OMG!!! Stop the presses. Twenty plus years later, Mrs. Bundy is hotter than Kelly!!!

Here's the cast from Married With Children, circa 2009.

Baby Shaker? Somebody had to sign off on this. In fact, a whole marketing division had to. WTF?

IN THE NEWS – Apple Inc. apologized April 23 for selling Baby Shaker, an iPhone application that let users silence an imaginary crying infant by shaking the multimedia device. The 99-cent “app” was removed from Apple’s online store April 22, two days after it debuted (although it endures on YouTube). Outraged child-welfare groups that decried it as “horrifying” and “reckless” demanded an apology – which they finally got.

COMMENTARY – Can Steve Jobs die so he can roll over in his grave? Apology accepted, Apple. In other news, Apple released it’s next line of iPhone apps: Euthanize Nana - where users can ”pull the plug” on a senile granny by hitting the ’end call’ button.

Love stinks, but “luv” is even worse

We’ve all gotten the email, text mail or even the old fashioned scribbled note that says, “i luv u”

Men. When you see that, run for your life.

It’s from the “Hot Chick” and she’s out to use you like a tampon. You’re there to stop the bleeding then quickly discarded.

There are differing variations of how Hot Chick bastardizes the phrase “I love you” to strip it of any meaning.

There’s “luv,” signed Hot Chick (translation: thanks for the $20)

There’s “luv u,” signed Hot Chick (translation: thanks for the $200)

And there’s “i luv you,” signed Hot Chick (translation: thanks for helping me move my large u-Haul worth of crap 120 miles to my new town, I owe you a beer we both know I’ll never come close to buying you.)

Notice how in the last version, not one of those words is properly punctuated or spelled correctly.

That’s not by mistake.

Women know the power of the word “love.” It means everything to them. And they don’t throw it around lightly.

The “I Love You” guy gets blow jobs.

The ‘i luv u” guy gets 2 a.m. sobbing phone calls from Hot Chick detailing the latest argument with I Love You Guy.

The “I Love You” guy gets to go out to the bars with Hot Chick who is all over him.

The “i luv u” guy gets set up with Hot Chicks 280-pound Girlfriend.

In the end, “luv” means you get all the headaches, whining and expenses – just without the sex.

So what’s the point?

God bless you, Mark Fidrych. The Bird will always be alive in me.

Mark Fidrych died while working on his truck.

That’s what authorities believed happened on Monday when the 54-year-old Massachusetts legend died.

If the name means nothing to you, then go find another blog.

In 1976, there was a phenomena that swept this country called “The Bird.”

I’m 44 and was born and raised in Michigan. It’s hard for me to describe just what Mark Fidrych meant to Michigan. 

He was part Michael Phelps, part Elvis, part Britney Spears (that would be the crazy.)

I do recall this. As I got older, people in their 20s would make fun of me as I got into middle age. And one of my defense mechanisms was simple: “Yeah. I’m in my 40s. You are in your 20s. But you know what? You never know what it was to experience Mark Fidrych.”

To those under the age of 30, Mark Fidrych was a Detroit Tiger pitcher who debuted as a rookie and made the All-Star game.

He talked to the ball. Yes. He was that fucking crazy. You know what’s crazier? It listened. Fidrych was nuts. He got down on his hands and knees and groomed the pitching mound to his specifications.

And he bitch slapped just about every team in the American League that year.

He was 19-9. He led the league in ERA at 2.34. He was the AL Rookie of the Year.

Mark Fidrych was to every boy in Michigan what that first crush is to 7th grade girls – something that just blind sides you and you end up scribbling in your diary about.

My dad took me to see two Fidrych games. Actually, three games, but one we couldn’t get in. The two I attended were sold out. But you saw the green grass – an oasis of technicolor in a city of chipped paint – and that guy on the mound and you believed.

You believed in miracles. You believed in a city that had nothing to offer to an 11-year-old at the time other than abandoned buildings and desperation.

