From this morning’s Associated Press article: The study tested whether Vytorin was better than Zocor alone at limiting plaque buildup in the arteries of 720 people with super high cholesterol because of a gene disorder. The results show the drug had "no result – zilch. In no subgroup, in no segment, was there any added benefit" for reducing plaque, said Dr. John Kastelein, the Dutch scientist who led the study.

Damned if I’m happy not to own any shares of Schering-Plough today. Public trust has spiraled with many pharmaceutical companies where their drugs – which are supposed to bring people to health – have done quite the opposite, and in some cases have caused death. You put your family’s trust in these mega-corporate machines and it’s unconscionable when they keep certain results quiet while they continue to rake in billions of dollars.

Even though it’s been an ongoing joke, I am continually freaked out at the “cautionary, laundry list copy” at the end of each one of these television commercials for a drug. “Let your doctor know if you breathe air on a daily basis as it may cause a reaction with our drug, side effects may include – continual 24/7 singing of Proud Mary, fear of turtles, the uncontrollable urge to play hackey sack with Sarah Ferguson, possible growth of a third eye, the need to defend Adam West’s role as Batman, nights of endless beer pong, rooting for the Detroit Lions, severe itching in delicate areas that will cause a commotion when you begin to scratch, hammerhead, offensive lineman’s neck,  the ability to understand the ending of No Country for Old Men, Charles Nelson Reilly laugh, brutally uncomfortable anal warts, webbed feet, an unexplainable desire to be a men’s room attendant, speaking in ancient tongues, the gubernatorial need to bang $4,300 hookers, Marty Feldman eye, referring to yourself as Prince Namor the Submariner, male camel toe, only watching TV shows on the WB, a You Tube video featuring you playing Bohemian Rhapsody with only the use of armpit farts, and aqualung.” I’ve actually heard each one of these on a recent TV ad and it’s appalling.

If you’ve ever wondered why the costs of these drugs are so astronomical causing our healthcare system to wallow in a state of disarray, here’s another note from the AP article: The New England Journal also published a report showing that Vytorin and (competitor) Zetia’s use soared in the United States amid a $200 million advertising blitz. In Canada, where marketing drugs directly to consumers is not allowed, sales were four times lower. That’s 200 million in marketing spent on just “one” of the countless drugs on the market. Can you imagine the total yearly number of all pharma companies combined?

This leads me to an interesting conspiracy theory that many have spoken of during the years, that the drug makers really don’t want to cure major illnesses such as cancer because of the astronomical profits that drugs rake in. It’s the same kind of thinking that the auto industry has been accused of for decades that a car not dependant on gasoline has been invented many times over but always to be the recipient of euthanasia via the big oil companies. Now, I’m not saying I buy into these theories – but it sure as hell makes you think of the possibilities.

"While these corporations profited, Americans were left in the dark," NY Attorney General, Andrew Cuomo said in a written statement Sunday. "The millions who take this drug, taxpayers who subsidize its use through the Medicaid and Medicare programs, and Merck and Schering-Plough’s investors deserve to know why it took so long for the results to be made public. This new information underscores our concerns and advances our investigation, which we will pursue aggressively."

Let me say that I am definitely NOT a pessimist by nature – but we the American people keep putting our trust into doctors, drug makers, corporations, and politicians – only to feel bamboozeled and left shaking our heads. Maybe it’s time we all follow Ron Paul and head up to New Hampshire.  Maybe we should just all take more drugs to help us make it through. You got a better suggestion for the time being? Lemme here it…

I have always found the paparazzi to be heartless and cowardly. They are true whores in every sense of the word, not giving a damn who they trample and step on. A few months back you might remember that Britney accidentally ran over one moron’s foot as he hoisted himself over the hood of her car. And lets not forget the unforgivable incident with Princess Diana. Rocker Tommy Lee and actor Sean Penn have had fistfights with these low-lives and George Clooney has publically denounced them, calling on the government to hand out harsh penalties to those who stalk and invade the stars lives.

I almost got sick when I read that there are now paparazzi agencies, one notable company run by a husband and wife team. They defend what they do 100% and say that since the stars put themselves on display and are public figures, they should be able to photograph them when and wherever they like. Paparazzi author Peter Howe told Time that "celebrities need a higher level of exposure than the rest of us so it is a two-way street. The celebrities manipulate."

It really all comes down to the tabloid rags who purchase and print this garbage. Photographer Mel Bouzad, a noted stalkarazzi in the LA area was paid $150,000 for a shot of Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez. That’s more than three to four school teacher’s salaries (and two at bats for Alex Rodriguez.) The rags claim all they are doing is fulfilling public demand – which is a pile of Rosie droppings if you ask me. Were you clammering to see the first pics of baby Suri Cruise’s diaper dirt as bad as I was? Do photos of Eva Longoria buying Vagisil at CVS or Queen Latifah scratching her cracker at a Dodgers game get you excited? Do you enjoy seeing Tom Hanks walking through the airport with a Fed Ex box over his head or a topless Harvey Fierstein taking in some rays at an all-poofter resort in Cancun? It’s not only absurd but almost offensive that the tabloids pin this on us. They print the crap and our collective mindless curiosity just has to take a look at how the other half lives their private lives.

