The Dog Side of the Aisle

Dear Friends,

This month's Hard Taco song is called, "Bezonce." For the Goth types who prefer words in unlinkable jet black, that song, again, is "Bezonce."

In regards to both politics and pets, it's a two party system. Some folks want nothing to do with domestic pets, but the rest of us are either dog people or cat people. If you claim to be anything else, you're throwing your vote away.

I am a dog person, although I'm not as hard-core dog as I used to be. I must say, as I have aged, I've trended more towards being socially dog, but fiscally cat.  I'm not one of those crazy extremists who subscribes to Cat Fancy, but let's face it... I'm not an idealistic college kid anymore. I'm a grown man with a family and a mortgage, and I'm wise to how the world works.  I never thought I would say this, but sometimes cats offer practical solutions that dogs can't.

But you can check my record... I'm definitely still more dog-leaning. A quick Command-F query confirms that I have written 18 Hard Taco Digests that mention dogs, and only 4 that mention cats.

Doggist propaganda by P.D. Eastman

My dog-leaning roots run deep. Have you ever seen "My Book About Me," by Dr. Seuss? Basically, it's boring Mad Libs for narcissistic children. Dr. Seuss wrote stems of sentences and left blanks for kids to fill in with autobiographical information. My parents bought me an off-brand version of this book when I was six. "It's just as good as a real Dr. Seuss," they probably said. "I'm sure you won't even be able to tell the difference." I may have put up a fight about this, but I filled out the book anyway. When I went back and read it years later, I noticed a subtle theme among my responses. See if you can pick it up!

  My name is: ZACH
  I have: ONE sister(s) and NONE brother(s)
  My favorite kind of animal is: DOG
  Last night I had a dream about: A DOG AND IT WAS SCOBY DOO
  I would be surprised if I looked out my window and saw: 100 DOG IN A ROW

I still feel the same way about that last point. 100 dog outside of my window would be an unusual circumstance, regardless of their configuration. 100 dog in a row? Frankly, I would find that combination of volume and alignment to be outright shocking, even after all these year. 

REEET!
A few months after I was born, my parents got a puppy so they could call someone Abby, the girl name they had picked out for me when I was still an undeclared fetus.  Abby was a stringy black and white mutt about the size of a loaf of bread. I think she was one-quarter shih tzu, one-quarter corgi, and half kangaroo rat.

Abby the Dog, enlarged to show detail.

Poor little Abby. She went to the groomers once or twice a year, and the extreme haircut they gave her would strip any visible remnants of canine ancestry, leaving her rat-like frame shamefully exposed. The groomers delighted in compounding this humiliation by tying a massive pink ribbon around her head, which only made her look like some kind of scrap-booking accident.

Abby was most notable for her self-destructive habit of darting under our feet as we walked by. Inevitably, someone would step on her, and she would let out an endearing, high-pitched, "REEET!" 

I definitely loved that dog. I know this because I feel it, not because I remember many joyous moments with her. Tiny dogs can live forever, but that just gives them more time to be old. In most of my memories, Abby was brittle, arthritic, and exhausted.  In the last decade of her 17-year life, the black patches faded to grey and her fur-shrouded eyes sunk even deeper behind filmy cataracts. When she lost control of her bladder, we relegated her to the kitchen where her messes would be easier to wipe up.

We continued to accidentally step on her from time to time, but she rarely generated a full-blown "REEET!"  It was more like...  reet. She was acknowledging the incident, but in a detached way. The lusty indignation was gone.  

Reet. Still down here, folks.
  
My friend Jeff liked to say, "All your dog does is stand in the corner and shiver and piss." It was a fair assessment, albeit a bit mean-spirited. (* see footnote.)







My kids have been asking about getting a dog. This morning, I showed my six-year-old son the above picture of Abby, and he said, "Wow. What was it like?" He didn't want to know what Abby was like, but what it was like to be that kid with a dog. I must have given him a sentimental answer, because afterwards he said, "I think my eyes are starting to have some water in them about that story."

