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I was just reading an article about a man who allegedly killed and beheaded his wife. (Well, she wasn’t “allegedly killed”; she’s dead. He allegedly did it.) According to the article the man had a history of domestic violence against his wife and she had a protective order placed against her. This is the absurdity, according to the article:

The order didn’t prohibit Muzzammil Hassan from living with his wife, but did order that he “restrain from assault, stalking, harassment, aggravated harassment, menacing, reckless endangerment, disorderly conduct, intimidation, threats or any criminal offense†against Aasiya Hassan, the couples’ two younger children—Danyal and Rania—or Muzzammil’s two older children from his first marriage—Sonia and Michael.

The emphasis is mine because you aren’t allowed to do any of those things anyway! I don’t need and no one should have a court order that states that one must refrain from:

  • assault,
  • stalking,
  • harassment and aggravated harassment,
  • menacing,
  • reckless endangerment,
  • disorderly conduct,
  • intimidation,
  • threats or,
  • any criminal offense.

We ALL have court orders against such things. It’s called The Law. (Now that I think about it, maybe we should be mandated in marriage vows.)

Anyway, the guy’s wife is dead. He probably did it. The judge who issued the protective order is an idiot and should be disbarred, and maybe even charged as an accessory before the fact.


Wear Your Big Pants


The young lady I used to share my office with is nouveau-hip. She thinks she’s hip, but she’s a dork.

One day she held up the newspaper and asked me, “Do you believe that they put this on the front cover?” There, among a collage of photographs, was a chubby girl with her belly hanging out.

She didn’t expect my answer: You did it. Not me.

“I did it?”

Yes. You and your ilk. I’ve seen you wear those hip-hugging pants and oh-too-short tops. You spend half of your day pulling at the bottom of your shirt and the other half hiking up your pants trying to cover your belly. It’s not even your belly that you are trying to cover; it’s the area below your belly!

“Yeh, but I’m not fat,” she retorted.

No, but your clothes don’t fit.

When you bend over and the world can see your underwear, your clothes don’t fit. Or you’re a plumber.

“My clothes do fit. It’s the style …”

… and that’s my point. It is the style, and you and your cronies have accepted it and made it okay for people not to fit in their clothes. It doesn’t matter if you’re fat or skinny — you are all wearing clothes that don’t fit.

It’s not that I’m prudish, far from it. Show some skin; I like skin. Just wear clothes that fit.

You look poor.


Retarded Einstein



My wife says, “You are the smartest man I know. How come you’re so stupid?”

She says that I have no idea how to apply my intelligence. And that I don’t focus on life’s little, regular things. Like eating. Or where I’m driving. Or how to get there. Or even what day it is.

Einstein’s wife would tell the story that her hubby, Al, would walk the streets of Princeton, lost in thought and would have to call her from a stranger’s house to find out what was going on.

“Dear, where am I and where am I supposed to be?” He’d inquire, and then she’d gently direct him.

I’m like that sometimes. Okay, a lot.

“Hi, Baby. It’s me. I know I was supposed to do something after work but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. Do you have any idea? … Yeh. I know. Tuesday. Right. … What do I do every Tuesday? You mean after taking a shower? It’s all up in the air. … Oh, Tuesday after work? I dunno. … Oh! That’s right! Bring the boy to jiu-jitsu! … Oh and honey? Don’t make me any supper. I didn’t have lunch until 4 o’clock. … Why? I forgot.”

I’m a retarded Einstein.

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Albums and Records


If you’re going to talk music with me, you may as well learn some of the words I use. Most of you noobs have been screwing up the terminology for a long time and I’m not willing to go along with it anymore. (By noobs, I mean anyone who was born after 1974 or who doesn’t know what a 45 insert is.)

My consternation comes from the fact that a CD is NOT a collection songs released at one time by a musical group or artist. A CD is a compact disc. A compact disc is the medium the songs are stored on.

Here is my short lexicon of musical terms. You may as well get used to them, I’m not changing.

