Nelson Said What?

There's been a lot of misinformation lately surrounding the shocking and unexpected death of the mythically empathetic humanitarian leader, Nelson Mandela. At just 115 years old, Mandela stunned the world into disbelieving grief when he suddenly passed away after only 19 recent emergency trips to the hospital. Adding to the immense weight of the sadness is of course the circus of insanity created when funeral selfies, schizophrenic interpreters and misattributed quotes began flooding the interwebs. 

Luckily I'm here to straighten it all out for you. Well, the quotes at least. I've put together a list of some of the more popular misquotes from the revolutionary philanthropist and politician, followed by his actual, verified words. Many times the quotes are so similar that at first they might not appear any different; but it can be the placement of a single word or punctuation mark that changes its entire meaning. Hopefully this will clear up any confusion.The last thing we'd ever want to do is tarnish the revered legacy of a global icon with falsities and untruths. Amen. 

Gold, Grenades and Holiday Games

Lots to catch up on folks. I'm back from Italy with not only a few kilos of Parmesan and prosciutto, but a fresh reserve of writing motivation. So here's to a winter full of nonsense and myrrh. First up is this story: 

Mi Dispiace!

I haven't written, I know. But I'm in Italy. And Italians don't really use computers yet. Their websites look like Geocities pages from 1995. They still wait in lines at shabby offices to pay utility bills. In fact, if you ask too many questions about technology or electronics, Italians may become agitated and spill Campari all over you. It's best to keep your conversations limited to cheese, politics and soccer matches - the older the better, regarding all three. 

I'll be back the week of November 18. I promise a wealth of new posts after that. That's assuming I don't get Amanda Knoxed by the world's worst polizia and have to spend a few extra years here. Does that reference even work? Is she actually innocent? It's really hard to say at this point. I thought I knew, but then I saw the Lifetime Special and now I'm not so sure. I should probably buy her book, that should clear things up. 

Arrivederci tutti! 

Sitting Down with the Guy Who Knows Philly Better Than You

Joining me this morning on the Sit Down is lifelong Philly native and self-employed window tinter, Danny "Ray-Bans" Carbonara, who claims to know the absolute best things to do and eat in Philadelphia, hands down. Danny grew up in the North Philly suburb of Jenkintown, where he says he and "his boy B-Coop" used to "raise hell and pull crazy tail."  I haven't mentioned to him yet that Bradley Cooper graduated high school when he was five, and I probably won't.  

CC: Good Morning Danny, how are you today?

The Friendship Litmus Test: Now Only $2

Plow through a decade of college in three different states and you'll amass quite a stockpile of friends. Friends in high and low places, sharing degrees in everything from physics to felonies. A deep catalog of friends to pluck from for any occasion: someone to drink with, sleep with, cry with or complain to...and even the special ones you can do all four with simultaneously. The trouble is, it's hard to figure out who exactly in your overcrowded contact list is actually a true blue friend. 


Luckily I'm here to explain it for you. Otherwise of course, you'd be lost in a sea of superficial, disingenuous, self-medicating drinkers and floaters with ulterior motives and personality disorders. Who, I believe if you looked hard enough, make up a good chunk of your address book.

Go ahead, have a quick scroll and let me know if any less than a third fall somewhere in that category. Not only would I be surprised, but I'll even send you a religious themed postcard for being so disciplined and selective with your social circles. 

The way I see it, there is only one question you need to ask yourself to determine whether someone is an actual, real friend of the highest order. 

