Pal hates this. We know because he told us. He also mentioned, to the entire shop — the clowns, etc. — that he loves how much furious compassion and sympathy Jones has (or is acting like he has) for the fish people.

Gonna Need a Bigger Bowl

goldfish photo

You know what Irishmen say in Japan. Don’t flush the terlit, let the terlit flush you. The jacks.

Pal’s driving to Atlantic City at the moment. Said he found a coupon for a nighter when he was walking in the morning. Looked like a scratch-off that had already been scratched and tossed aside (a loser) but no one in the shop said a thing. Think we could all use a break from his “this and this” for at least a coupla days.

By the way, one of the clowns found this jumbo goldfish picture here. Said it was taken in Australia.



Pal said he’s seen a lot of PGA Tour pros, like Dustin Johnson, wear this color pant. When he said “pant” the clowns in the shop made him stop from going any further. Accused him of being a dilettante. Before one of them could finish piggybacking off the initial allegation Pal was already out the door. The whole place heard his golf spikes clatter the surrounding sidewalk cement.

Didn’t Feel Right [UPDATED]

Pal loved this Timothy Burke Deadspin piece on the burial of the long jump — a once primetime Olympic television appointment now represented by a couple minutes of highlights. Catharsis? Gutted.

Its significance lopped off like the promise of a fifty-first state.


It’s unfortunate that these spineless leeches are from New Jersey, but no matter. This video brings Pal’s already warm blood to a thick, bubbly simmer, and the shop got to hear all about it. At first, the clowns laughed, but stopped when Pal pumped the second track of New Miserable Experience over the system, and sang along.

Pal says that when you set out to make popular music, then wake up one afternoon years later and it’s made and out there but very few people give a shit about it, you become bitter and criticize those who accomplished this — what you couldn’t.

Pal went on:

“Walk into any bar with a jukebox. Find the thing. Throw a few nickels in there and then try and play a fucking ‘Cymbals Chew Music’ song or whatever the fuck. Yeah? Can’t right? Can’t find it. It won’t be in the damn machine. Blossoms though? I’ll cue up one of their numbers in the time it takes you sip.”

If only Pinfield subscribed to this szmata.

Pal Never Knew This

Pal read about these Italian scientists who found that spaghetti doesn’t make you fat, it’s eating too much of that … ?

He told the clowns in the shop it’s bullshit. He then brought it up hours later and added “pure” to the conclusion. “Pure bullshit.” He said he eats spaghetti and knows it makes him heavier. He said if he’s eating it, it’s because he craves the weight — the “power” — and can’t wait to throw it around.

When the clowns asked him if he knew why the hole was in the spoon he ignored the question, and immediately changed the subject. Brought up Kathy Ireland, of all people. He said she and the dog with the eye patch used to nip at one another’s heels.

Sea Food Differently

Pal brought up butter. The edible fatty stuff. He told the clowns that “milk must look up to butter like … ?”

“Let’s take a roadie. On the road. He sees Axl Rose — pretend this is the 80s, okay? He sees Axl and all he sees is a burlap sack full of diamonds. Only, the burlap ain’t burlap. It’s his skin. His bandana. Sunglasses.

“He’s the caterpillar. And Axl is the moth.”

Maybe Tuddy Was Right

Pal says no matter how you spell “Tuddy”, it ain’t spelled right. That is, it’s impossible to spell it the way it’s pronounced. The shop couldn’t argue with this, so one of the clowns asked him if he’s been getting heavier. Pal looked up at the ceiling and smirked. Then without looking down at the clown or the rest of us said “you gotta spend money to make money.”

By the way, the explanation of the Pesci scene at the end of the film is worth watching the vid ’til the end. It’s almost a history lesson.

Edwin S. Porter. 1903.

Ray Liotta was born on December 18, 1954 in Newark, New Jersey. On February 9, 1943, Joe Pesci was born. In Newark, New Jersey.

Star. Smile. Strong.

Pal made us find this clip from Broadway Danny Rose. Thought he was so clever. Pretty funny scene though:

“If you take my advice I think you’re going to become one of the great balloon-folding acts of all time.”

Pal also brought up Mia Farrow as Tina Vitale in those big sunglasses. Said he heard one of the toughest things for a performer to pull of is acting without their eyes. “You know, because the eyeballs … emote. You know that.”

Turn! Turn! Turn!


Pal read about this months ago in an online Baptist bulletin. Finally found footage of it. Was pretty thrilled.

From the Babylon Bee:

In lieu of one of his renowned expository sermons, Washer elected to glare angrily at the congregation for a full 43 minutes before closing in prayer, sources confirmed Thursday. As the choir’s final strains of Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee faded throughout the sanctuary, Washer stepped up to the pulpit, took a drink of water, and launched into his carefully-prepared cold, angry, silent stare.

“It was powerful,” 21-year-old Ryan Worthington recalls. “When he got to his second sermon point, which consisted of a slightly more aggressive and tortured facial expression, I broke down weeping as I realized that Christ offers me His own righteousness instead of my filthy rags.”

Near the end of the sermon, Washer’s gaze was reportedly so convicting that a congregant called out, “Amen!” but was instantly rebuked with a scathing death-gaze from Washer, causing the man to run out of the room, sobbing.

Washer lives in Virginia. He has a family and hates Joel Osteen, a preacher who makes a lot more money than he does.

Blue Ink

Pal doesn’t have any ink. He says he hasn’t come across anything he’d like to memorialize on his body forever. Most of the clowns in the shop have some, though. This seems to impel Pal to quote Van Gogh, leave it cryptic.

Whatever, he’s just pissed he’s going to lose 30 sirignanos on the PGA Championship for the second year in a row. Picked Bubber again as one of his horses. Which was poor, because the wiry, shifty Floridian and his bagman decided to key on the heckling gallery and their ancestors rather than the top of the leaderboard.

Little Rocks/Hilly Rods/Baby Boy

Pal was never — is never — going to be any potential candidate’s campaign strategist. But he said if he was, he would advise Hillary to print banners, buttons and pump commercials that refer to her as “Hilly” rather than her full name. Or “her.” He said it’s more casual, easy, comforting and it appeals to the proletariat — the votes she’s lacking. The ones her adversary is getting in bushels (if they’re white people).

One of the retired rodeo clowns in the shop interrupted Pal and offered a fantastical, nostalgic image of the young Arkansas couple getting married, or lying in bed as attractive people, telling each other they’d both be POTUS one day. Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. Still, it’s pretty staggering to think about.