Lauren is allergic to dogs, so his dog ownership yearnings are going to remain unfulfilled for a while. In the meantime, he'll just have to make due with writing bizarre autobiographical dog fantasies in "My Book About Me" (or its generic equivalent.)

With warmest regards,
Zach

* Muffin, Jeff's bichon frise, eventually died of neck cancer. While this was also very sad, reminding him about it cheered me up a little (and still does, if I'm having a bad day.)

Oppositional Thumbs

The Hard Taco song for May is called, "Belt Test." Brrrringggg! Hello? Okay, bye. That was the 2070's, calling to say they want their favorite song back.

It's not easy to talk about, but I am a recovering addict. I was a fiend for the left thumb. I was one of the lucky ones who got out without braces, but not before I saw thumb-sucking tear my family apart. It started out socially, but by time I reached 1st grade, I was sucking my thumb between classes and when I was alone at night. When I woke up in the morning, incisors still aching from the prior night's binge, I would roll over and look for the nearest thumb. I told my parents I was clean, of course, but they didn't have to dust my hard palate for fingerprints to know I was lying.

It got to the point that I couldn't even remember what life was like before I started sucking. I still don't remember, actually.

After countless failed attempts, I finally got the help I needed. I'm delighted to say that on March 30th, I celebrated 28 years of complete thumb-sobriety. Thank you, I know! One day at a time, right?

Pediatricians will have you believe that babies are drawn to their own thumbs because it reminds them of nursing. That your infant's immature brain and underdeveloped tactile senses prevent her from distinguishing two objects as disparate as a thumb and a breast. This is a reassuring thought for parents, because it implies that it is not your baby's fault. She just doesn't know better.

But babies know the difference. It's a hard mouthful of colostrum to swallow, but the evidence is overwhelming.

Feel: 
The synthetic nipples used in baby bottles have a similar texture to flesh nipples, I suppose, if the latter is having a good day. I concede that a baby who hasn't had much formal education could be hoodwinked into thinking a bottle was some kind of dwarfish wet nurse. It's a little far-fetched, but a lot of kids weren't exposed to Mozart in utero, leaving them cognitively behind their peers. Those kids might now know, for instance, how big a dwarf is.

But let's be perfectly clear: thumbs do not feel like nipples. Hey kid, you know that hard smooth thing that keeps scraping your gum flaps when you bite it at the wrong angle? Pretty hard to miss, right? That's called a thumbnail, and you are not going to find anything remotely resembling that on a breast. If you ever grow up and get to be in a bridal party,  you will be treated to a mani pedi, not a mammo-pedi.

You will also notice that when you put your thumb into your mouth, the thumb feels wet. Every time you put someone's nipple in your mouth, your thumb does not feel wet. Not unless you have one of those granola mothers who birthed you underwater and forgot to take you out.

See: 
Just look at the nearest baby's thumb. I'm doing that right now, and it is longer and thinner than any nipple I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of nipples. (Either 10 or infinity, depending on whether or not I can count the nipples I see when I stand topless between two mirrors.)

Taste: 
Even if a baby's brain is not fully myelinated, I'm pretty sure it can tell the difference between the flavor of an inedible thumb and the flavor of life-sustaining milk. Not to brag, but by a few weeks of age, my own kids had already developed such cultured and discriminating tastes that they would literally vomit half of what I fed them. Not every baby has such a sophisticated palate, but even the most uncivilized preemie isn't going to confuse the taste of milk with the taste of NO milk.

So don't delude yourself into believing that your infant is sucking her thumb because she doesn't know better. She's doing it to escape, to fit in, to rebel, or maybe even to seem more grown up. You want to be her friend, but what she needs right now is parent. A parent with real nipples.

With your help, we can make this a thumb-free world.

With warmest regards,
Zach

Where, Indeed, Is My Sugar Cookie?

