Hey folks, Fred the Tuckpointer here with a quick check in from my sister Mis’ place in North Royalton.  Since my shoulder separation, Sadie decided we should be separate too, at least until I “get my act together” -  whatever that means.  Its not too bad – Mis works third shift down at the clinic, so we barely talk to each other and she gets lots more cable channels than what we get at home.  And her internet’s faster.

So Joel on this site here chimed in and wanted to get my take on Obama blowing the Olympics.   I think its awesome whenever bad things happen to the country, as long as they happen while Obama is president.  Let me explain: we all know that Obama, and everything he stands for is everything our Founding Fathers fought against.  Take the socialist medicine program Barry’s running down the pipe; in the old days, when George Washington was wounded he would call his OWN doctor, not some British appointed court quack to get it patched up.  That’s the way it was, and the way it should be.  So when the insurance companies threaten to raise everyone’s insurance rates, then that means Obama is a failure and should be impeached.  Same deal with Afghanistan – he got us in this mess we’re in over there, and now he can’t make up his mind how many troops to send over.  Whatever he ends up doing, if it doesn’t go well that means America wins in the long run.  Its important that he looks bad, no matter what.

So back to the Olympics…its no coincidence that Chicago, that dirty and corrupt city, was in bed with Obama the whole bid process.  I was rooting so hard for him to get embarrassed, and when they gave the games to Rio, it was the first of many nails into the coffin of his presidency.

And the Noble Peace prize thing…well, I think everyone knows that’s rigged.

In other news, I still can’t move my arm above my shoulder.  I work in the receiving bay at Wal-Mart, so it may be tough to do much of anything, but I can’t afford any more time off.  Maybe I’ll drop by the house on the way to work tomorrow to see if Sadie’s up for a visit.  In the meanwhile, Fred the Tuckpointer signing off.

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.

Tyra Banks is on the job.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this shitstorm of a a television show, Tyra’s specialty (correction: one of her many specialties) is inventing simple words to describe a more complex concept.  Usually, this involves taking 2 key words from said concept and mashing them together, then repeating 50-75 times over the course of her hour-long show.

My new favorite? Mantrum.

To quote the wordsmith herself:

“When a man gets all upset, like a child, it’s not a tantrum.  It’s a Mantrum!” (emphasis mine).

The show then went on to show various video montages of boyfriends getting very angry at their girlfriends.  This part wasn’t so funny.  In fact, it’s not funny at all– it’s men with either profound insecurities or serious anger issues who are having a difficult and potentially dangerous time expressing themselves.  But don’t worry ladies!  When your man starts to get all smashy, it’s just a Mantrum! According to the show, the best way to deal with it is to talk to him like he’s a small child.  I’d like to hear from ONE man who doesn’t feel better when his girlfriend emasculates him in public, especially on national television.  Now, clean up the mess you made in the front yard like a big boy, and I’ll make you a peanut butter sandwich.

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.

How you will know when this season of Bravo’s reality show “NYC Prep” is over:

When this:

Finally completes his transformation into this :

Like they say in the emo biz: It ain’t over until the kid in skinny jeans sings “Boys Don’t Cry.”

Comic-con.

For two weeks every summer, the sleepy town of San Diego becomes the center of the geek universe.

Movie studios hawk their tentpole films for the following summer. Video game companies show off their big games for the holiday season. TV studios give fans unprecedented acess to their favorite stars.

Other sites will keep you in the know with the latest gossip, the color of Hayden Panitierre’s underwear, and other such things.

Not here.

Sandy and Steve had an inspiration for coverage befitting Chicago’s favorite comedy group. Sandy wanted someone who would be able to find one of Hollywood’s greatest actors and ask the tough questions.

So, they called in a convention vet who has the contacts and insider knowledge to get the job done. That’s me, James Alsup

During my quest, I’ll take photos and videos of the parts of Comic-con you don’t see on TV or YouTube videos. So sit back and enjoy as I bring you

Comic-Con 2009: The Search for Marc Singer.

Over the super-long, much-needed weekend, I had the absolute pleasure of re-watching one of my favorite Guilty Pleasure movies. Bedazzled. The movie with Brendan Fraser as a “loser” who is longing after this chick that really – is kinda average, especially for San Francisco. He needs some special help, so, BOOM – the devil (in the form of Elizabeth Hurley) comes in, and offers all sorts of assistance.

Ok, enough about the movie plot – because it doesn’t matter. What DOES matter is that Harold Ramis created an environment that puts Elizabeth Hurley in EVERY SINGLE FANTASY outfit a guy could have wanted in 2000. School girl? Check. Bikini? Check. French Maid? Check. Cheerleader? Check. Business woman with sexy lingerie peeking out? Check.

Watching the movie, I think Elizabeth Hurley is just hot. Non stop throughout the movie. Not the best actress – but she fills out the outfits nice enough to make you appreciate the beauty God has put on this planet.

I’m gonna go with hot, and I am totally prepared for the Flame War (I just have this feeling that no one else thinks so, but I am ok to stand on this island alone. I’m planting a flag, and calling this my Iwo Jima.)
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