I figured out why the Oscar presentations put so much emphasis on finding the right Master of Ceremonies – because the show is so friggin boring. Think about it for a minute. Four hours to make a dozen presentations and in that four hours they limit the recipients to one half a second to give their acceptance speech.

This year they went out and hired Chris Rock to host the show. All the chatter before Oscar night was about whether or not the comedian, known for his filthy talking mouth and questionable content, could restrain himself through a four hour live – with a ten second delay – prime time television show. Well, he refrained himself just fine, to the point he was also boring.

These days I think part of the problem has to do with a lack of ability to actually be funny and creative. Too much humor is based on cussing and swearing and talking filth. The reactions are more to do with the shock value than the actual content of the subject matter. In time when our society becomes de-sensitized to that filth, there will have to be either a way to achieve more shock or no more so called comedians.

Hundreds of nominees, their friends and family have gathered nervously in a setting that has much of the world watching. The nominees have a difficult time laughing at anything but to attempt political humor at an Oscars night is career suicide. Chris Rock is always using race issue in his humor so any reference to that came as no surprise but no one laughed either. If you want reaction from the audience, talk directly at them and make funny stories about the issues at hand. About the only reference he made in that direction was when he talked of how the only acting done at the Oscars was when a loser acted as though they weren’t angry they lost.

I hope in another year, if they can’t find a good emcee who can make the show interesting, find one that is befitting the rest of the program – someone as boring as it is.

No one is immune to the ridicule of Mainard True. I grew up in a town where in the summertime it was filled with participants for a school designed to teach people how to interact with other people. Hard to believe isn’t it?

Mind you, this town only has a population of about 1100 people and some of them you would have to wonder if they was people at all. It became obvious to the locals that these so-called students of interaction had a problem with their elevators – if you know what I mean. After all, how long does it take to learn how to tell someone to go to hell?

I became most familiar with NTL (an acronym for something I ain’t gonna tell ya what it is) the summer after my freshman year in high school when I got a job working for them. OOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEE! I think if my parents knew what I was learning they would a learned me right back to the country homestead.

The most infamous of these classes were call HI or human interaction. They would sit around in groups and first discover who they were – ain’t that a joke – and then who the other people were – an even bigger joke. You see once you got to know yourself, then you were ready to take on the rest of the world.

What I want to know is who don’t know who they are? If by the time you become an adult and you don’t yet know who you are, I think you need something more than a human interaction class. I discovered that many of these people once they “found themselves” got totally scared and ran away never to be found again – I think that’s where the politician gene poor has its’ roots.

Sometimes these “sensitivity sessions” as they were so affectionately called got a bit out of hand. Once you label something with official sounding terminology, it gives you a right to tread into areas that should be left alone.

Part of my job was to make sure every classroom – they ain’t what they called them because classroom denoted something totally different…yuk! – had paper for there easel boards and fresh tape for the tape recorders. Oh, yeah, they recorded these sessions so the next day they could play them back while eating popcorn and peanuts and sipping wine. No shit! Then they would single one particular brain dead moron out of the group and verbally tear them to shreds – you know, the old tear em down so you can build em up approach.

One day I was witness to a body painting class. I got a call from someone in the administration office that the annex was out of water color paints and could I bring some right a way. I brought them all right. This was the first time I ever saw naked men and women painting each other from head to toe. I ain’t 100% sure but I’m pretty sure I ain’t seen it since – thank God.

This was 1968 – make love not war – era and I can tell you nobody was making war. I guess after sitting around day after day discovering yourself and ridiculing others to the point of mental breakdowns, a good body painting session would help in the slow struggle to rebuild a better, stronger human – one that now knows how to “interact” with other people.

Now I ain’t no scholar but I can tell you, my daddy never told me nothing about that kinda stuff. He told me to mind my own damned business and to be nice to people – even when you don’t like them too much. I don’t recall him directly telling me to keep my clothes on but he did tell me some about the consequences of taking them off.

In my continuing campaign against ridiculous pet owners, I have another asinine story. Just the other day I picked up the newspaper and came across the editorial section while browsing for something interesting. This rarely occurs, but I did notice a picture of a dog. It was one of those rug rat kind of yippy pain in the neck dogs.

It seems the editorial was ripping the newspaper editor to shreds for printing a story about this dog and its’ owner. The story and picture showed how the owner dyed part of the hair on the dogs back red, white and blue and stuck some stars on it to show their patriotism – It was kinda cool I thought.

The rebuttal chastised anyone who would do that to a poor little doggy and the newspaper for printing the story. The writer went on and on about the possible dangers that poor unsuspecting animal might be subjected to by having its hair dyed and red, white and blue streamers put around its head and ears.

Has this letter writer been living in a cave for the last few years? There is far more extreme hair dying and skin dying being carried out on human beings than any poor unsuspecting canine yapper. And herein lies the meat and potatoes of why I believe some pet owners are sick in the head. To some, pets have more rights and are treated better than humans.

