Signing Cleavage, Glorious Cleavage

The man to the left has grown weary of signing cleavage all the time.

Originally printed a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Na. The college years...dedicated to my old roommates: Screech, Fonzie, and who could forget...oh, the one with the overbite and a collection of model airplanes.

When I gaze out into the vast crowd of Advance-Titan readers before me—it's astounding—there are no uglies in the entire bunch. I see some new faces, mostly freshmen, that have never toured my Wacky Factory. Due to woeful MTV programming such as Baby's First Cell Phone and Sluts on a Bus, these youngsters may very well be burdened by attention spans shorter than a Sally Struthers hunger strike. I've got to win over the freshmen immediately if I expect them to read on. The following joke ought to do the trick.

I was at the grocery store the other day.* By the entrance I saw one of those funneled coin deposits with a sign above it that read, “Your donations will help to feed animals at the local petting zoo.” I gladly donated all the change in my wallet. Let me tell you, it’s a great feeling to know that some adorable little bunny is going to choke on the quarters I donated.

Holy Ka-blamo! You've just been bit by the silly snake, freshmen. Its venom is now coursing through your veins and you won't be relieved by the antidote until I start running out of ideas in a few weeks.

Now that we're all on the winning team—aside from that prudish PETA advocate who didn't laugh—let it be stated that the following column may test your tolerance of deadpan delusions of grandeur. It features some boastful fibbing, some bawdy bluster about boobs (or hooters, to be more refined). For the record, I don't advocate sexism, but I do advocate jokes. OK?

I am frequently asked (no...begged) by my female fans to sign their cleavage with a Sharpie marker. Is the request flattering and deliciously appealing? Oh, you bet. Get right out of town if you thought I was going to say no. Truly, signing cleavage gets me closer to God. Anyone who claims that God is a man has obviously never signed 40 eager chests in one night outside of an IHOP.

But ladies, please understand, as of now, I will only sign cleavage in moderation. If you approach me and request a cleavage-signing—Golly, as awful as this seems—I may have to turn you down. And furthermore, your chances diminish when you ask me to sign the words, “BREAST wishes—Nick Olig.” This pun has become trite and it cheapens what is already a fairly cheap practice.

Now, I don't want to be branded as “unkind” or “uptight” or “latently homosexual.” It's just that I have to scale back in order to save my sanity. Sometimes it takes me half-an-hour to walk a short distance—from Reeve Union to the library, for instance—because I'm constantly getting swarmed by screeching ladies with Sharpies. For God's sake, it's like an R-rated version of A Hard Day's Night. And when I'm backed against the wall, surrounded by fawning females, it takes a great deal of will power to declare, “No, I will NOT sign your cleavages! Now please allow me safe passage to my destination.”

When I say no, I feel like a pizza boy snubbing a small village of starving Ethiopians. Yes, cleavage-signing is to horny fans as pizza is to Ethiopians. It's what the pros call an airtight analogy, freshmen.

Those throngs of Sharpie-waving women will always tempt me, but they have become stoplights that impede my busy schedule. It won't be easy, but there comes a time in every handsome celebrity's life when he must ask himself, “Which is more important: signing cleavage or punctuality?”

I'm also cutting back because I believe in the virtues of fidelity. My heart belongs to just one lady, and signing random breast—however thrilling it may be—is an act of false advertising. You're no doubt thinking, “Who is this lucky lady who basks in reciprocated love with this undersized weirdo we have all grown to tolerate from time-to-time?” Bombshell revelation: It's Scarlett Johansson—the poster, not the actual woman. But once the actual Scarlett sees how much I adore her wall-adorning counterpart, she will become wooed past the point of brain damage. As testament to my adoration for MISS (unmarried, jackpot on the horizon) Johansson's poster, I sign the image of her deceptively flat cleavage with an erasable marker every night.

Outside flirting occurs in just about every relationship, and so the occasional cleavage-signing can be tolerated. But true commitment to a poster entails sacrifice. Therefore, my strict policy is as follows: Two cleavage-signings per week is my new limit. If this policy causes some petty heartaches, that is unfortunate, but ladies, I won't apologize.