Some stars are actually cordial to the lecherous photogs, such as Jerry Seinfled. He always stops, smiles, and gives a quote or two and finds that they leave him alone pretty quickly. But I can understand the anger and rage of stars whose children are put at risk when cameras are shoved in their faces, stripping them of any kind of privacy and protection at all. I simply cannot fathom while walking through an airport or trying to enjoy a meal, having hundreds of flashes going off in your face and leaving you almost no room to walk. Lindsay Lohan’s car has been hit not once but twice while trying to elude the stalking dirtbags. Although, she has been guilty of a few of those pantiless, “how YOU doin’” vertical smile shots and I’m sure that’ll fetch a few Franklins in the Enquirer.

I admit that the paparazzi often abuse us famous bloggers as well, disguising themselves as squirrels and raccoons, waiting for that shot of a Polack in his skivvies while taking the garbage out. I know they’re there but what can a guy do? I just go about my life, scratching my own cracker if it needs scratching, and if it’s caught on film, well, that’s obviously a keepsake for some lucky fan.

I really do think these people are a plague and laws should better protect anyone who is under their stalker mentality scrutiny. (Well, I guess that might leave the government out and they just can’t have that.) I’d really like to see the photo-morons get heavily fined for abusive behavior and have the tabloids who print the shots fined equally as harsh – well, all except for those “getting’ out of the car, wink wink, nudge nudge” shots. Gotta leave a little creative and artistic license for the adorning public. Yeah, I’m a sicko pig. It’s been well documented.

I thought so much of the product that I bought the entire production… and then  NOTHIN’! Maybe it’s because the cigar is called Negro (well, it’s a black cigar, mad  with the best San Andres maduro, like the wrappers Padron buys).  Maybe, just  maybe, the box is so damned expensive looking that consumers think the cigar  can’t possibly be much because the box must cost a fortune to make..

And of course this is the worst of all for us cigar smokers (especially cigar smokers who play golf), as it just ain’t enjoyable puffing a cigar in the chilling wind – In fact it’s downright freakin’ depressing! The thought of a 72 degree day, turning some T-bones on the grill while sipping a single malt and stoking up a big-ass Churchill, well that’s living large brother. Now for those of you in the warm weather areas, please don’t bust your northern brothers chestnuts, telling us about your 80 degree day. Have pity on us dudes who are longing for the sun. I know in the comments I’ll get, “Ha ha, Zman, 82 here today and warmer tomorrow, bla, bla, bla!” Well let me remind you ball-busting BOTL’s that when you get hit with the disasters we don’t see up here (hurricane, tornado, tsunami, drought, flood, whatever the hell) you don’t really wanna hear a “ha ha, your roof is in the next county” from us turds either. Capiche?

If it weren’t for the private cigar club I belong to in north Jersey – The Metropolitan Cigar Society, www.metrocigar.com (check the photos on how awesome this place is) – I would be stark raving out of my skull by now. The wife and daughter seem to think that they paid for the big screen Sony so they own it for hours on end of American Idol, America’s Top model, Little People Big World, and Jon and Kate Plus 8 – Christ what mindless drivel. On those nights I give the Mrs. the ol’ Ricky Ricardo line, “I’m goin’ to the club, honey!”

I also know that some of you can smoke in the house or have created cigar rooms for yourselves and to that I say bravo! But for the poor saps who just have to wait out the change of the season, it’s a bear and there is NOTHING like that first 65 degree day! Everyone is outside in shorts, washing cars, chipping golf balls on the front lawn, having a catch with the kids, walking the pooch, whatever! We act like it’s in the 80’s and we go a tad bonkers. But everyone is smiling and in a good mood and that is a beautiful thing. Damn – not much longer… not much longer, Zman.

I personally know I’ve got readers in Texas, Arizona, Florida, Hawaii, Louisiana, and other wonderfully hot places. And I know you good buddies would all have us frozen northern BOTL’s over for a herf in a moment’s notice if you could. That’s just the way cigar smokers are – generous and sharing. So don’t break our stones here, and encourage we who are impatiently waiting for the warming rays of goodness. Send us your well wishes, your loving thoughts, and hell, send us your stoags so we can celebrate come that first bright and sunny weekend!  (I’m not above accepting gifts.)

As I look out my window from the computer, it’s a gray, 48 degree day with 50% chance of precipitation. Yuk. Come on Mother N., get your booty here and send the chilly old man packing. I dream of the warm day, the grill a blazin’ and the maduros a smokin’.

