The last thing Hoffman protested was Anne Bancrofts leg.

Here in the enamored but not star-struck offices of The Curmudgeon, the entire staff gathered round the big screen TV in the conference room to watch the Oscars. We call it the conference room but really it’s more of a party room, with Sam Adams and Guinness on tap. I hardly paid attention though, for while everyone else was busy dissing the ladies gowns and watching to see who took home little gold statues, I was busy checking out the new brunette who works down the hall in the 4th office on the right and looks something like…well…a statue. A very nice statue. But more than that, I was looking to see who was wearing little peace signs during the really big shew.

Dustin Hoffman lead a silent anti-war protest at the awards. Will Smith, Cate Blanchette, Tom Hanks and Elizabeth Taylor (who invited her) have all vowed to stay away from the biggest event on the Tinseltown calendar. Many of those still planning to attend the now “low-key” event–including Hoffman, Ben Affleck and Julianne Moore–intended to make a “silent demo” by wearing pins in the shape of a peace symbol. Peace, my brother.

Many others have already gotten dresses and attire keyed down from the usual “look at me and my Armani” $100,000 dollar duds. The sad thing is, they’ll be raked over the coals by the fashionistas in all the rag papers and websites tomorrow. Like any of those nobodys should have an opinion anyway. It’s as sad as watching the Oscars with a couple of old queens and listening to them criticise the beautiful people (not that there’s anything wrong with being an old queen.) It can be funny as hell at first. But then it just seems sad.

The thing is, I was too busy checking out the new statuesque brunette to notice if anybody was wearing peace signs. Did anyone notice?

Meanwhile, on the Friday, 20th, across this company town at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences offices, handicapped persons protested giving Jerry Lewis the Humanitarian Award at the Oscars The group, called The Trouble With Jerry, has long taken issue with Lewis’ depiction of the handicapped as pitiful, who has gone as far as describing disabled people as “half a person” and wheelchairs as “steel imprisonment.” Lewis, who doesn’t take criticism well, has snarled at the criticizers, “You don’t want to be pitied because you’re a cripple in a wheelchair? Stay in your house!” Hey, Lady!

Down boy. Ok. They have a point. Jerry has a point, and has raised a lot of money for muscular dystrophy. Can’t we all just get along? I don’t have any business putting in my two cents, and that’s something those Hollywood tabloid reporters should remember late tonight when they’re writing their sniping commentary.

So, do the actor’s have any business sticking their powdered noses–real or fake–into politics? It used to piss me off. I was of the opinion that they should just shut up and act. But you know what? While the American people were being fed a big pile of excrement (ha…I’m feeling like not saying “shit” today,) at least some “show business” people were speaking up. Turns out they were right. Somebody’s got to do it, and if you and I don’t, then who will? The “Show Business” people. That’s who.

And just who am I to criticise the criticisers, when I am a criticiser myself? I’m just a mug with a blog. Maybe that should be my new catch phrase…right under the title. The Crusty Curmudgeon – Just a Mug with a Blog. Has a nice ring to it.

Photo by brighterworld, flickr, Fair Use Rights, http://www.flickr.com/photos/13309333@N00/1994537800

Here in the star chamber, i.e., The Curmudgeon offices, we are no stranger to frivolous lawsuits. We have expressed our outrage over them previously, not to mention that we were once sued by a man claiming that his head exploded after reading one of our posts. So when a Kansas City man sued the Royals over a wiener, our interest was peaked.

When a fan sits close to the field, they are on the lookout for foul balls possibly conking them in the head and causing serious injury, but they are seldom on the lookout for a flying frank, especially one that is thrown from the field.

But that’s what happened when the Royals mascot, Sluggerrr, pitched a red hot into the stands and hit John Coomer in the eye, causing serious injury. Or so he claims in a $25,000 lawsuit against the franchise. What injuries could a wind-up with a wienie cause? According to Coomer, the meaty missile caused a detached retina and the development of two cataracts, necessitating two eye surgeries. Furthermore, he now has permanent impairment and is a greater risk for future eye problems.

“When they took me to the first aid station, they offered me a free wiener for my trouble. I accepted it and it was terrible. Tasted like dogsh*t. I should sue ‘em just for severing substandard hot dogs. If they had seved Ballpark franks…that would have been different.”