Just to clarify, the two cleavage-signings per week excludes the ones I contribute to charity. If such philanthropy strikes you as objectionable, relax, it's not like I donate cleavage-signings to the Boys and Girls' Club. I am a devout contributor to “Cleavage-Signings for a Less-Sucky Tomorrow.” On behalf of this noble group, I routinely write inspiring messages on swooning bosoms. (Editor's note: Did you just use the word “bosoms”?) These messages include include: “Nobody Likes a Tattletale" and “Help Stop Sexism.” The autographed women then carouse about town to spread the word, one tavern at a time.

But enough about one of the many ways I help to make a difference. It's embarrassing!

In closing, I'd like to reaffirm the continuation of my ass-signing policy. I still do that without qualms.




* Even the setup is a laugh riot!

69 Fist Pumps

Rating systems are important to the neurotic mind. They help solidify an opinion, and neurotics love having opinions. Say you watched a movie and its awesomeness knocked your ass into next Sunday. Which of the following phrasings is more captivating? “I really liked the movie ‘Dumb & Dumber,’” or “Out of a possible 10, I give that outrageous comedy nine whoopee cushions.” If you have a soul, the latter is the obvious answer. To make a tired point: “Dumb & Dumber” is hilarious and whoopee cushions make me giggle.

The 10 Whoopee Cushion rating system is admittedly cool, but my favorite method of categorization is the Sixty-nine Fist Pumps system. Here’s how it works: many fist pumps means I really like something; not many fist pumps means I really dislike something. Why is sixty-nine the pinnacle for fist pumps? Because sometimes I indulge in low-brow humor.

Don’t change the channel, reader, because I’m going to provide a list of numbered fist pumps that corresponds to my appreciation level for various stuff. For the record, much of what follows is hypothetical. Which goes to show that, although it’s not mentioned on the official list, imagination gets the full Sixty-nine Fist Pumps.

