Everyone at some point in their lives have met someone who declared that he or she did not own a TV.

This statement was always perceived as some sort of “holier-than-thou” comment by someone “too good” to succumb to only the most important cultural invention in the past 70 years.

During my freshman year of high school, I had a crush on a girl named Paula, who was one of my sister’s friends. I liked her for three reasons: we once danced at my sister’s birthday party and she let me hold her hips; she once sat in my lap in a car (hilarity ensued); and she held my sweaty teenage hand when we watched Cry Baby in the movie theater.

But there was something odd about Paula and her family and I finally found out after weeks of pining for her. She didn’t own a TV.

When she told me this startling fact I looked at her like she was a Martian. A really hot Martian who liked to sit in my lap.

“So, what do you do?” I asked her.

I don’t remember what she said, but it had something to do with “reading books” or “talking with her family” or some other crazy behavior.

I never understood people who didn’t watch TV. They usually added to this fact by declaring that they didn’t even own a TV set. Television was the first widely available machine to which humans became addicted, bringing diverse people together, and allowing us to avoid eye contact with our friends and family.

But maybe Paula, and all the other aliens who pride themselves on not owning a TV, was onto something. Because on Tuesday night, after enjoying decades of staring at the socially relevant telecommunication system, I did something I am not proud of:

I voted on “American Idol”.

Specifically, I picked up my cell phone and texted the word “VOTE” to (866) IDOLS-02, just like the funny-looking Seacrest man told me to do.

A TV show I had once reviled for being a retarded popularity contest featuring karaoke singers got me this season to watch. And care. And vote. But, I believe, I had a good excuse.

For those of you who watched on Tuesday, you may remember that the phone number I mentioned above was the voting designation for Syesha Mercado (who survived this week’s vote in no small part thanks to me). Though she wept crocodile tears and compared her efforts on “American Idol” this year to those of the civil rights movement, Syesha was so amazing singing “Proud Mary” and, more importantly, looked so friggin’ hot, I was overcome by a desire to text a vote for her.

Turn away, I’m hideous.

Overcome by shame, I then texted my friend MJ about what I did.

Arjewtino: “I’m voting 4 syesha.”
MJ: “We might not be friends.”

MJ didn’t mean we wouldn’t be friends because I had succumbed to voting for some hot chick on a TV show (as opposed to being unable to vote in this year’s Presidential primary). She meant we wouldn’t be friends because she disagreed with my choice. (FYI, she voted for David Cook.)

Sure, my man card should be taken away. Sure, this makes me a hypocrite (big surprise).

But at least I own a TV.

FIRST PHOTO CREDIT

“See, it doesn’t hurt anyone! Fuck, fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck.” — Cartman, in South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut

Ever since I was a child and first heard the word mierda and hijo de puta (the mother of all Spanish profanity), I have been fascinated with cussing. Its etymology, its derivatives, its immediate ability to convey exactly what I’m feeling.

Luckily for me, some high school freshman named McKay Hatch has founded a club that might help where dirty looks and scolding reprimands have failed: the No Cussing Club.

McKay, probably in an ill-advised attempt to get back at his parents for saddling him with such a ridiculous first name, also got his hometown of South Pasadena this week to issue a proclamation outlawing foul language. And not a moment too soon.

If it’s not Jane Fonda saying the word “cunt” on morning TV it’s Diane Keaton uttering the word “fuck”. If it’s not a DC mayoral staffer getting fired for saying the perfectly innocuous word “niggardly” it’s parents washing their children’s mouth out with toxic soap on the show “Supernanny”.

Cursing is out of control in this country and the future of our impressionable children is finally in the capable hands of a kid barely into puberty.

Wait. Fuck this. What am I talking about? I love cursing! I don’t need to join any club. Phew!

Cursing is under attack, quickly becoming modern society’s easy scapegoat, the “violent video games” of the 90s. I have lately been reading story after story about how profanity is ruining civilization and corrupting society.