I guess it is acceptable to dye our skin, punch holes in our bodies in places there was never any intention to have holes, color our hair, often with spray paint, dress like bums, hobos and tramps and expose nearly every inch of our skin to the world for scrutiny. But to do the same to a dog would be just despicable. What is wrong with people??

So, what else is new? I’ve been so busy of late straightening out messes from previous lack of knowledge on the part of web design, so I’ve neglected my blog here some. BUT, I had to stop over this morning and do some more of what I do best – bitching and complaining.

I don’t think or maybe I should say I prefer to think, that I am not completely alone in the way my pea sized brain thinks. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it doesn’t think. My question to you this morning is this: “Where are we going to be in 5, 10 or maybe 15 years if we don’t get our heads out of our God given disaster shelters, that would be back where the sun don’t shine for those of you who have your head there now, and do something about the absolutely ridiculous political correctness bullpucky?”

We are only kidding ourselves and it drives by bonkers. Just the other night I was watching a news program and they were doing a story about dogs. Now, some of you may have figured out I’m not a big fan of dogs and those of you who don’t have your heads up your Associated Press International, I am a less bigger fan of the dumbasses who own them.

This particular story was about a deaf dog. The owner, a woman who looked exactly like her 2 year old boxer, couldn’t control her dogs – yes the sniveling, selfish, upper middle class snob had 3 of them. So, she called in the “Bark Patrol” to teach her dogs to obey and in particular not to jump up on people. For those of you not familiar with boxers, they are bred for that purpose or so it would seem. Anyone who has ever been around one of them sweet darlings knows that’s all they ever do – beside drool.

As is my usual style of writing, I am somewhat off the subject and using way too many words to tell you what I really wanted to convey. The “trainer” hauls out what the entire world knows is a choker chain. He holds it up in front of the TV camera and says, “The mistake we all make is calling this a choker chain. It is not a choker chain. It is called a “check” chain.

Well, excuse me!!! It is still a piece of steal chain with two larger rings on each end. You slip one ring through the other ring and put it around your dogs neck and attack a leash to it. When the unruly beast tries to yank your arm off, you haul back on your leash and CHOKE THE SON OF A nother dog!!

Somehow by now calling this tool a check chain instead of a choker chain makes it uncruel. I can hear it now. Vision this if you will. The setting is Los Angeles and Michael Jackson is on trial for trying to murder his house maid. The prosecution has the janitor on the stand and asks the janitor to describe what he saw. “I was looking out through the crack in the closet door hoping to get a glimpse of Michael getting out of the shower and Ms. Garcia walked in the room. Michael screamed like a woman (court room erupts in laughter) and then went over and began choking her.” “Objection, your Honor!!!!! It has already been established that my client wasn’t choking Ms. Garcia. He merely was “Checking” her.

Case dismissed! Oh, come on people! Changing a word’s meaning doesn’t change anything. Are we becoming the laughing stock of the world?

Well, I missed out on an opportunity to make fun of Valentine’s Day. I have just been so busy, I didn’t have time. But, Valentine’s Day is for lovers and love comes from lovers and love can be used as lovely and THAT is the word I am going to use to describe the sights and sounds of America today.

I was sitting outside the local Chinese restaurant the other night waiting for my wife to pick up our order – it was my turn to cook. People were milling about as the restaurant was quite busy. All of a sudden, the entire city was brought to a complete standstill as windows were rattling, every piece of plastic in my car was vibrating and that’s a lot of plastic. For a moment I thought I had been transplanted to the Devil’s Tower and was having a “close encounter of a third, fourth or fifth kind”.

Most everyone stopped dead in their tracks, but there were some who seemed oblivious to the intrusion. The seconds flew past and the noise got louder and the vibes began to shake my teeth and soon the lint in my belly button popped out and landed on the floor of my car.

Suddenly, a vehicle of some kind, maybe it was from out of space, pulled into the parking spot a couple spaces down. It was difficult for me to believe that a human being could be inside the internal combustion propelled sound machine. Even a deaf person couldn’t take the vibrations.

I was correct! Out stepped “something”. I’m not sure what it was, but when the door opened, it blew the window out on the passenger’s side of the car and the blast hit me so hard my somewhat receding hairline was forced back another inch or so. I still haven’t quite recovered the full use of my lips as they were distorted completely out of shape.

When what appeared to be some kind of living being stepped out from between the vehicles and emerged in plain view, I must admit I was scared. I have met up with bears in the woods, been within a few feet of a moose in the wilds, and even sat through a couple episodes of Jerry Springer and the Price is Right, but this was scary.

