Monday, April 28, 2008

Life in Boston Just Got Less Fun. Again.

Do you like machetes? Like, like like? Well nuts to you pal, because, according to Roxbury City Councilor Chuck Turner:

There’s no legitimate reason for carrying a machete on the street... We’re not in a situation where people are cutting cane in fields and using it for the kinds of the labor that it’s used for in other parts of the world.”

By the way, oil hit an all time high of a billion dollars a barrel today (75 euros), so don't turn your back on the fields just yet. Because you're going to be working in them! Unless you're one of the 1% of the population that controls 21% of the country's wealth. To you I will soon say "Please stop flogging me so much."

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Clinton Celebrates Resiliance, Subtle Hatred of Blacks in PA

Hillary Clinton seen here with daughter Chelsea, who will be nailed to a cross and sent to Indiana in the Clinton campaign's newest gambit to attract evangelical voters and idiots.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Numbers By The Numbers: A Look At The Math Behind Numbers

So today Pennyslvania held its Democratic presidential primary, and the polls just closed. It also held its Republican presidential primary, which will give grant-funded census takers everywhere an intimate knowledge of how many Pennsylvanians have absolutely nothing to do on Tuesdays. Back to the Dems; it appears that them there's a race in the ol' Keystone state, with Hillary Clinton making her last stand against the surly Barack Obama, a man made bitter by his Muslim heritage which forbids him to cling to guns. (Who knew Muslims couldn't bowl, either? I guess League Night isn't one of the Five Pillars.)

A PublicPolicyPolling study this week put Obama ahead by three, but their margin of error was sixty-one points, so toss that out. ARG called Clinton by twenty but later found that their phone bank had polled Clinton versus Yo Mama. Most pollsters from ARG to Zogby are calling a Clinton victory tonight, somewhere in the range of six to twelve points. Pundits -- Andrew Sullivan, Matthew Yglesias, me -- are calling for Clinton to gracefully, or at least not ungainly, step aside should she not win tonight by a sufficient margin. She is already trailing in the national popular vote and the delegate count, and the remaining states do not appear to be breaking her way; even Oregon! North Carolina looms as a genteel, dignified reaper's path on May 6.

So what constitutes a big enough win? On CNN, the sad eyed John King graciously stated, "I'll let the others decide on that point." He added, "Assume that Hillary Clinton wins by one or two points, Obama will break even...Hillary's argument becomes going to the superdelegates." Thanks, John! Well, let's break it down. If Hillary wins 100% to 0%, she will probably clinch the nomination tonight right out. Of course, winning by 100 point margins is a Chicago strategy, clearly favoring the Illinois senator. So that's out. If Obama pulls a Rocky-style upset, it's over on that side. (Technically, it's a Rocky II style upset, where both candidates repeatedly punch each other in the head until they're fighting for consciousness. Clubber McCain looms.) And since only Rush Limbaugh and the Daily Kos secessionists see a blowout, time to number crunch.

Hillary wins by 12+: Here's where Clinton can press her advantage; electability in big states. With wins in New York, California, Pennsylvania, Ohio, "Florida", and "Michigan", the former First Lady has some serious clout behind her for November. If she won in actually large states like Montana and South Dakota (June 3), she'd have all her bases covered. Seriously, Montana is fucking HUGE. There are still communities there waiting for the steam-powered train. You can't reach them; Hillary Clinton can.

Hillary wins by 9 - 11: the "Rudy Giuliani margin". Hillary wins by the projected margin over the last month or so. Well, that's politics as usual, clearly a battlefield Clinton prefers. The ten point margin means that Clinton actually won Pennsylvania, and didn't just get the boost from kamikaze Republicans and the out and proud racists the closed steel mills of PA have proudly hosted since 1982. Next stop, Indiana!

Hillary wins by 6 - 8: Hillary gets her mandate and continues campaigning. Obama's campaign can boast they closed the gap. McCain sits back and takes an even longer nap. As if from a magic groundhog, CNN gets another eight weeks of banal and meaningless bullshit political coverage, instead of eight weeks of banal and meaningless bullshit anything coverage. FOX gets eight weeks to yell at CNN. Somehow, Mark Penn makes more money. Everyone wins! Except us. We all lose.

