Dave Fox's Outbursts!

Whatev

a reprt in ireland sez txt msging is harming the english language.

i dnt know wtf they r talking abt.

(Sry evry1 but i m scrambling 2 meet big dedlinez this week so this is the best blog i can com up w 2day. If u need somethg more entrtaining, ck out the viking kittens.)

Inside the Highly Disturbed Brain of a Tour Guide

Two weeks from today, I will be wandering aimlessly through Paris, cursing jetlag, and wondering where the hell Seattle went. In the meantime, I have 12 days to write and prepare a speech, deliver that speech, revise a book manuscript, pack, review my tour guide notes... and my weird brother, Steve, is coming for a visit.

In two weeks, I begin my 13th season as a European tour guide. One would think that 13 years of guiding would leave one feeling calm and in control, but every year around this time, the anxiety dreams begin.

Last week, I dreamt I was talking to my tour group at the end of our first day in Paris when it dawned on me I had no clue what we were doing in the morning. I had failed to make a group reservation at the Louvre, so everyone was going to miss one of Europe's best museums. I wondered if they'd notice if we just skipped it.

In another dream, a helicopter crashed in my front yard. The helicopter had a logo on it from the hotel I stay at for the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop, the workshop that led to the publication of my book.

Last night's dream was more fun. A chimpanzee was trying to come in through my window, and I wasn't sure what to do about that. I wanted to let him in, but I was afraid he might tear my home apart. I'm not sure what the chimpanzee represented, but I think it was my weird brother, Steve.

Save the Giant Purple Lizards from Planet Zloog!

[Disclaimer: The following blog post is really just a thinly veiled attempt to sell my books. If such shameless product placement, couched in meaningless rambling about purple space lizards, makes you cranky, then please do not read this. I do not want to make you cranky.]

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Here’s an exciting factoid about April for you: Every April, more giant purple lizards from Planet Zloog infiltrate my bathtub than in any other month. (Never let it be said that you can’t learn new stuff from this blog.)

And now... a word from our sponsor:

The Incredible Slightly-Bruised Book Sale!

Take a glance at the paperback books on your shelf. The ones you love the most are probably not in pristine condition. You’ve rifled through them, dog-eared their pages, stuffed them into carry-on bags, or hurled them across the room at giant purple lizards from Planet Zloog. This is sad, because the Zloogians are benevolent creatures, but you probably didn’t know that. The point is: paperback books rarely remain in pristine condition for more than 11 minutes.

So if you could purchase a slightly un-pristine paperback book at a big discount, that would make you happy, wouldn’t it? It would save you the trouble of breaking it in yourself

I just received a new shipment of my travel humor book, Getting Lost: Mishaps of an Accidental Nomad, from my publisher, and a few dozen of them have small flaws –- wrinkles or scruffy laminate on the spine. These flaws are the sorts of things the average non-uptight person would never worry about; nevertheless, I am selling these copies at a discount because I like you. (And also because I really need to clear out some space in my home for the Zloogians to hang out.) So here’s the deal:

• Buy one slightly bruised book for $12.00 – save $3.95 off the cover price.
• Buy two or more of these books for a measely 10 bucks per copy. That’s less than wholesale! Give one to a friend, your mailman, a kind stranger you encounter, or if you are super smart, you can read both copies yourself at the same time.
• Buy three or more copies at 10 bucks each and receive a copy of my extremely ridiculous audiobook, The Fox that Quacked: Essays from Planet Earth, absolutely free!

The books make excellent stocking stuffers, and Christmas is only 246 days away!This offer will end as soon as I run out of slightly bruised books, or on May 7, whichever comes first. So quick... order a few dozen copies for all of your humor-deprived friends and help make room in my condo for the Zloogian lizards!

To take advantage of this life-changing offer, please visit my extremely exciting order form.

[We now return to our regularly scheduled idiocy.]

CNN Breaking News: Ho(e)s in the White House Aren't "Nappy-Headed"

English grammar was challenged this week when journalists scrambled to determine the correct spelling for the plural of the word, "ho."

It's not the usual challenge newspaper editors face, but talk show host Don Imus's controversial comments this week have brought this dilemma to the forefront of American linguistic debate. I've seen it spelled "hos," "hoes," and "ho's" by various media outlets.