Please wake me when it’s ready.

I love you all,
Tommy Z.
JR Cigar Blog With the Zman
——————————————————————————————————————————
Weekly Special: We’re Biting the Bullet…
Valid thru Midnight, Wednesday, April 2, 2008 while supplies last.

I thought so much of the product that I bought the entire production… and then  NOTHIN’! Maybe it’s because the cigar is called Negro (well, it’s a black cigar, mad  with the best San Andres maduro, like the wrappers Padron buys).  Maybe, just  maybe, the box is so damned expensive looking that consumers think the cigar  can’t possibly be much because the box must cost a fortune to make..

Let’s start with the fact that when I pulled up to the pump in my Jeep Grand Cherokee, I told the attendant to just yank down my drawers and have his way with me. It was basically the same as the $60 he wanted to fill the tank. I never thought that a trip to the gas station would make me feel so – so dirty and violated. My wife’s got this new insurance company from her new job and we have to pay the doctor in full, up front, then get reimbursed by the insurance. She goes to the dentist and it’s $700. She submits her claim three times and all three times they don’t have record of it. Finally it’s processed and they mistakenly send the check to the dentist. The dentist keeps the check for three weeks, then claims it must have been lost in the mail. Finally we get the check and the f@#kers only covered $240. Yank down drawers and bend forward, please – sorry, but no lubricant available at this time.

I stopped in the A&P or a few quick items – general stuff – some milk, bread, fruit, lunch meat and snacks and it was like $75! I had to charge the goddamned stuff because I didn’t have enough on me! I then drop my kid off for baseball practice, which included $130 league fee. “Oh dad, I need new cleats, a mitt and a bat.” Sure son, that’s only around $400. Bend over and take it pops cause you gotta let the kid play baseball – right?

It is becoming oh so frighteningly clear that we are not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

Baseball practice is two hours and right now in north Jersey it’s in the mid to high 40’s so I was not hanging out for a smoke as I had hoped. So I head across the street to my favorite diner to kill time and work on a writing assignment, knowing that a sandwich and a hot cup of java will calm my bewildered mind.

“What’ll it be, sugar?” Well, she didn’t really call me sugar, but she would have if it was a TV show. Plus sugar’s too damned expensive to be tossing around like that anyway.

“I’ll have tuna with lettuce, a little raw onion, and put it on a toasted pita instead of bread.”

“Sure thing, honeybuns.” (I can fantasize, can’t I?)

OK, I’m done, it was great – check please… Yeeeeoooooooow! The bill reads: Tuna sandwich, onion lettuce, pita – $9.49! What? “Uh, waitress, mistake here. It says my tuna sandwich was $9.49! Could you fix that please?”

She says the computer must have a different price than the menu and she would fix it. I look in the menu and it’s $6.49 for a tuna sandwich. She comes back and says the computer has the pita at $1.50 extra and I was charged additional for the onion and lettuce! Holy God, you’ve gotta be kidding! Manager please!!!

Say Mr. Manager, sir… May I say that I have NEVER paid nine and a half bucks for a tuna sandwich in my life – not even in Manhattan (where my son’s bacon cheeseburger was $17 last week when I took him to the hockey game for his birthday.) He gives me the same shpeal about the pita, bbla, bla, bla.

I said, “Listen bro. If you sat down and saw that a tunafish sandwich was ten bucks would you order it?” He knew I had a good point but acted as if he didn’t make up the prices.

“A strip of lettuce and a slice of an onion for $1.50 is kind of insane, don’t you think?” was my reply as I unbuttoned my jeans and got ready to lean over one of the counter stools. I figured I’d been getting reamed in the can all day so the manager of a “Greek” diner would probably be the best I’d have in quite some time. (Did you hear the one about the Greek boy who left home because he wasn’t being reared right?)

“Ok, ok, I take off the $1.50 seence you a longtime customer.” Gee thanks, Nikos, now maybe I won’t walk with a limp when I pick up my kid from practice. (By the way, the Greek boy eventually returned home because he couldn’t leave his brother’s behind.)

Even with the discount it was still over ten bucks for a sandwich and a coffee. Everybody is feeling the pinch – it’s a domino effect and businesses that rely on discretionary income spending are in deep trouble. I figure I may have to get a dairy cow and hunt for my family’s food – or just get famous and make a hell of a lot more money. (For the record, cigars are an absolute necessity and not part of anyone’s discretion.) And I admitted to the diner manager that a year ago I might not have even said anything, but after getting brutally sodomized by the economy, a ten-dollar tuna sandwich turned me into Howard Beale, the newscaster from NETWORK, who was sick and tired and wouldn’t take it anymore. Plus I didn’t want to have to buy one of those foam donuts for my toilet seat. Just another unexpected expense.

Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em, boys. That’s about all we can do to keep from going insane.

Aries – The Ram – March 21 to April 19
Stay clear of that guy at the office three cubicles over that snorts snot all day and talks to himself in a made up language. Your moon is in Leo which is only bad if you’re Polish. Your lifelong dream of purchasing a Zamboni will be crushed sometime after dinner. Throw confetti at a stranger. Cats hate you.

Taurus – The Bull – April 20 to May 20
Why the long face – what, are you, Celine Dion? Tell the Mrs. how you really feel, she’s a cold fish in the sack and she needs to know. You will find a Corn Flake in the shape of Dane Cook’s head. A phone call from a friend will come sometime in the next 12 months. Internet porn is not the answer – but it don’t hurt either. Facial reconstruction is recommended.

Gemini – The Twin – May 21 to June 21
The world knows you’re a douchebag so why hide it? Picking all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms will only enrage family members further. A plumber may ask to borrow your handkerchief. If you poke out an eye today, remember that you still have another one. Learn Korean.

Cancer – The Crab – June 22 – July 22
Just how long are you going to wait to find out why it burns when you pee? Someone from New Jersey wants to injure you. An angry moon is colliding with Uranus. Farting in church will only have you sitting in your own pew. You confuse easily. Stay away from flan.

Leo – The Lion – July 23 – August 22
It drives you crazy that Brett Favre’s name is pronounced “Farve.” You will mysteriously find yourself in an automobile sometime this month. A gay man named Julian shares your passion for Yodels. Suggest a Chia Head for someone who needs gift advice.

Virgo  – The Virgin – August 23 – September 22
The voices in your head just may be right this time – the neighbor’s dog has to go. Venus is your ruling planet and she says you’ve been staying out too late, you don’t spend enough time with her, and she’s wondering if you should see other people. That tenth White Castle Slyder WILL cause damage.

Libra  – The Scale – September 23 – October 22
The X-Ray specs you ordered in fourth grade are not coming. Circus midgets intrigue you. The Pittsburgh Penguins called and they have your wallet. You drank Bosco as a child and now it haunts you. Your mom never threw out your comics, but instead sold them for $22,000. Joyce Kilmer was a guy.

Scorpio  – The Scorpion – October 23 – November 21
A personal visit from the Bee Gees has you concerned. Pick yourself up a Staples “EASY” button for reassurance. Your moon is in the eight sun of the tenth house which means you’re pretty much f@#ked. Remember, red balls at night, sailor’s delight. Tip your bartenders and waitresses.

Sagittarius  – The Archer – November 22 – December 22
You’re the life of the party until you are shot in the clavicle. You didn’t get the ending of NO country for Old Men Either, but are afraid to admit it. Jupiter and Saturn think you’re a flaming asshole and refuse to align. Your car keys are on the mantle near the small photo of Mao Tse-Tung.

Capricorn  – The Sea Goat – December 22 – January 19
Someone at work thinks you’re hot – but unfortunately it’s Gus, the guy who complains about the ceiling tiles. The Montreal Canadiens have cut you from their minor league affiliate. You admit to liking dogs, only if they’re cooked well done. When you say good morning to your new neighbor, Bashkeem, he will refer to you as an infidel. Manly yes, but I like it too.

Aquarius  – The Watrer Bearer – January 20 – February 18
Your idol Greg Louganis makes a guest appearance on The Price Is Right, but you miss it because you’re taping a rerun of Trading Spouses – Satanic edition. Mars rules and that has you in a tizzy. Be weary of a hackey-sack tournament in your neighborhood this weekend. Search out those who enjoy tractor pulls.

Pisces  – The Fish – February 19 – March 20
You find Tina Fey oddly hot. You will realize that you did indeed leave the iron plugged in – after you pass by South of the Border. An email informs you that you have a shot at smoking with the Zman but realize he’s much too “high-brow” for the likes of your kind. A recurring bad dream has Vicki Carr sitting on you chest.

The stars never lie,
Tommy Z.
JR Cigar Blog With the Zman

I was trying to remember my earliest feelings for the opposite sex and it was probably in first grade where I sat in front of Kathy Werbin’s house one Saturday morning for about four hours waiting for her to come outside. I remember my heart pounding, wondering what I would say when we’d hook up. (It’s uncanny how woman make guys do brutally stupid shit – even at six years old.) Finally my patience paid off as she appeared from her garage – and man she was hot – even back then I was particular about looks. I remember she was into GI Joe’s and asked me to play. (It’s funny that GI Joe’s were actually dolls wrapped in testosterone so boys would be tricked into playing with them.) But my little heart was soon plucked from my ribcage as she had to go – a play date with Robert Sandler was scheduled and that was the first time I realized what heartless and cruel souls those females can be.