Word on the Street: Government Shutdown

So unless you've been living under a rock....who are these people who live under rocks by the way? These people who squeezed their whole entire lives underneath a small chunk of granite in their backyard, burrowing into the ground with all of their possessions like prairie dogs just to avoid pop culture and current events? These reborn subterranean trolls who know nothing of Miley Cyrus, Breaking Bad or how awful the NY Giants are this year? I guess I don't really blame them for wanting to drop out and hide from it all, I usually try to at least once a day. I just wonder why they don't pick a more comfortable place. I've actually gotten really good at building this pretty dark, impenetrable fort in my bed with some pillows, the comforter, a little rope and a few Velcro strips. I bring my flashlight in there, sometimes my cat, and we listen to Brian Eno and read Camus' The Stranger together. Maybe I've shared too much. Ok moving on, the government is still shut down. Let's find out what people think about it. 

Why are Italians Always on Vacation?

It's not a joke. Really, why do we always seem to be taking extended breaks and vacations? In Italy, in addition to weekends, stores are closed at least one other arbitrary weekday and most even close up after lunch on Thursdays. And the whole country usually takes the entire month of August off. I mean if it wasn't for the French, we might seem  p r e t t y  lazy. 

Anyway, needless to say, I'm going on vacation tomorrow. Be back next week. In the meantime, order some nifty shirts from my unofficial store. Ci vediamo presto. 

Welcome to Earf

Ladies and gentlemen, Voyager 1 has left the solar system! For those of you who don't know what that means, shame on you. It's the first man-made object ever to leave our quaint, little galactic neighborhood in the history of time. Except if you're a Scientologist, and that already happened 75 million years ago when Xenu and his confederacy traveled to our planet in a modified DC-8 and nuked our volcanoes and imprisoned billions of souls in vacuum tubes and implanted toxic memories into their psyche. If you're not very familiar with the Church of Cruise, please have a looksee. It's the best thing you'll read this cosmological decade. The Rabbit Hole. I read on TMZ once that Travolta pays his masseuses to dress up like Xenu before he assaults them. Not sure if that's true. 

OUT OF OFFICE AUTOMATIC REPLY

I will be out of the office until Monday. Please contact my assistants, Poblano Ortiz or Florence Quach with any questions or concerns. Neither of them have phones, but you may page them numerical messages. I will also be out of the office again in late September when I trek to Providence with the Book of Eli and my minister's cape to officiate a friend's marriage. And once more in mid-November as I have been called back again to ancient Rome by papal cryptographers to help decode several unearthed texts for the Vatican. I am very busy this fall, but will continue returning to my office to post here at least once a week as promised. I assure you that. Except that I don't have an office. 

But Poblano and Florence are real, and they're very good at what they do. I pay them in millet and cover all of their mental health and water therapy sessions. It's hard to find quality help these days, and even harder convincing them to stay. Thank God for duct tape and electrical fencing. 

For the weekend, I leave you with this inspiring and delightful tale of honesty, perseverance and dedication. (Thanks to Neely, one of my loyal readers. I forget the other one's name.) Godspeed.

DOC ELLIS & THE LSD NO-NO

Word on the Street: America's Game

Holy cow! Can you believe it's actually happening? No, not the Chinese announcing plans to visit this moon this year, (although everything they do is naturally suspicious.) I'm talking about the NFL season kickoff! And what a game to get things started - a highly anticipated playoff rematch. Tonight all across the land, millions of couples will get into fights when the husband or boyfriend gets way too drunk on a weeknight and gets suddenly mad for no reason and throws a fit over something ridiculous like the batteries needing to be replaced in the remote control. Logo pint glasses will be broken, Pace Picante spilled, 911 dialed, babies crying, landlords knocking, and robed neighbors congregating on front lawns whispering and watching as sloppy buffoons are led down their driveways in Crocs, tighty-whiteys and XXXL Ravens jerseys, shouting about "suing Roger Goodell, NBC and the Goodyear Blimp" as they're stuffed into police cruisers.  

A spectacular night for America indeed!! Let's hit the streets and see what people have to say. (Oh, and Go Broncos!)

Sticker Shock: Lazy or Inept?