  1. Album: An album is collection of songs released by a musical group or artist. This collection can be compiled on any number of medium including (but not limited to) compact disc, cassette tape, vinyl LP, mp3, and whatever-the-hell format iTunes uses.
  2. Record: A Record is the song (or songs) promoted by the band or recording company that you hear played on the radio or MTV-like programming. This is more commonly called the Single.
  3. Song: Man, I hope that one is obvious to you.
  4. B-Side: You don’t hear this one much anymore. The B-Side is a song released with the Single that was usually not part of the album. It was called the B-Side because it was recorded on the opposite side (the “B side”) of the 45 rpm single. We hipsters always maintained the B-Side was better than the single; hell, we said it was better than anything on the album.
  5. 45 (aka 45 rpm single): The term 45 is no longer in use, though there is a chance that I might slip and use it to mean the Single. It used to mean a small vinyl recording that had to be played at 45 rpm on your record player. The only reason you ever bought the 45 was so that you could own the B-Side.

And I’m not even going to get into the distinctions between LPs, EPs, and 78s.

Stop saying CD when you mean album. Don’t say, “I’m going to download the new Kings X CD from Amazon when it comes out.” You sound like a noob.

This has been a Public Service Announcement from your JimFormation HTML Network.


If I Had a Million Dollars


Many years ago, I found myself around table with a bunch of drunken friends. We were having the “What Would You Do for a Million Dollars?” conversation while playing a game of quarters.

We’d run the usual gamut of questions when I noticed Joe, eyes closed in thought, he hadn’t said a word. “Hey, Joe. What would you do for a million dollars?” I asked.

He opened his eyes and serenely looked at me. “You know, Jim. I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for a million dollars.”

It was the best answer I’d ever heard.

I’ve always been more curious about the creative questions that people come up with rather than their answers. Hell, I’d already heard the best answer from Joe.

With that in mind, what would you do for a million dollars? And remember, a million dollars is a lot of lettuce. And, if a million isn’t good enough for you, how about five million? 20 million?

  • Would you twist off a cat’s tail? Would you stick him in a sack and roll him off your roof? Hold him under water in the bath tub?
  • Would you drink a cup of urine? Wet yourself in an elevator? Drop trow and defecate in the bleachers at Yankees Stadium?
  • Would you have homosexual sex to completion? If you can’t complete, just going hard at it for five minutes?
  • If you are homosexual, would you have heterosexual sex (see above)?
  • Would you have sex with your wife’s (or husband’s, etc.) best friend? At their wedding? In front of their children?
  • Would you sleep with Rosie O’Donnell? Hillary Clinton? Sally Jesse Rafeal? How about a group thing with them?
  • Tell your spouse that you’ve been cheating on him/her even if you haven’t? And live that lie for a day? A week? A month?
  • Go without any personal hygiene for a month? Girls that means, well, you know what that means … it is a month I’m talking about.
  • Would you walk into a jewelry store and steal a diamond necklace from the counter? How about throwing a brick through the glass case and grabbing what you can and running?
  • Would you stay in a maximum security prison for a year? Would you stay there without pants?
  • Get snot drunk and drive 20 miles home? At 80 miles per hour?
  • Would you not feed your school-age children for a day? While you ate? A lot? Their favorite foods? With them watching every meal?
  • Lock your school age children out of the house for 24 hours? 48 hours? A week?
  • Punch your spouse in the face? Hard? Repeatedly?
  • Would you interrupt your best friend’s wedding and try to stop it? By singing “Relax(Don’t Do It)” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood at the top of your lungs? In Boy George drag?
  • Would you sincerely tell your whole family that you’re gay? If you are gay, would you tell them that you’ve been living a lie and that you’re really straight?
  • Would you steal from a homeless person? Would you let a homeless person live with you for a week? Would you trade places with a homeless person for a week?
  • Would you go food shopping with no pants on?
  • Would you rape someone?
  • Would you kill a random stranger with no chance of getting caught? How about if there’s a chance of getting caught? Would you kill someone you know? How about a friend? A member of your family?

Finally –

  • Would you walk up to the clergyman’s wife during services and fondle her boobs?

Everybody SING!


A Giant Mistake


The Mason-Dixon Line of NFL football in this area is Lacey Road. People who live south of Lacey Road are 95% Philadelphia Eagles fans. People who live north of Lacey Road are 95% New York Giants fans. (For the record, I don’t count the New York Jets in this mix. I don’t even care if you’re a New York Jets fan; you don’t have to chime in.)

I work just north of Lacey Road, just barely in Giants’ territory. And since the Eagles beat the Giants to earn their way into NFC Championship game yesterday, the Eagles’ fans have jumped the border and have all found their way into my office. They are all waving their private parts in my general direction.