Dear friends,

The Hard Taco song for April is called, "Sugar Cookie." I would dissuade you from listening to this piece of music or reading another line of this memoir unless you are squarely in your third or fourth decade of life. I fear that the vulgar nature of what lies herein may have deleterious effects on the moral stability of the young and the physical stability of the old. With that admonition, I reluctantly proceed with my tale of depravity.

I will not dispute that I fancy myself to be rather an enthusiast of highbrow humor. Truthfully, I find forays into satire by a loquacious dry wit to be utterly charming. Take, for instance, this amusing folly:

"René Descartes, do you not think that Anselm's ontological argument is impeccable in comparison to your own?"

"I think not."

Descartes ceases to exist.

No need to feel contrite if this humorous quip compelled you to laugh aloud. I, too, find this breed of drollery to be quite diverting! Quite diverting, indeed.

It came as a bit of a surprise then, when I was invited to present a joke following the annual medical student roast, "The Smoker." If you are not familiar with this Smoker, I envy you, for it is only the vilest scourge to afflict our otherwise distinguished university. It is a boorish theatrical production, known for lampooning the medical school faculty with vulgar impersonations and other churlish japes that straddle the line between meager tomfoolery and abject buffoonery.

Let it be known that I do not shrink from a wry lambasting. Nay! As I have already clearly demonstrated, I am a true devotee of scintillating jocularity. I profess that this Smoker, sadly, does not fall into this category.  It is truly philistine.

Unfortunately, there is no easy recourse for those, such as myself, who are invited to participate in this base pageant of tiresome vagaries. Refusing such an invitation would serve only to incite the devilish furies of the brutes who author this production, prompting them to fabricate even more obscene and incommodious impersonations of the refusing party. This, in turn, could disparage one's good name and even jeopardize one's livelihood.

I tell you all this, dear friends, so you understand the paucity of options I had at this juncture. I had no recourse but to recite a joke that was either ribald or scatological. And while it burned me to the very bosom of my pith to do so, I created the aforementioned musical number, a companion piece if you will, which I grudgingly consented to perform that self-same night, before an audience of approximately 650 people.

I now admonish you, one last time, to read no further. While I have acquiesced to repeat the text of this profane treatise, you are by no means obligated to read it. If you must, God have mercy on both our souls.


The Sugar Cookie Joke:

So this guy has buttworms, right?

So he goes to his doctor and she pulls down his pants and says, "Yep, you've got buttworms. I want you to go home and come back tomorrow with an apple, an orange, and a sugar cookie."

So the next day, the guy comes back with those three things. The doctor pulls down his pants and bends him over. Then she takes the apple and shoves it up the guy's butt. She waits 30 seconds, then she takes the orange, and she shoves it up the guy's butt. Then she waits another 30 seconds, takes the sugar cookie, and shoves it up the guy's butt. 

"I want you to come back tomorrow," she says, "and bring an apple, an orange, and a sugar cookie."

When he does, the same thing happens. She takes the apple and shoves it up the guy's butt, waits 30 seconds, shoves the orange up the guy's butt, waits 30 seconds and shoves the sugar cookie up the guy's butt.

This goes on for seven days, and each day the same thing happens. Finally, on the seventh day, she tells him to go home, and come back the next day with an apple, an orange, and a hammer. When he comes back, she pulls down his pants, bends him over, and shoves up the apple. Then she waits 30 seconds and shoves up the orange. Then she waits 30 seconds.

Nothing happens. Another 30 seconds.

Nothing. One minute passes. Two minutes pass.

Finally, on the third minute, the buttworm pops out and says, "WHERE'S MY SUGAR COOKIE?!"

...and she hits it over the head with the hammer!

With warmest regards,
Zach

Hard Taco Digest: CAPPSSS LOCKKKK!!!!!

Dear Friends,

Volcanoes!!