There's a lot of things I can't understand. Like how a compass really works. Or how to tie my shoes without using the two bows. And where certain relatives fall on the family tree outside of the core group. Once you start talking about step cousins of in-laws and half grand-nieces, I catch the glossed-over blank stare of Honey Boo Boo's mom. The gnats even circle my face. For me, even the telephone is still crazier technology than any space station or heart surgery robot that's ever been built. Our words, just bouncing around the globe instantaneously through the air and under the oceans? Wow, just wow. I can't ever seem to get anyone quite as excited about intercontinental voice transmission, but I'll keep trying. 

Recently what I can't understand involves bumper stickers. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the peculiar subculture of opinionated vehicle decorations, and often find them to be rather amusing. My favorite of all time was a shirtless ASU stoner cruising around Tempe at a dangerously slow speed in a beat-up, wood-paneled, Griswold-style station wagon packed to the gills with what appeared to be Mexican Serape blankets. On the rear window, below a rooftop antenna bent into the shape of a lightning bolt was a lone, faded sticker that stated simply: "I have no idea what I'm doing out of bed." I gave him a thumbs up as I drove by, but obviously he didn't notice it. 

What's driving me crazy is not the stickers, but the people who apply them to their cars so sloppily, with seemingly no effort at all to align them correctly. For the love of all things GMO-free, how the hell could you not take the time to make sure it's straight before you just drive off with your new important message to the world right in everybody's face? I'd love to be the type of person who doesn't care about these things because truthfully, the way it disturbs me is often overwhelming. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to vigorously shake some of these people like a Dominican nanny. 

Ask Ke$ha! {vol.2}

*Editor's Note: This column was late this week because Ke$ha did not submit it in time. Her tour manager, Nino Salmonni claims that her bus had mechanical problems just outside of Fresno. Sources close to Insane Italian however, reported witnessing the pop rap sensation being led away in handcuffs after defecating in a McDonald's Playland in Surprise, Arizona early yesterday morning. 

Dear Ke$ha, 

Recently, both of my parents and all three of my siblings lost their lives in a terrible freak accident in Vail, Colorado. There was a malfunction in the heating system of the mountain cabin they were renting and while they slept, all of them succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning. The reason I was not on that trip was because I had VIP seats to your show at Musikfest in Bethlehem, PA. As devastated as I am, I feel that it was the love of your amazing music that literally kept me alive today and I want to thank you for that. I know that it will also be what gets me through the long dark days ahead of me for the rest of my life.  

Tess Schoonover, Alquippa, PA



I'm so sorry to hear about your family Tess. Sometimes when I'm sad I make my assistant put on the penis outfit and bounce around my house. I’m not a party girl in the ‘vagina hanging out of my skirt’ kind of way. I like getting drunk and partying but not in a gross way, I’m more like a pimp. More like a dance commander. 

-Ke$ha ♥♥♥♥♥

HOT JOB: Debt Collector

Overview

• Track down debtors using the internet, telephone and mail system. Negotiate settlements and payment arrangements. 

Primary Duties

• Call people at weird times with stupid numbers from ridiculous states.  

• When they answer, remain silent for several seconds before loudly mispronouncing their names.

• Be comfortable asking a grown man in Philadelphia about what he plans to do about a $17.50 unpaid balance from a 1994 water bill in Phoenix.

• Keep your composure when the man informs you he intends to fill an empty Maglight with 70 quarters and briskly insert the cold, rugged, anodized aluminum device into your wife's large intestine.  

Sitting Down with Racist, Conspiracy Theorist Limo Driver, Marvin Glasscock

CC: Joining me this morning on the Sit Down is actually my Philly limo driver taking me to the airport, Marvin Glasscock. Marv how are ya? 

Marvin: Hey I'm alive and my penis still works, so it's a DAMN good day, HAHAHAHA yaknowwhatimsayin?!! Where you headed? 