I respond to their shitty smiles and generalized taunts with a quick shot across the bow, “Don’t tell me. I have the game TIVO’d. I’m going to watch it when I get home from work.”

I’m sick of it.

I thought I might gain a day. But no one is buying it.

Halfway through the fourth quarter yesterday, I turned the television off and went to Target to buy a new set of drumsticks for the Guitar Hero game (I’m the drummer in my kid’s cyber-band). I don’t know the final score. I haven’t listened to any of the post-game analysis. I have not read one article regarding the game. Sports radio is verbotten. But I’ll give you my take on the game:

I imagine everyone is blaming Eli Manning’s interceptions or John Carney’s missed field goals. Some might even say that the Giants missed Plaxico “I-Shot-an-NFL-All-Pro-Reciever” Burress. They might even be praising the Eagles defense for making two fourth down stops. I don’t know, but that’s not the game.

The losing started before the game began. The Giants won the coin toss and elected to take the ball. It was a windy day. Every Giants’ fan knows — and I mean EVERY Giants’ fan knows — you don’t take the ball, you take the wind. In the fourth quarter you want the wind going with you. Period. No analysis. The wind in Giants Stadium is legendary. It gets so bad that in a 1985 playoff game against the Bears, the Giants’ All-Pro punter, Sean Landeta, whiffed at a punt because the wind moved it away from his foot on the drop.

If you win the coin toss, you take the wind with you in the fourth quarter. Over thirty years of football at that stadium has proven this out.

The next thing you do in the winter in Giants Stadium on a windy day when you have the NFL’s number one rushing offense is run the damned ball. Smash-mouth. Off tackle. With your best rusher. Not Derrick “Got Him Off the Jets Practice Squad” Ward. Your best rusher is the 6’4″ 265 pound battering ram, Brandon Jacobs. Jacobs falls forward 3 yards. Give him the damned ball.

Doesn’t the coaching staff realize that Ward was shitty when he wasn’t playing #2 to Jacobs? Doesn’t the coaching staff realize that Ward got his best and longest rushes after Brandon Jacobs wore the hell out of defensive lines? Derrick Ward should have only been on the field in the first half on third down or if Jacobs was gassed. Period.

And when you give Jacobs the ball, don’t rush him sideways. Please.

Was that a new wrinkle? Sweeps? With almost 300 pounds of running back? Did Earl Campbell sweep? Did Christian Okoye sweep?  Did John Riggins sweep? Big boys don’t sweep.

Pound the ball. Pound the ball. Pound the ball. Wear out the defense. Wear them out. Period.

In the second half, if you want to work Derrick “Not-Gonna-Be-Here-Next-Year” Ward as a change of pace. Go ahead. That’s what’s worked all year. (Frankly, Ahmad Bradshaw is a better change-of-pace back than Ward, but I’m not going to quibble. Maybe he doesn’t pick up the blitz as well as Ward. I don’t know.)

Don’t worry if you’re losing in the fourth quarter. Just keep the game tight. You have the wind and a worn out defense in the fourth quarter. That alone is worth 10 points. Just be within 10 going into the fourth quarter.

This is Giants Stadium winter football 101. I learned this stuff watching Bill Parcells orchestrate the Giants in the mid-1980′s. The script was written 25 years ago.


So to reiterate my stance, the New York Football Giants lost because of a panoply of strategic errors starting with winning the coin toss and not taking advantage. Period.


Cookie Dough


Okay. This one is mostly for the ladies, but I think most men will appreciate it too.

Imagine your favorite food. I’m not talking about Maryland crab cakes or fettuccini alfredo. I’m talking guilty snacking pleasures. For ladies, chocolate used to be high on the list — maybe it still is — but I’ve been hearing more about chocolate-covered pretzels and cookie dough lately. For this exercise, I’m going to assume cookie dough (substitute your favorite guilty pleasure as warranted).

Now imagine that you don’t have any cookie dough. You love cookie dough. You want cookie dough. As much cookie dough as you can get your hands on.

Half the people you know and half the people you meet are carrying cookie dough with them, but it’s covered. Oh, you can make out the outline. You know what’s under the cloth. The shape is uncanny. It’s a container of cookie dough. No one is saying anything. And no one is sharing.

Even half the people at work are carrying cookie dough with them. You are too embarrassed to look directly at their cookie dough. And, God forbid!, you would never ask them to see their cookie dough or certainly request a taste. (I mean, there are people who share cookie dough at work, but that’s a different essay.)

