From the Green Room: Carrying Your Luggage...

Don’t you hate it when bad things happen to good people?   Baptist minister and anti-gay activist George Alan Rekers was caught with a "rent boy,” which is a euphemism for a male prostitute. Rekers’s first mistake was not procuring a “lease boy,” because with the right accountant, it’s a tax write-off.  His second error was coming up with a lame excuse: Rekers said the boy toy was just “carrying his luggage,” a phrase which will enter the lexicon of scandal as a euphemism right underneath the entry for “a wide stance,” which was Senator Larry Craig’s excuse for the foot nudge he gave another man in an airport toilet.

I think there needs to be a new book from which public figures can retrieve more suitable phrases when in flagrante delicto, which is Latin for “caught red handed.” If you’re a closeted homosexual and plan on carrying yourself as a vehemently anti-gay activist, you really should plan ahead. NOBODY believes that Reverend Rekers went on the Internet to hire someone to “carry his luggage.”  That’s why God made skycaps. They’re right there, and they don’t charge by the hour.  But if Rekers had answered, “I’ve adopted a refugee,” upon being asked the identity of his traveling companion, it wouldn’t have made headlines.  

Good Samaritan Eddie Murphy would never have gotten into trouble giving that transvestite hooker a lift had he said that he was “doing a mitzvah.”  You can’t dispute a good deed when a Hebrew word is invoked. For those who are not fluent in that beautiful, ancient language, they could interpret “mitzvah” as the Yiddish term for “transvestite hooker,” and assume that Eddie was merely coming clean.

Here’s a list of euphemisms that I submit for possible use by politicians and other celebrities when a good ass-covering is needed.   When asked if the muscular, painfully handsome young gentleman, or buxom, spandex pants-clad bimbo accompanying you is a prostitute, you can claim that you actually hired them to:

“Reboot your hard drive.”
“Wax your mini-van.”
“Teach you Esperanto.”
“Tenderize your veal shank.”
“Polish your good silver.”
“Play your bag pipes.”
“Saute your shitakes.”
“Pull your taffy.”  

Or, my personal favorite:

“Find Waldo.”

From the Greem Room: DC Potheads

Washington D.C. is sending a bill to Mayor Adrian Fenty that would make medical marijuana legal.  If Mayor Fenty signs it, D.C. will join the 14 States that currently allow the substance, giving new meaning to the phrase “higher government.”

It’s unclear whether Hizzoner is on board with the idea, but one thing’s for sure: if Marion Barry was still the mayor, not only would that bill already be signed, but crack, meth and airplane glue would also be freely available at every Costco in the district. It’s just a shame this didn’t happen back during the Carter administration. Willie Nelson wouldn’t have had to steal away to the roof of the White House with Hamilton Jordan to burn a fatty.

The ramifications of this concept pose some concerns. For instance, the last thing Janet Napolitano and Hilary Clinton need is a case of the munchies. Secretary of Agriculture Tom Vilsac has a new cash crop. The term “grass-fed beef” would take on entirely new meaning.  Over at the Supreme Court, I can see Justice Clarence Thomas, in chambers, admonishing Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg (who will use her dentures as a roach clip) to not “bogart that joint.” Vice President Biden doesn’t need anything that will make him sound stupider. Stoned, he would be virtually inarticulate. “Hey…there could be a little tiny universe under my fingernail…that’s a big f-ing deal.”  

Management & Budget Office Director Peter OrszagI don’t think it would have much of effect on Peter Orszag, who already looks like he’s high, what with that oven mitt he wears on his head. He might even use that thing as a bong cover. Anyone who is fooled by that dead ferret on his gourd must be baked.

From the Green Room: Radiothon

Today, we take a respite from the usual, daily dose of restrained hilarity to plug something other than one of my hideous personal appearances: The 21st Annual Radiothon for Tomorrow's Children Fund, the CJ Foundation for Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, and the Imus Ranch for Kids With Cancer (and him)
 
Over the next two days, the I-Man will attempt to raise money for all three of these amazing charities.  In this current financial climate, it's a task that's never been more difficult.  As someone who has been profoundly and personally touched by each one of these organizations, I can only tell you that you could do worse than to support them over the next two days.  
 
Watch or listen to the program and you'll find an atypical fund raising endeavor.  Imus is not exactly Jerry Lewis. There will be no Ed McMahon at the tote board, no Corbett Monica or Steve and Eydie to entertain, and once it's over on Friday, when the final tally is revealed, you won't find the I-Man singing "When You Walk Through A Storm."  As long as he raises enough money.
 
Instead, you will hear the stories of the people who live with childhood cancer and S.I.D.S. every day, heartbreaking, tragic accounts of trying to survive emotional, spiritual and financial horrors.
 