And that’s really too fucking bad. Because profanity might be the greatest method of communication we humans have ever come up with.

Cussing was originally restricted to the use of blasphemy, sacrilege or using the Lord’s name in vain. Luckily for us, it evolved into a multi-use means of expression, communication, and comedy gold. Imagine a world where George Carlin’s seven dirty words didn’t exist. Or where you had nothing to say during sex. Or where Bucky Dent ’s only middle name was “Earl”.

Cursing can be cathartic, colorful, witty, and necessary. It has been around as long as people have stubbed their toes into chairs and will be around as long as George W. Bush has a hot mic nearby.

So I really don’t understand why a kid with two last names felt it necessary to go around telling his hometown what to say. Or not say, really. McKay’s Web site dedicated to converting perfectly normal people into no-cussing androids. McKay features photos of its members and he even sells orange wrist bands like he’s Lance Fucking Armstrong.

The high school freshman explains on his site that he started this movement because his cuss-happy friends swore so much they didn’t even realize they were doing it. Also, colleges eat this shit up.

Through the No Cussing Challenge I realized that I could use POSITIVE PEER PRESSURE on my friends. If my friends could say no to cussing, how much easier will it be for them to say no to drugs, violence, and pornography.”

Studies have shown banning profanity from the workplace lowers morale. That forbidding it makes people say it more. And that, last time I checked, it has yet to bring a civilization to its knees.

Is cursing really such a huge issue that it requires attention from public resources? Couldn’t his high school have benefited more from a Don’t Get Pregnant or You’ll Fuck Up Your Life Club? Shouldn’t the school system make its lack of well-paid, highly qualified teachers a higher priority?

I think this girl named “chrissy” sums it up perfectly on a blog I found.

cussing is bad but you have todo it sometimes. i mean when someboby is annoying you you or you really hate somebody you feel like you have to. but if people think it is so bad like parents then why do they do it. if your older and you cuss it is not bad but if a kid does the room is silent. i feel that it is not bad at all. the president does it i bet.”

* MY blog post title is a paraphrase from a famous Groucho Marx quote that goes, “I don’t care to belong to a club that would accept someone like me as a member.”

I love this planet as much as the next guy.

Sure, I’ve never landed on an Earth-bound meteor with a ragtag group bent on nuking the flaming rock to save the world from Armageddon. But I try to do my part.

For example, every Thursday evening, I manage to take out the trash and recycling bin without mixing them up. That takes a lot of effort since I’m usually drunk off my ass after watching 30 Rock and downing an entire bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.

I also watched the entire Planet Earth series and told people about cool it was. I even blogged on Blog Action Day about offsetting both my carbon and asshole footprints.

See? I care about Global Something and the Ozone Whatever. Like my new favorite blog recently wrote, I like “saving the earth without having to do that much”.

Which is why I just don’t understand how someone could organize an environmental protest against the Discovery Channel.

A man named Lee, who from what I can tell likes wearing hats and taking out full-page ads in the newspaper, has organized a protest against the Discovery Channel’s environmental programs, which he deems “are causing more harm than good”.

Lee said that he has been protesting outside the channel’s Silver Spring building since last Friday and plans to continue it until this Saturday, or until they start airing shows that “actually work”, whichever comes first. I went to Silver Spring last night for some Baja Fresh and walked by the Discovery building. Lee was not there. This means he either (1) gave up, (2) was hiding, or (3) was arrested by the environmental police.

UPDATE: I saw Lee’s rambling, full-page ad in The Onion on Monday. I wrote this post that evening but didn’t publish it until today. Turns out, DCist wrote yesterday that Lee has been paying homeless guys to join his protest. This one-man protest (not including homeless guys) just got much, much sadder.

Now, I am no stranger to political protests and believe they can, under the right circumstances, bring about real democratic change. They’re also great ways to meet chicks and get out of work.

And while I applaud Lee’s determination to do something, I’m not sure he understands a principle fact lost in his hubris -– he is coming across as a whack job.

