

But is a human really capable of preventing an abduction? Is there any way to defend oneself from the aliens' telepathic powers?

Yes, thanks to what might be the single most awesome invention in human history: the Thought Screen Helmet.

While the Thought Screen Helmet may appear to the untrained eye to be little more than a piece of leather with a chinstrap, it is actually a very sophisticated device. According to the website www.stopabductions.com, the helmet is capable of preventing aliens from controlling your mind by both blocking their thoughts and keeping yours safely inside your head. In fact, the site says the Thought Screen Helmet is already credited for stopping several types of aliens from abducting people in America, Australia, Canada, South Africa and the U.K. Amazing!

The website even includes step-by-step instructions for how to create your very own Thought Screen Helmet at home. Basically, all you need is a piece of leather, some anti-static flooring material called Velostat and a chinstrap, and wammo .. you've got yourself one first-rate alien mind-blocker! The Thought Screen Helmet is also a great way to pick up girls. Or at least Paris Hilton, who will be too drunk to notice your hat.

Please understand, I'm not trying to alarm anyone with this column. I'm simply trying to make sure that you, the reader, are mentally and physically prepared if, by which I mean when, you are abducted.

OK, my work is done here. Good luck out there, everyone. Nanoo, nanoo.

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October 2006 – Satanic panic

Posted by Jeff on 10/01/2006 12:03:00 AM
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We've finally reached October, which means that Halloween is drawing nigh.

Halloween is a special time of year for Team Last Call, when we not only get to use Halloween-y words like "nigh" and "thither," but we get to dress up our Jack Russell in his little cowboy outfit and tell really, really bad Halloween jokes, like this one:

Question: Why didn'.t the skeleton dance at the Halloween party?
Answer: It had no body to dance with.

And this one:
Question: Why did Dracula take cold medicine?
Answer: To stop his coffin.

And this one:
Question: How do you know if a ghost is lying?
Answer: You can see right through him.

This month, Team Last Call decided to do a little research on the history of Halloween so that you, the reader, can look smarter at parties. Now, as you know, we here at Team Last Call are sticklers for facts. As frontrunners in the field of investigative journalism, we don't rest until we're sure we've delivered the most factual facts available. That being said, we knew there was only one resource we could turn to for a story like this: the Truthnet. So thither we went.

But as it turns out, the history of Halloween is really, really boring. It's not nearly the satanic jamboree some people make it out to be. Most of the reports we read just babbled on and on about things like "Celtic traditions" and "harvest festivals" and other boring topics that should be banished behind the walls of the Renaissance Faire for all eternity.

Unlike Christmas or Independence Day, Halloween doesn't have any kind of exciting back-story .. no bombs bursting in air, no baby saviors lying in mangers. But if you look hard enough .. which we did .. it is possible to find a historian or two who link Halloween straight back to the chicken-slaughtering, broomstick-riding, pentagram-wearing pagans we all know and love. No, not Republicans. We're talking about real, live Satanists!

Now keep in mind, these are some of the same sources Team Last Call turned to in the past for such hard-hitting exposés as our profile on Mark Wahlberg's third nipple and our report on the scientific link between driving a Hummer and having extremely tiny genitalia. But you have to admit, while our sources might not be "legitimate" or even "real," they make for much more interesting reporting.

And so, like so many Fox News reporters before us, we will spare you the parts of the story that get all truthy and boring and skip right to the fun stuff. Our story of Halloween might not be the actual "truth," but it's truth-like, and that's good enough for us.

ORIGINS OF THE HOLIDAY
According to our sources, Halloween stems from an ancient Celtic festival called Samhain, which was a feast held in honor of the Lord of Death (www.wikipedia.org), during which the pagans did many appalling things such as sacrifice humans (www.jeremiahproject.com), drink their blood, eat their skin (Natural History Magazine) and vote republican (Team Last Call). (1)

So in short, what your "teachers" in your "schools" with their fancy "textbooks" would have you believe is an innocent holiday full of fun and joy and candy is really an extension of a bloody, gory, cannibalistic demon-worshipping ritual. (2)

TRICK-OR-TREATING
There are a lot of fluff stories out there concerning the origins of trick-or-treating. For example, the BBC claims it can be traced back to an old Irish custom during which peasants would go from door to door on All Hallow's Eve and ask villagers to contribute food for the next day's harvest festival.

This, of course, is total crap. What Team Last Call discovered on a very reputable website (3) is that trick-or-treating actually comes from the pagans' Halloween ritual of sacrificing virgins, which they would find by going from door to door asking villagers for the donation of their daughters. If the villagers refused, a hexagram was painted on their door in blood to indicate that the people living in the house were wicked and should be punished by the gods. In modern terms, this would be the equivalent of having a Hummer parked in your driveway. (4)

So now you know the truth. Nice try, BBC! Maybe you should change your name to CRAP. Nice!

COSTUMES
The tradition of dressing up in costumes comes from the ancient belief that, on Halloween, the disembodied spirits of all the people who died throughout the preceding year would come back in search of living bodies to possess. In order to scare away the spirits, the villagers would dress up in costumes, parade noisily around the neighborhood and recklessly destroy everything in sight, a tradition that lives on today in such American activities as "mischief night" and Operation Iraqi Freedom. (5)

JACK-O-LANTERNS
Apparently, Jack was a legendary drunkard who used to wander around Ireland. One day, Jack tricked the Devil into climbing an apple tree and then quickly carved a cross into the tree trunk, preventing the Devil from coming down. Jack made the Devil swear that he would never come after his soul, which the Devil did.

Years later when Jack died and arrived at the gates of heaven, he was turned away, presumably because he voted Republican. Desperate for a resting place, he went back to the Devil, who, true to his word, also turned Jack away. However, showing that he's not a total bad guy, the Devil tossed Jack a coal from the fire of Hell to light his way. Jack, who was eating a turnip at the time, placed the coal inside, and wammo, the first jack-o-lantern was invented.

As for the Devil, he eventually escaped the tree and went on to live a prosperous life of evil and terror until eventually he won the presidential election and tricked America into invading Iraq. (6)

The end.

(1) Other sources, by which I mean most sources, describe Samhain as a simple harvest festival.

(2) Not really

(3) Not reputable at all

(4) Also a sign of small genitalia

(5) Zinger!

(6) We still have some fact-checking to do on this one.

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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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