And then you come home from work. Your spouse (or significant other) has cookie dough ice cream. Only he has it covered too. He’s carrying it around everywhere. You keep staring at it, hoping he will share. But he ignores you.

You ask about it. “Hey, is that cookie dough? Can I see? Can I have some?”

“Maybe when the kids are asleep I’ll take out the cookie dough and give you some. Maybe. Unless I’m too tired,” he says.

All evening you wait for the kids to go to bed. You hope they fall asleep fast so that you can have some cookie dough. You might even do some of his chores to help him out. You know, to keep him from getting too tired.

After pulling the trash cans to the side of the road, you try to sneak a peek under his cloth to look at the cookie dough or even touch the container through the cloth. Insulted, he slaps your hand, “If you keep that up. You won’t be getting any cookie dough for a week.”

You sit in front of the television hoping that it will take your mind off the cookie dough. But guess what? Half the people on television are carrying cookie dough too! And by the looks of it, most of them don’t have the pint containers — they have quart or even gallon containers!

You start thinking, “You know, I can’t see the cookie dough. I wonder if it really is cookie dough; it could be brownie dough. Brownie dough is good too. I’d take brownie dough!”

By the time the kids are asleep, your spouse is too tired to share his cookie dough. It’s always that way. You knew it. He knew it.

In bed, in the dark, you put your arm around him and hold his cookie dough and dream: “Maybe tomorrow he’ll let me have some cookie dough. If he won’t let me taste it, maybe he’ll at least take off the cover let me see it for a while.”

Sweet dreams.

For guys, boobs are like cookie dough.


Home Repairs. A Lament.


My house is now 4-years-old. And 104-years-old.

If you are a long-time reader of JimFormation, you may remember that I bought the old family homestead. My grandparent’s house. The house I grew up in.

It’s an old farm house. It was in considerable disrepair. Most people advised me to knock it down and build something new, including my architect and my contractor.

I didn’t do it. Instead we tore the house down to its studs, joists, and rafters (tore out a few of those too). I rebuilt the thing. We didn’t restore it. We didn’t renovate it. We rebuilt it around its old skeleton.

That, as they say, is a different story. And not the story I want to tell now.

The memories of the story I want to tell has been rekindled by a visit to Unky Rich’s house. Unky Rich is my friend since grade school. He just did some renovations in his home. I helped rehang some cabinets. And the memories flooded back.

I lived in my old house on Alabama Avenue for 15 years. It was small, but cozy. My wife still misses it. I did a lot of work in that house. I learned on the fly …

Everything I know about taping and spackling I’ve learned by continually screwing it up. My technique has a lot more to do with sanding than it does with joint compound. In reality, I’ve gotten a lot better at sanding but my drywall finishing techniques have remained roughly the same.

I’ve also learned that it is poor form to forget that you’re standing on top of a three-foot stepladder. And that children love to see an adult have such a memory lapses. Especially prepubescent children. You can get them to laugh so hard that they pee their pants if you bounce high enough.

It also has the unique side effect of making your spouse suddenly disappear. This because she doesn’t want to be caught laughing.

No one ever asked if I injured myself after one fateful memory lapse.

Home renovation has taught me how to curse. Anyone can say “Fuck you” to an overcritical spouse, or “Your mother’s a whore” to the guy in the Corvette who is too concerned about his latte and his cell phone conversation than your particular position in the road. But reaching for a box of nails while balancing a board of sheet rock only to drop the hammer on your foot will teach you to paint the air with the most beautiful combinations of foul language.

Home renovation has taught me that it’s okay to cry. Especially when everything looks just about perfect accept for that one spot. And you go to fix that spot and it creates two identical spots very near to where the first spot was. This goes on until the flood of tears obscures your vision of ALL the spots on the wall. But this is okay as you’re sure that similar tragedies have reduced many a longshoreman and navy SEAL into a pulsating, wet mass.

I’ve learned to lie too. “No, honey, I’m not going to paint the wall this weekend. The wall has to cure for several weeks in order for the paint to adhere properly. We don’t want to be going back in a month to slap on another coat of paint. Let’s do this right.”

Why mention this? Because as I said in the opening, my house is 4-years-old. Nail heads are a-popping through the sheetrock. Trim is scuffed. Walls have assorted dents and dings. Some fixtures need repair. The basement is leaking.

