Headless body, drugs and AK-47s found in Bieber’s limo

(Satire)

Atlanta police, responding to a tip from a limousine driver who says he was hired to drive Canadian pop star Justin Bieber, today said they found “troubling” evidence that the teenybopper, who is in the U.S. on a green card, may be involved in illegal activities.

Captain Billy Bob Jones, spokesman for the Atlanta Police department, said that officers found 46 pounds of crack cocaine, 24,152 ounces of marijuana, 16 pipe bombs, 12 AK-47s and the decapitated body of a young woman in a Cadillac limousine that had been used by Bieber and his entourage during a trip to Atlanta.

Bieber’s spokesman denied that the items belonged to the star or anyone who accompanied him on his recent trip to Atlanta where he is believed to be searching for a home. “The Biebs did leave behind a Butterfinger wrapper and an empty Evian bottle. But he has no knowledge whatsoever of the other items, and extends his sympathy to the family of the young woman during this difficult time.”

Representatives for the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service refused comment. A petition to deport Beiber has been signed by more than 200,000 people and submitted to the White House.

12 sure signs you are getting old

1. The Tonight Show gets a new host and you can’t understand why anyone would find him entertaining.

2. Thumbing through People magazine at the doctor’s office you don’t recognize anybody but the celebrities on the “In Memoriam” page.

3. Your new doctor calls you “sir.”

4. You are the only person on your street who receives a newspaper.

5. The couples in the Viagra commercials look young.

6. You go into a Dunkin Donuts, order a large coffee and the tattoo-covered server with a collar pin through his eyebrow asks what kind of donut you want. You reply that you don’t want a donut. He informs you that seniors are entitled to a free donut with a large coffee.

7. Catching a glimpse of yourself in a mirror at the gym, you realize your legs are skinny and hairless.

8. Your nephew is dating a grandmother.

9. You refuse to pay 98 cents a pound for potatoes.

10. You are receiving ads for burial insurance on your Facebook page.

11. You go to a Kenny Loggins concert and the people in front of you are wearing oxygen tanks.

12. As Kenny is singing “House at Pooh Corner” you suddenly remember you forgot to drink your Metamucil.

Joe Valentine

This post was originally published on February 13, 2003.

I’m just your average Joe. I read the New York Post. Love Kraft Dinner. And I haven’t missed a single episode of Joe Millionaire, the hottest reality show of the year.

Joe is a studly construction worker who earns $19,000 a year, masquerading as a guy who just inherited $50 million. The Fox network has flown 20 bimbettes to a French chateau they have been told he owns to compete for the chance to become Mrs. Joe and share in his supposed fortune.

Each week Joe takes three or four bimbettes on a “date” to places like Paris, Corsica and the Riviera and, at the end of each episode, has his butler show those who have somehow displeased him the door, leaving those who remain to fight like alley cats for his attention and affection. Joe’s avowed goal is to narrow the field to the one who loves him not for his money but for what he really is – a guy who can’t afford a comb – and to ask her to become his bride.

The show is a mega-hit. Women love it because Joe is handsome and virile. Men love it because Joe is living every man’s fantasy – sleeping with beautiful but dumb women who are throwing themselves at him. (Hint to bimbettes: Any guy rich enough to own a chateau doesn’t call it a chateau. Hey babe, let’s go back to the chateau and jump in the hot tub. He calls it a house.)

Without having to spend a penny of his own money, Joe and his bimbettes are flying around in private jets, enjoying thousand-dollar dinners and shacking up in swanky hotels, after which Joe gets to tell those who didn’t do exactly what he wanted them to do to take a hike.

As I write this Joe is down to two bimbettes. Inexplicably, he has kept Zora, a substitute teacher who has the personality of a trout and bikini insecurity. His other finalist is Sarah, a gorgeous blonde who looks like Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief. There’s more to Sarah than meets the eye. The Post revealed she has appeared in fetish films.

How can Joe find out if they love him not for his money but for himself?

Take a tip from me, Joe. Spend tomorrow with them the same way I’m going to spend it with my wife. It’s a ritual we’ve repeated six or seven times but never on Valentine’s Day.