It was definitely the TV that helped to arouse my nubile senses in the early years. I didn’t know why, but at ten years old I couldn’t take my eyes off of Barbara Eden’s stomach when she donned that Genie costume. I used to get all warm inside when she pranced around her Cocoa Beach habitat. And even at ten I wondered what the bloody hell was wrong with Major Nelson. What a lameo douchebag. Forget the fact that she was sizzling hot and was sworn to his every command – the bonehead could have anything he wanted – gold, jewels, cars, homes – but it was always, “Don’t use your powers, Genie.” What a friggin ass-tro-NOT.

As stated in an earlier blog, those cavorting cougars always had me more worked up than Laurie Partridge or any of the Brady chicks. Girls my own age didn’t do it for me. I can’t explain it, but I always had a penchant for the older gals. Now I know most guys loved Dawn Wells as Mary Ann, but I was always a Ginger guy, and when Tina Louise strutted about in those slinky nightgowns, I was glued to the tube. (And it wasn’t until I was around 15 that I came to the conclusion that Gilligan, the Skipper, and the Professor were all raging poofters.) I’ve never really dug the “girl next door” type, but more the sultry, buxom bombshell. And as a lad, no one had me standing at full attention more than the incredible Raquel Welch. I was just a kid but I had an amazing appreciation for her killer body, complete with swollen appendages. You can blame God or nature, or the earth’s primal forces, but I was not in control of certain bodily reactions when Raquel appeared on a TV talk or game show. I used to scan the TV Guide when we got it to see if the starlet was appearing anywhere. That same era had the likes of Elke Somer and Gina Lolabridgada, two more voluptuous goddesses I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

Hey listen, I wasn’t a perv (yet), I was just a kid – and the same unexplainable force that changes the tides and pulls flowers towards the sun had me more jacked up than ten Milky Ways and a jug of Bosco. I vividly remember watching Goldie Hawn dance in a bikini on Rowan and Martin’s Laughin, and thinking, “Now that sure as hell beats playing with GI Joe’s.”

Even though she wasn’t provocative, I always dug Elizabeth Montgomery as Samantha Stevens on Bewitched. Again, at an early age I recognized her beauty and just being a witch carried a sexiness all of its own. And again, with the ability to have anything he wanted, her retarded husband Darrin suffered from Major Nelson syndrome: “Don’t use any witchcraft to get what we want or need, Sam.” Whether it was York or Sargent, both Darrin’s were most definitely a couple of real “Dicks” when it came to Samantha’s powers.

No doubt today’s TV is a hell of a lot more sex oriented and I realize sure my son is subject to those same unexplainable forces that his daddy was driven by. Plus with the internet and its 12,000 naughty sites, my kid doesn’t have to go rooting around my bedroom for pop’s “half-assed” hidden Playboy magazines (sorry dad, but you’ve gotta know I would have found them even if you buried them two miles under the goddamned septic tank.)

Listen, my intent here wasn’t to write a sexist piece and I’m certainly not advocating my kid look at porn or anything like that. I just know at 13 what my son is feeling as I think back to my early days of youth. And there’s no doubt everyone of you guys have similar memories and stories of your own -  hopefully to share in the comments section below (and please do so because I’ll most likely need to convince my mother, wife, and daughter that I’m not a raging perverted psychopath, after they read this.)

Glad I could share such nice mammaries.

Whoa, Nelly!
 
As you might expect, the lady is a bit outraged and had some things to say about it. "Do I have big fake boobs, Botox and big lips? No,” the Sex in the City star asks. "Do I fit some ideals and standards of some men writing in a men’s magazine? Maybe not.”
 
The gal continued to whine, "Am I really the un-sexiest women in the world? Wow! I guess you can’t please all people."

That’s an understatement.
 
"It upset him (referring to husband, Matthew Broderick), because it has to do with his judgement too. It’s condemnation, it’s insane. What can I do?”
 
I say run the mile and a half at Belmont and see how good your times are.
 
"It’s so brutal in a way, so filled with rage and anger,” she closed with.

To that I do agree. And although the assessment is a rather harsh, I can tell that the raters were not only going by looks – other factors were involved – and I understand their thinking coming from the male perspective. Parker played a sex editor for a newspaper on her TV show. She is always being touted as a glamour figure by the media and did sexy commercials for Nutrisse Hair Products, and the perfumes Lovely and Covet where she is sporting 30 pounds of make-up, and wild, flowing hair. But I’m sorry, we get pissed off because she gets paid millions of dollars and she is not beautiful or sexy in many guys opinions – far from it. Yet the media crams stars like this down our throats and it starts to get terribly annoying. Right now the country is suffering from Oprah and Rachael Ray overload and it causes a backlash. And although I would not have Ms. Parker on my top five list, I see where the guys are coming from. We see it as  bullsh@t hype and we’re tired of it. And with that in mind, we check out the rest of the list…

Second place goes to British singer and skank supreme, Amy Winehouse where the boys at Maxim said, “openly hemorrhaging translucent skin, rat’s nest mane and lashes that look more like surgically attached bats”. That is just so sweet, fellas , ya shouldn’t have.

