Entries from March 2007 ↓

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You have no idea how confusing it sounds when the director screams, “Achtung!”, before he yells, “Action!”.

Auf wiedersehen,
Herr Allen

I realize this now as I’m in my hotel room in Berlin. I spent the day shooting a commercial for Volkswagen and I was the only one who can’t speak German. You have no idea how surreal it is to stand in a large stark white room with a lab coat on. Surrounded by Germans in lab coats and have another German wearing a black shirt and scarf give you directions in German. What the fuck have I walked into?

The funniest part is that I’m the only one they flew in from America. Why you ask? I will tell you, my superb disco dancing. This has to be the most odd experience I have ever encountered.

I’m sleepy.

You know that, I know that, people of China know that and the citizens of Korea know that but for some reason Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe doesn’t think it’s that bad. Perhaps he’s a distant relative of Clayton Williams the ex-gubernatorial candidate for Texas who made a “joke” to a reporter, likening bad weather to rape, “as long as it’s inevitable, you might as well lie back and enjoy it.” Let’s also not forget one of his infamous responses to his defeat by Ann Richards, a recovering alcoholic, “Well, I hope she doesn’t go back to drinkin’!”.

In 1937, Japan was one of the worst offenders. The Chinese refer to this as the Rape of Nanking. Tens of thousands of women were brutally raped over a period of six weeks.

I never understood the term, “brutally raped”. It seems redundant.

bru‧tal‧ly, adverb
1. savage; cruel;

Rape is brutal.

Rape is the one word in the English language that does not need an adverb to modify it. Its like describing an orange as an orange orange.

Unless there are different methods of rape I’m not aware of:

A flower deliveryman delicately raped a young woman this evening in her apartment today.

or

Father Aguilar was arrested today because of allegations that stated he had passive–aggressively raped an altar boy.

or

Israeli president Moshe Katsav secretly raped his secretary.

or

Since Mark Foley was molested my a priest and brainwashed by his alcoholism, he reluctantly raped a 16-year-old page.

Rapist beware someone just invented an anit-rape condom called Rapex

(I’m not lying. Click on the link).

I have discovered a formula explaining the Couch Potato Phenomenon by combining Einstein’s Theory of Relativity and Ohm’s Law.

Ohm’s Law states:
V = IR (Voltage equals Current multiplied by Resistance)
So I = V/R

Einstein’s Theory of Relativity states:
E = mc²
So mE=m²c²

Webster’s dictionary defines “ME” as the objective form of “I“.

So we can say:
If mE=I,

then m=I/E

Mass equals current divided by energy

mass: weight gained (fat)
current: forward movement (exercise)
energy: usable power (food)

Using Fermet’s Law we can manipulate the results to suit our needs to:

The weight gained equals the amount of food consumed divided by the amount of exercise.

Let’s apply the G.U.T. formula:

If Joe Six-Pack decided to consume 2 pints of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream and decided to watch the entire Season 1 of The Office, what would be the total weight gained?

Running time of The Office Season 1:
3 hours

Calories burned watching television:
68 calories per hour

Calories in Chunky Monkey:
2480 calories

The G.U.T. formula predicts Joe will have a higher level of LDL cholesterol and an extremely fat ass.

I’m also working on a formula that proves mimes are losers:
mImE = 0

Thank you so much for thinking that I’m drowning in debt, dickhead.

If you haven’t already installed Askimet on your website, you are begging spam commenters to infest your site. It’s like wearing cologne in prison.

I love you Askimet!

An advertisement on MySpace

Oh yeah, I forgot. Our snarky society sucks.

Some of you (or none of you) have probably been asking yourself, “How is a comedian/blogger with one TV credit, who rides public transportation and has low self-esteem able to jet set around the world like Mary-Kate and Ashley?” I have five words for you, “I think I’m a gigolo”—albeit, a very skinny one who’s so-so in bed and endowed with a penis that is slightly above average if the conditions are perfect (temperature, humidity, time of day, music selection, amount of hair, lighting, latitude, seasonal equinox, full moon, viewer must be far-sighted, etc…) . I didn’t plan on this happening and not sure how I feel about this emasculating situation. I met a girl who happens to be a lawyer. I guess she enjoys my company because she keeps inviting me to fabulous weekend getaways like London and the Cayman Islands. The cynical side of me thinks that this is an elaborate documentary produced my Ashton Kutcher and directed by John Landis of Trading Places I keep anticipating of overhearing Randolph Duke in a bathroom say, “Pay up, Mortimer. I’ve won the bet.”

Unfortunately, I cannot reciprocate her generosity monetarily. However, I am a distant relative of Ethan Allen and come from a family of carpenters who intrinsically contain the meager knowledge of a handyman. I should emphasize the word, “meager.” I’m the black sheep of the family when it comes to tools. The only “tools” I’m truly comfortable with are in Microsoft Word: Spelling and Grammar, Thesaurus, Dictionary, and Word Count.



I remember a miserable moment at an Allen family reunion. There stood three of my uncles, two cousins, my father and myself around the front of my 88’ Honda Accord with its hood propped up and smoke was billowing out of the engine. Uncle Mike took a drag off his Doral cigarette and easily diagnosed the problem, “Oh, I thought it was something hard. Looks like all you need is to replace the oil gasket. Just get yourself a torque wrench and…” He was cut off by Uncle Jim who elbowed him and shook his head, “It’s a waste of time, Mike. The boy don’t know.” Mike responded, “What do you mean? He’s just gotta replace the oil gasket?” Jim kept shaking his head in disgust and sighed, “I know. Your boy could do it. My Jimmy could do it. He can’t. Like I said before. The boy don’t know”, he closed the hood, polished of his Genesee Beer and stamped out his Bucks cigarette.



Everyone slowly scattered backwards away from the car and made faces as if a skunk had sprayed the engine. Each one giving me a disappointed look like I had fucked up a scholarship to Harvard. To make matters worse they all patted my Dad’s back with condolences as if I had just came out of the closet on Super Bowl Sunday.

The irony is that I know for a fact that none of them can email an attachment.