(I personally vote for the spelling, "hoes." It follows all the conventional rules, yo.)

Imus, we all know, got into trouble after referring to the Rutgers women's basketball team on his radio show as a bunch of "nappy-headed ho(e)(')s."

But it seems Imus is not the only person in the media using this controversial word.

Personal note to the editors over at cnn.com: You guys really need to be careful how you crop your photos of Dana Perino, the new White House spokeswoman.

You Kept Him On the Air Then...

It's official. Don Imus is unemployed.

First, MSNBC pulled the plug on the TV simulcast of Imus's radio show. Then, earlier this evening, CBS gave him the shaft as well and told Imus not to come back to their radio airwaves. This is after Imus referred last week to the Rutgers University women's basketball team as a bunch of "nappy-headed hoes."

Both networks are claiming their decision had nothing to do with the fact that sponsors were bailing from the show in droves. NBC News president Steve Capus said in an interview on MSNBC the decision to cut ties with Imus was not financially motivated, and that the network did it because it was simply the right thing to do.

Lovely, Mr. Capus. Yay for doing the right thing. But let's review. According to CNN, here are some other comments Imus has made in the past:

• In the mid 1990s, after the New York Times hired African-American journalist Gwen Ifill as a White House correspondent, Imus said it was nice of the paper to "let the cleaning lady cover the White House." (You kept him on the air then.)
• In 1998, Imus called media commentator Howard Kurtz a "boner-nosed, beanie-wearing Jew boy." (You kept him on the air then.)
• In 2006, Imus referred to CBS Radio's "Jewish management" as "money-grubbing bastards." (You kept him on the air then.)

But wait! There's more! According to the San Francisco Chronicle:

• Last month, Imus's producer, Bernard McGuirk, called Barack Obama a "young, colored fellow." (You kept him on the....)
• During Yasser Arafat's funeral in 2004, Imus's producer, Sid Rosenberg, said Palestinians are "stinking animals," adding, "They ought to drop the bomb right there, kill 'em all right now." (Yup....)
  

I could go on, but I'll spare you.

Now, NBC and CBS are basking in the glory of having "done the right thing."

Way to go, networks! What took you so long? I can't help but notice you kept Don Imus on the air when Imus and his producers' racist / sexist / homophobic / anti-Semitic / anti-Arab comments in the past were making you lots of money.

The Horse Versus the Zamboni

Here is an extremely useful IQ test you can take:

Which of the following is more like a car?

A) A Zamboni (You know... those vehicle-thingies that resurface the ice at hockey games.)

B) A Horse (You know... those animal-thingies that poop on the street during parades.)

If you are like me, and chose a Zamboni, you are wrong and stupid.

At least according to law enforcement.

A woman in Alabama was arrested last weekend for Driving Under the Influence. She was not driving a car. She was riding a horse.

Meanwhile in New Jersey, a judge has just ruled that if you drive a Zamboni while intoxicated, you cannot be given a DUI conviction because... well... Zambonis aren't motor vehicles.

Okay, people, help me understand this. Zambonis have motors. Horses do not. Zambonis have wheels. Horses do not. Zambonis have ignition switches, gas pedals, gas tanks, and optional air conditioning. Horses have none of those.

The woman on the horse, according to the Associated Press, allegedly tried to use the animal to ram a cop car. She then tried to flee from police, but the cops pulled her over and... asked for her license and registration? How do you pull over a horse? The woman was found to be carrying a small pipe, marijuana, an undisclosed variety of pills, and (surprise!) a child-sized portion of crystal meth.

In the New Jersey case,  according to the AP, Zamboni driver Paul Peragallo ran amok at a sports arena, and a co-worker told police Peragallo was -- oh, this is a good one -- speeding. Speeding! In a Zamboni! Six miles per hour?! However, the judge ruled that since one cannot drive a Zamboni on a highway, and because the Zamboni does not carry passengers, it's not a motor vehicle.

Peragallo testified at his trial he did not drink any alcohol until after he groomed the ice. He reportedly told police at the time of his arrest, however, he washed down his two breakfast Valiums with a shot of Sambuca.