Fact + Bonus Fact: New Jersey

Jersey has always held a special place in my heart. As home to the airport I flew from while growing up, its partially responsible for my childhood love of aviation. Its 100 plus miles of sandy coastline is often where my merry band of misfit friends would recreate, typically preferring them to the tampon and syringe-seasoned beaches of our beleaguered home base, Staten Island. I had a high school crush in the Garden State who I would sneak out in the middle of the night to see, carelessly speeding across bridges and through tunnels in various states of inebriation - risking life and limb, all in the name of fleeting teenage infatuation. Fond memories, intricate and well preserved like ships in a bottle. 

New Jersey however has another side to its resume. A darker, more insidious list of traits. Like the fact that it often smells like dead hookers. And if you miss your turn, you have to drive another 30 miles past 300 RadioShacks, Dunkin Donuts and Bed Bath and Beyond-anchored strip malls to turn around. Or that the sports fans of Jersey can't seem to decide if they like the neighboring Eagles, Giants, Jets, Phillies, Yankees or Mets but all miraculously agree on one thing: being a giant pain in the ass. 

IMPORTANT ALERT

Due to the situation in Sudan and also escalating tensions at the Great Wall Chinese Buffet in Kankakee, Illinois, today's usual Thursday post will not be seen. It will however be available for viewing in its entirety by Saturday. We apologize for the inconvenience and hope that given the circumstances you can understand. Our hearts and prayers go out to everyone affected by the North African genocide and also the credit card machine malfunction at the Whistling Meadow Shopping Plaza. 

Word on the Street: Christmas in July

There aren't many celebrations in life that annoy me. I generally consider most holidays, weddings, toppled governments, quadrennial sporting tournaments and obscure astronomical phenomena as all reasonable excuses to tip back a dozen pints and skip through the streets howling Billy Joel choruses. In some circles this is dubbed "alcoholism", while we the enlightened know it simply as "good times."

Christmas in July however is one of the few that get under my skin and transmit pathogenic trypanosomes like a tsetse fly. And I mean that literally. Bars participating in the out-of-place festivities by decorating everything in cheap lights and shitty tinsel bring on anemia, joint pains, and various cardiac, endocrine and kidney dysfunctions. If I see people in the hot sun running relay races, rowing boats or pub crawling in Santa suits, I develop exuberant ulcerated lesions on my tongue and eyeballs. And if God forbid I hear Christmas muzak in a department store while shopping for BBQ tools, the parasite then invades my central nervous system and enters its final neurological phase, leaving me helplessly stranded in a convulsing heap of confusion, tremor, hemiparesis and psychotic delirium. 

Bad Ideas: Keeping Regret in Business For Over 200,000 Years

Today I will be debuting a new monthly feature called Bad Ideas. The concept is fairly simple. Just a list of ideas that are bad, and will likely lead you down that garden path straight to the intersection of grief and woe. Attempting to enact them is strongly discouraged by both me and the entire staff here at Insane Italian. 

Shuffling Off to Buffalo

This week I'm headed up to a part of NY state I like to call 'Not Really New York.' Buffalo to be exact. The Nickel City; The City of Good Neighbors; even The City of No Illusions for some obscure reason. To be fair, I really like the town. And it's where my wife's family lives and where we're having our wedding reception on Saturday, just about six months after the ceremony. Good times are best enjoyed after a nice, long simmer.

Bath Salt Buffoonery: Dispatches from the Sunshine State

To the delight and perhaps dismay of all my old Facebook friends, my favorite daily hobby used to be gathering, posting and opining on ridiculous headlines from around the world. I must admit, as an ex-Facebooker, I do miss not having that forum to spread the gospel of odd news. And that's why I have this site. Here I can do whatever I want. There aren't any laws on the internet. None. I know that's true because my friend Colt from Lancaster, who I ride the bus with everyday told me that. Don't believe me? I'll prove it. Here's a batch of highly classified, covert intelligence whose mere possession alone would violate multiple federal statutes.  