For example, on his Web site, Lee declares:

If their ‘environmental’ shows are actually working, then why is the news about the environment getting worse? It should be getting better if they were doing their job and we should be seeing that reflected on the nightly news. But NO! The Discovery Channel is actually not about saving the planet, they are just another ‘green’ corporation whose real interests lies in MONEY! Products! Junk! Trash!”

Excessive exclamation points and uppercase lettering aside, his rhetorical questions are, at best, slightly misguided. Why is the news getting worse despite the Discovery Channel’s efforts? Maybe because we live on an overpopulated planet that has yet to turn the corner on its destructive actions from the past 100 years.

To say Discovery is at fault for its inability to reverse our collective destruction is like blaming ESPN for not creating better athletes. Or NBC for making people fat.

As a result, MySpace commenters are mocking Lee on his MySpace page. The ridicule reminds me of the disdain the smug dog in Duckhunt would show you if you missed a shot.

I might feel compassion for Lee if he didn’t show such hypocritical disregard for his own cause. When one MySpace commenter said she would support him but couldn’t attend the protest because she lives across the country and has two kids, Lee replied, “It’s pretty cheap to get here. It’s ONLY about $250-$400. A bargain.”

Another MySpace commenter instantly flamed him for advocating the use of jet fuel to support an environmental protest.

Lee’s typical replies to the criticism aren’t too coarse. But they do show why people aren’t taking him seriously:

Yes, I tried to be reasonable. But like most planet-destroyers, they would not even listen. I actually went through the submission process with a modified version of Quinn just to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Now, the ‘nice-talking’ is over and the demanding is on!”

And…

We’ll see who laughs last when I succeed at this.”

I have no idea if Lee has been out there everyday as he has claimed but I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I’ll keep recycling and unplugging unused lights and turning off the faucets when not using them. I’ll keep buying cage-free eggs and shopping for local produce. I’ll even not buy an SUV.

But I won’t protest the Discovery Channel. Because Planet Earth was really cool.

UPDATE: This guy took a photo of Lee at his protest. Man, he really likes that hat.

I finished yesterday’s Express crossword at exactly 9:35 a.m. I am a superdelegate!

I don’t think I’m using that term right.

Still, this is a new record for a puzzle I usually don’t finish until the afternoon or early evening. It is probably a testament to my growing intelligence. (Come on. 17 across? “Lupine come-on?” Wolf whistle, duh.) Or maybe crossword editor Timothy E. Parker had a hangover the day he wrote this puzzle.

In either case, my morning accomplishment meant I had nothing to do in the bathroom for 20 minutes. Reading the contents of my wallet for the 27th time was not an option. Neither was feeling guilty over using the large handicap stall. So I flipped through the pages of the Express and examined the ads.

A former journalist, I don’t have the first clue what goes into writing or soliciting advertising copy. You see, there’s supposed to be this “wall” in journalism that separates advertising from editorial, not that Fox News has ever heard of it. As a reporter, my job was to write something that would “keep the ads from touching,” as a former editor of mine once told me.

But what I noticed about the Express’s ads in yesterday’s edition was this: there sure a lot of people in DC with health problems.

I counted 25 health-related advertisements, ranging from depression to hemorrhoids to living with an STD, and that’s not including the classifieds section. My favorite one was the ad on page 11 offering clinical trials for people suffering from herpes, which proclaimed that “Living With Genital Herpes Can Be A Hassle!” Tell me about it. The ad asked if you (the reader, I presume) were “African American and/or considered black…”

Now, I’m neither African American nor “considered black” by any means, but I do plan on voting for Obama for class president. Still, is there a difference? VK? Leon? Anything?

Most of the ads were obviously geared toward people who want to lose weight, which, from my personal observations, amounts to everyone. All I hear these days is whiners saying “I need to lose 10 pounds” or “I’m going to the gym after work” or “Stop staring at my fat ass, Arjewtino”.