My wife is sick of the colors of the walls.

My four year hiatus is over.

Mother fucker.


“You know, honey. I think this may void our homeowner’s insurance. Maybe we talk to our agent or play it safe and not do anything for a year or so.”


If You See Kay …


I once heard that the word “fuck†comes from a time when Britain was having a population shortage and one king or another wanted to increase the number of serfs under his rule. “Fornicate Under the Command of the King,†he ordered. “F.U.C.K.â€

This, however, is wrong.

I’ve also heard that “fuck†is an acronym for “Forced Unlawful Carnal Knowledge.†A term that was emblazoned onto rapists as punishment.

This also is untrue.

“Fuck†may have come from the German words “ficken†or “fucken†which mean “to punch or penetrate.†It may even be a word twisted from the Latin “futuere†which was slang for intercourse. But I think “fuck†comes from the Scandanavian word “fokken†which means “to breed cattle.â€

Googling the word “fuck†produced 195 million results. I didn’t check them all.

I forgot to check Wikipedia when looking up the origins of the word “fuck.†I hope they agree with me, because the Wikipedia is now the source for all knowledge in the known universe.

While doing research for that little bit I learned that 61% of men in one study or another had sex with a woman they didn’t like. My guess is that most of them were having sex with their wives.

Sperm 1: How much farther to the fallopian tubes?
Sperm 2: A long ways. We’ve only just passed the tonsils.

According to

The ancient Hindus believed that life had three purposes: religious piety (dharma), material success (artha), and sexual pleasure (kama). All three were equal, and the erotic was celebrated as the seat of earthly beauty. In the Hindu world the pursuit of sexual pleasure was revered as a sort of religious quest.

For the sake of all that is holy, I’m considering changing religions. Or perhaps I already had and hadn’t noticed.

According to The Kinsey Institute there is a continuum of homosexuality:

  1. Exclusively heterosexual;
  2. Predominantly heterosexual, only incidentally homosexual;
  3. Predominantly heterosexual, but more than incidentally homosexual;
  4. Equally heterosexual and homosexual;
  5. Predominantly homosexual, but more than incidentally heterosexual;
  6. Predominantly homosexual, only incidentally heterosexual;
  7. Exclusively homosexual.

I’ve often wondered about this. I mean, if you’re a guy and you think Brad Pitt is kinda cute, that’s a little gay.

Threesomes are all the rage now, right? I think those guy-guy-girl ones are a little gay too.

And what if you pick up a woman in a bar and are getting orally pleasured by her in the parking lot and you give her the obligatory reach-around and find a package? You just got oral from a guy. That’s gay. (Maybe that’s what the people at the Kinsey Institute describe as “incidentally homosexual.â€)

In the United States the word “fanny†means buttocks and might be used as a euphemism for said buttocks when talking with children. But in the United Kingdom it’s a vulgar word for vagina.

In the previous sentence I almost wrote the term “female vagina.†As if there’s a guy out there who has one. I know that some men are pussies but I can’t imagine a scenario where one is an integral part of his physical being. And if it was, you’d never get him out of the house.

The term “mother-fucker†has Oedipal overtones but is not based on one having intercourse with one’s mother. Instead it is derived from American slave owners raping a slave’s mother.

Lady, shall I lie in your lap?

No, my lord.

I mean, my head upon your lap?

Ay, my lord.

Do you think I meant country matters?

I think nothing, my lord.

That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs.

That’s Shakespeare using the c-word. Certainly it is. He’s playing with us. He’s playing with words. It’s funny. I think.

I’ve heard some starting to use the phrase “cunty†to describe a person who is slightly south of “bitchy.†Believe it or not, the first person I heard use “cunty” was Martha Stewart’s daughter, Alexis. Of all people, I thought she’d be cunty. She’s not.

Finally I leave you with a joke (I started with one in the title, I’m not sure if you got it). Good luck trying to figure it out:

“I’ve invested in coffee.â€

“That’s funny. I don’t see you in coffee; I see you in tea.â€


What a Turkey


Moments after Sarah Palin gave a turkey amnesty, she went outside and gave an interview. It doesn’t matter what the interview is about, it doesn’t matter if you have the sound on or not, you’re only job is this:

Realize that this was a public relations gimmick.
The gimmick was to pardon a Thanksgiving Turkey.
And then watch the guy in the background.

(Write your own joke here.)