Disappointing News For Those Of Us Hoping The Earth Would Be Swallowed By A Giant, Swiss Black Hole

For those of us who have been anxiously wondering when scientists would finally get around to creating a black hole that would swallow our planet whole, apparently we are going to have to wait a little while longer.

In August, the Large Hadron Collider is set to open for business.  Located on the border between Switzerland and France, the LHC is an enormous atom-smasher that can best be described as a “big, giant thing.” I’m excited about the LHC for several reasons. First, of course, is the word “Hardron” which, when read quickly, looks like “Hard-on.” Awesome.

Also exciting is that the possibility that the LHC will confirm the existence of extra dimensions. A popular theory these days is superstring theory, which postulates that there are actually ten dimensions, instead of the three we find so useful. If there are seven extra dimensions, I’m hoping at least one of them is “Bubble Bath.”

Some other ideas for dimensions: “Cuddling,” “Dimension Where Twinkees Are Good For You,” and “Party at Rick James’ House in the 80’s.”  If scientists discover even one of those dimensions, I will be thrilled.

               (Photo of a black hole I took while on vacation last year)

I’ve Never Been Happier Than I Am Right At This Very Minute

This is a great minute. Honestly, of all my minutes, this one probably ranks as #1. Why? For starters, I’m sitting in an ergonomic chair that seems to have been expressly designed with my personal comfort in mind. Also, lunch was very good: chicken curry salad and borscht. You wouldn’t think those two things would go together, but they did. So that’s great. And that itchy dermatological abnormality on my fingers that’s been bothering me the last few days doesn’t seem quite as itchy as it did only a few minutes ago. Those minutes were also good, but the itchy finger definitely kept them out off my “Top Minutes of 2008” List, let alone my “All-Time Top Minutes” list. I have found that any minute in which “itchy” plays a prominent role does not stand much of a chance of making any “Best Minute” lists. Also, the radio station I’ve got on is playing “Come On, Eileen,” which is one of my favorite songs, so it’s possible that the good feelings from this minute could carry right over to the next minute, which begins very shortly.

A Blatant Attempt to Draw New Readers to My Blog By Using Popular Search Terms as They Appear in Real Time on Dogpile.com’s SearchSpy Feature

“What happens if I mix Paxil with alcohol?” I wondered to myself one day, while working on my collaborative mail art. Yes, it had been a long day in the Chesapeake Bay Area, but my Yankee custom truck cap was still fresh, my Okuma saltwater rods were still in order, and my Subaru 2.5i speed parts were ready to go.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. It was the topless Olson twins.

“Come in,” I said, gesturing towards my free full length incest movies, “Let’s wrap ourselves in the Serenity bath towel collection and have a cum party."

They giggled, and sat. Did I have any advice about treating poison ivy, they asked. “No,” I said, “but I’ve got some rainbow lightning bolt clip art that will blow your mind.”

We had a good laugh about that, then read the Bette Midler 2008 review in the Richmond Times Dispatch. Ashley wondered if she was displaying any stomach cancer symptoms but Mary Kate and I assured her that it was just her pancreas location, and that a good lymphatic cleanse would make her feel good as new.

After a heated discussion about the Season 2 winner of Tila Tequila’s “Shot of Love,” we called it a night. They left me with a quote from the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico, which went something like this, “Wide oak knotty flooring and free violent commix will never replace the Tecumseh engine diagram when it comes to hot 13 yr. old guys.” I didn’t understand what the fuck they were talking about, but they were topless, so I let it go.

As I closed the door, I took out my pineapple slicer and thought about all the free legal advice I could have given them. I watched a quick teen home-made video, put on my republic of tea t-shirt, turned off the lights, and went to sleep. That night, my dreams were filled with foot doctors in Orlando.

[NOTE: You can watch Dogpile.com's Search Spy feature here.]

Hey Doritos, Get Your Shit Together

There was a time when Doritos made one product – Nacho Cheese Doritos. This was a revolutionary chip. Even their shape was revolutionary. A triangle shaped chip? Fuck yes. Nacho Cheese flavored? Hell to the fuck yes. They came out in 1966. Nobody else was mass-marketing tortilla chips back then, let alone flavoring the shit out of them. Doritos was the Google of its time, so far superior to any other chip out there that to put it in the same snack food category as, say, Lays Potato Chips, would be an insult to the term “snack food category.”