It’s pretty obvious that weight is an issue that most people think about. Women, I have noticed, seem to care much more about the number itself, while men just echo Kevin Spacey’s line in American Beauty: “I want to look good naked.”

I find these conversations exhausting and boring. Though The Princess calls me “Tubs” and “Fatso” in a loving, “you-look-good-now-but-don’t-gain-any-more-weight” kind of way, you don’t hear me whine about my bubble butt. Would I love to shed a few pounds? Sure. Would I like to have a six-pack again? Of course. Do I truly enjoy asking myself questions and answering them? Obviously.

I’m surprised that blogging, which I have been doing now for more than 18 months, hasn’t caused any weight loss. It’s worked for some people, apparently. Check out Lynn Bering, a blogger who somehow gained 100 pounds over the course of four years but lost it thanks to her habit of keeping an online journal.

But Bering said the one thing that’s helped her most is her blog.

Writing down her thoughts and feelings about why she ate helped Bering do the inner work, which she believes is necessary before anyone can do the outer work and lose the weight for good.”

Awful sentence structure aside, this article shows what bloggers can do if they want to lose weight. And if they have vaginas.

There is no way a male blogger would — or could — lose weight by sharing his feelings to the online world. Like Lozo said:

I can write down all the thoughts and feelings I have in the world about not having sex with Heidi Klum. Heck, I do. But unless I actually go out and do the work of getting a serious tan, rubbing poop under my eyes and becoming a monster, the dream is never going to happen.”

Men lose weight when they get rejected sexually. That’s it. That is our sole motivation. We are the perpetual Charles Atlases of the world, making a personal change only when we’ve had sand thrown in our face by a much tougher, fitter douchebag.

But this motivation is not something we find online. Keeping a blog about how I feel about my love handles won’t make them any less muffin-top-ish. (That line comes thanks to my 30 Rock marathon.)

There is, though, perhaps one online force that could make me lose weight. Jillian Michaels. This chick hosts “The Biggest Loser” and is quite possibly the toughest broad on TV. Not only could she out-bench-press me, she could probably bench press me.

After watching an episode a few weeks ago and wetting my pants just watching Jillian yell at some fat slob who couldn’t do another stomach crunch, I decided to look her up online. Not because I, too, wanted to lose weight but because I’m a guy and I wanted to see pictures of her naked.

As it turns out, Jillian’s Web site is just as tough as she is and I found myself giving it my e-mail address. Jillian (or maybe a computer) sent me an e-mail shortly afterward offering me a “Weight Loss Plan”. I scoured the e-mail for pictures of Jillian naked. When I didn’t find any, I deleted it. But I felt proud of myself for taking the first step to sustaining a positive body image by merely submitting my e-mail. I felt slimmer and healthier. More fit.

I’m ready to tackle another crossword puzzle.

Watched the entire first season — all 454 minutes — of 30 Rock on Netflix. This “Watch Instantly” feature is going to kill me. If Tina Fey doesn’t first.

Good thing the Hollywood writers’ strike is almost over.

(*) This is a blatant ripoff of Matt Sears.

When I was a waiter an at Argentine restaurant in Studio City, I once served Alfonso Ribeiro, the little dude who played Carlton on “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air”. I can call him “little” because he was shorter than me and had a hot-ass girlfriend, which was either ridiculously unfair or gave short guys everywhere a measure of hope.

Other than ordering the Pollo Picante and giving me a slightly above-average tip, Carlton’s visit was unmemorable (unlike seeing Wayne Brady the next day).

Will Smith was not with him that day. You know why? Because the Fresh Prince was busy transforming himself into a box office powerhouse. In case you don’t have a TV or have disabled pop-up ads on your browser, you might have heard that his latest movie, I Am Legend, broke his box office record over the weekend, opening with a take of more than $77 million. His previous record was his $62 million opening weekend for I, Robot.

Many people were surprised by 28 Days Later’s I Am Legend’s record-setting opening. It reportedly doubled industry-wide expectations.

