Castro Finds Fountain of Youth!

Fidel Castro, who has seemed so close to death the past year or so that the Cuban people carry pinatas and party hats in the trunks of their cars, has once again announced that he isn't dying any time soon.

That's where I've been the past week and a half: investigating internationally. I don't just Photoshop silly pictures of Britney Spears; I'm all detective-y and shit.

I learned just how it is that the Cuban dictator manages to stay alive against all odds. He drinks Cuban orphan blood from a bronzed cup made of pieces of JFK's skull. It's a literal fountain of youth. While he was busy stuffing a kitten into a paper shredder so he could shower (you'd think he'd have people for that), I stole a sip of his magical broth. I'm sure you're curious what it tasted like, but it's a personal experience, like accepting Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior or your rules for thumb wrestling.

I can tell you this much: the side effects are amazing. Not only do I feel twenty years younger (which makes me eight), but my urine now has three settings like those fancy shower heads. Also, if I fart in a jar and save it, a week later it will become a magical fairy which will grant me three wishes.

So, while Cuba may be under oppressive rule for eternity, at least now my belly button is a mouth which dispenses financial advice to me.

Britney the Barber Beefcake!

Not content to sit idly by with some dead lady hogging all the spotlight, Britney Spears took it upon herself and a child-safe pumpkin-carving knife to get all the attention she so desires. But I'm sure you heard about that.

Kitty Sunday: It's Not a Kitty!

But equally as cute!

It's like adorable pulled out and shot its load onto a rainbow's back.

Good Morning, OCD!

I've known for a long time that I was a spaz. Going back to my childhood when I would "Mac out." What's that? You ask. It's self-explanatory, really. See, when I would get angry, I would have to tap into something that was in me, but on a completely other side of my personality. I would "Mac out" and then I'd flail my arms wildly at my older brother, most times.

But where did its name come from? "Mac out?" That seems strange. Well, notorious hot-head tennis player John McEnroe was known for snapping and going off on angry tirades at the referees. I took a page from J-Mac and called upon his fury in times of need.

How would my brother know when I was in "Mac out" mode? There was a very simple cue to help warn any potential predators that I was "Mac'ing out." Much like aposematic coloring in the wild, one could tell simply by looking at me that I was dangerous. I would throw my arms up in the air like I had just lifted an invisible barbell (man, barbell is a fucking dumb word) above my head and yell, "Mac out!" Then my brother would laugh, but I would take it as nervous laughter because of the Hell that was about to be brought down upon him. It was like mental PCP when I was seven.

Anyway, so I'm a spaz and prone to fits of OCD or other behavior at times. This morning was terrible. Not in quite the same vein, but it still shows how screwed up my mind is.

I woke with an uncontrollable urge to dissect the word "Please" into as many different words of three letters or more as I possibly could. So, the very first thing I did this morning was that. I sat down at my desk, got out a pen, titled a piece of paper "Please" and started writing. A few minutes later I had this list: Elapse, lapse, pales, pale, peel, peels, eels, eel, lease, leap, leaps, slap, lap, laps, sale, seal, sea, see, pal, pals, ease, easel, peas, pea, pee, pees, seep, plea, pleas, sap, ape, apes, spa, ale, ales, asp, sleep, asleep.

And I thought about the word Alps, but that's a proper noun and not allowed in this imaginary game in my brain.

I should really go into therapy.

Please let me know I'm not alone.

Crazy Heaven Filling Up!

Do you remember where you were? I know I remember exactly where I was when 9/11 happened. I can recount in detail where I was with the Challenger disaster and now this. I mean, it must be on the same scale the way I heard it. A few of us at work were waiting for the elevator to go down to lunch when the doors opened and out rushed a Trinidadi fella I work with.

"Did you guys hear?"

Oh shit, what? He seemed panicked. It must be awful. Another terrorist attack, right? Dammit. I knew it. I'll never complain about taking my shoes off at the airport again.

"They found Anna Nicole Smith dead."

It was like my heart took a shit inside of my brain's mouth.

She contributed so much to society. Boobs. TrimSpa. She blew old dudes for money.

The worst part about all of this is that now I'm totally going to lose my office Oscar death tribute applause pool. I have Barbaro.