Hillary wins by 3-5 points: Despite the push from Pennsylvania's seniors, who celebrate her win by dying, Hillary gains no delegates, Obama rips her in half in North Carolina, and the campaign ends without the tie-breaking, all-important Puerto Rican primary. Maybe next time. Larry King wonders if she has enough to unseat President Bush.

Hillary wins by 1-2 points: Clinton will celebrate her victory with rampant joy, too busy to realize how fucked she is. Paul Begala keeps a single candle vigil burning outside her hotel room.

So, there you have it. If Clinton wins by 4.82 percent or less, it's over. If she wins by more than 12.44%, by law she is entitled to the nomination. Anything else, and the American people are subjected to more negative campaigning, more useless partisan hackery, and no presidential election matchup. It's been nearly four months since Iowa. It's time to get back to worrying about missing white girls, America. It's time.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Kenya Handle It??

With a time of 2 hours, 7 minutes, and 46 seconds, Robert Cheruiyot won his 4th men's title in the Boston Marathon. This marks the 15th time in 17 years that a Kenyan has won the men's title in the world's oldest annual marathon.

15 out of 17, people. That's 88% of our marathons in nearly two decades of competition. Can anyone who lives in this great Commonwealth say that this isn't overkill? Obviously, the Republic of Kenya is making a mockery of our most treasured sporting event, but not only that, they are also ridiculing the machismo of the fine men of Boston. These Kenyanese are showing about the same amount of respect Clubber Lang showed Rocky Balboa during his outdoor press conference. Sure, Clubber went on to allude that he could sexually satisfy Adrian in a way the Italian Stallion never could, but if the women of Boston aren't at least a little bit intrigued by the stamina of Kenyan men displayed in these past marathons, then my name wasn't legally changed to Robert. Which it was.

The manliness of Boston has been under fire as of late. Our football team is lead by a man so metrosexual, he probably wears pads during the off season. Hollywood has invaded us en masse, bringing with it all the high maintenance features of LA; its non-dairy lattes, its conspicuous fashion, its spray-on tans. Papi's in a slump. Fair-weather fans are watching the Celtics. And even the Pope skipped Boston because we're a bunch of cry-baby alter boys.

And now Kenya is taking its annual turn at giving us a public wedgie in front of all of our Boston women. The very same women that we're juuuuuust starting to notice again now that the weather's warm and they're sporting a lot less clothing. We see you ladies cheering at the marathon. You're looking good. But you're not paying attention to us, are you? No, you're looking at the sweaty man at the head of the pack, watching his powerful legs pumping tirelessly against the pavement, chest puffed out not from breaths but from the vast ego swelling up inside. Kenya's got your phone number, and we do not like them imported apples one bit.

But men of Boston, there is a way to fight back. If these Kenyanese can show us up on our turf, by golly we can show them up on theirs. Specifically, we should beat the Maasai at their own game. That's right, let's show up Kenya's famed semi-nomadic ethnic group at all the events that they excel at. According to Wikipedia, the Maasai regularly drink cows' blood, hunt lions, stretch out their ear lobes, and perform ritualistic female circumcision. Now, I see opportunities for us to best them at at least 3 out of 4 of those things. And how do you think the hot female Massaias will react when they see a bunch of Bostonian manly men pound more cow blood than they've ever seen? Obviously, they'll want to follow us back to America, even if they would have to leave behind their cushy lives in abject poverty, high infant mortality rates, and ritualistic female circumcision.

So let the Kenyan males dominate the Boston Marathon for another 15 out of 17 years. The men of Boston will be running a whole other race. The race to win over the hearts of their women on their own land. It might take a while for us to get ready to do so, but always remember: slow and steady wins the race. And that is one race-ism that you can believe in.


Friday, April 18, 2008

The Order of St. Gino the Contractor

Ladies and Gentlemen, Red Sox Nation has many heroes. Now, however, it enters the national stage with a credential so powerful that it could, if it so desired, apply for tax-exempt status with the Internal Revenue Service as a bona-fide religion:

We have a martyr.