Then they upped their game. When I was seven or eight, Doritos took it to the next level. How? By creating the “Taco Flavored Dorito.” How much did the Taco Dorito taste like an actual taco? Zero. It tasted zero much like a regular taco. Instead, it tasted better. Somehow Doritos managed to perfect the perfect food. Regular readers may or may not be aware of my fondness for all things taco related. Why? Because tacos are taco-riffic. And yet somehow the good people – nay, great people – at Doritos managed to create a taste so distinctive, it trumped even the good taste of tacos. And in doing so, they even managed to somehow made me dislike Mexicans less.

The Taco Dorito was spicier than the original Nacho Cheese Dorito, and miraculously seemed to contain more sodium than a chip that size should be able to handle. In chemistry, I remember learning about saturation and super-saturation. Somehow, perhaps using advanced 25th century magical powers of nanotechnology, the Doritos people super-saturated the Taco Dorito with delciousness. That is to say they put so much deliciousness in that product it threatened the very stability of matter itself. How did they do it? I don’t know and frankly, I don’t want to know. Even the Keebler elves never had that kind of power.

Barack Obama Is Black

“Presumptive” is a word that rolls around every four years to fill out the gawky space between presidential primary and convention/coronation. Personally, I find it to be a prissy, legalistic word. We know he’s not officially the nominee because we haven’t had the convention blah blah blah. But it’s kind of like getting on an airplane and hearing the guy flying it describe himself as the “presumptive pilot” because it hasn’t taken off yet. (On a separate note, I imagine my fictional pilot’s name to be Chuck Majors because that seems like an excellent name for a fake pilot.)

I would prefer that, instead of “presumptive,” the news media adopt the sexier word “alleged.” It’s a little more edgy with its connotations of criminal behavior, and it just sounds a lot cooler to be an “alleged nominee” versus a “presumptive nominee.”

Last night, the Democrats finally got their shit together and pushed Barack Obama over the top. He is now the alleged Democratic nominee for President of the United States. As I was watching CNN with the sound off while playing poker at three in the morning last night, I kept being reminded of Geraldine Ferraro’s ugly remark a few months ago. This is what she said:

“If Obama was a white man, he would not be in this position. And if he was a woman (of any color) he would not be in this position. He happens to be very lucky to be who he is. And the country is caught up in the concept.”

In other words, if he weren’t black, he’d be nobody.

At the time, those comments provoked the expected and deserved outrage because she appeared to be denigrating whatever accomplishments and qualifications Obama the person has, and saying instead that he is just Obama, the Negro straw man.

An Idea I Have for a Car

Have you ever been driving along in your car and thought to yourself, “How am I going to safely scratch off these scratch-off lottery tickets without stopping?” Well, I have. Many times.

Now you may think to yourself, “Hey, why does a celebrity like you need to purchase scratch-off lottery tickets in which the grand prize is less than you make for one day of work selling soda pop to Jim Gaffigan?” The answer, of course, is the publicity. Just imagine if I actually won the grand prize. The paparazzi would go papanutso! I can already imagine the photos in US Weekly:

“Lottery winner and very famous Michael Ian Black strolls through the park with a mysterious blonde on his arm.” (NOTE: the "mysterious blonde" would be a rental.)

“Scratch-off lottery player and itchy-balled comedian Michael Ian Black hams it up for the cameras at celebrity hangout Shakey’s Pizza.”

“Lucky duck Michael Ian Black prances around the streets of Hollywood with his big oversized check proclaiming him a scratch-off lottery winner while new pal Nick Lachey watches.”

All of these are great fantasy photos which any weekly tabloid would be lucky to have.

But back to my original quandary: a lot of times I’m driving along with a pile of sixty or eighty scratch-off lottery tickets to scratch off, and I have neither a free hand nor a coin with which to do so.

(Incidentally, this is also a HUGE problem every year when McDonalds has its Monopoly promotion.)

Solution: a wrong-side ridged steering wheel.

Allow me to explain. If I put serrated ridges on the backside of my steering wheel, I can scratch off the lottery ticket WHILE DRIVING THE CAR! And best of all, my hand would never have to leave the steering wheel. GPS and built-in DVD players are fine automotive accoutrements, but neither of them will help you win cash for life. This idea will.