One of the games my dad took me to was sold out. It was the Yankees on Monday Night Baseball.

Wikipedia says it was June 28, 1976. I don’t know. I was 11 years old. My dad was dumbfounded. In 1975, just one year previous, the Tigers had lost 102 games and were the laughing stock in baseball. Now, you couldn’t buy a ticket?

That was The Bird.

We got home and watched the final inning on national TV. Detroit won 5-1.

The next year, my dad bought me a box of baseball cards, a real passion of my life. At 12, I was nearing the end of the packs. My older brother lied, saying he had heard that there were no Mark Fidrych cards because he was a rookie.

Then, I opened a pack and found it. The Topps card No. 265. Mark Fidrych. I cheered out loud. My brother was relieved he had been proven wrong.

It sells on eBay now for $4.95. You can pry mine from my cold dead hands. Although nearly 20 years later after I unwrapped it, I would give one away.

The two games I got to see Fidrych pitch in person, I was standing on my feet 10 minutes after the game ended. The Bird came out to tip his hat. And the crowd exploded. The electricity was unreal. Detroit was not a city I feared anymore. It was the place to be.

Fidrych earned $16,500 that rookie year. After the season, the Tigers gave him a $25,000 bonus.

Fidrych injured his knee the next spring. Had he played today, it would probably had kept him out six months. This injury ruined his career. He was never the same.

In 1995, while working at a newspaper in Pittsburgh as a sports writer, I called Fidrych. His number was listed in the phone book. God bless him.

I told him the 20 year anniversary of his one-year wonder season was approaching. I wanted to interview him.

He was very polite. Despite being 10 years older, he called me “Sir” several times in our conversation while politely declining to do an interview.

“I’m too busy,” he said.

He lived on a fucking farm. He wasn’t too busy. It was just hard to live in the past. I was 30. I understand now.

The next day, I took my 1977 Topps Mark Fidrych card – the one with All-Star written across the top – and mailed it to him along with a note expressing just how important he was to the state of Michigan. I never heard back from him.

Now, he’s gone.

Mark Fidrych, rest in peace, bud.

With you goes my youth. But that’s OK. With your passing, it’s time to let go.

“….OK, just sit back and enjoy your flight, we’ll be at 10,000 feet momentarily and the weather at our destination is going to be warm and – AHHGHT! ….”

IN THE NEWS: A passenger landed a twin-engine plane in Florida after the pilot died in flight with a total of six people on board. Federal Aviation Administration officials say the pilot died after takeoff from an airport in Naples on April 12. It was on autopilot and climbing toward 10,000 feet when the pilot died.

The passenger who took over is licensed for single-engine planes but isn’t certified to fly the larger King Air craft.

An air traffic controller helped the passanger down by calling a friend in Connecticut who knows the King Air plane and relaying instructions. The plane landed safely at Southwest Florida International Airport in Fort Myers.

COMMENTARY – Didn’t I see this on Laverne and Shirley? Yes, I did. It was a 1977 episode entitled, “Airport ’59.”

Laverne flies and Shirley navigates. Spoiler alert: they live.

Here’s my amazement with this show … it was horrible TV,  neither chick was remotely doable and yet it lasted eight years. Amazing. I mean if it was remade today, Laverne would be played by Paris Hilton and Shirley would be Lindsey Lohan.

In 1982, there was even a cartoon of the show as part of the “Mork & Mindy/Laverne & Shirley/Fonz Hour.” My favorite Laverne & Shirley cartoon episode? It was the one where the cartoon Laverne is upset when she learns cartoon Mork gave her “the clap.”

Memo to Eminem: It’s time to stop thinking up words that rhyme with “Mom”

Rapper Eminem has a new album coming out. His sixth studio album is set to be released May 19. Two tracks have been leaked – “Crack A Bottle” and “We Made You.”