Our celebration will officially start at 6 p.m. tonight when, in lieu of Hershey’s Kisses, I’ll start popping Dulcolax laxative tablets every two hours until 2 a.m. I’ll wash them down with Citroma, which bills itself as “the sparkling laxative,” pretending it’s Champagne.

I’ll spend most of the night in the bathroom moaning. In the morning my wife will find me in the fetal position on the family room sofa.

And at noon she will drive me to the hospital for my colonoscopy, a procedure I need annually because of a family history of unpleasantness in that particular netherworld.

She will sit patiently in the waiting room until I wake up from the anesthesia, by which time the doctor will have shared with her glossy photos of any polyps he found and removed. At that point I’ll be passing approximately as much gas as Kuwait.

She will then drive me home with the car windows down as I continue to fire away … put me to bed … sequester herself across the house as far away as possible from our bedroom … and watch TV as Clyde, our dachshund, snores at her feet.

Now I know this may sound a bit extreme, Joe. But the way I see it, it’s easy for a woman to fly with a guy to the south of France in a private jet, eat truffles, drink Champagne and snuggle all night under a down comforter in a luxury suite overlooking the sea. But that’s not necessarily love.

Love is watching TV on the most romantic night of the year with only a dachshund to keep you company because your husband scheduled a revolting medical procedure without even considering that February 14 is Valentine’s Day.

If Zora or Sarah can do that for you without complaining, congratulations – you’ve got yourself a keeper.

And if not?

At least you'll know if you have polyps.

Salad days

Pizza Guy: Good evening, Giovanni’s.

TD: I’d like to place an order.

PG: Delivery or pick-up?

TD: Pick up.

PG: OK, when you’re ready.

TD: Large sausage, thin crust.

PG: Would you like anything else with that?

TD: A small salad.

PG: We only have two sizes, medium and large.

TD: How big is the medium?

PG: It’s enough for two or three people.

TD: I just want enough for one person. Can’t you make me a small one?

PG: I guess we can, but I’ll have to charge you for a medium.

TD: How much is that?

PG: Four ninety five.

TD: Fine, a medium green salad.

PG: OK, one medium Greek salad. Anything else?

TD: No, not a Greek salad, a green salad.

PG: All our salads are green.

TD: A simple salad. Lettuce. Tomatoes. You know, a regular salad.

PG: A chef salad?

TD: No, I don’t want meat and cheese in my salad, I’m getting that on the pizza. I want a green … a tossed salad.

PG: Would that be an antipasto salad?

TD: No! A simple salad. Don’t you have plain salad?

PG: We have something on the menu called a “Garden Salad?” Is that what you want?

TD: Yes, that’s it! A garden salad! Also known as a green or tossed salad. Real simple. Didn’t your mother ever serve salad when you were growing up?

PG: No.

TD: Well I’d think you’d know what a plain salad is. How long have you been working there?

PG: Two months.

TD: Hasn’t anyone ever ordered a plain salad before?

PG: No, people ask for a garden salad, but I’ve never heard anyone call it a “plain” salad. Or, what was it you called it? A “green” salad?

TD: Fine, skip the salad, I'll just order the pizza.

PG: Is that for pick up or delivery?

TD: Pick-up.

PG: OK, when you’re ready.

TD: I already told you what kind of pizza.

PG: I didn’t write it down.

TD: Large sausage, thin crust.

PG: Would you like anything else with that?

TD: Can I speak to your manager?

PG: No, it’s his night off.

TD: Well who’s in charge? Can I speak to him or her?

PG: You’re speaking to him.

TD: Let me get this straight. You’re running a restaurant that serves two things – pizza and salad. And you’ve never heard of a green salad.

PG: Like I was saying, our menu calls them “garden” salads. I’ve never heard …

TD: … of a green or tossed or plain or regular salad. I’m not even hungry any more. Just forget it, OK?

PG: OK, thanks for calling Giovanni’s.

A Super party at the beach with Steve

Saturday night my wife and I had dinner with our friends Mark and Jane who, like us, could care less about the Super Bowl. “I don’t even know who’s playing,” Mark said.

“The St. Louis Blues and Boston Celtics,” I joked.

Jane mentioned she had received a robocall that afternoon from some guy who said he was running for Southwest Florida’s vacant Congressional seat. (Our Congressman resigned last week so a special election has to be held to choose his replacement.) The voice said he was calling to invite voters to a Super Bowl party at Doc's, a beach bar here in Bonita Springs.