I speak to you, naturally, of St. Gino the Contractor, who risked life, limb, and the utter destruction of his credit rating to bury a holy relic (to wit, a Big Papi jersey) within the foundations of the Devil's temple (the new Yankee Stadium). Sadly, the forces of evil found the relic and exhumed it. Minions of the Dark One (Yankee officials) referred to the burial as "...a very bad, bad act..."

Seriously? Burying a shirt is a "very bad, bad act"? The Yankees are going to sue this guy for putting fabric in concrete? New York City prosecutors are considering criminal charges? Medford native-turned-quisling Mayor Bloomberg is outraged? C'mon. You didn't have to shell out $50K to dig up the shirt. You could have left it there. Maybe brought in a hippie to go over the concrete with a smudge stick, or used a voodoo doll, or some other legitimate ritual stolen from another culture. But no. Well, Yankee officials, you have fucked with entirely the wrong people. Because The Order of St. Gino the Contractor will not stand for this.

Yes, the Order of St. Gino the Contractor-- a movement that rivals Opus Dei for devotion and mortification of the flesh, though the Order's interpretation of "mortification of the flesh" has more to do with sausages sold from street carts than self-flagellation.

In every great movement, there are moments that define the movement. The 2004 destruction of the Curse of the Bambino. The redemption of Bill Buckner. And now, the martyrdom of St. Gino the Contractor. We-- you, me, the Red Sox Organization-- owe St. Gino. Big time. I say to the Red Sox: will you meet the call? Will you recognize the sacrifice of this fine man, this faithful fan, this pourer of concrete, and will you come to his aid in this, his time of need? Embrace him. Sanctify him. Find a benefactor to buy the shirt so the Jimmy Fund gets a few thousand bucks, and use it to set up a shrine to his holy deed. Should he be sued, find him an attorney. Pay his legal fees. The next Red Sox-Yankees matchup at Fenway is in late July. Get St. Gino up here and have him throw out the first pitch at that game. Give him luxury seats.

Ladies and Gentlemen, like many saints throughout history, St. Gino the Contractor suffered for his faith. Do not let that suffering be in vain.


Thursday, April 17, 2008

CN8's Barry Nolan Discovers Journalistic Integrity, Big Brass Balls

Did you know that Boston has local Emmy's? I wonder if the statue is made out of beans? Get it, for Beantown! Not funny, huh? Well, it would probably kill at those Emmy's, which are probably held in a hall somewhere that smells like farts and old.

Oh, but here's the breaking news reported by the Herald:
CN8’s Barry Nolan says Bill O’Reilly is “a mental case" This probably isn't the worst thing that anyone's ever called Mr. O'Reilly, but you have to give Barry some credit for making an attempt.

“I am appalled, just appalled,” Nolan told the Track. “He inflates and constantly mangles the truth . . . and his frequent target is the ‘left-leaning’ media - the ones who do report the news fairly. And those are the same people who will be sitting in the room honoring him.”

Well, "honoring" might be a stretch. Maybe they're just desperate to get someone kind of famous, since few Boston-bred celebrities will make the trip back to be honored at Boston's Local Emmys. It's being held at the Marriott, after all. I know Boston doesn't have a ton of swank places to hold a fete (no offense Dillboy VFW of Somerville), but if you want to pull in big names, maybe they should hold it at the Four Seasons or The Taj - but the Marriott? Do you think Affleck and Damon are going to hop in a jet to get honored at hotel that charges extra for pillow cases that don't have jiz on them? Maybe the guy from The Commish would, but that's another story.

Anyway - here's to you, Barry Nolan. And when CN8 fires you for having the audacity to criticize someone with national television coverage, please feel free to join us at BNN. You can call O'Reilly all the names you want. We promise!

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Letter From Charlie Gibson to America: Fuck you, shit ears.

You know, I didn't have to look hard to find a picture of Charlie Gibson looking like a twat. I would imagine it has something to do with the incontrovertible fact that he is in indeed a huge, dirty, 18th-century, gritty sore filled twat. Who scowls.

And what better way to put this trait on display than to do it during a Primary debate. And to out-prick George Stephanopoulos takes some doing. It was nice, however, to see that the impishly charming former Clinton White House staffer was capable of speaking without a hand up his ass. I'm not implying that he's into that sort of behavior, simply stating that he looks like a puppet.