69. A nice session of sweet love-making with Scarlett Johansson. Unfortunately, this remains an optimistic and hypothetical occassion.
68. Somewhat ironically, mutual oral sex with Scarlett Johansson. I just think she’s hot, OK?
67. Cubs win World Series. Mark Grace comes out of retirement for game seven against the Yankees and drives in four runs in the DH spot. And the ghost of Harry Carrey appears during victory celebration a la Obi Wan Kenobi at conclusion of “Return of the Jedi.”
66. Front row seats at a Radiohead concert. The opening act is Christopher Walken doing a puppet show.
65. “NBA Jam: Tournament Edition,” of course.
64. W. Bush gets impeached during the third week of his well-publicized “Hee-Haw” binge.
63. Lover that agrees the following things are generally overrated: Muscles, hair, confidence (which is indeed important, but uncomfortably close to conceit, for my money), above-average height, and “Family Guy.”
62. Drunken Toby Keith wets his pants onstage at Country Music Awards. Also, he insults all minorities, then slips on his own puddle of urnine and falls down hard.
61. A vigorous hug from the Advance-Titan’s Kate Briquelet.
60. A vigorous hug from the Advance-Titan’s Laura Frank. (I hope you’re not jealous, Laura. It really boiled down to who gave me a hug most recently.)
59. Niko’s Gyros delivers me a free meal every day of my life. The delivery boy is a dude wearing a ‘70s era Batman costume.
58. Modern video game console releases the sports title “Tecmo Bowl ’06.” The game is sold for $1.99 and it doesn’t disappoint.
57. Cuddling made an Olympic Sport. Within months, I appear on the cover of “Sports Illustrated.”
56. Chris Farley and Phil Hartman miraculously come back to life and headline a sketch comedy show.
55. Length of wait in line for roller-coasters determined by overall visibility of dimples. I don’t think I need to explain this one.
54. A significant reduction of my leg hair.
53. Scientists announce they have discovered a new venereal disease, and they are naming it after that colossal douche that produces those “Girls Gone Wild” videos.
52. Bill O’Reilly forced to live in a Bronx ghetto for an entire year. His misadventure is of course filmed and it becomes a hit reality show.
51. Women across the globe come to their senses and realize mustaches are much cooler than pink shirts.
50. Lunch at a fancy restaurant with Larry David and the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson.
49. A half-hour make-out session with SNL’s Tina Fey.
48. Decline in bumper stickers created by unforeseen skyrocket in price.
47. Similar to Conan’s “Walker: Texas Ranger” lever, a device in my living room that plays random snippets of “Trapped in the Closet” and the obscure ‘80s piece of rubbish “Body Slam.”
46. That ham-and-chese omelet I ate at IHOP a few months ago. It was pretty tasty.
45. Pro-athletes Barry Bonds and Terrell Owens play a game of chicken on mopeds in a narrow alleyway to determine which of the two is more arrogant. The loser gets hit in the face by a Wiffle bat wielded by a modest athlete such as Cal Ripken Jr. or Barry Sanders. The winner gets pepper-sprayed by me.
44. Beer available at vending machines on campus. (I actually wrote a letter to the chancellor lobbying for this advancement. Keep your fingers crossed, campus.)
43. Someone other than me washes the frickin’ dishes at my apartment.
42. Every March, a schizophrenic hallucination appears to me a la “A Beautiful Mind.” He fills out my taxes, wishes me luck, and then vanishes until the next year.
41. Rock band Weezer apologizes to fans of their earlier albums who foolishly bought a copy of “Make Believe.”
40. Helping to interview actor/comedian David Cross over the telephone.
39. Cast of “Friends” reunited and boarded onto a spaceship. Destination: anywhere but planet earth.
38. World peace declared by all nations.
37. Neck-ties. I find them tedious and completely unnecessary.
36. America caves in and converts to the metric system. Honestly, I could go either way on this issue.
35. Indifference. I mean--pick a side, man! But on the other hand...who gives a shit?
34. The mumps revival is interesting, but for the most part, I’m not a fan of the mumps.
33. I see my crappy stereo fall victim to spontaneous combustion. It would be a dazzling sight, but on the other hand, Nick needs his tunes.
32. A minority of college students continue to watch dumbass reality shows on MTV.
31. “Jeopardy” host Alex Trebek tracks me down at a local bar and begs for my e-mail address so we can keep in touch. Oh, don’t even get me started on that uppity dork.
30. Girlfriend that nags me to watch “Sex and the City” DVDs every Sunday night.
29. Cataclysmic tornadoes.
28. Remember those high-stress tornado drills in grade school? God, those were unbearable. (You heard it here first. According to my rating system, Tornado drills are in fact worse than actual tornadoes.)
27. A vicious bear-hug from the Advance-Titan’s Nick Gumm, followed by beard-muffled accusations that I am lazy.
26. Helping to interview actor/comedian David Cross over the phone and not being credited in print with the questions I asked him. Ahem.
25. The telemarketer profession inexplicably doubles in popularity.
24. A week-straight of Little League-related nightmares, including my streak of five consecutive tee-ball strikeouts, which nearly got me disowned by my parents.
23. My 23rd birthday was punctuated by a 23 fist pump salute from some friends.
22. The remote control runs out of juice as I’m flipping through the stations and I get stuck watching the unspeakably-boring Golf Channel for three hours.
21. Waking up next to a girl who changed into a clown costume while I was sleeping. I roll over to give her a kiss and…DEAR GOD, A CLOWN! (Editor’s note: They all float down here, Olig. Heh, heh.)
20. People start referring to me as “Slow-lig,” which occurred from time-to-time in high school.
19. Cubs’ marquee players continue to battle the injury bug. (In 2006, mind you.)
18. Getting stung by a hornet on the foot on the only day of the year that I wore sandals.
17. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld vomits bile onto the Constitution and then rewrites his own version using blood from a sacrificial puppy.
16. Trapped inside an elevator with a half-dozen rabid squirrels. My screams are drowned-out by a live bootleg from the jam band Phish.
15. Jellybeans. I just think they’re disgusting.
14. The Beastie Boys retire.
13. The maddening beep noise that occurs when you're knocking on death's door, desperate to obtain a cartoon heart in the Nintendo game "Zelda."
12. Following a cruel twist of fate, I become Donald Trump’s indentured servant.
11. Garden Gnomes. They should all be rounded up and destroyed by rednecks with illegal fireworks.
10. “The Ten Commandments.” I mean the movie, not the Biblical document. What a snoozer!
9. The high-pitched squeal of a large group of drunk women. You know that earsplitting din? It’s painful to listen to. So cut it out.
8. For some reason the court orders me to log in ten hours per week at Winger’s Bar on Wisconsin Street. Seriously, if you never tire of singing along to “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” I don’t want to hang out with you.
7. Canker-sores.
6. Any song in which a city-dweller compares himself to a cowboy, or wonders where all the cowboys have gone.
5. The Yankees win the World Series.
4. Getting shot in the kneecaps by former Van Halen singer David Lee Roth. While I’m writhing around on the ground, bloodied and hollering, he exclaims, “Bippity-Bop!”
3. After death, I get sent to hell and the rumor is true: The Port-o-potties are not cleaned with great regularity.
2. The results from the 2000 presidential election.
1. The apocalypse.
0. The results from the 2004 presidential election.