Third place goes to someone I think I would have on my list, the star of Grey’s Anatomy and the movie hit Sideways, Sandra Oh. You could cook an omelet on her face with room for a serving of flied lice. For crissakes that chick is fugly, and again, a woman who is lauded by the media as being a sexy star. Ack! (Borrowed from Bloom County’s Bill the Cat.) Maxim says she’s got a “mug that looks Euro-sealed to her skull” and the boys admitted additional factors came into play such as the fact that she stars on, “a show about sappy chick doctors we’re forced to watch or else our girlfriends won’t have sex with us”. I’d say that’s justifiable cause for volatile hatred.

The dis-honor for Fourth place is held for the material skank herself, Madonna. Yes, she’s beastly looking and the good souls at the outspoken men’s mag let us know. She has been deemed “unsexy” for her “self-righteous bellyaching and rapid postnuptial deterioration.” They even referred to her as “Willem Dafoe with hot flashes.” Must be that Michael Strahan gap-toothed look they share. Again I say that she’s another self-righteous broad who the media has shoved down our collective gullets until we’re ready to hurl our Corn Flakes. To me, everything about Madonna says “skank-a-roon” and it’s nice to know that I’m not alone. I’m not sure why it’s nice to know, but I feel comforted.

And finally, number five is reserved for…BRITNEY SPEARS! Man, when they fall, they fall far and hard. Once lauded as the sexiest little darlin’ in America, Brit has been reduced to trailer-trash ho, bolstering her problems with alcohol, drugs, her ex, taking care of her kids, and spending millions a month on baubles and bangles. The once hot little minx has turned into a skeevy hoo-wa right before our very eyes!

"Less than five years ago, Britney had a python wrapped around her well-toned torso onstage at the VMAs. Since then, she´s lost the ability to perform, but gained two kids, two useless ex-husbands, and about 23 pounds of Funyun pudge." And who’s gonna argue wit dat?

Now it’s hard to blame the crew at Maxim for being young in years, but obviously they have never seen the likes of Janet Reno, Bea Arthur, or the chick that played Shirley on “What’s Happening.” So without further ado, I deliver my personal list of un-sexy females…

#1 Barbra Streisand
This yenta’s annoying outspoken political views are only outweighed by her bulbous ass and Koho Salmon-like proboscis (that’s nose for you uncultured slobs.) I never knew James Brolin was blind and deaf.

#2 Oprah Winfrey
Fat, thin, fat, thin, fat, thin, fat. I just find her incredibly unattractive. Her facial features and her rat’s nest hair, combined with Oprah overload – her brazen attempt at Oprah world domination has me saying “I wouln’t boink her with your wanker.”

#3 Sandra Bernhardt
F@#king hideous in every sense of the word.

#4 Sandra Oh
Gotta agree with the Maxim boys, here. This “me love you long-time” girl really puts the “pan” into “pan-face.” I can’t even fathom her without makeup. I just shivered typing it.

#5 Hillary Clinton
You know, I’m just not a big fan of cankles. Mix that with her politico rhetoric and icy personae, and the blow –up doll Miss Magic Mouth is getting me off a lot faster. Just say NO to the Hildebeast.

Well, there you have it, fellas. And If you were wondering, why I left Rosie O’Donnell off the list? She’d have to be a female, remember?

And, for further shits n’ giggles, check out this little diddy from AOL, stars with their make-up off. (URL Below.) You will not believe how horrendous some of these so-called sexy stars look with out the million dollar make overs. Eva Longoria looks just goddamned plain awful and break out the barf bucket when you get to Goldie Hawn. Age has been very unkind to the ex-Laugh-in ditz bag. No foolin’ guys, this is gonna floor you. Hang on to your hankys!
tuvida.aol.com/moda-y-belleza/fotos/stars-without-make-up
 
To my Christian bothers, have a great Easter weekend. And to my Hebrew BOTL’s,
HOW COULD YOU HAVE HANDED OVER OUR LORD AND SAVIOR TO THE ROMANS?!!! Jeez, what the hell were you thinking?! All right, it’s past history, I’ll let it slide. I love everybody. No really, I do.

It seems that in the last month or so is when the woman sat on the toilet and wouldn’t get up. The skin from her legs had formed around the seat and literally stuck to it – she could not move at all. While it sounds like a deleted scene from Silence of the Lambs, there were no fava beans or chianti when authorities arrived, just a couple of half-baked, corn fed, retards from middle America.