That's the name of the Hard Taco song for March. It's a tale of science, jealousy, the scientific method, redemption, and testing a hypothesis.  As per usual, savvy click-makers who follow this link will be treated to a song and lyrics. As per unusual, I am also including stage directions, because you will want to act this out while singing it in the shower.

Once again:  Volcanoes!!

The first exclamation mark is there to give your weekend a little extra juice. The second is to facilitate the juicing up of your coming week, as well.

Notice that I call it an exclamation mark, not an exclamation point. Indeed, this august pillar of literary enthusiasm contains a point, but the same can be said for just about any punctuation symbol. Calling "!" an exclamation point is like referring to the Dalai Lama as "His Holiness the 14th Forearm." It only tells part of the story, and it's not even the best part.

The exclamation mark is a versatile but underutilized symbol. It can serve to indicate...

Surprise, excitement, fear or anger:
Dude!

A musical:
Oklahoma!

Surprise, excitement, fear, anger, and a musical:
Mamma Mia!

The end of every e-mailed sentence:
Andrea! I heard you got a haircut! Yay! I hope you are surviving this weather! Let's have breakfast some time! Say hi to Ben for me!

Advertising prowess:
South Side Clinic: Medicine By Homeless People, For Homeless People!

Spookiness:
Hell is throwing a cocktail party... and you're my plus one!

The beginning and end of any Spanish sentence.
¡Puedo comer vidrio y no me hace daño!

The factorial function:
6! = 720

A Eureka moment for a Mexican mathematician:
¡6! = 720!

That you are Edgar Allen Poe and you're in the middle of a sentence:
Beside the larder, oh! there was a dole-some rapping. 

That you are missundaztood:
P!nk
 
That an alien is flipping you off with both hands:
_!_ (o_o) _!_

A confused scream (when used in combination with a question mark):
Our keynote speaker is just a forearm?! What happened to the rest of the Dalai Lama?!

You are fully juiced for the next seven days:
Volcanoes!!


With warmest regards,
Zach

Ours Is Not to Reason Why

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song this month is called, "Gabillionaire." I dedicate this song to my Grandpa Arnold, who gave me my first taste of child labor.
 
Grandpa Arnold stopped working as a plumber before I was born. He spent the second half of his career as owner and operator of a small plumbing retail business, the Franklin Plumbing Supply. Every time we visited, there was a suspiciously temporary-looking sign on the stockroom door that read, "Zachary N. London, Warehouse Manager." A similar sign on the door by the desk said, "Sari R. London, Office Manager." I was pretty sure that my sister's sign stayed up, even when we weren't visiting. The warehouse manager position rotated among me and my four male cousins, but Sari was the only granddaughter, so she had the secretarial assignment locked up.

Grandpa Arnold at the warehouse door with cousin Kyle, my new assistant warehouse manager. April 1986.

"All employees," Grandpa Arnold was fond of saying, "earn a standard wage of 10 cents per hour per year of age." Year after year, the office manager somehow held on to the title of highest paid employee.

You may think that as warehouse manager, I would have more of an administrative or supervisory role, but my primary job was taking inventory of the fittings. For the benefit of those who have never managed a plumbing supply warehouse, fittings are defined as follows: small pieces of plumbing stuff. My grandpa tried to teach me the difference between galvanized and ungalvanized fittings, tee adapters, flare fittings, and hose clamps, but it was no use. I was hopelessly distracted by calculating how many more hours I would have to work to afford the most recent Xanth novel.

Had I continued my employment at the Franklin Plumbing Supply into my teens, I would have appreciated the vivid nomenclature of the trade on an entirely different level.  Gas cock. Male/female coupling. Discharge tube. O ring. Packing nut. French drain. Alas, at the age of 10, I had no appreciation for the comic or erotic value of these terms, and I just slipped deeper into a greasy blue-collar ennui. 

"Let's go over this one more time," Grandpa said. "This brass nipple has both a female end and a 6 inch male extension."