Professor Radington 1

Reader, do you know what I really look forward to in life? It’s not the fickle stuff like the free weekends of Cinemax or the popular return of the mustache (Bold prediction: the ‘stache makes a comeback in 2009, along with Zubaz pants). I’m really looking forward to that moment when I cradle my first infant child and she wraps her TINY hand around my finger and squeezes with the rare strength of an unblemished heart. Do you need to hug the person next to you after reading that? Yeah, I’d like to do the same, but I’m currently seated beside an editor that smells like microwaved Preparation-H.

Kids grow up, of course, and someday they might be squeezing your throat instead of your finger. Once kids start tossing firecrackers at the elderly and blowing all their allowance money on Vaseline, I have no clue how to deal with them. But the squeezing-finger thing seems pretty appealing, so with absolutely no further thought on the matter, I want to be a daddy.

***

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html is the link to access if you'd like to order a copy of the book this essay is featured in.

Relive Shawn Kemp's Glory Days with NBA Jam T.E.

In the year 2006, when this article was printed, Super Nintendo game reviewer was ranked the third-least profitable profession in America, ahead of only punchlines one* and two.** I dabbled in the field, but ultimately decided against it since the market was saturated with men-boys who survive on the Pop-tart diet. Super Nintendo reviewers are in less demand than a lesbian bar in Smurfsville.

College provides an outlet and an audience for a variety of obscurities; just ask a philosophy major who once raised his hand in a pit class and spouted off a criticism of the logic behind the Greatest Happiness Principle, years before getting a tattoo that reads, "Where did I go wrong?" (Philosophical Debator is actually #4 on the aforementioned list.)

When I'm dead, they should feel free to stuff a few of the stupid ones*** into the coffin with me.


When my colleagues at the newspaper asked me to write a retro video game review, I had but two questions: "Hell yes, I’ll do it," and, "Does anyone even read those?"

Great sports games usually have more replay value than their action/adventure counterparts. With all due respect to "Metroid" and "Contra," they’re just not as enchanting the second time through. Sports games are also more conducive to two-player showdowns, assuming you have a friend or a drunk uncle to play with, of course.

"NBA Jam Tournament Edition" is easily the most enjoyable basketball title for the Super Nintendo console. Playability for basketball games is often hampered by a clutter of 10 players swarming around in a half-court set. It can get pretty messy. The original "NBA Jam" stripped round-ball down to a two-on-two contest—a marquee duet vs. a marquee duet. The results were amazing.

"NBA Jam" paired the simplistic team setup and permissible violence of Nintendo’s "Arch Rivals" with the aerial acrobatics of a coked-up superhero. The pacing is rapid and never slowed down by tedious foul shots. Game-play basically boils down to passes, dunks, three-pointers, shoves and blocks. Simplicity is beautiful. The sequel surpasses the original. ACT test analogy: "A New Hope" is to "The Empire Strikes Back" as "NBA Jam" is to "NBA Jam Tournament Edition."