You will also hear giggling children whose lives have been changed after a Go-Round at the Ranch, and in the midst of all the laughter and tears you will realize that in listening to these stories, your life has been changed as well.
 
You will be moved, you will be inspired, and hopefully, if you possibly can, you will donate.  
Every dollar counts.  There is no such thing as a small donation.  
 
There are many ways to do so:  
 
Online: www.wabcradio.com/radiothon
 
On the phone: 1-877-877-6464
 
or...if you want to be all high falutin' and high tech:
 
Text IMUS to 85944 to donate $10 from your phone.  You can do that up to five times.
 
But even if you just do it once...it will make a difference. And there will be thousands of parents and children who will be so very grateful for your support.
 
And it will be just one more thing to prevent the I-Man from singing "When You Walk Through A Storm." 

Which, in itself, is more than enough of a reason to give.

From the Green Room: Cinco de What?

Call me cynical, but I have a sneaking suspicion that some opportunists from the marketing departments of a few of the larger tequila distilleries are responsible the exploitation of the Mexican holiday of Cinco De Mayo. What was originally intended to be a reverent remembrance of the defense of the Forts of Guadalupe and Loreto is now merely another cheesy opportunity to move some extra product. Somehow, it seems unlikely that the Mexican forces successfully fought back the French invaders at the Battle of Puebla so that their valiant efforts would come to be observed by fat, gringo yuppies doing tequila poppers.

It seems to me that starting around April 1st, the inflatable promotional signs begin to adorn the local liquor stores and Mexican restaurants, beckoning me to "Celebrate the Mexican Fourth of July!" The fact of the matter is that Cinco de Mayo is not the Fourth of July in Mexico, it’s the Mexican Fifth of May, just as it is here in the States. Their fourth of July is actually on July fourth, just like ours, except it’s called Cuatro de Julio, and it has no special significance to them whatsoever. But if you need an annual reason to suck down an inordinate amount of margaritas, let’s just call it Tequila Appreciation Day, and hold it on a less historically significant date. Because even if you are not a fan of it, tequila is a very special drink.

Never should it be said that the sum total of the contributions made by the ancient Mexicans is represented solely by the magnificent Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza. Any race of people that could look at a cactus and think, “Hey! I bet this would make one tasty beverage!” must hold a special place in the history of civilization. I mean, I can see where a desperately sober Russian, left to his own devices in a frozen cabin in Siberia with only some grain and a few potatoes, could eventually come up with the recipe for Vodka. But to actually conceive the concept of distilling the fermented juices of the Agave plant? That takes pure genius, amigo. Never underestimate the power of an ancient guy in a desert looking for a new way to catch a quick buzz.

I would just like to know who started the whole idea of “eating the worm.”

I believe a liquid should be a liquid, and anything floating around in it should be removed, preferably at the bottling stage. I prefer to think the worm eating is the best gauge for knowing when to say “when.” For there is only one thing more certain than a waiter at a Mexican restaurant cautioning you that the plate is hot:

If you are seriously considering eating the worm, you have drunk enough Tequila.
 

From the Green Room: Cuddling

Robert "Cuddle Me" RubinYou’d think that the Secretary of the Treasury would be one of the more boring cabinet positions. Then along comes a revelation about former Treasury Secretary Robert Rubin that blows that notion right out of the water:  according to sources, Bobby Bucks attempted to get his smoove on with former investment banker (and snappy dish) Iris Mack. But the way the nation’s “accountant general” likes to get busy, is not exactly the way the rest of us do. This tee-totaling, bean-counting nerd propositioned Ms. Mack…by asking her if she wanted to go upstairs and “cuddle.”

Yes, cuddle.

Two losers cuddlingEvery man has had that soul-crushing, demoralizing experience when his woman makes it known she’d prefer for the non-sexual intimacy to the favorite men’s choice: wild, abandoned, headboard-banging nookie.  When the horned toad rears its ugly head, a guy has a difficult time understanding why his old lady wants him to act like a cross between a giant throw pillow and a sleepy puppy. I’ve always maintained that if you just want to lie next to something warm, I’ll get you a hot water bottle. 

Playa Rubin, on the other hand, took the high road, not choosing the Bill Clinton/John Edwards method of spending an evening.  And yet, thinking about him curled up in a fetal position around this fiduciary fox skeeves me out more than imagining the two of them actually having sex.

Potential cuddler Lloyd BentsenSomething about Treasury Secretaries…hugging…is nastier than the idea of them doing the nasty.  Think about it.  You don’t want your head filled with the image of James Baker snuggling with his sweetie, do you?  Or Henry Paulson, naked and nuzzling? Try to conjure Lloyd Bentsen in his jammies “making spoons.”

Ewwww.

You could use that one next time you’re actually having sex and want to postpone the inevitable.  Trust me, it works better than thinking about baseball.