A Daydream on Elm Street

Like most people who live in the middle of a major city, I suffer through the often exhausting love-hate relationship with it. Philly is a great town, occasionally even a spectacular one. Spring and summer weekends are awash with festivals, farmer's markets, outdoor concerts and movie screenings. Al-fresco dining along tree-lined streets and colorful parks, green enough to be from Oregon, can be found in every neighborhood. It's a truly vibrant place, alive with a life energy in the air strong enough to taste. 

Just when you've snuggled up nice and close to it though, supremely confident that your assured embrace will continue endorsing your peace of mind, Philly will paw swipe at you unexpectedly like a feral cat buried in a pile of goose down pillows. Whether it's an afternoon shooting in front of your favorite bar, an early morning serial strangler who strikes from behind, or a teenage flash mob flooding a commercial street with fists-a-flying, the City of Brotherly Love will routinely remind you she loathes living up to that name.    

Word on the Street: Government Surveillance

In the wake of Eric Snowden's leaks of classified intelligence and the ensuing Falcon & the Snowman-style espionage circus unfolding around the globe, I thought it would be a great time to hit the streets and find out what everyday Americans thought about big brother spying on its own citizens. 

Sitting Down With Jersey Shore Juice Bar Employee, Breeana Norton

CC: Joining me this afternoon for the Sit Down is high school senior, Jersey native and assistant manager of Surf Blendz Juice & Smoothies in Sea Isle City, Breeana Norton. Hey Breeana, how are you doing?

Bree: Pretty good. I spell my name with a Y, two N's and an H by the way. 

CC: Well we're not going to do that today Bree, because that's retarded. What we will do is figure out what happened when I came in to have lunch yesterday.  

Bree: Um okay, I don't think I remember you. Were you the guy who was all like 'RRAHH RHARR! Where's my friggin blueberry boost?!?' all red and sweating and everything? No, wait, that was my boyfriend. Who are you again?

Summer in the City

Sea Isle City that is. It's where I'm headed for the week. For those of you who don't know, Sea Isle City is a tiny little speck of a shore town in Cape May County, New Jersey. It's inhabited mostly by families with young children and shiny guidos with hairless, sculpted muscles. My mission for the week is simple: eat crab, drink rum, pretend to be 20 years younger. My wife's mission is similar, but much more difficult. She'll be eating oysters, drinking sangria and searching deep inside her soul for what it was that initially attracted her to the sunburned albino walrus with a hairy chest who just tore his Achilles tendon trying to dive over a child's sandcastle to catch a frisbee.  

HOT JOB: Philly Sidewalk Activist

Overview

• Inform the public about political efforts, charitable causes and social injustices. Solicit donations, support and volunteers whenever possible. 

Primary Duties

• Stand within inches of illegally blocking the entrance of Whole Foods and attempt to make contact with every human being walking by, regardless of their defensive body language and obvious disdain for your presence. 

• Begin every intercept with a carefully crafted question or phrase designed to stir up a creamy broth of guilt, remorse and self-doubt within the target. Plant the heavy seed of encumbrance inside their soul and let it sprout its shameful pangs of conscience in their brains for the rest of the afternoon.  

          "Do you have a minute to save a baby from being raped?"

          "Do you care about anyone who has cancer?" 

          "If you don't stop, a gay teenager might be beaten with a coal shovel." 

          These are some great opening examples. Of course, adding your own personal touches       
          is always encouraged. 

Procrastination: A Haiku. I'll Finish it Later

I've been very busy lately avoiding responsibility and keeping up with important tasks such as writing ridiculous things here for all of you to enjoy. Please be patient, because I'll be posting a bunch of new stuff very soon. But in the meantime, I feel like I owe you an explanation. 

There are several factors currently slowing down my progress and I've been working feverishly to minimize them. Unfortunately due to my dysfunctional upbringing, I am largely incapable of regulating, managing or moderating anything, and so these distractions will probably just have to run their natural course. 