The biggest difference is the addition of a third bench player for each team. Stockton and Malone are joined by another white guy. Kemp and Payton are joined by a European stiff. There is one more player on the Milwaukee Bucks that you vaguely remember. A third player is essential because of another new feature: injury ratings. Gone are the days when your character can be shoved around like a scummy kid at a Misfits show without consequence. In "Tournament Edition," your character’s speed and shot-accuracy deteriorate if he has endured too much physical punishment. After a quarter’s-worth of rest, however, they return totally revitalized…just like in real life.

Player attributes are more extensive as well. Each player is rated on a scale of zero-to-nine for eight different categories. Each player has idiosyncratic and distinct strengths and weaknesses. Reggie Miller can hit the three like no other, but on the other hand, I could probably beat him in a fight. Cliff Robinson can crash the boards and throw noggin-rattling elbows, but in clutch situations, he’s about as reliable as a broken alarm clock. Spud Webb can dunk from two time zones away…and that’s pretty much it.

The settings of "T.E." are malleable and liberating. The player can choose from five levels of both difficulty and game speed. In addition, the sequel features optional "hot-spots" and "power-ups." Hot-spots are starred numbers that randomly materialize then quickly vanish on the court. Hitting a shot from that location can be worth as much as (brace yourself, dude) NINE points. Collecting a power-up boosts a specific attribute to a Game Genie-type level. When an uncoordinated monstrosity such as Shawn Bradley stumbles across a three-pointer power-up, he virtually transforms into Larry Bird beyond the arc. From a purist’s perspective, hot-spots and power-ups are decadent and downright unnecessary. They jeopardize the sanctity of "T.E.," and I never turn them on. They lend the game an awful "Dragonball-Z" feeling. Thankfully, "T.E.’s" glaring gimmicks are excluded from the tournament quest.

One-player mode is driven by the challenge of defeating all 29 NBA teams. The gamer first faces futile teams such as the pre-Kevin Garnett T-Wolves and progressively works up to worthy foes such as the Sonics and Knicks. A few of the premier teams from this era are missing their best player. The battles down the home stretch are slightly anti-climactic due to the absence of Shaq Fu, Sir Charles, and #23. All three were peddling games one-tenth the quality of "T.E." at the time. Their absence is conspicuous and disappointing, but hell, I’m not going to cry about it…anymore.

Once you’ve stomped every team in the Association, the real challenge begins. The computer drones become increasingly tenacious, wily, and resilient to shoves. Marquee players are paired with secret characters such as the pony-tailed geeks that created the game. Make no mistake: these vainglorious dweebs are sensational ballers. There’s nothing more humiliating than having your lay-up swatted by a "Trekkie" with a Dream Theater tattoo on his pasty bicep. And I feel morally-conflicted whenever my character connects a vicious elbow shot to the jaw of Mike D. from the Beastie Boys. Likewise, the Beasties’ b-ball skills are slightly embellished.

For two-player showdowns, "Tournament Edition" is incredible. Games last no longer than 15 minutes, the frenzy never relents and last-second buzzer-beaters are a common occurrence. (About a month ago, Tyler Maas stuck a dagger in my heart when he swished the winning three-pointer as time expired. I fell out of my chair, spilled my Miller Lite and cursed the cruel fatalism of the video game gods. Not a pretty sight.) Two-player cooperation is another option, and it makes one wonder why Nintendo 64 half-assed their take on the "NBA Jam" series. A worthwhile 4-player game of "Jam 64" would have brought a smile to my face back in 1997. Alas.

Out of a possible 69, "NBA Jam: Tournament Edition" earns 65 fist pumps. (My rating system is very popular with ninth-grade boys.) Stores such as Game Crazy sell retro games and consoles for cheap prices. If you’re a fan of fast-paced, simplistic sports titles, do yourself a frickin’ favor and purchase this masterpiece.


Indeed.