"Hmm? Oh, okay."

"Screw nuts," he added. "Black ballcock."

I earned my 10 cents per hour per year of age counting the number of fittings in each drawer.  Then I would write the tally down on a torn piece of paper and place the paper in the drawer. My piece of paper would inevitably be there when I visited the following year, but the number of fittings would have changed, so I'd have to start over. After some time, it occurred to me that Grandpa Arnold wasn't actually using my numbers for anything, and he was just trying to keep me occupied. I complained about this, and asked him why I still had to do it, but I already knew the answer.

"Ours is not to reason why. Ours is but to do or die."

You may recognize this as an erroneous quotation from The Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Tennyson. It was Grandpa Arnold's favorite poem, and his favorite answer to any why question.

Sometimes we would go on road trips in his pick-up truck to procure new stock for the shop.  "The difference between a friendly competitor and an unfriendly competitor," he would tell me, "is a 45 minute drive." These restocking trips were always long, because we couldn't give business to any unfriendly competitors. To pass the time, my grandfather would do three digit multiplication problems in his head and quiz me on what he called SAT words. I'm not sure if Grandpa Arnold ever took the SAT, but he would have aced it.

Sari's job was to answer the phone and say, "Franklin Plumbing Supply." That was the extent of her secretarial duties. Regardless of how the person on the other end of the line responded, she would let him finish, wait a couple seconds, and say, "Hang on. I'll get Arnold." 10 cents per hour per year of age meant that this routine earned her up $2 more than me every day. I had more than one tantrum about this inequity.

"It's not fair! All she does is answer the stupid phone and I have to take inventory all day and carry around PVC and move that self-rimming sink. Why is Sari laughing when I say self-rimming? And why does she get paid more?"

"Ours is not to reason why. Ours is but to do or die."

Most of his customers were other plumbers. I can't say he was friendly with them, because he wasn't exactly friendly with anyone. Still, there was a sober camaraderie among the plumbers, a brotherhood of men who had, at one time or another, stood inside a septic tank and looked out at the rest of the world.

My most vivid memory of the Franklin Plumbing Supply was the smell. Everything in that building, from the Norman Rockwell calendar to the cabinet full of carbon paper, had the same peculiar smell. It was the smell of grease, or rather the smell of greases. The smell of the soap-thickened grease from the pipe threader mixed with the smell of the thin powdery grease on all of the fixtures and fittings. Then there was the stale dry grease that seasoned the linoleum and my grandfather's fingers.

This grease blend was the smell of my childhood. Grandpa Arnold died when I was 13, and soon the Franklin Plumbing Supply was sold off to an unfriendly competitor. It has been almost 25 years, and I have not been able to recapture that smell, but I know I would recognize it instantly. 

I can imagine him walking from room to room every morning before the store opened, daubing his effects with assorted greases to maintain the perfect pH balance. And of course, he would be practicing his SAT words. The multipurpose lubricating grease is unctuous and velvety. The silicone grease is elegant, yet austere. When the two are co-infused with the house pomade, I'll have created a perfectly robust and intellectually satisfying amalgam. 

With warmest regards,
Zach

A First Look at Virgin Galactic

Dear Friends,

There is a grand tradition of Jewish people writing Christmas music. The best-selling single of all time, White Christmas, was composed by Irving Berlin, whose real name was Israel Isidor Beilin. The list goes on. Winter Wonderland, Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire, Let it Snow, Santa Baby, You're a Mean One Mr. Grinch, and Silver Bells were all written by Jews. José Feliciano, the author of Feliz Navidad, was actually born Mordecai Simchah Gefilte Fishman ben Moishe Saul Cohen-Lowenstein Rabinowitz. True story.

This month, I grapevine in the footsteps of my ancestors with this medley of short Christmas songs. I hope you find them to be the perfect musical milieu for screaming at mall clerks who politely ask to see a receipt for the thing you're trying to return.