But to me, who was raised near the glitz of Hollywood in the glamorous San Fernando Valley (represent), it is obvious why Will Smith continues to attract all demographics to his movies. His formula is so simple yet so elusive. Are you ready for this? Pay attention:

He uses soliloquacious pronouns in his movie titles.

I know, I know, you probably wish you had a nickel for everytime someone argued that point. But let me argue it once more. The first-person, singular personal pronoun “I” has appeared in Big Willy’s top two opening weekend movies of all time. This might seem like a slight coincidence to the untrained Hollywood observer. But the magical pronoun has also appeared in eight of his eponymous TV show’s episodes. Check it:

I, Done: Part 1
I, Done: Part 2
I, Stank Hole in One
I, Stank Horse
I, Whoops, There It Is
I, Bowl Buster
I, Clownius
I, Ooh, Baby, Baby

Do you think Smith’s brilliant use of this pronoun stops merely at his films and movies? Try again. Remember his 1989 hit, “I Think I Can Beat Mike Tyson”? It’s not an “I, Pronoun” dealio but it does start with “I”. He’s a fucking pronoun-using genius.

Sure, Smith is known for gettin’ jiggy wit’ even bigger movies like Independence Day and Men in Black, movies that didn’t start with “I”. But imagine how much BIGGER his movies would have been if he had affixed the pronoun to his movie titles. I, Ali, would have kicked more ass and I, Wild Wild West, might have grossed more than just $113 million. Hell, even “I, Parents Just Don’t Understand” would have won more than just one Grammy award.

I think I’m going to follow Will Smith’s lead and change my blog name to I, Arjewtino, and laugh maniacally as all the millions start pouring in.

Now all I need is charisma, acting skills, and the ability to actually rap and do the hippity-hop.

Speaking of season finales, The Princess and I last night cooked some dinner, got into our PJs, and watched our third favorite non-writers’-strike-affected TV show, Beauty and the Geek.

This is what living with a woman will do to you. As a bachelor with my own (dirty) apartment in Adams Morgan, I used to do my best Charles Bukowski impression every night, staying up all night, drinking myself into a coma, and watching all the free porn I could find online.

But moving in with the love of your life has a way of changing you.

When we first started watching Beauty and the Geek this season (accidentally, I still maintain), I would roll my eyes and ridicule the saturation of reality TV. Now, I care about these people, these reality stars named Dave, Jasmine, Sam, and Nicole, as if they were my friends and their beauty and/or geekiness were more important than the fate of the world itself.

Some may consider this sweet — a couple indulging in some trash TV and bonding on the couch. On the surface, it probably seems that way. But you have to understand just how deep this rabbit hole goes.

I not only watch Beauty and the Geek, last week I voted online for the Beauty and the Geek winner.

Have those words sunk in yet?

After the penultimate episode last Tuesday, the show told us to text our vote (99 cents? Yeah, right) for who should win this “social experiment” OR go to the CW web site to vote there.

I voted for Dave and Jasmine, who were crowned the winners last night during a cheesy episode that looked more like a Mad TV skit. I used absolutely no rational thought or logic behind my vote except for the fact that Dave’s skills as a LARPer made me feel exceptionally cooler by comparison.

The online vote form asked me for my home address, though, which I was not about to give them. So I e-mailed Baby Bien:

Arjewtino: “What’s your address?”

Baby Bien: “I’m scared. Should I be scared? I guess I’ll tell you anyway.”

–provides address–

Arjewtino: “You probably should have been. You just voted for the winner of Beauty and the Geek. Well, technically, I voted using your name and address. I didn’t want any junk mail sent to me. Sucker.”

Baby Bien: “Screw you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

This means I have become one of “them”. I am one of those people who cares about a reality show and knows what a Tila Tequila is. This is more embarrassing than singing Lee Grenwood’s “God Bless the U.S.A.” in a New York City karaoke bar (I’m actually kind of proud of that one).

You think my devolution ends there? You are sadly mistaken.