What does the future hold for reviewers of video games that keep fading deeper into the past? Perhaps Super Nintendo Reviewer will once again become a legitamite career, due to something whimsical like the popularity of VH1's forthcoming "I Love Nostalgia: 1994, part 9." Or maybe people will instead realize that watching VH1 is a colossal waste of time. My prediction? Never bet against VH1, America.

And even if I'm wrong, I could still fit in the occasional Super Nintendo review for charity. Imagine the smile on the face of a terminally ill seven-year-old when I tell him what I think about Donkey Kong Country.****

* Fanny-Pack Merchant
** Rec. League Hacky Sack Referee
*** Like this one, for instance.
****I think it's awesome.

The Idea Graveyard

According to Stephen King, creativity is the curse of expectations. Indeed. The man wrote and directed "Maximum Overdrive," people, and for that reason I believe everything he tells me.

Mr. King's adage hits home because I feel a tinge of regret for the good ideas I thought of during my tenure as a Lighter Side writer that never made it to print. Seriously, I had a few Showstoppers up my sleeve that, for whatever reason (whole world is plotting against me), were never printed in the Advance-Titan.

These ideas, which will be explained shortly, they're tortured phantoms whose initial promise was squandered by laziness and schedule conflicts. They linger in the mist of the Idea Graveyard. (More noteworthy inhabitants of the Idea Graveyard: a good health care system in America, peace in the Middle East, and the Beatles Reunion Tour, 1981.)

What follows is a somber tribute to the ideas that never really amounted to anything of substance--until now. So please join me as I pour out a 40 oz. of malt liquor onto some of the headstones in the Idea Graveyard.

The Mike Dewar Toss: Mike Dewar used to write for the Lighterside section, a few years ago. Mike D. weighs something like 140 lbs, which is about what I weigh. Nonetheless, I am amused by the sight of a short person being launched in the air somehow. And so I suggested that seven or eight members of the A-T staff pair up in teams of two to heave Mike as far as they can heave. We weren't going to toss Mike onto the cement, or a kiddie pool filled with broken Christmas ornaments or anything harsh like that. The idea was to toss him onto a thick gym mat or a sand volleyball court, which actually sound kind of fun. Mike said he'd be happy to do it.
The problem was, this idea was born just before the end of the spring 2006 semester, about a week before final exams. The Mike Dear Toss had to be postponed until fall 2006. But that was all right, or so I thought, because that gave me a whole summer to smooth out the details of the MDT.

Two staff members would sidle up on both sides of Mike, grab him by the belt and the back of his black Tool shirt, swing him three times for momentum, grunt, and then throw him "Roadhouse" bouncer-style as far they can throw. Four or five teams would compete, and the winners would become office legends and quite possibly national celebrities. (Camcorders are widespread and Youtube has glorified far worse ideas.)

UNFORTUNATELY, Mike chose to drop out of college in August of 2006, a month or so before school started. Then he contemplated moving to Canada, but never did. And after that, he posted a clip of himself on Youtube, "shredding" the hell out of a Buckethead song on "Guitar Hero." This is all true, and mostly lame.

Oh well. The important thing is that nobody got hurt. Because nobody risked injury. Namely, Mike Dewar.

The Beard vs. Mustache Wager: Nick Gumm used to be the B-section editor, and he wrote music reviews, too. In addition to editing and writing, Gumm is known for his trademark beard. One day, retired Lightersider Chris Becker refered to Gumm as "Beardo." Everyone loved the nickname, except for one person (Nick Gumm), and from then on he was called Beardo by several people in the office.

In spite of the childish insults, Beardo kept his beard, because Nick Gumm was simply Born to be Bearded. And he knows it.

Now, in regard to mustaches, I sported a mustache for nearly a month, just long enough to realize: that I can work it better than most, that most women I'm attracted to scoff at the sight of a mustache, and that sideshow experiments such as the mustache trial-run should be done only in moderation. I haven't grown out the old pushbroom since Jan. 2006. I am not Born to be Mustachioed.