Jeez Louise, my father-in-law has been known to read War and Peace in there but always eventually came up for air (along with an industrial strength can of Glade.)

Ness County Sheriff Bryan Whipple and crew discovered this strange predicament. “The house was cluttered but not in shambles,” he said. “The smell was overpowering — a terrible smell about the house, obviously coming from where she was at. She would have been sleeping on the toilet.” (May I just say that I found it more than humorous that a guy named MR. Whipple was in charge of this bathroom incident.) Whipple continued by saying, “The unfortunate thing is this truly is a case of two people, in my opinion, with diminished mental capacity.” Gee, ya think? Somebody get this feller somethin’ nice from the prize closet.

SHE’S NOW THE BUTT OF ALL JOKES…
The Fox News headline reads: Woman Goes for Leg Operation, Gets New Anus Instead

Let me start by saying that there are so many bad jokes awaiting here that I will do everything within my power to refrain from the “low hanging fruit.”

The Daily Telegraph (I think that’s the newspaper in the Daredevil comic) has reported that a German woman who entered the hospital for a leg operation was confused with another patient who was suffering from incontinence and was to have surgery on her sphincter. Oopsies! Talk about tearing her a new one… (How could I resist?) Giving a person a new pooper is about as rough as it gets. Or did they actually give her a second pooper? Not sure. And worse yet, the lady still needs the leg operation!

Chief of surgery, Dr. Henrik Von ShultzKlink gave his best professional explanation of the medical mistake. “I zink ve vucked up preety goot,” he pronounced quite candidly. “At leest da poopen-shooten eez do-ink just vine. Ze frauline eez lucky zat ve deedn’t confuse her wit a sex change pashent!”

It has been reported that the clinic in Hochfranken, Bavaria, has suspended the entire surgical team who will go back to playing nightclubs with their oompa band in Dusseldorf. “Zis haz reely turned out to be a paine in ze azz for everywon,” claims assistant surgeon Helmet Gerbles. “Hansy hasn’t played ze tuba in a dogz age and I’ll nevva feet into my lederhosen!”

The woman has said she will be suing the living scheisse out of the hospital. (Wa-waaaaaaa…)

SPEAKING OF A REAL ASS…
Congressman John Dingell, D-Mich has a swell idea! He wants to put an additional fifty-cent tax on a gallon of gasoline in order to make Americans cut back on fuel consumption. Somebody please break out the whiffle bats wrapped in two inches of duct tape because this nimrod need a beatin’ like he’s never had before! With that mentality why not cure obesity by putting a tax on every food item? And tax the livin’ hell out of Hostess, Burger King, and Hagen Daaz while you’re at it! Leave it to a wealthy politico fat-cat who doesn’t give a damn if his Bentley costs a few more bucks for a fill-up! What an absolute thoughtless prick! How do we elect these mentally challenged knuckle draggers? Families will never get together for holidays anymore, vacations will be a thing of the past, towns will cut back on Little League tourneys, and the moral fabric of this country will be completely flushed down the porcelain gob-stopper.

While rap singer and star Fifty Cent was humbled that a tax hike would be named after him, he is 100% against the idea. “Yo, my blinged out Hummer’s gonna cost two G’s a week just to pick up my homies, ho’s and forties. I ain’t down wit dis.”

And neither is the Zman “down wit dis.” It’s whiffle bat time peeps and I need to know who’s up for a Michigan road trip? Batta, batta, batta…Swiiiiiing!

Today Bush marks five years in Iraq. Thanks, pal, woo-hoo. Obama has some mess to clean up from his favorite fun-lovin’ preacher who called the county the US-KKKofA and said that America deserved the attacks on September 11th. Remember – Lord loves a working-man and don’t trust whitey. (The first person to email me what movie that’s from gets a nice premium cigar 5 pack from the Zman.)  The bird flu is back and making life miserable in Indonesia where they are still chirping about a pandemic. Delta Airlines is firing 2,000 employees. It cost me over $300 last night to take my kid to the Rangers game at Madison Square Garden. How the bloody hell can any average working class Joe EVER afford season tickets again? And, the new video just hit You Tube entitled: Governor’s Gone Wild.

OK, I’ve either depressed you, angered you or both. Or, you’ve become so numb like a lifeless hunk of excrement that you just don’t give a shineola anymore. I’m usually very anti negativity such as the six o’clock news, but I needed the set up here. In a world that has become of volatile game of horse hockey, there is still one constant for us guys – and that is our beautiful and beloved cigars.

More than ever before do we cigar smokers need to defend our love of the sacred leaf. Cigar smoking is crucial to our enjoyment of life, allowing us the time to kick back and relax, collect our thoughts and process what has taken place during the day and what we need to do to move forward. Those who have never smoked cigars don’t have a clue what I’m referring to. Much like telling someone without kids what it’s like to have a baby, explaining the positive effects of cigars to a non-smoker falls on big time deaf ears. Cigars are our babies – we care for them, nourish them, and love them with all our hearts. OK, you wouldn’t light a baby on fire and suck smoke out of his ass, but you see where I’m going with this.

