From the Green Room: The Larry King Divorce

A stunned nation learned last week that legendary talk show host Larry King was getting a divorce from wife number 8, chanteuse Shawn Southwick. Contributing factors may or may not include eating disorders, rehab visits, slap fights, and extra marital affairs: he with her sister, she with their son’s Little League baseball coach.  As we are not above making spurious and false allegations ourselves, herewith are the: 

Top 8 Most Surprising Revelations Regarding The Larry King Divorce

8- Papers Cite “irreconcilable differences,” “alienation of affection,” and “she’s really pitchy, dog.”

7- Larry promised he would love Shawn “until the end of time.”  Seeing as his time’s just about over, he figured he’d “cash out early to beat the traffic.”

6- Twice a year, when they made love, she would scream out other men’s names…who would then answer her from under the bed.

5- He wanted to be free so he could finally make an honest woman of Betty White.

4- Southwick had “moral issues” with treatment of pigs who provided valves for Larry’s quintuple bypass.

3- After 13 years, Shawn was finally tired of “Pant-less Fridays.”

2- Larry frustrated with his wife’s refusal to agree to a threesome with Abe Vigoda

And the number ONE most surprising revelation regarding the Larry King Divorce?

He was “hung like a salmon.”


From the Green Room: It's the End of the World

Record-setting earthquakes. Devastating tsunamis. Unpredictable, severe weather patterns. Strange lights flashing across the sky.  It’s the end of the world as we know it. 

But I’m not ready for it.

The Mayan Calendar doesn’t go past 2012, and armageddon sentimental, because there’s still so much left to do.  It’s the ultimate mid-life crisis, the paralyzing realization that I am on the back nine of my life and there is less time ahead of me than there is behind me.  So many dreams yet to be realized, so many miles to go before I sleep.

For instance, there’s that 87 pounds left I still need to lose in order to get down to a number that will, for my height, ease me into the overweight category and away from morbidly obese.  At my current rate, eating 12 calories a day with no exercise, I won’t even be NEAR that goal until 2035. 

Then there’s the story arc from the hit ABC series “Lost.”  I know this is the final season and all loose ends are supposedly going to be tied up, I just don’t think I’ll be able to make any sense out of any of them, and won’t have even a basic understanding of what the hell all of it means until at LEAST 2015. 

Then there’s my 75th Wedding Anniversary, our Diamond Jubilee, which won’t happen until September of 2077, and the date we plan on filing divorce papers, because we agreed we would wait until the children were dead.

When I was a kid, we were encouraged to be petrified about “The Bomb,” practicing duck and cover drills during recess in second grade.  We were made to fear “The Doomsday Machine,” that nebulous Deus Ex Machina that was sure to spell Certain Doom.  The Apocalypse has always loomed, but now, as it turns out, it is Mother Nature who will be the end of us all. 

That bitch is either going to drown us, bake us, or freeze us to death, then open up the earth and bury us.

Time to start building that ark, and making a plan to set sail for the most predictably temperate zone on the planet.  Or make a big sign imploring whoever is driving that Nova-Bright mothership seen over the Midwest sky the other day to stop and pick us up and take us to whatever James Cameron imagined world they came from.

Just go easy on that anal probe.

From the Green Room: Paula Deen's Answer to the Double Down

Y’all, today, I’m taking a cue from Kentucky Fried Chicken and coming up with my own version of the Double Down Sandwich, featuring all the main food groups: Oink, Cluck and Moo.

The Bacon, Egg, and Cheese “Double or Nothing High Roller Hoagie.”

• Take 4 dried, Smoked Pigs’ ears, and deep fry ‘em until they’re crispy in 40 sticks of melted butter, combined with a quart of two stroke engine oil.  That’s gonna be our bread.
• Next, we’re gonna take a dozen sliced, hard boiled eggs put ‘em in a bowl, add three jars of chunky peanut butter, 5 cans of pitted black olives, and 14 boxes of Instant Butterscotch pudding and whip it into a frosting like consistency.
• Fry up a pound of bacon, don’t drain it, just set it aside while you make your dressing: One jar of mayonnaise, one jar of marshmallow fluff, a tin of anchovies, and a half a carton of unfiltered Chesterfields, leave the paper on, cos’ you need your fiber.
• Take your pig ear out the fryer, smear half of your peanut butter, olive, butterscotch pudding mixture onto it, top it with half of the pound of the bacon, cover that with four slices of Velveeta cheese, and put that in the toaster oven until it gets all melty.
• Top it with your mayo/marshmallow fluff/anchovy/cigarette dressing, put the other pig ear on top and you got a grinder that will make the “Double Down” look like a diet vegan appetizer. 