Five Things a Philly Cab Driver Will NOT Do

Taxi drivers are always high up on the list of things people complain about in their cities. Traffic is another. Even your moron friend from Thermopolis, Wyoming will shamelessly put his bumper-to-bumper 'nightmare' commute to Casper on the Yellowstone Highway just outside of Boysen Reservoir up against your I-95 fuck jam any day. "George Washington Breedge ain't nothin compared to the Route 20 Interchange in Shoshoni on a Fry-dee"

HOT JOB: Philly DMV Clerk

A new thing I'll be doing now (as a favor to all of you who have so little to do that you're actually reading this), is posting active job listings I find from all around the interwebs. 

Mainly these opportunities will center around Philly because I want to help my fellow, underemployed peeps in the Cradle of Liberty realize their full potential. But I'll also scope out a few left coast and midriff region gigs for the rest of my displaced posse across the land. You're welcome. Now read this, and then get back to work at your unsatisfying actual job.

Sitting Down With Liquor Store Thief & Unlicensed Pharmaceutical Salesman, Tay Tay Da'Quande

Joining me this afternoon for the Sit Down is local Philly personality and entrepreneur, Mr.Tay Tay Da'Quande. We only have a few minutes to speak with him since his picture was just broadcast on Good Day Philly this morning in connection with a brazen cognac and flavored rum robbery over Mother's Day weekend at South Street Fine Wine & Spirits. 

Tay Tay: Shit's gettin hot. PPD closing in fast. Whatchu wanna know?

CC: I understand you're in a rush Tay Tay, and I will certainly respect that. I think what most people would like to know is why you don't just pay for the alcohol with your drug sales earnings instead of stealing it every weekend from stores all over the city? 

Sitting Down with Trendy Neophyte Restaurateur & Avant-Garde Chef: Thad Paddington

I met Thad for the first time in a coffee shop below his South Philly loft. I found him draped over an antique velvet sofa wearing giant headphones, sipping home-brewed kombucha from a canteen and leafing through a Vanity Fair that was upside down. His corduroy blazer with elbow patches fit snugly over a faded tee with a necktie print. He saw me as soon as I parted the beaded curtains and walked in, but paused before removing his headphones and saying hello because as I later learned, an unreleased Atoms for Peace demo track was in its final minute.  

Ask Ke$ha!

Every once in a while I just get so excited I want to climb right up on a Mexican's shoulders and scream out the lyrics to La Cucaracha. Now is one of those times. 

I'm proud to announce that the world famous drunken trainwreck of a human being, (and pop sensation) Ke$ha, has agreed to a contribute a regular segment for Insane Italian where she will answer reader questions! She promised that no subject is off limits or taboo, and that she will always be as open and honest as possible. 

Feel free to leave your questions below in the comment section and she'll get around to them whenever she's not having blacked-out simulated sex with a champagne bottle. 

Word on the Street: Tax Refunds

If you're like me, you don't pay any taxes at all because of an obscure administrative loophole you've exploited involving an antiquated diplomatic immunity statute. If not, then you're probably expecting a few consolation dollars back from Uncle Sam after his year of rigorous, biweekly sessions spent sodomizing your paycheck. Could be a few hundred, maybe even a couple grand. The question is, how will you spend it? Let's find out what some folks have in mind. 

*If you happen to owe money this year, you can contact me privately and for a minor fee I'll teach you a simple way to re-route that debt to the accounts of disabled veterans and senior citizens with dementia. Its quick, easy and completely untraceable by anyone except the Devil. So if afterlife planning is not an issue, I highly recommend it. 

Honeymoon Alert

Alert! I am going on my honeymoon. Tomorrow. I realize that no one cares except me, and probably my wife...and perhaps the Korean doctor whose credit card I charged the whole trip to, but I still thought I should let all of you know as well. Especially since we're going to Mexico.