We also need more laughter in our lives. I suggest we watch more comedies and comedians perform instead of movies and shows about death and violence. Read cigar blogs every day written by a Polish immigrant who went through school on a cockfighting scholarship. We need to lighten up and feel more relaxed – not so up-tight all the goddamned time. A supermarket by me did something neat in their produce department. In five- minute intervals a mist of water sprays the veggies as the lights flicker and the gentle sound of thunder plays from hidden speakers, mimicking the feel of a rain forest. I thought it was quite clever and the store manager told me the idea was to make it feel realistic to enhance the customer’s shopping experience. I admit I was a bit hesitant to enter the toilet paper and feminine hygiene isles.

There has never been a truer statement than “Boys will be boys.” Simply put, men are primal f@#king idiots – simple, logical, sex starved, knuckle-dragging oafs. We always try to fix stuff – including our woman – which was kind of the basis to John Gray’s best seller, Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus. The wife comes home from work and starts complaining about all the backstabbing bitches, including Susan who said a few things behind her back. And right away, we men have the answer – we can fix the whole situation with one simple suggestion: “ Tell Susan and the rest of them goddamned yentas to shut their f@#king mouths before you stick sour heads into the paper shedder!” (Oh yea, that oughta learn ‘em.) “Now pass me a hunk of meatloaf, honey, I’m frickin’ starved!”

You dumb-ass mope. Chicks don’t want you to fix shit… they want to know that you understand. They want to know that you understand how they are feeling inside. They crave empathy. The proper answer to the Susan situation was something to the effect of, “Gosh Honey, you work so hard and you’re such a good person.” BLEEEECH! I almost choked on my own vomit writing that drivel, but it’s what they want, damn it. They don’t want us meatheads to fix anything, they only want us to understand them – with warmth and compassion. Try this approach one night after dinner, maybe over a bottle of wine and in front of a fireplace. I know, I know there’s a game on – but guaranteed you’ll get your sprockets greased so fast that’ll you’ll even have time to catch the last three innings.

Now of course you know they don’t want the truth, either. They swear they do, but they don’t. And what the hell is more deadlier than a 14 foot Great White shark than a menstruating wife who asks the age-old question, “Does this make me look fat?” Tell the truth and you’ll be turned into chum in a matter of seconds. “No, your ass is huge already, or, it don’t take a pair of Old Navy shorts to make that happen" – is not going to fair well, my brother. You will find your humidor stuffed with soiled bvd’s – please take that as a truth as my Cohibas still smell like Cruex.

“If I died, which one of my friends would you want to sleep with?” There’s another beauty from the depths of hell. First off, who wants to sleep? And the questions needs obvious rephrasing, “Which one of my friends would you like to throttle the living hell out of for about three hours?”  Now you know there’s three or four of them you’d hoist anchor on, and a couple others you’d bring in around the ninth inning for clean-up duty, but the correct answer is…“How could you ask that? No one could ever replace you.” DING, DING, DING! One sprocket greasing, coming right up!

I definitely think that cigar smoking is one of the last great bastions of real men. It gives us time to think, relax and reflect on life. It causes communal bonding like nothing else – a gathering of testosterone, grunting, boxscores and sweat. My wife happens to despise cigars, even though they pay for the roof she lives under. She’s always yapping about cancer, and death, and her being stuck with a big mortgage, yada, yada, yada. What she fails to understand is that cigars bring quite the opposite effect for me and anyone else who partakes in the leafy goodness. Cigars relax my mind and my body, bring down my heart rate and my breathing. They are SO good for me and no pill any doctor could prescribe can take its place. (In fact, pick up the new Spring Edition of Cigar Magazine 2008 – my article entitled, “Cigars Are Good For You” covers all the bases.)

My son absolutely loves the smell of my cigars and loves to hang with me when I’m enjoying one. As much as my wife hates that – along with the things I’m teaching him about women (hey, he had to find out that Britney is a trailer-skank sooner or later) she can rest assured that her little man is just that. A guy must teach his son these rites of passage so he may one day carry his man-card with honor and pride. Perfectly charring a T-Bone, stoking a fireplace, asking a comrade “pull my finger”, and torching up a Churchill are the things that separate us manly beasts from the weaker sex. Tonight I’m taking my boy to Madison Square Garden in New York to watch his New York Rangers do battle against Sidney Crosby and the Pittsburgh Penguins. First we hit the steakhouse across the street as the evening will be a testosterone filled, male bonding extravaganza. Tonight, the boys will be boys.

I’ve got MY man-card all ready.

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