Makes two sandwiches, one for each hand. (Because it’s important to eat a balanced diet.)

Bon Appetite, y’all! 


From the Green Room: Farmville

Hello, I’m Rob…and I’m a Farmville-A-Holic. 

At first, it was just an innocent time-waster…mindlessly plowing my little plot of land, planting and harvesting my virtual produce, my unnaturally large headed Avatar wandering around his domain, tending to the livestock,. My animated doppelganger seemed so much happier than I, probably because he was actually accomplishing something, while I was sitting like a rutabaga in front of my computer, on Facebook, my IQ points disappearing like a cottonfield infested with Bo Weevils.

There was something so pure about it.  I was rewarded with farm cash and experience points for everything I did, encouraged to be charitable to other players so that I could amass wealth that would allow me to expand my farm, purchase barns and other buildings, machinery, and, most importantly, decorative tchotchkes that would personalize my spread.  It was a perfect world, where the sheep returned my petting with little floating love hearts; a situation that, in retrospect, as I am in now recovery, is extremely troubling.

People I didn’t even know wanted me to be their neighbors, and showered me with gifts: Mystery Boxes, fuel for my tractor, Buffalo Topiaries and Peace Flags.  It was a Utopia of altruism: they’d pitch in to help me rid my farm of raccoons, fertilize my crops, and feed my chickens, without my request or expected reciprocation.  Of course, there was always a little appeal for a “gift back” whenever I received the “weathered brick” or “horseshoe” at barn raising time, but all it took was a couple of extra mouse clicks to share the wealth.  It wasn’t long before ALL of my spare time, the portions of the day I used to reserve for my many charitable works and visits to the gym, were spent on Facebook, playing computer Green Acres.

But as my farm expanded and I came to own a digital plantation that rivaled Tara itself, I discovered that I wasn’t collecting enough Farm Cash for my efforts. There was many a harvest when my little digital cartoon twin had to pick the crops by hand, one acre at a time, because my empty harvester lay dormant due to my not being able to purchase fuel with my Farm Coins. 

So, one awful day, frustrated at how long it was taking to maintain my make believe “Back 40,” I actually reached into my pocket for real cash…to buy virtual cash, so I could purchase ersatz gas to power my pretend tractor, so I could plow my imaginary field, and plant seeds…that do not exist in the real world.

I had hit bottom.

But with the grace of God and an itinerant imaginary farmer support group, I have been “Field Free” for six days.  I’m taking it one day at a time

I may not be tending to my crops as I once was, but I’ll be all around in the dark.  I’ll be everywhere, wherever you can look.  When there’s a neighbor who needs their leaves raked, I’ll be there.  Where there’s a lone bull that wanders onto someone’s property and needs to be adopted, I’ll be there. And when folks share their black mystery eggs, and when the people are buying colored hay bales to spell out ‘Farmville’ on their land…I’ll be there too.

In the meantime, I will be on Facebook, playing online Scrabble. 

It helps my vocabulary, and with the cheat site I found, I am virtually unbeatable.

From the Green Room: Lady Gaga, Born Again Virgin?

Lady GaGa recently announced in the Daily Mail that she is officially celibate.

Damn.  And I thought I had a chance.

How this year’s Madonna Wannabe suddenly became the sexual abstinence soul sister of Sarah Palin is beyond me.  Eschewing pre-marital relations is a fine moral stance to take, but I think the hole in Ms. Ga Ga’s  “throw down” schedule has more to do with the image she projects than with a conscious decision to remain chaste.

This is the lady whose latest video venture is a nine and a half minute short of her in a women’s prison, walking the exercise yard clad in a top made of a steamship anchor chain, and sunglasses fashioned entirely out of lit cigarettes. She has been seen on MTV with her “Poker Face” covered by a mask comprising of tiny squares from a mirrored ball, and she bemoaned a “Bad Romance” in a latex bodysuit that made her look like a cross between an albino Gumby and the “Heat Miser” from the Rankin / Bass TV classic “The Year Without a Santa Claus.”

She gives me the impression that there is more bacteria on her epidermal layer than you’d find on a Petrie dish at the CDC. Which leads me to believe that this whole celibacy thing may not be…her choice.