There was, I think, some flesh like material showing here and there. Most of it was covered in what resembled some form of modern or psychedelic art. It was quite a contradiction to say the least. At first I thought this thing must either have money or access to expensive jewelry because it was everywhere – ears, nose, eyebrows and that was only what I could see. But upon further review, I realized this person? couldn’t afford a pair of pants that fit. Needless to say, the fashion being exhibited here was something to behold. One would think that if people insist on showing the world their underwear, at least there should be some kind of fashion to the shorts.

When he got out of his vehicle, he left the door open so all of us could relax and enjoy the calming sounds protruding the night air. Then I began to recognize some of the sounds. There were words that would have given my father reason to wash my mouth out with soap and some that I know he didn’t even know. So fulfilling.

I wonder if CDs and anything that will play these loud noises come with warning labels? If not, we are in for more lawsuits than ever before in the future as these people will be permanently deaf – “no one told me playing loud noises would damage my hearing!”

It’s true. I have fired a lot of guns in my day. Without ear protection, the first shot dislodges the ear wax so that the rest of the sounds can penetrate deep into the ear canal. The sounds coming from that vehicle were equivalent to gun shots.

My fears soon subsided and translated into ROFLMAO (rolling on floor laughing my ass off). There is a limit somewhere or at least I thought there was, as to what is your space and what is mine. Maybe I turned right instead of left that day.

Not any more it seems. There are proposals out to fine people for exposing their underpants. Although for those who would insist this would be an infringement on their rights to free speech, I for one kind of like the idea.

I admit I am old fashioned and I do have an imagination. I sort of like guessing what colored panties another woman might be wearing. These days there’s not much left – even to one’s imagination.

It’s not so much the exposing of the skin or even showing off underwear. It’s the “look” – like a real drone! The look says, “I am a dirty slob who hasn’t the slightest trace of ambition and oh by the way, check out my dirty underwear.

I really don’t think this ordinance will make it too far although I don’t think the underwear lobby has as much influence as the cell phone lobby does. If this flies, maybe then we can get something done about yelling into cell phones.

It’s over and the Pats won – no big surprise but what about the commercials. On a scale of 1 – 10, I’d rate them maybe a 5. Not real original and quite boring actually.

There were two that I think topped the overall dismal chart. The first was the idiot who walks into the convenience store while talking on his cell phone. The best part of this commercial shows all of us, except the bon-a-fide rude and disgusting people who do exactly as this moron was doing, how inconsiderate the “talkers” are of others around them. But the jerk gets exactly what he deserves.

He approaches the check out counter still talking on his phone. The clerk hasn’t heard all of the conversation and all he hears now is, “You know you’re getting robbed here!” or something to that effect. At this moment the clerk attacks him with some pepper spray and a baseball bat as his wife comes around the corner with a tasar and lets him have it.

Again the best part of this was watching this idiot get just what he deserved and I think that all of us should be granted the same right to attack these loud and obnoxious people when we encounter them in public.

The one commercial that had the most potential in my opinion, totally flopped. The wardrobe malfunction of the well endowed woman testifying in front of about a dozen “Ted Kennedys”. Poorly done and really was not at all funny beyond the recognition of who and what the ad was mocking – well perhaps the quick shot of the man holding the oxygen mask to his face.

How about the monkey kissing the ass of the other monkey? In all honesty I thought it sucked but the series of ads this company did had success because I think when the commercial ended you knew the name of the company doing the ad. Perhaps the reason it wasn’t funny was because it too closely revealed what actually does take place in corporate America.

Lastly, in keeping with Bud Lite tradition, they had the best commercial. It was far from bizarre, they did not use scantily clad women and got their product good “air time”. Ha Ha! In an attempt to get the would-be sky diver to jump out of the plane, the instructor throws a 6-pack of Bud Lite out of the plane. Instead of the student jumping, the pilot leaves his controls and bails out after it.

So, there you have it! Super Bowl XXXIX is in the history books and no great and original commercials to go with it. Oh, well, maybe next year.

I recently rewrote a story over at Joe Perham’s website on the Maine Humor Blog about the little bird that decided not to fly south for the winter because he was lazy. After a while he discovered that he was hungry and cold and he remained in his nest perched high on the barn roof trying desperately to stay warm.

Eventually he got so weak from hunger he couldn’t fly anymore and was near starvation when along came one of the horses and deposited a big load of “political output” on the ground directly under the eaves of the barn. The bird thought that if somehow he could slide down the roof and get into that pile of organic matter, he could nourish himself enough to fly again.

The bird began to crawl out of his nest and move slowly down the roof when he lost his footing and slid the length of the roof and drop directly into that pile of poop.

The bird began to eat and before long was feeling pretty good. Good enough so that he could fly and immediately flew back up to his nest and in all the excitement of having a new lease on life, he sang and tweeted and made all kinds of noises.

A hawk circling over head heard the bird and swooped down and ate the little bird. There is a moral to this story and it goes like this: “When you’re full of shit, keep your mouth shut.”