Gumm has a beard similar to Paul McCartney's on the cover of "Let It Be." And I had a mustache like John Lennon's on the cover of "Sgt. Pepper." And while we're on the subject, the Two of Us are big fans of the Beatles. We agree that the Beatles are a no-brainer personal top-five band. We both know some fairly impressive trivia about the long-hairs from Liverpool, and I've sometimes wondered who knows more.

So, the idea I proposed was a Beatles trivia challenge, a showdown between two music nerds who miss the hell out of "Rock and Roll Jeopardy." And here's the clincher: if Gumm lost, he'd have to shave his thick, trademark beard. If I lost, I'd dust off the old pushbroom and rock the 'stache. Either way, our facial hair (or lack thereof), would honor the wager for a whole month.
The Beard vs. Mustache Wager never happened. I forget why, exactly, but feel free to assume it was all Beardo's fault.

Ex-Pro Wrestler Movie Review: This doozy has been rotting in the Idea Graveyard for quite some time. Let me explain. Pro wrestlers crack me up, especially when you put them in situations where you wouldn't expect to see them screaming and flexing. Sometimes I find myself wondering what retired pro-wrestlers do for a second career. The same theorizing applies to cheesey managers such as Paul Bearer, who would be hilarious as a creepy school bus driver.

In junior high, my friend Matt and I passed a notebook back and forth during History class, drawing a comic strip that depicted the antics of Hacksaw Jim Duggan and the Macho Man Randy Savage. Sometimes the duo chatted about violent guy movies (namely: "Over the Top" and "No Holds Barred"), and years later, in college, I got the idea that it would be funny to see them reviewing films, not unlike Ebert and Ropert on steroids.

A script exists for this bit, but a script without a visual counterpart is basically useless. Once upon a time I was faintly motivated to write a few phony movie reviews from the perspective of Misters Hacksaw and Macho Man. I'd better finish this one in the very near future because those incorrigible pro-wrestlers rarely live past the age of 50.

Robert Goulet Goes to Heaven: If a Will Ferrell impression has taught me nothing else, it's that semi-legendary crooner Robert Goulet was a freewheelin' cocktail fiend. Unfortunately, Goulet passed away not too long ago, and I thought it'd be nice to write him a comedic tribute. All I've jotted down for this bit are a few stage directions and some dialogue between Goulet and St. Peter. It goes something like this...

Recently deceased crooner Robert Goulet materializes in Heaven. He wears a dark suit and sunglasses, and as he inspects his bright-cloudy surroundings, he nods approvingly. Goulet approaches St. Peter just outside of the Pearly Gates.

Goulet: There's the man of the hour. So tell me, Pete, have I been naughty or nice this lifetime?

St. Peter: Ha. Yes, we've been expecting you, Mr. Goulet. Unfortunately a lot of people have died these last few minutes, but rest assured, we will call your name soon.

Goulet: Don't sweat it. Hey, while I'm waiting I could really go for a Tom Collins right about now. All that dying made me thirsty.

St. Peter: I'm sorry, alcohol is not allowed--

Goulet: Whoa! If this place doesn't have any Tom Collins, you might as well press the button for the trap-door, my friend.

St. Peter: But if you'll only let me finish, Mr. Goulet. Certain indulgences are in fact permitted in Heaven...a select few vices.

Goulet: Hey speaking of vices, you know who I always wanted to shtoop down there on planet Earth but never sealed the deal? Suzanne Somers. Is her name listed in the phone book up here?

St. Peter: Suzanne Somers won't be dead for another twenty-four years, Mr. Goulet.

Goulet: You mean, Suazane Summers is still alive? Yikes!

(End Scene.)

Yikes indeed. We just witnessed the exorcism of some harrowing comedy-ghosts, half-funny and half-scary, much like Slimer from "Ghostbusters."

Hey, maybe for "Ghostbusters 3," Slimer could grow a thick beard and join a rough-housing college frat, and there would be an asshole Dean--an evil, fun-hating ghost who enforces conformo rules that Slimer and the gang just ain't down with...

It's ideas like this that keep the Idea Graveyard decaying and thriving.