I would like to get into the nuts and bolts of what a simpering weasel's pee-hole Gibson is by giving specifics from his performance this evening, but Wonkette's coverage of the debate is excellent and I keep getting sad that we're still talking about flag lapel pins. When was the last time you saw someone wearing a pin and considered them to be stable? If pins conferred any kind of culturally significant status other than moving the weird Jennifer Aniston/Guy Who Played Nixon From Band of Brothers romantic subplot in "Office Space", the Newbury Comics wouldn't be staffed completely by virgins.

I will mention two things I noticed about Charlie before the fistful of sleeping pills I just took starts to take effect so I can sleep through the night without imagining Hill's snaggle toof (left front incisor):
  1. Charlie is not a grown man's name. Maybe it's supposed to sound roguish and playful, but he's neither of those things. He's the world's richest "just folk" everyman. Any claims to to a secret hipness is gross. Like referring to McCain as a DILF. Plus, he probably smells like finished basement and fastidiously tidy Dodge Caravan. Imagine waking up to that smell, fellas!
  2. He kept looking over his spectacles as if to admonish the candidates when they wouldn't waffle on his insanely worded "this is definitely the wrong answer on the SAT because it is so insanely absolute" questions. I hate that. Quit acting so smug, Charlie. The single qualification that you posses that allows you to be pissed about the Capital Gains tax while I have separate jars for pennies (be patient!) and quarters (splurge - eat today!) is that you can hold a mug and read off of a teleprompter at the same time.
I'm practicing my mug skills.

Yankees Beat Red Sox, Perhaps Cancer

It was announced today that the infamous Davis Ortiz jersey that was once buried in concrete under the new Yankees Stadium by a crafty Sox-fan-come-construction worker will be donated by the Yankees to the Jimmy Fund. The cancer research fund will then auction off the jersey to raise money for their efforts.

This raises a very possible, and very disturbing, scenario: what if the money raised from this donation by the Yankees turns out to be the final amount of money needed to cure cancer? What if after the cure is found, after the successful clinical trials, after the FDA approval, after the announcement to the public, after the incredible fanfare, after the countless lives saved, someone audits the Jimmy Fund and traces that tipping-point donation to this auction with the Ortiz jersey that was donated by the Yankees; in essence, giving credit to Steinbrenner and the Evil Empire of curing cancer?

What would this mean for the average ardent Sox fan? Any way you spin it, it would be hard to boo a team that cured cancer. Yes, A-Rod is a douchebag, but hey, can you really call the person who sort of saved your Nana's life, a fag? Yeah Damon's a traitor, but well, that traitor sort of ended your cousin's battle with leukemia. Not to mention how the population of cancer-ridden Sox fans would feel toward their sports nemesis, after they were given a second chance at life. It would probably make those "Yankees Suck" chants half-hearted, at best. And those "Jeter Sucks" t-shirt will probably have to read on the back "but he did sort of cure cancer so he's not that bad."

The nearly 100 year long rivalry, the most wonderful and bitter rivalry in sports, would most likely vanish. The ill-feeling the Red Sox Nation currently feels has already been tempered due to the recent World Series victories, so one must assume that it would vanish entirely if and when the Yankees cure cancer. The best battle in sports would be all but over, and a general chumminess between the Sox and Yankees, if not between Boston and NY in general, would fall across the hearts of the now amiable sports fans.

Well I, for one, think this is too big a risk to take. This historic rivalry must be preserved at all costs, even if those costs would be the millions or billions of lives that could have been saved by a cancer cure. Sure, living is nice, but would it really be worth surviving cancer if it meant missing out on the elation of seeing the Sox beat the hated Yankees? Let's be honest, the greatest joy a kid with cancer can probably experience is to attend a Sox-Yankees game in Fenway Park, the seats so graciously donated by the Jimmy Fund doing what it should be doing: giving these poor children hope and happiness in the form of a David Ortiz walk-off home-run, and NOT by accepting evil donations from the bad guys.