Maybe you think, “Hey Michael Ian Black, why don’t you just scratch off your lottery tickets at the package goods store where you purchase them?” Because I don’t need every alky in my town knowing that I spend two to three hundred dollars a day on scratch-off lottery tickets. They wouldn’t understand that those tickets are an investment in my future. Instead they would just give me that look that says, “Do you know how many malt beverages I could buy with all that money?” As a matter of fact I do know, because I spend just as much on malt liquor as I do on lottery tickets. Why do I drink so much malt liquor? That should be obvious to everybody- for the street cred.

It’s possible you are now thinking to yourself, “Michael Ian Black sounds kind of skuzzy.” To that, I have no response. Especially because the place where I am usually driving to when scratching off those tickets is the dog track. When you combine the scratch-off lottery tickets, the malt liquor beverages, and the amount of time I spend at the dog track, I will readily concede that it doesn’t add up to a pretty picture.

On the other hand, maybe I could spin my somewhat debauched (but endearing) lifestyle as a Charles Bukowski kind of eccentricity. Or like a Robert Downey Jr. kind of feel good comeback story. Or maybe I can just say I’m doing research for a part - a part which, admittedly, has yet to be written.

My hope is that the patent I expect to receive for my wrong-sided ridged steering wheel will prove to be so profitable that I will be able to finally kick my scratch-off lottery ticket habit for good. Ditto for the dog track. Ditto for the malt liquor. I will replace those bad habits with better ones: healthy eating, brisk walks, and high quality opium that I will smoke from a crystal hookah.

Or maybe I will just keep doing what I’m doing because it's awesome. 

Some Advice on How to Deal With Stress

Life is so busy these days. Consequently, we all face stress. Even me. Yes, I’m a busy celebrity whose days are filled with glamour, but I find it’s important to take a little “me” time each day to do a little activity that anybody, even you, can afford. Daydreaming.

Daydreaming is like a little vacation in your brain, or “Braincation.” Bored at work? Take a five minute Braincation to the sandy beaches of Mexico’s Cozumel. Follow that up with a couple of real bottles of icy cold beer, and soon work won’t feel so boring.

Or maybe you’re a parent dealing with a couple excitable toddlers. Do yourself a favor: put the kids in front of the TV for a few minutes and take a Braincation to the top of a snowy mountain. Schuss down the slopes, taking the time to enjoy the view as you descend to the lodge below. Then open your eyes and chase down that Braincation with a steaming cup of Irish coffee or two. The kids will be a lot more manageable after that, believe me.

Here’s something I do when I’m feeling stressed by autograph seekers and hangers-on. I excuse myself to my hotel suite, sit cross-legged on the floor, and imagine myself floating in a hot air balloon over an African savannah. “Look down there, a pride of lions!” “And over there, a funny hippopotamus wallowing in the mud.” To augment this braincation, I like a bottle of very good champagne. The whole bottle. When I emerge from my hotel suite a few minutes later, I feel refreshed and ready to face the world.

It’s so important to take time for yourself throughout the day. If you find yourself short on time, you can skip the mental imagery and just go straight for the booze. If I’m being honest, that’s what I usually do. Who wants to see a fucking hippo, anyway?

Idea for a New Invention: Aluminum Foil Underpants

Think about how great it would be to have underpants that are not only lightweight, disposable, and shiny, but also could be used in a pinch to wrap up leftovers. The obvious drawback: comfort. No doubt greater minds than mine at the Reynolds Corporation are already hard at work trying to figure out how to make aluminum foil underpants comfortable, but America has a long and storied tradition of backyard tinkerers using a little elbow grease and a whole lot of good old-fashioned American ingenuity to solve seemingly insurmountable problems. The Wright Brothers did it. So can I.

One possible solution: not caring. If I could somehow convince people that the benefits of aluminum foil underpants outweigh the detriments, then maybe they I could get them to ignore the almost certain chafing and bleeding. One drawback of this solution is that I think I would almost certainly be closing off the children’s market, since I think parents put a far higher premium on their children’s comfort than they do on their own. Getting adults to ignore their own bleeding thighs would probably be a lot easier than getting them to ignore the bleeding thighs of their precious offspring. Plus, since children would probably enjoy reflective undergarments even more than adults, it just makes good business sense to figure out how to make aluminum foil underpants so soft and comfortable, even a newborn baby could wear them.