“We’re not going to comment of future litigation regarding our wieners,” spokesman David Holzman told the Curmudgeon. “The size of our tube steaks is a matter of public record…they’re just average wieners.”

According to several reviews, the Royals stadium has Aramark hot dogs, suppliers of crappy bulk food, and the hot dogs are awful.

Apparently, Sluggerrr agrees. So does John Coomer.

The street sign for Butt Hole Road

Here in the offices of The Curmudgeon, we cull the world’s news sources daily to bring you the one story that will provide you deep pleasure, and that is why I bring you this story today. The Daily Mail Reporter tells the story of a group of residents whose tolerance was stretched to the limits by the name of their street: Butt Hole Road. In the end they were unable to stand it any longer and finally yelled their safe word, enough! It was too much for them to take.

Groups of youths would come by the street and bare their backsides for photographs. Many delivery firms refused to believe it existed. Phone calls came in the middle of the night and awakened residents with hilarious jokes. And after a picture of the street sign appeared in a U.S. Book, busloads of amused and satisfied tourists showed up as part of their tours.

Yes, the residents of Butt Hole Road had seen and heard it all, and tired of the poking, the prodding, the emotional pounding, the spiritual reaming, and they finally voted to change the name of the street. What did they change it to? Poop Chute? Hershey Highway? The Chocolate Chunnel? Nope. They changed it the very sensible “Archers Way.”

Gone are the pranksters, the wise cracks, the pains in the arse, and the coach tours. Once again, the lives of the residents of the former Butt Hole Road have returned to normal. But maybe not for long. An Internet petition is already underway to change the name back.

Incidentally, the name is thought to have come from an old communal water butt – a large cask used to collect rainwater – that was originally in the area.. I wounder if they’ll miss the name. The attention. The humor. The smiles on the faces of those who thought of butt holes and naming roads after them.

I think I’m going to petition to have the name of my street changed.

To Dickwad Drive.

The is an ad to get folks to 'Like" my Facebook fan page.

Here in the apprehensive offices of The Crusty Curmudgeon, we’re getting ready for a new move. That’s right. We’re packing up and moving. Although we’ll still be at the same link, TheCrustyCurmudgeon.com, it is now pointed to somewhere else entirely. To our own site on our own server.

Even now, we are loading articles one, two, three a day to the new site. These old posts will remain here too–if you happen to get a link that has the word “wordpress” in it, but you won’t see any new material unless you go to the other link…once I start adding new stuff, that is.

We’ve also created a Facebook fan page at this great URL: facebook.com/CrustyCurmudgeon. I’m working on that page right now too, even though it’s exactly 1am in Crustyville. I’m trying to create a landing page on which you will see one image if you’re a non-fan, and another image if you have already pressed “Like.”

This is what you'll see if you're already a fan of the Facebook fan page.

This will appear on the non-fan landing page, along with some other stuff.

Photo by brighterworld, flickr, Fair Use Rights, http://www.flickr.com/photos/13309333@N00/1994537800

Here in the star chamber, i.e., The Curmudgeon offices, we are no stranger to frivolous lawsuits. We have expressed our outrage over them previously, not to mention that we were once sued by a man claiming that his head exploded after reading one of our posts. So when a Kansas City man sued the Royals over a wiener, our interest was peaked.

When a fan sits close to the field, they are on the lookout for foul balls possibly conking them in the head and causing serious injury, but they are seldom on the lookout for a flying frank, especially one that is thrown from the field.

But that’s what happened when the Royals mascot, Sluggerrr, pitched a red hot into the stands and hit John Coomer in the eye, causing serious injury. Or so he claims in a $25,000 lawsuit against the franchise. What injuries could a wind-up with a wienie cause? According to Coomer, the meaty missile caused a detached retina and the development of two cataracts, necessitating two eye surgeries. Furthermore, he now has permanent impairment and is a greater risk for future eye problems.

“When they took me to the first aid station, they offered me a free wiener for my trouble. I accepted it and it was terrible. Tasted like dogsh*t. I should sue ‘em just for severing substandard hot dogs. If they had seved Ballpark franks…that would have been different.”

“We’re not going to comment of future litigation regarding our wieners,” spokesman David Holzman told the Curmudgeon. “The size of our tube steaks is a matter of public record…they’re just average wieners.”