I perked up immediately because I had received the same call. The candidate – neither Jane nor I could remember his name – said he was running to create jobs, clean up Washington, yadda yadda. He promised we could meet his mentor, his college basketball coach, and all we had to do was RSVP and show up. Jane said the message was still on her voice mail.

“Let’s go,”  I suggested. 

Mark, who hates crowds, said absolutely not. The girls and I overruled him.

We met for a movie Sunday at 4, after which we headed for Doc's. We still weren’t sure of the candidate’s name. I said I thought it was Steve.

“Steve” it was from that moment on.

When we arrived we had to stand in line and sign petitions to get Steve on the ballot for the primary. I’m not a member of Steve’s party – the other three are – but I signed anyway. A small price to pay for two free drink tickets.  

“This is stupid,” Mark pleaded. “Don’t you know we’re going to get all sorts of calls and be hit up for campaign contributions? Let’s leave now.” 

We ignored him.

Once we signed, we were admitted to Doc’s second floor overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. The sun was just going down. Breathtaking.

The room was packed with people wearing name tags. “Hi, I’m Marcy.” “Hi, I’m Phil.”

We made our way through the crowd to the bar and ordered our free drinks. On TV an opera singer was singing the national anthem.

A drunken woman at the bar said she had flown in that morning from Cleveland. She said she didn’t quite understand what was going on but hey, the drinks were free, it had been minus twelve degrees in Cleveland just few days ago and wow, look at that sunset, willya?

A table in the middle of the room held platters of French fries, chicken wings and pizza. People were circling around like vultures.

A tall man wearing a sport coat and white open collared shirt was working the room, going from table to table. We assumed he must be Steve.

A waitress bumped into Mark, causing him to spill his beer down my back. “I’m outta here,” he announced. We took our drinks and followed him down the back stairs and onto the beach where we watched the last rays of the sunset disappear.

Twenty minutes later the girls and I went back upstairs to redeem our second drink tickets. The crowd had thinned out considerably. The game was underway. Tables of sullen-looking strangers were sitting at round tables, watching the TV screens. The lack of enthusiasm was palpable.

“Where’s Steve?” my wife asked. He was no place to be seen.

The bartender was crazy-busy. The score, I saw, was two to zip. Some Dodger must have hit a home run while there was a guy on base.

It took a while for our drinks to be served. Then I helped myself to the last three chicken wings. By the time we returned outside, it was dark.

In the distance we saw Mark deep in conversation with a guy who towered over him. He was talking with Steve. Who, it turns out, isn’t a Steve at all. His name is Curt. Curt Clawson. Mark told us later Curt had admitted he needed to get out of that room to get some air, he wasn’t used to campaigning.

Curt played basketball at Purdue and went to Harvard for his MBA. He then became president of the world’s largest beverage can company, retired at 50 with more money than he can ever spend, lives at the beach and is now, he told us, running because he wants to give back to the country that made his success story possible.

It would also – I didn’t say it – be a pretty cool gig.

Everyone else running for the job is a professional politician. Steve – Curt – is not. This guy actually made something of himself without sucking off the teat of the people. He’s personable but, it was obvious, shy. Campaigning isn't going to come easy for him.  My gut is he may be too decent to serve in Congress.

I can’t vote for him in the primary but will happily vote for him in the general election if he gets that far.

After ten minutes or so the candidate ­­said he guessed he needed to go back inside and thanked us for coming.

We headed down the street to a seafood restaurant which, at this time of year in Florida, requires a wait of at least an hour. It was deserted. Super Bowl you know.

We got a table on the water, had a nice meal, and closed the joint down at 9:30.

Arriving home, we saw our next-door neighbor walking her dog and stopped to say hello. “I’ve got to warn you, I’m wearing a beauty mask,” she said. She leaned down and stuck her head in the window. Her face was totally white. She said her husband had been scared shitless when she came out of the bathroom looking like a vampire. It was hilarious.

We chatted a few minutes, drove into our garage, let the dachshunds outside for their evening run, then watched an episode of a French TV series on Netflix.

All in all a Super evening.

And from what I read this morning, the Patriots won.