"Don't Drop the Soap"

While in the shower this morning, I accidentally dropped the soap. Whenever this happens, I am reminded of a warning given to young men throughout history when they find themselves in a situation in which they are showering with a large group of other men. Somebody will inevitably say, “Don’t drop the soap,” which is supposed to imply that if you DO drop the soap, one of your fellow bathers will rape you. It only occurred to me today what a stupid thing to say that is. If somebody is going to rape you in the shower, it seems to me they are not going to wait for you to drop the soap to do it. They will probably just go ahead and rape you. Whether you manage to hold onto the soap or not is most likely beside the point. Because that’s the nature of rape. It’s not the kind of activity where an asshole presents itself and a fellow suddenly thinks to himself, “Hey I could rape that!” Unless, perhaps, you are showering with a bunch of rapists. Then maybe a person would have that thought. But if you ARE showering with a group of rapists, then I have to believe you are either a rapist yourself or you are the kind of person who has terrible judgment. Either way, in that situation, there is a chance you are going to get raped. But as I said, NOT because you dropped the soap.

Nor do I think your dropping the soap will be interpreted as a subtle invitation to insert their wieners into your butt the way a lady dropping a handkerchief is a subtle invitation for a favored gentleman to begin courting. The only way I could see somebody making this mistake is if, when dropping the soap, you decide to retrieve it by spreading yourself spread-eagle, asshole agape. Then, perhaps, I could see a fellow bather wondering to himself, “Is he trying to send me a signal?” But it would take a pretty confident man to think to himself, “Yes, he IS sending me a signal. And the signal he is sending me is, he wants my dick up his butt. I will oblige.” I just don’t see that happening.

If you are still worried, a word of advice: if you do find yourself in a situation in which you are showering with a bunch of other gentlemen, and you drop the soap, simply retrieve it by lowering yourself to the floor with your asshole down, not out. Not only will this discourage anybody from inserting themselves into you, but I also think it’s just good manners.

This is Exactly Why I Need to Start Listening to Major Quimby

A couple of days ago, I won a SIGNIFICANT amount of money playing poker at my Los Angeles headquarters, the Commerce Casino (see “Hot Poker Sex ”). Naturally I wanted to parade around the streets waving my good fortune in everybody’s face, but my ever-present security guard, Major Quimby (pictured below) warned me that this might prove to be a safety risk, and that I should try to keep a low profile until depositing the money into one of my various Cayman Island tax shelters.

It is for precisely this sort of sound advice that I hired Major Quimby in the first place. He was trained by the highly selective Finnish Secret Police (the Policia Finlandeze), despite the fact that he is not Finnish, and really dislikes Finnish people. He served with that organization for fifteen years before a crime of passion led to his dismissal and subsequent extradition to his home country of Andorra, where I met him during a squash tournament. He has been in my employ ever since.

Quimby’s advice is always very sensible, so it is a mystery to both of us why I never seem to heed it. Last night is a perfect example.

I spent the day shuttling in and out of meetings with various important Hollywood types: reflexologists, animal psychologists, etc. After dinner and several spirited games of hearts with Quimby, he decided to retire for the evening. However I was still feeling revved from my invigorating day in Los Angeles and wanted to hit the town. Had I asked, Quimby no doubt would have accompanied me on my outing, but he has been feeling under the weather and I did not want to disturb his rest. So I grabbed thousands of dollars in cash and hit the streets alone. Bad idea.

Los Angeles is a city best suited for driving, but it was a warm night and I decided to take a leisurely stroll through some areas of the city with which I was not that familiar. I ended up in a part of town called Inglewood, which is near the airport and seems to be a little “rough around the edges.” After walking the miles it took for me to arrive in Inglewood, I was feeling flushed, and needed to cool myself. I remembered the photo I took of myself in which I used all of my hundred dollar bills to create a fan. “Ah-ha!” I thought, “Necessity really is the mother of invention.” Quickly I reached into my billfold and splayed dozens of hundred dollars into a passable fan. I immediately felt relieved, and began singing a little song about how good it felt to have all that money waving around me like a palm frond.