I also have started watching Season 2 of Project Runway on DVD. The Princess asked me to Netflix the series with the promise that I would see Heidi Klum naked, which has so far failed to materialize (though I did enjoy watching her psychotically play with her knockers).

We have watched eight episodes so far. I know who Santino is now. I have opinions on backless dresses. And I think Michael Kors has good taste.

This means I have learned more about fashion since I started watching this show than I have ever gathered in a lifetime of shopping for clothes at the Salvation Army.

Johanna might be proud of me for this enlightenment, considering the night I met her I told her I don’t know anything about “fashion and shit”. But to me, it just means I’m in dire need of a total guy makeover (see?).

I need to read more Bukowski, or get into a fistfight at a bar, or spend a whole day watching old Bruce Lee movies. Maybe I should pin up posters of Scarlett Johansson in my room, or drink nothing but 15-year old malt scotch for a month. Watch a boxing match (live), attend a monster truck rally, do a keg stand, buy a gun.

Nevermind. The next Project Runway DVD is coming any day now.

While catching up with a certain TV show on Netflix a few weeks ago, I told a friend who was a fan of the show that I had one episode to watch. And not just any episode. The season finale. He looked me right in the eye with excitement and asked, “Oh, so you already know that Rosebud was the name of his sled?”

Now, he didn’t really say that. But what he did say was the end-of-the-season twist ending to a show I had invested a lot of time in. (I don’t want to mention which show it was in case some douchetard finds it funny to ruin it for readers who might want to see the awesome show.)

“Uh, no, I didn’t know that,” I told him incredulously.

“Oh,” he replied.

“I can’t believe you just ruined it for me.”

“I thought, I mean, um…sorry.”

People love season finales because they are fraught with hope, expectation, cliffhangers, and surprise twists. Even people born in the 1980s understand the implications of uttering the phrase, “Who shot J.R.?”, perhaps the symbolic archetype of the pop culture phenomenon known as the “season finale”.

Season finales carry with them the weight of anticipation built up often over the course of many months. They often end with landmark events that mirror everyday life, such as a wedding, a birth, or the killing off of a beloved character. No one that I have ever read has analyzed season finales as a concept in American culture, but I think someone should (I’m looking at you, Chuck Klosterman).

The Blogger Happy Hour crew is throwing its own season finale but hopefully with less bloodshed or gestational expulsion. This happy hour is not only the last of 2007, but may be the last for a while as bloggers flock home to their families for the holidays. The plan: Friday, December 7, at 8pm, at the Four Fields (it’ll always be the “4 Ps” to me) in Cleveland Park.

The usual cast (INPY, Kassy K, Just Going With It, and Virgle Kent) is hosting, with a special guest host cameo by Roissy, who is vowing his own brand of controversy.

After the amazing turnout of the last happy hour at Chi Cha Lounge, this one promises to be one spectacular finish to an outstanding season, one whose finale may be discussed during the summer break.

Aside from this happy hour, here are my top five season finales of all time:

1. Kirk Gibson, 1988.

Gibby caps off his 1988 season by doing his best Roy Hobbs impression and belting a homerun off the best closer in the game, creating the greatest moment in Dodgers history and spiraling Big Blue into a 19-year spell in which they don’t win one playoff series.

2. Cheers, Season 5, 1987.

Diane leaves Cheers in the final episode of the show’s seminal season as Shelley Long wisely moves on to other illustrious projects like “Troop Beverly Hills” and “Don’t Tell Her It’s Me”. Never heard of those movies? Exactly.

3. Myself, Karate, 1987. At the age of 12, I cap off my final season as a karate student by successfully testing for the Tang Soo Do green belt. I abandon a prominent career in karate and the promise of many cheap, plastic trophies. Last time I tried a flying leg kick I broke a hip.

4. End of Spring, every year.

Is there any better time in the year than the end of spring, which harkens the beginning of summer, warm weather, the beach, and, most importantly, my birthday? Nope, didn’t think so.