According to several reviews, the Royals stadium has Aramark hot dogs, suppliers of crappy bulk food, and the hot dogs are awful.

Apparently, Sluggerrr agrees. So does John Coomer.

Here in the offices of The Crusty Curmudgeon, many of us have to endure hours of air travel across the globe as we rush off to cover presidential inaugurations and Kings being sceptered (or whatever the hell they call that when they do this thing and say, “Okay…Now you be da King!” As far as I know, none of us have ever freaked out on a plane flying high in the sky and tried to beat a hasty exit. But now it has happened to someone who is not one of us. She is a Playboy Centerfold.
It was aboard JetBlue Flight 522 on Thursday, in route to Newark to Orlando, when suddenly Playboy Playmate Tiffany Livingston freaked out, jumped up from her seat and frantically began trying to open the door of the plane. It’s unclear at the time of this writing exactly what transpired at that moment, but we can imagine that the 200 male passengers on board ran to tackle her (and probably cop a feel.)
A source, unnamed of course, told The Curmudgeon that it was a bad case of high anxiety mixed with her neglecting to take her medication. I don’t know. It seems like a bad idea to step out of a plane at 35,000 feet unless you’re D.B.Cooper holding a satchel with a million bucks in it. Back then, a million bucks was worth something.
“She said she’s gone through this before, but never this bad, and didn’t have…her medication,” a source told The Curmudgeon.
“[Livingston] has dealt with minor anxiety issues in the past, however has always maintained a high level of professionalism in the modeling business,” said Kathleen Longsderff, Agency Director at an agency that Livingston was with previously.
Longsderff, of New England Models Group continued, saying that Livingston “began modeling in New England and then traveled to Paris in 2008. She went on to successfully model in Barcelona, Tokyo, Hong Kong and Singapore.”
Livingston, from Merrimac, R.I., was taken by the Feds and placed under federal custody on Thursday, as reported by the New York Post. Charges are still pending. I guess the charges would include Freaking Out in the 1st degree.
Before all you collectors of fine art go running to your stash of Playboys that you’re hiding from your wife, forget about it, unless you have the Singapore version, called VIP, from 2009. In the mag she was described as “not just another pretty face.” No, she’s not. She’s a pretty bod too, and unfortunately, her head got the better of her this time.

Voodoo doll of French President Sarkozy

Here at the Crusty Curmudgeon, information comes across our desk from every corner of the globe. Rain or shine, it just keeps coming. The Curmudgeon staff sifts painstakingly through this info to garner only the juiciest, wickedly titillating, system shocking, stomach-churning, digestively disgusting tidbits from the disturbing world in which we live. And most of the time the stuff is so stupid it’s funny.

Hoodoo That Voodoo That You Do

From across the pond in the land of snails, surly cabbies, and ladies who wear no pants, comes this tale of a pissed-off President. An outfit is marketing voodoo dolls of French President Nicolas Sarkozy – himself no stranger to ladies with no pants – which the lucky owner can prick in various body parts and nether regions. There’s no word on whether the indiscriminate pin-sticking actually hurts the President physically, but emotionally, he’s as stewed as a pig-brain cassoulet. Sarkozy demanded a ban on the evil dolls, but a lower court rejected his case citing “the right to humor.” Now an appeals court has concurred, but the judge stuck on this caveat: The dolls must carry a notice saying that pricking them harms the President’s dignity. Those French always were a bunch of pricks.

Law and Disorder

Back on this side of the Atlantic, in a place called Montgomery Township, N.J., a scene familiar all across the US played out in real time on a quiet Thanksgiving evening. A bank alarm goes off. Police respond to the alarm. They witness the figure of a man—a possible suspect—visible through the window blinds inside the bank. A standoff ensues. The area was sealed off. Three nearby apartment buildings were evacuated. Bullhorns roared. Telephone calls were made. There was no answer. There was no response. Having failed to establish contact with the perp, the SWAT (Shocked With A Taser) team is summoned. They stealthily make their way to the entrances, crouching and leap-frogging into the ready position. It was a go!

The SWAT team storms the bank, semi-automatics at the ready. Quickly and skillfully they encircle the perpetrator and…this is where it turns from an episode of The Shield into Car 54 Where Are You. What they had captured was…here it comes…a cardboard cutout! Yes, my friends, twas a cutout of a dude hawking IRAs. Maybe some of those cops should think about getting an IRA or two, cause retirement must be looking pretty good right about now. Watch for further news in Bank Robbing for Cardboard Dummies!