 I love Eminem’s music. But I’m not sure the music industry has had an artist with bigger Mommy issues since Elvis.

 Her name is Debbie Nelson. She’s 54. In 2002, Eminem released the 2002 smash hit “Without Me” where he yells, “Fuck you, Debbie!” Slim Shady followed that up with the 2002 smash hit “Cleanin’ Out My Closet.” It’s full of knocks against his mother.

 Now, I’m sure to his throng of teen followers, that struck a chord. But he’s 36 now. Who still complains about their parents in their latter 30s? You are not rapping then, you are whining. And can there be more of a death-sentence in the rap industry than to be labeled a momma’s boy?

So far, no reference to his mother yet on the first two tracks.

 And another frequent target of Eminem’s lyrics? His ex-wife Kim Mathers? Shady, rap all day/all night about her. Knocking on the old lady never gets old.

Kris, baby, it’s Stripper 101: You screw ‘em, don’t marry ‘em.

In case you missed it, Kris Benson was the starting pitcher for the Texas Rangers in the home opener April 10 for the Detroit Tigers.

Benson, 34, is a journeyman pitcher who has been on four teams in eight years. He missed last year due to injury. But he’s hardly the star attraction anymore. 

That’s his wife, Anna Benson. A former stripper who is full-time crazy.

Kris violated the No. 1 rule of athletes – hang out at the strip clubs, just leave the way you came in: single.

In interviews over the year, she’s told the media she wanted to have sex with her husband in every stadium and has done her husband in the Pittsburgh stadium, made over 30 porn tapes with her husband, she would fuck all of his teammates if Kris ever cheated on her and then filed for divorce in 2006 before rescinding the request.

Smell that. It’s 100 % bona-fide crazy you got there on your hands, Kris.

Anna had a website a few years ago that played Kanye West’s song “Golddigger” as the theme song. Benson signed a $27 million contract as a rookie and didn’t sign a pre-nup. So, Kris, we leave you with the artist your wife knows well – Kanye West – and some lyrics to his best song – Golddigger.

“If you ain’t no punk holla’ we want pre-nup WE WANT PRE-NUP!, yeah It’s something that you need to have ‘Cause when she leave yo’ ass she gon’ leave with half”

“Hi, 911? Yes, I am in Kmart and their clothes don’t fit and AHHHH!”" ZZZZ-AAAAAA-PPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!

IN THE NEWS – A Texas woman called 911 on April 6 to report she didn’t get as much shrimp as she wanted in her fried rice at a Texas restaurant.

Haltom City police on Tuesday released the taped emergency call, in which the customer is heard telling the dispatcher, “to get a police officer up here, what has to happen?”

The customer also says: “He didn’t even put extra shrimp in there.”

The upset customer had left the Fort Worth-area restaurant when an officer arrived that  afternoon.

COMMENTARY – Unfortunately, the 911 call has become to idiots when 7-Eleven is to potheads – a meeting place.

On April 1, a woman called 911 in Florida because the electrical system in her car failed and then apologized when told by dispatchers to open the lock manually.

On March 3,  another Florida woman called 911 three times to report an “emergency.” Latreasa Goodman, 27, called police to complain that a cashier–citing a McDonald’s all sales are final policy–would not give her a refund. When cops responded, she said, “This is an emergency. If I would have known they didn’t have McNuggets, I wouldn’t have given my money, and now she wants to give me a McDouble, but I don’t want one.” 

Oh, I got a McDouble for you. The McDouble kick in the ass for being galactically retarded.

The solution is simple.

Everyone gets one jackass 911 call. The overwhelming majority of us will never use it.

But if you do, you get no more lifelines. Instead, once you call 911 the next time, you get 500 volts the moment you hit that final “1″ button.

So, your car slid off the side of a road and into the ravine and water is gushing in through the windows and you can’t open the door?

But you called 911 about three months ago because Burger King won’t make your hamburger the way you wanted (as a California woman did in 2005), then feel free to call again all you want.