My senior year in college was probably the last time I knowingly disseminated Christmas cheer. My five housemates and I held occasional meetings to accuse each other of leaving unwashed dishes in the sink or to complain about the 50 pound bag of rice that was purchased without unanimous consent. That December, we held a house meeting to vote on whether to sublet our extra bedroom to an enigmatic Asian fiddle player. We agreed to do so if two conditions were met: 100% of his rent money would go towards Christmas lighting, and the display would be so garish that it could be seen from space. The electrical nightmare we created stretched well past the point of vulgarity, but unfortunately, there was no easy way to verify that it was visible to astronauts.

At this point, I wiggle my fingers and say, “DOO-da-la-doot, DOO-da-la-doot,” to indicate that we are traveling forwards in time to the present day. This year, overweight rich people will finally be able to journey to edge of the cosmos and look down on earth. 2014 is here, and this will be the year that commercial space travel takes off.

I predict that the industry will be referred to as "Rocketourism" by those who enjoy buzzwordplay, and that you will have heard both of those words here first.

How should you prepare for your first space tour? According to the Virgin Galactic website, you will leave from a spaceport in the New Mexico desert. Please plan to arrive at least 90 minutes in advance for sub-orbital flights, and 2 hours in advance for orbital flights. Bring copies of your passport, and pack light, because it takes 200 pounds of solid fuel to lift that 3 ounce tube of hand cream into space.

Following lift-off, the commercial spacecraft will reach a cruising altitude of 62 miles. Here, you will be treated to the ultimate sightseeing experience. Of course, you have seen the moon before, but few humans have seen it like this! Specifically, it will appear a bit smaller, because you will be a little farther away from it than usual.

While my old house in Providence is no longer visible from space, some claim that The Great Wall of China is. At its thickest point, the Great Wall is only about 30 feet across, the same width as a beach volleyball court. This is probably why the U.S. diverted so much money to the space program during the Cold War... most of the early manned missions were devoted to counting Soviet volleyball courts.

Anyway, a Virgin Galactic ticket includes a 30 minute space flight, unlimited Wi-Fi access and a complimentary copy of their inflight magazine, Thermospheres. This will run you just over $200,000 including bag fees, so keep an eye out for a Groupon offer.

As you glide back to earth, the cars on the interstate will look like tiny little ants scurrying in a line. As you draw closer, they will look more and more like giant, freakish ants. Holy crap… how long were you gone? Come closer still, and you will see that they're just cars. Phew.

Now let's talk about the elephant in the room... SAFETY. (And I'm not referring to Safety the Elephant from that fire department coloring book.) I understand your propensity to perseverate on the Challenger and Columbia disasters. Let's try to keep this in perspective, though. For every space shuttle that exploded, there were 2 space shuttles that didn't explode whatsoever. That already-favorable ratio is even more impressive when you consider NASA's practice of subcontracting all 20,000 spaceship parts to the lowest bidder. Virgin Galactic has much better quality control, because Sir Richard Branson personally inspects all defective O-rings. More importantly, all components are manufactured at a single location by employees of Virgin Industries. As you would imagine, most of them are kraut-rock singers who didn’t read the fine print in their record contracts.

One last piece of advice: Don't waste your time visiting the international space station. That place is a rocketourist trap.