If you've read anything about Mexico in the last decade or so, you know they have a knack for two things: cramming into minivans and lopping off tourist's heads. A rather unusual skill set pairing, but one with rather dynamic advantages in a wide variety of situations. 

So, if you happen to hear about a puffy, furry, pasty-white bald man and his beautiful companion being kidnapped for ransom in the next week or two, please send all donations to: 

Insane Italian Abduction Payoff Fund
PO BOX 115 Kittanning, PA 16201  

Once again, thank you for all your support. And by support I mean visiting my site occasionally by accident. I can't tell you how much it means to me. And if I don't get snatched up by a cartel hunting for soft, sunburned drunkards in silk, maraca-print shirts, I'll be right back here next week with a whole new batch of fresh nonsense for your enjoyment. Adios!

Word on the Street: Marriage

So I got married last month, right here in Philadelphia. February 21 to be exact. It was quite a special day. Not only because of the elusive, personal milestone I finally reached along my life's winding path, but also because of the many notable events that took place on that very day throughout history. 

What, Me Worry?

I've been nervous about a lot of things lately. More nervous than usual, which should be impossible since I'm constantly nervous about something. I'm worried that my beautiful new IKEA plant will suddenly turn yellow and die like it always does after four months. I can't stop thinking air conditioning units will fall from the windows of tall city buildings as I stroll beneath them. I lie awake and fret about contracting MRSA from bus and subway handrails. I'm overly concerned with ingesting toxic mold from organic peanuts, hydroplaning off exit ramps and breathing in micro-organisms thriving in the mist of my humidifier. I'm not totally sure if I'm allergic to any anesthetics but whenever the dentist asks me, I always say no. Inevitably for the rest of the appointment, my mind cycles through numerous death scenarios, most of which involve my throat swelling shut as I writhe and gasp for breath under the spotlights, helplessly reclined in that awful chair while bubbly cute, ill-prepared technicians scramble around searching for life-saving equipment that doesn't exist.    

Fact + Bonus Fact: Gambling

Casinos have never been kind to me. I probably should thank the gambling god, (no, not Ko Chun from the 1989 Chinese action-comedy, God of Gamblers), but the actual entity in charge of bestowing fortune upon all of our risk-taking, tobacco-stained, buffet-feasting souls. I believe her name is Lady Luck. She hates me, and one day I shall thank her personally for not tempting my wickedly addictive personality. 

Every time I gamble, I lose. And I don't mean at the end of the day, or the vacation - but every single time. Recently I saddled up to the roulette wheel at the shiny new Revel hotel in everyone's favorite dilapidated seaside kingdom of broken dreams and unfulfilled promises: Atlantic City. I carefully placed ten, one-dollar chips on ten separate numbers. The wheel spun and of course the little silver ball of lies landed on none of them. I placed another ten on the same exact numbers and forcibly sipped my Moscow Mule through the skinny cocktail straw like an anxious pervert while I stared hard at the spinning wheel and attempted to project some kind of vaguely spiritual energy toward it through my eyeballs. (Something I learned from reading The Secret while in prison.)

Juicebox Hero

That was one of my many nicknames in college. Though its origin had little to do with portable beverage containers or bravery, it remained an accurate descriptor of mine throughout most of my sixteen semesters. Some say it was even the perfect name. Which I believe is the case with my new favorite infomercial product: Forever Lazy. I'm guessing this beast has probably been around for a while, and as usual I'm late to the party. Listen folks, I'm an old man now. I don't have the stamina or the gumption to stay on the cutting edge. I'm still using British words from the 17th century like gumption for crying out loud. Cut me some slack. 

So this thing, in case you haven't seen it, is basically a onesie for adults. Let me put that another way: its a billowing, one-piece sweatsuit for fat, American layabouts. It also comes with hindquarter zipper flaps so when chunkster aunt Barb has to shit out a loaf of casserole she doesn't have to negotiate the enormous hassle of retracting the front zipper and sliding the obesity shield down over her cankles.