Rosie O’Donnell and Her Thanksgiving Turkey

Bank robberies weren’t the only thing that happened during Thanksgiving. There was truly something to be thankful for. Yes, friends, you’re thinking, “You, Mr. Curmudgeon? You’re thankful?” Yes, even old Curmudgy can feel deeply and even get a tear or two, time to time. Especially in a movie where they kill the dog. My good news is that the new Rosie variety show crashed and burned. Bombed big time. (Hmmm. Voodoo dolls…Rosie…that gives me an idea.) Natch, I didn’t see the show cause I wanted to keep my dinner down, but the reviews concurred that the show stunk up the place. That puts a big smile on my mug. Let’s hope this pushes “The Thing” into forced retirement with an IRA from a cardboard guy in N.J. It’s not that I don’t like Rosie, gosh, I’m sure she’s got her good points, but…it’s just…you know…she’s the Devil’s spawn.

A Whole ‘Nother Ballgame

Rosie is the opposite of sex, which reminds me… it seems the football game between the Minnesota Gophers and the Iowa Hawkeyes got a little boring with the Hawkeyes well on their way to a 55-0 trouncing. A couple of Iowa fans, not to be denied their randy recreation, decided to play ‘hide the bratwurst” in a handicapped stall in the bathroom. The couple—a 38 year-old woman and a 26 year-old man—went at it like a couple of gophers and drew a crowd of drunk, cheering fans. But when anybody is ever having any fun, it’s gonna get penalized by the man and the long..er…arm of the law. The university police—tipped off by a security guard—interrupted the couple and cited them for indecent conduct, off-sides, and backfields in motion. I’m sure these enterprising citizens felt pretty embarrassed, but they hadn’t felt nothin’ yet: The man was released into the custody of his girlfriend and the woman into the custody of her husband. Lucy, you got some splainin’ to do!

Which brings us back to voodoo dolls. I don’t know if they work or not, but I sure would like to give one a try.

Well, the clock has ticked into the wee hours of December and the first snow of the holiday season has begun to fall and blanket the ground, like a harbinger of good will towards men and holiday festivities. We’ve shared poking a doll, poking fun, a pig-in-a-poke, and poking for pleasure. Mmmm. Good times. Old Curmudgy has a tear in his eye…cause he’s gonna have to get up early and shovel snow.

The Crusty Curmudgeon

"White Asparagus" by u m a m i on flickr.

Here in vegetable-loving but not vegetarian offices of The Curmudgeon, we’re amazed over the news that a motorist in Germany punched a 24 year-old female vegetable seller in the kisser over her high-priced asparagus. Or maybe it’s not that surprising, this being Germany we’re talking about. Ya voll, der Mutterland luv der asparagus.

According to Reuters, the man yelled at the woman that her prices were totally “over the top,” and then punched her in the face and threatened to sic his attack dog on her, a German Shepard no doubt. I am particular for peas, crazy for corn, and batty for brussel sprouts, but I am not asinine for asparagus. Apparently, the perp (that’s what we say in the vegetable PI business, the perp,) was a member of Germany’s troubling Asparagustapo.

Granted, this was white asparagus which is to regular asparagus as veal is to cow, but still. The springtime delectable delight is highly coveted in Germany and is sometimes referred to as “edible ivory.” During the short springtime growing season the prices fluctuate wildly, peaking at 10 euros per kilo early in the season (for Americans this is about 14 bucks for 2.2 pounds.) Still, no reason to pull your car over to the side of the road and give a woman a knuckle sandwich. Vee haf vays of making you sell aparagus cheap.

The police continue to search for the asparagus-loving, woman-punching perp. Curiously, they have not released the price the woman was selling the asparagus for. Maybe it really was “over the top.” The sheer number of wacko people walking the streets or driving the roads are disturbing. First there was road rage and now comes vegetable rage. What’s next? It should be exciting whatever it is.

Now, hand over your zucchini or I’ll squash you.