The passions that are stirred up in this rivalry, the excitement, the highs and lows, the sweet feeling of victory, and the agonizing crush of defeat, all these are the precious moments we experience that defines what living really is. And if the most precious things that make up life disappear by letting the Yankees cure cancer, then hasn't cancer, and the Yankees, already won?

Jimmy Fund, we cannot let this happen.


Monday, April 14, 2008


The MBTA launched a new ad campaign on Monday to crack down on men groping women on crowded subways. Three different ads will be displayed on trains, one such ad reading "Rub against me, and I'll expose you," and encourages women to report incidents to authorities.

As a long time patron of the Red, Green, Orange and sometimes Silver subway lines (let's face it: the Blue line is about as useful as a diploma from Emerson), I am disheartened that one of the sexiest and best places to meet women in Boston is now feeling the wrath of the Puritanical Right that has made this city nothing more than a collection of sad profiles on, eHarmony,, and countless other online dating sites. It is already hard enough to meet a single, normal Boston woman in a public arena who isn't throwing up the "Horseman, Pass By" anti-approachable stance: ears blocked by iPod headphones, eyes glued to the cell phone, wearing a perpetual black winter coat hiding all trappings of femininity. Now they're trying to stop me from riding the last train to pleasureland?

I shudder for the new generation of young Boston men who will miss out on the swinging '06s on the Sex Lines. From Alewife to Braintree, from Lechemere to the crappy parts, it was a wild, noisy ride, full of sparks on the tracks, sparks between men and women, all to the soothing tenor of the prerecorded voice on the get-some-brain-train telling you that you better finish up, because Haymarket is a-coming soon! And no one wants to be caught with his pants down when he's hurrying to go shopping for fresh peaches at the Farmer's Market, right after sexing up a fine BU lass in the rubber, accordionesque bendy part of a Green Line subway car.

Sure there is some miscommunication between man and woman sometimes on board, but that's the risk people need to take for love. It's a numbers game, baby, and sometimes maybe that red head playing Sudoku doesn't want the old 7:45am chub-rub on the way to her shift at Talbots. But you know what? Another girl might just think that was the bees-knees, and that shaft-graft was the signal she needed to know that hey, you think she's a looker and are willing to commit to a long term relationship...or for as long as the ride to Ashmont takes. It's about people connecting. It's about chemistry. It's guy meats girl to facilitate guy meets girl.

So the "authorities" can put up as many billboards as they want discouraging the behavior that comes as naturally to guys as does stalking ex's on Facebook, but a few ads won't change the courtship recipe that has been commuting to and from Boston for decades. Those pleather seats set the scene for romance. The sounds of the nearly empty bottles of Dasani rolling around under your feet provide the soundtrack to love-making, let alone the whining of the one-string Chinese instrument played by a glassy-eyed gaunt Asian man. And in the end, love will find a way. Because love's Charlie Card is prepaid by Cupid, and it's got a lot of currency stored on it.


Sunday, April 13, 2008

News That's Almost Entirely Accurate

Ah, Sunday morning. I'm not even hungover. That can only mean one thing: I'm so broke I couldn't even afford to buy vanilla extract (anyone remember the Family Ties episode where Tom Hanks drinks estarct secretly, destroying Alex P Keaton's trust forever and ever?).

But it means something else! The brand new Boston News Net blog. The show is slowly evolving, and this blog is another step towards building a community of people who think the news is funny, especially when its on a TV.

Have news? Share it. As we develop, we'll start pulling more and more people on to the writing staff. With more people, it'll mean more stories to pull from and more time to devote to bringing the standard of the show up to a level so high that we can start being rude to people at exclusive restaurants. Like Sonsie. Who the fuck goes to Sonsie? I want to be able to drink there with my fly open or perhaps one testicle rakishly peeking over my waistband. And when people look askance, I can say "I'm with the staff of Boston News Net, so scamper off and shell me some pistachios before you're battered by your own sense of fecklessness, induced by the aura of elan and elitism bestowed on me via work with the BEST LIVE NEWS SHOW PRODUCED IN BOSTON ON A SATURDAY IN AN IMPROV THEATER THAT IS TITULARLY LOCATED IN BOSTON BUT IS ACTUALLY IN CAMBRIDGE." Ladies, feel free to substitute whatever parts you feel necessary.

Let's get to work.