Regardless of how much the man drank, I beg to differ with the judge. I believe you could drive a Zamboni on a highway -- just very slowly -- and, drunk or not, I would welcome the opportunity to try.   

Chocolate Easter Hostages

Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has just announced he will release the 15 detained British sailors and marines who were captured in the Persian Gulf 12 days ago.

Ahmedinejad has said their release is a "gift" to the British people, in part because this Sunday is Easter, according to the Associated Press.

An Easter gift? How sweet. Maybe he'll throw in a chocolate bunny or some of those Cadbury Creme Eggs too.

Blame the Paint Fumes

I would like to apologize to my neighbors.

The loud and occasionally out of tune violin music you heard Sunday night just before midnight was, however, not me. It was Spike, my evil twin.

Spike has been playing the violin since he was nine years old. Some people say he plays it well. Some people say he sounds like crap. Most people don't believe my evil twin, Spike, even exists -- because most people are stupid.

So what happened was, I had been painting all weekend. By "painting," I mean "drinking beer and swearing."

It all began when my girlfriend Kattina and my good friend Erin both threatened to kick my ass if I did not stop claiming that someday I was going to do something about my pathetically boring white walls and paint them some interesting color. I have been making this claim ever since I moved into my condo, approximately 238 years ago.

I have sincerely intended to paint my living room ever since then. Unfortunately, my last painting endeavor, when I tackled my kitchen and dining room four years ago, was highly traumatic. Therefore, I have spent the last four years in therapy, in and out of paintophobia recovery groups. Last week, Erin and Kattina decided enough was enough and it was time for some tough love. On Saturday, they dragged me kicking and screaming to the paint store to choose non-white colors.

The plan -- ha! the plan! -- was to have my entire living room painted by Saturday evening. After three seperate paint store excursions, we settled on colors at around 3 a.m. By that time, the paint store was closed, and we could not go back to buy the colors we needed, so we agreed to resume operations on Sunday.

On Sunday, Kattina was unable to assist because she had four loads of laundry to wash. That is one of the great things about painting: When it comes time to paint, you suddenly become highly efficient at completing other tasks -- any other tasks at all -- in an effort to avoid masking tape and primer.

I phoned Erin on Sunday afternoon around one and asked her if she wanted to help me prime the walls.

"I'll be right over," she said.

Three hours later, there was a knock at my door.

It was a wise move, waiting three hours. One would think that in those three hours, I might have had the walls primed. But no.

What happened in those three hours was I spent an entire hour shopping for more paint supplies, and taking down shelving, and yelling at the guy who lived here before me for putting up said shelving in a totally asinine way that is impossible to take down. Granted, I do not even know the guy who used to live here, or his whereabouts, but I really do hope he heard me.

So just about the time Erin arrived, I was halfway through my seventh nervous breakdown of the weekend.

"I must take a break immediately," I said. Erin agreed this was an excellent way for her to begin day two of Helping Dave Paint.

Eventually, Erin got tired of watching me yell at the walls, so she resumed priming where I had left off.

I must say, I do not understand the concept of priming. Why must one paint one's white walls white before one paints them other colors? It makes little sense, but neither does anything else when one is under the influence of paint fumes.

While Erin primed, I removed books from other shelves and dropped them on my feet. I also continued removing shelving brackets from the wall, and yelling at the former resident of my condo some more.

The walls were officially primed by around 9:30 p.m. Erin ran like hell, far, far away from me, and I made plans to go to bed. Ahhh... plans.

That's when Spike showed up to say hi.

You see, Spike really digs paint fumes. He came to get a good whiff of them. Spike came into my home and started playing the fiddle. He was throwing down some crazy Irish tunes. He was trying to play quietly enough that nobody would hear, jamming out on an electric fiddle without plugging it in to an amplifier. It was midnight, after all. Suddenly it dawned on me that in an effort to air out the paint fumes, I had opened up all of my windows. All of them. Spike's out-of-tune fiddle notes were spilling out into the real world where people could hear them.

I immediately took Spike's fiddle away from him and sent him packing. I was highly embarrassed.

So, dear neighbors, I would like to apologize, on behalf of my evil twin, Spike, for the noise Sunday evening.

Oh, and also, dear neighbors, if you're not doing anything next weekend, I've got this little project....