(Photo Credit: “White Aspargus”, u m a m i, flickr)

Here in the offices of The Curmudgeon, the big boss (that’s me) doesn’t tolerate lawsuits against Crusty Curmudgeon Enterprises, hereinafter referred to as The Company. As an example, when an employee stormed into my office claiming his stapler was faulty, which caused a puncture wound to the alleged victim, hereinafter referred to as “azzole,” and he threatened to sue The Company, I took the alleged faulty stapler from him and stapled his tongue to the alleged roof of his mouth. Primarily because he was way stupid.

Now, in Dover, N.H., a high-school student named Dubois, probably the unfortunate offspring of the aforementioned “azzhole,” attached a clamp to one nipple while a second student attached a clamp to the other nipple, and a third student plugged it in. The shock was so severe his heart stopped and Dubois now claims he suffered permanent brain damage. I contend he demonstrated he already had brain damage.

Now he – and his money-grubbing parents – are suing the teacher, the school, and the city of Dover. I had never imagined a lawsuit arising from a Three Stooges routine. While people named Dubois have famously “always depended on the kindness of strangers,” this branch of the family is depending on everyone else to make them rich.

Their claim is that the teacher failed to warn the stupids…er…students…about the dangers of electricity. What’s next, teachers will have to warn all students about the dangers of jamming pencils into their eyeballs? Besides, aren’t the dangers of electricity something parents are supposed to teach their kids from the time they are babies? But I guess it wouldn’t pay to sue themselves. They have ruined that teacher’s life and they should be ashamed (plus the whole family should have clamps attached to their nipples and plugged in, but that only happens in Crusty’s world.)

Of course, there’s an attorney who agreed to this farce and that’s why lawyers are so often despised. Fact is, there are some good lawyers out there, and when you need one, well…I hope you get one.

If there’s a God in heaven, or a decent judge on the bench, this case will be thrown out of court and the family and attorney given a stiff fine for filing a frivolous lawsuit.

Now that would be shocking.

(Information for the story came from WTOP.com and AP.)

"Shame" - Propaganda sign in China, Joe Gatling/flickr

Here in the sexually liberated but not wanton offices of The Curmudgeon, my day has begun as usual, sitting at my expansive desk with a cup of coffee (Ok, it’s more like a pot) and surfing your Internet world for something I can sink my teeth into, much as a vampire sinks his teeth into the juicy neck of a red-blooded American woman…or Latin or French or British or Dutch or German or…well, a hawt chick. And I come across this fleshy piece at the site, Pop Eater: Robert Pattinson’s Walk of Shame From Co-Star’s Hotel?

Pattinson Shame, shame, shame

The story is that Pattinson and co-star Kristen Stewart were staying in the same hotel for the MTV awards, where they were big winners, by the way, and one of those stalking paparazzi people snaps a pic of Pattinson leaving in the morning looking disheveled. There were also some blurry pics taken of him struggling to get his stuff into a car while she waited, hiding behind sunglasses. Then there appeared to be a brief kiss before he got in the SUV and drove away. Romance rumors have dogged them since the first movie, and as someone who has spent many, many years in show business as an actor, lets just say you can become very close with the person you are playing a love scene with everyday.

I was taken aback. I was confused. Discombobulated. The room began spinning as I tried to make sense of the thing. It wasn’t their possible hooking up that had my head swimming. It was this: “Walk of Shame.” Walk of…what? Shame? I don’t understand. Is Kristen like an ugly fat chick or something? Let me just pull up a picture of her and check this out…

Kristen Sterart She looks OK to me

Ummm…shame my ass. They should have said he came out of the hotel “doing the stud walk.” The walk of glory. The look-at-me-I-porked-Kristen-Stewart-and-you-didn’t walk of “game.” Hey, it’s OK if you want to know if they were making “the beast with two backs,” or “bouncing the bones,” or whatever you want to call it, but don’t be calling it the walk of shame. That’s the only shameful thing around here. That two attractive people can’t do what consenting adults do without being dragged to the front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater for a public stoning.

So put your stones back in your little bag, go home, and watch your DVD copy of Twilight…again.

As Pink Floyd said: Hey! Teacher! Leave those kids alone!

Shameless Self-Promotion: If you like hot vampire stories, check out this vampire love scene I wrote, but be warned, it is HOT. Click here for some sexy vampire fun!

#1 (Photo Credit: Shame, Joe Gatling, flickr, Layout by thecrustycurmudgeon)