Hey folks, Fred the Tuckpointer here with one you’ll never believe.  Last time I blogged, I was telling you all about how my neighbor Don got a letter from the crummy IRS telling him he owed big time.  I’d been seeing all these “tea parties” on TV where a bunch of people who hate President Obama get dressed up and protest being taxed.  I told Don we had to go.   At first he seemed interested, but when the day of the event came he told me he’d rather be tarred and feathered and chickened out.  Turns out Don’s got some “liberal sensitivities”.  He probably likes the Steelers, too.  While he stayed home trying to figure out a payment plan to Uncle Sam, I went to Conservapedia to get the real scoop about Tea Parties. The more I read, the more I liked the idea – back in the day, the colonists revolting from England got together, dressed up as Indians, snuck on some ships and dumped a bunch of tea into the harbor.  The lesson: Money Talks.  That got the Brits’ attention, and we proceeded to kick their ass.  200+ years later, the conservatives were going to do the same to Obama and all the shit he’s trying to run past us.   Being the patriot I am, I knew I had to do this tea party proper.

To start, I needed a costume.  Time to go old school – I decided to dress up as an Indian.  Now here’s the beauty of living in the greater Cleveland area – our baseball team mascot is also an Indian!  So I already had my costume from all of my Tribe gear.

A side note: they need to fire Wedge and Shapiro ASAP.  I can’t believe how bad they were this year.

Anyway, I pulled out the Chief Wahoo mask from 10 cent beer night and was set to go:

Sweet, huh?  And since I was going as the Chief, I figured I could call some shots.  My wife Sadie says its all racist and crap, but c’mon…its tradition!  Ol’ Chief Wahoo never hurt anyone.

I got to Public Square bright and early on the day of the party, and it was already packed.  There must have been a hundred people there!  Everyone else  had signs, but I didn’t know I was supposed to bring one.  Some lady from the Fox News truck told me to go and make a sign, so I ran over to the drug store and got some poster board and a marker.

Now here was the hard part – there was going to be TV there, and I wanted to make sure the IRS saw my sign and got the message.  So I wrote “Tuckpointers Hate Taxes” and ran out to join the crowd.  Some speakers got up on the mic and started us off with a prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance.   Then things got a little weird.

The next bunch of speakers didn’t say anything about taxes at all.  The first guy, some preacher, talked about how Obama was the AntiChrist and wanted to abort everyone’s kids.  That went on for a while.   The next lady said that Obama was from Kenya and couldn’t be president, that he was also some Muslim killer and wanted to convert me.  I figured everyone had some grievances to air, and that taxes may not come up for awhile.  Rather than sit out there listening to some dude drone on, I ducked into Johny’s for a cold one.  A few beers and some wings later I came back out – same lady was talking about Obama’s birth certificate.  I gotta hand it to her, she was prepared.  Slides and everything.  I went back in ’cause the Browns were on.

Around 5 I was pretty wasted.  I went back out to check on the party, but it seemed to be breaking up.  I asked a couple of people if they ever got around to taxes and representation, but couldn’t get a straight answer.  I decided to make my own statement.   I grabbed my sign, and ran for the F50.  It was time for my secret weapon.  I figured there wouldn’t be any ships in the lake carrying tea for me to chuck overboard, so I stopped at Sam’s on my way downtown and picked up a few cases of Lipton.  I pulled them out of the truck, threw up some, then high tailed it back.   Most everyone was gone at that point, and the Fox people were packing up.  I had once chance.  I opened a post box near the fountain and started pouring in tea.  When I saw people finally paying attention, I yelled “Give me liberty and cut taxes for the top 2%!”  Suddenly I felt this sting in my stomach and smelled burning hair.  Then I was out.

Turns out some cop tasered me.  I woke up in the paddy wagon, where he yelled at me for a while.  I had to go to jail for a little bit and call Sadie to come bail me out.  She wasn’t too happy about that, screaming that we didn’t have the money for the bail on her salary and all sorts of other crap.  That night I flipped on Fox 8, but I didn’t see myself in the segment.  I lost my Chief Wahoo mask, and didn’t even get to go back for the rest of my tea.

So…it looks like I’m on the couch for awhile.  But no worries…I know I made a difference to those 4 people who saw me and my act of defiance.  Taxes suck, and there’s no other way around it.  Next time, I’ll steer clear of Johny’s…gotta keep a level head when so much is on the line.  So till then, Fred the Tuckpointer signing off.

Just a scant nine years after Michael J. Fox starred “Teen Wolf,” Jack Nicholson made his own mark on the genre with “Wolf,” a film that probably would have been even more successful if it had been considered the third of the “Teen Wolf” trilogy.

Nicholson plays a mousy book editor who is fortuitously bitten by a werewolf the same week that he is demoted, his position filled by his weaselly metrosexual protege, played by James Spader, who is also sleeping with his wife. 

Now filled with the “passion of the wolf,” Nicholson’s senses are heightened: He can read without his glasses, he can smell the tequila his co-worker drank for breakfast, he can leap shrubs in a single bound, snap the neck of a deer, and drink from its neck like its severed artery is a spigot. He can insult Michelle Pfeiffer straight into bed.

And when James Spader dares to make idle chit-chat with him at the urinal, Nicholson turns his spray on his enemy’s suede shoes. “I’m marking my territory,” he tells the pretty-boy, before cruelling adding to the insult by identifying this batch of urine’s vineyard: “Asparagus.”

If “Teen Wolf” is the puberty allegory of this trilogy, “Wolf,” it seems, is the Viagra metaphor.

Click here to view the embedded video.