BACK LOG: What Irritates Mr. Erzblock This Week (1/26- 2/1)

I FINALLY caved in and bought a Wii this past weekend as my ladyfriend and I were shopping. So what am I irritated about do you ask? With that purchase yesterday, I've embarked on a future that is more sedentary than it used to be as I sit my gamer ass on mine and my ladyfriend's couch, pretending to be on a tennis court or on a baseball field as I munch on Doritos and throw back a 2 liter Dr. Pepper. Oh, I'm embarking on the path toward obesity, and I'm scared. Someone help me!

This Week's Seaparated At Birth (2/9 - 2/15)

Greg "Shock G" Jacobs (aka "Humpty Hump"), the Groucho Marx of rap music, looks a helluva lot like new Republican National Committee Chairman Michael Steele. "Okay, Dems!" said the Republicans. "You wanna showcase a black for the presidency, we'll give you one too." A black man holding a prominent position for the GOP? I'm sure some of the party members are looking at Mr. Steele and picturing him sing, "Stop what you're doin' 'cause I'm about to ruin the party and the color that you're used to."

Adrienne Barbeau: Praise for the Days Before Silcone

by Seamus O'Goolihy (guest blogger)

As a young lad in Ireland, I was confronted with two problems: one, there wasn't much television--as a child, the shows were mostly just still pictures of the saints, with a narration from the local priest--added to that, what with my eighteen brothers and sisters and both sets of grandparents packed into our small Dublin house, I had almost no refuge, no haven where I could release my sexual desires. Thus, I was missing two crucial elements any teenage boy would need in such a pubescent endeavor: space and inspiration.

Then one evening, as the church bells called all of us children in from play, I heard a strange sound coming from the telly. It was a song. A show from America! Maude was its name, complete with real-life actors and color as well. Then, as I sat on the sofa to have a look, she appeared: a dark-haired woman with swinging breasts the size of which I had never seen. Within half a second, I imagined myself an ancient Roman coming home from battle, and she, my wife, my lovetoy, with whom I could release any and all of my desires. As I imagined myself tearing off her robe and and exposing her milky-white mammoths, I exploded with such force, the jism tearing through my trousers and onto the floor near Grandpa Murtaugh's clubfoot. Lucky was I that young Connor was eating a bowl of porridge on the floor, and I could blame my predicament on him before searching for some privacy, for the woman who excited my loins was still on the screen, and I was ready for the second salvo. Indeed, while I was more devoted than any other man to Maude and the actress I grew to know as Adrienne Barbeau, I couldn't so much as hear the words "and then there's Maude" without running to the bathroom with my hands across my groin.

So I'll end my story with this: the years since Maude have given television audiences many other well endowed ladies, but with the advent of silicone implants and women like that pathetic cougar Demi Moore, I doubt the honesty of any modern girl, which is why, when 'tis time to release my milky manhood, I hearken back to an era of truth and beauty, and the queen of the age, Adrienne Barbeau. John Carpenter, may you rot in hell, you lucky bastard!