Zap! Zap! Zap! Zap!

 

Goodbye Farrah — you were The Sex Symbol of my generation.

MSNBC reported late Sunday night, according to friends, Farrah Fawcett is expected to die soon from anal cancer.

And although this blog’s focus is on the humorous, the 62-year-old actress has touched many of my generation like none other.

To understand what Farrah means to the 40-something man, you have to start with how society has changed. There was no YouTube, no sex tapes, no Internet, no VCRs.

There were just moments of TV when advertisers put a hot chick on TV and you stopped whatever the hell you were doing and watched.

Way before Charlie’s Angels, there was the Noxema commercial. That’s when I first saw her. It was played during the highlights of a Notre Dame football game on Sunday morning.

She sang, “Hey, hey, my name is creamy. Jump on my trolly I got something to say.” I was stunned at first by her beauty. But deep down, I knew those lyrics had some hidden filthy, dirty meaning to it. But I was probably 9 at the time, so what the fuck did I know?

So every Sunday morning, I would sit in front of the TV downstairs and watch the Notre Dame highlights.

My dad thought I was just a big football fan. Bullshit. I had to see this chick again. And you know what, I did become a Notre Dame football fan.

And then, a couple years later, came the “poster.” The one where she’s sitting in a one-piece bathing suit in what appears to be a very cold room because the headlights are on!

It was 1976. I was 11 and in 5th grade. I brought the infamous poster to my fifth grade class. My teacher Mrs. Rose – who was a cross between Sandy Duncan and Walter Matthau – took it from me and ripped it up in front of the whole class. I knew then the impact Farrah had on other women.

And on me.

But Farrah quickly became outdated.

Her replacement on Charlie’s Angels was Cheryl Ladd – who was younger and had a better body. (Any man in his 40s probably didn’t watch more than five episodes of Charlie’s Angels, but dammit, we saw damn near every opening credits when Cheryl jumped aboard that boat in her bikini.)

 And Farrah  never could cash in on crazy like Paris Hilton or Britney Spears  – although I don’t doubt Farrah was as crazy as a shithouse rat. Just look at the David Letterman interview.

So sometime soon, Farrah Fawcett will die.

And with her goes a special part of my youth – a sexual awakening that she left her stamp upon - back in a  time when all that mattered was seeing that commercial and seeing that girl again.

So, today we all mourn the passing of a sex symbol. Actually, The Sex Symbol, to any man in his mid to late 40s.

Ciao, Farrah. I suspect you’ll have no problem getting through the Pearly Gates. Just tell St. Peter you’re the chick on God’s wall.

Let’s see … he’ll have two homes and three cars … yep, it’s another celebrity’s idea of bankruptcy

You may know him as Michael Vick, the fallen-from-grace NFL superstar who played for the Atlanta Falcons and made millions before ending up in prison for running a brutal dog-fighting business.

(However, certain chicks know him as Ron Mexico in 2005. That’s the name he gave them while he nailed them and took off. Turns out, Mr. Mexico has Herpes and never told these women, who filed suit.  Vick’s attorney, Mr. Latin America, couldn’t be reached for comment.)

Now, Vick is due out of prison and is going to start his life over. He plans to go back to the NFL. Until then, he’s line up a $10 an hour construction job. (That’s a keen little insight as to what value athletes have outside the sports world).

But before that, Vick filed for bankuptcy, saying he had $20 million in debt and only  $16 million in value. Vick is currently banned from playing in the NFL.

The judge rejected Vick’s request. Seems Mr. Mexico/Vick has a funny idea of what “bankruptcy” means. Vick wanted to keep both of his Virginia homes and three cars.

One of his homes was listed in 2007 at $4.5 million. The home has seven bedrooms, 8.5 baths, is on a lake on 1.5 acres. The monthly payment is $23,000.

All on his $10 a hour construction job.

I’m with the judge here. Let’s try again, Michael.