With warmest regards,
Zach

Ranking the Armstrongs

Dear Friends,

   Here's something unusual. I'm going explain what this month's Hard Taco song is about.  
   In 1997, I decided to write a rock opera about George Armstrong Custer, the storied U.S. cavalry commander who died alongside all his men at the 1876 Battle of Little Bighorn. The ethically murky American Indian Wars seemed like a good backdrop for a musical, and General Custer made for a great lead character because he was brash and grandiose and tragic. As I read more about Custer's life, however, I was much more fascinated by his second-in-command, Major Marcus Reno. While Custer was charging into battle at Little Bighorn, Reno was leading a disorganized retreat from a skirmish a few miles away. Afterwards, he was a convenient scapegoat for a public that adored Custer and could not believe the U.S. Army had lost a major battle to the native tribes. Custer's widow, Libbie, and his biographer, Frederick Whittaker, made careers out of aggrandizing Custer's memory, and they were among the loudest voices decrying Reno as a coward.
   Three years after the Battle of Little Bighorn, Major Reno requested a court of inquiry into his own conduct during the battle, hoping to clear his name of these allegations. Although he was not officially found guilty of dereliction of duty, he was never acquitted in the public eye, and died penniless a few years later.
   This month's Hard Taco song, "Where Were You," tells a fictionalized account of the aforementioned trial, in which Libbie Custer and Frederick Whittaker stand as Reno's accusers. After this song languished on the most distant of back burners for 16 years, recording it is a major accomplishment for me. Even though I never got around to writing any other Custer songs, I think this one makes for a pretty good stand-alone mini-rock opera. Let me know what you think.
   In the meantime, enjoy this Celebrity Surname Smackdown, in which I rank famous people based on how true they are to their surnames (or in Custer's case, their middle names.)

 

Rank by arm strength:
Billy Joe Armstrong - Impressive. Sometimes, he stands perfectly still and only moves his arms.
Lance Armstrong - Plenty of leg strength, but I'm sure the systemic effects of the erythropoietin benefit his upper limbs, too.
Louis Armstrong - Spent 24 hours a day holding either a trumpet or a very large joint.
George Armstrong Custer - Had enlisted men trim his glorious moustache for him.
Neil Armstrong - A flag that weighs 5 pounds on earth only weighs 0.8 pounds on the moon. Loser.

Rank by youth:
Angus Young - Age 58.
Neil Young - Age 67.
Henny Youngman - Age 107.
Cy Young - Age 146.
Brigham Young - Age 212.

Rank by baldness:
William Baldwin - No baldness.
Alec Baldwin - No baldness whatsoever.
Stephen Baldwin - Zero baldness. Seriously, these guys all have great hair.
Tammy Baldwin - None, unless you count her fists, which are balled in the war against sexual assault in the military!

Rank by wealth:

50 Cent - Got rich. Did not die tryin'.

Tyra Banks - Gets a nickel every time someone buys a copy of the 1996 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.

George Banks - Thanks to Mary Poppins, he got his old job back with a promotion!
Elizabeth Banks - So far she's doing okay, but the star of "Zach and Miri Make a Porno" and "The Hunger Games" will eventually be forced to decide between those two fates.
Lionel Richie - No hits since 1986 + two divorces + inconveniently extravagant daughter.
Joe Buck - Rumor has it that he's just living play-to-play.
Guy Ritchie - During one particularly doomed relationship, he donated his savings to the Kabbalah Centre in Los Angeles.

Eddie Money - Shouldn't have bought that second ticket to paradise.

Rank by smallness:
Stuart Little - 0'2" tall.
Martin Short - 5'7" tall.
Tiny Tim - 6'1" tall.

Rank by who is from the furthest West:

Adam West - Born in Walla Walla. Very west.
Kanye West - Born in Atlanta. Not very west.

Mae West - Born in Brooklyn.  Only considered the west if you live in Queens.

Oliver North - Born in San Antonio. Even if his last name was West, it would still be wrong.

Rank by who knows how to party hardy:
Laura Ingalls Wilder - Threw the best little house party on the prairie.
Gene Wilder - Two words: tunnel scene. And that's right after sniffing a poppy and singing the line, "Anything you want, do it."
Oscar Wilde - When I heard he spent time in jail for "gross indecency," I thought this guy was an animal! But then I learned the sad truth about his conviction... he was not actually in jail, but in gaol.

Rank by who is stiller?

Ben Stiller - Not at all still. Constantly moving, actually.

Jerry Stiller - As of press time, still not still. I'll keep you posted.

With warmest regards,

Zach