5. Oregano.

What? This is a seasoning? Not a season? Oh well, it’s my favorite seasoning and should be added to everything. I love putting it in Ramen noodles with a fried egg on top, Frosted Mini Wheats, and my hand. I think I’ll have some tonight when I eat some pancakes.

Heroes is over, The Office is no more, and summer is a looooong way away. So come join us for this season finale.

Because the next day, everyone will be talking about it.

Most people by now have heard about Halle Berry’s semi-anti-Semitic comment on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno last Friday night. For those of you haven’t heard, Berry was on the show last Friday night showing off photos she took using Mac’s Photobooth feature, which distorts your face into a House of Mirrors-kind of way.

She took out a photo that made her nose look big and cracked, “Here’s where I look like my Jewish cousin.”

No one laughed and Jay Leno replied, “I’m glad you said that and not me.” The Tonight Show aired the segment though they deleted the “Jewish” part and added a laugh track.

Rightly so, many Jews and goyim have been offended.

But they are offended for the wrong reasons.

Halle Berry’s comment was ignorant at best and distasteful at worst. She claims that shortly before coming out on stage, one of her assistants was looking at the same photo and uttered the same comment. If anything, we should be indignant at her ripping off someone else’s joke.

What I can’t forgive, and what upsets me most of all, is that The Tonight Show added a laugh track.

Let me repeat that: THE TONIGHT SHOW. ADDED. A LAUGH TRACK.

They pretended the “joke” was funny by artificially making it seem like the audience was amused by Halle Berry’s guffaw. This offends me more than anything Halle Berry could say, considering the airing makes her look vapid and desperate for acceptance.

The episode, though, seems to have sparked more outrage than Ann Coulter’s recent declaration that Jews should be “perfected” into Christians. The difference is that Berry is an idiot and less aware of her image than she should be; Coulter actually believed in what she said.

There is a long history of Jews overreacting AND underreacting to perceived slurs, slights, and insults. When people call you a kike or make Holocaust jokes, you kick their ass. When they say it’s funny but you don’t look Jewish, you call them idiots.

Some of the funniest Jew jokes I’ve ever heard have come from friends of the Tribe, usually because they’re witty, self-deprecating, and illuminate something poignant about our collective identity. The most offensive jokes come from people who aren’t Chosen because they’re, intentional or not, cheap, cruel, and sadistic.

By the same token, many non-Jews can easily be too paranoid about offending us. One of my favorite stories involves my friend Kwest, who, while we were discussing a few years ago our holiday plans, he said, “Are you celebrating, um, uh, Hanukkah? Did I say that right? Did I offend you?”

Of course, Jews aren’t immune to being overly sensitive to perfectly innocuous comments. Baby Bien once flew into a rage when a mutual friend described Jews as a race, not a culture or religion. I explained to our friend why that kind of comment could offend us but I also explained to Baby Bien why he was overreacting.

So until “Jews 101: How Not to Offend the Chosen People” becomes required reading in school, we’re all going to have to take a deep breath and gain some perspective on things.

Besides, those Photobooth pictures are pretty funny.

The Princess has started watching reruns of the cancelled CBS show “Still Standing”. That’s not the disturbing part.

She thinks the show is hilarious. That’s not the disturbing part, either.

She told me recently that Mark Addy, the main actor in the show, reminds her of me.

Mark Addy (whose name I had to look up on IMDB) is That Guy. That Guy who couldn’t get it up in The Full Monty, That Guy who was in some knights movie with Heath Something or Other. That Guy who played Fred in The Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas seven years ago.

On his show, which I put on par with sitcoms like “Yes, Dear” and “According to Jim Belushi”, Addy plays a stubborn, idiotic dufus with a heart of gold (I don’t see the similarities). A rerun was on recently that showed him playing hockey again after his wife Jami Gertz (Lost Boys, Seinfeld chick who couldn’t “spare a square”) thinks her sister’s younger boyfriend is hot.

I know. Hysterical.

I asked The Princess how this bloated windbag (again, what similarities?) of a character could remind her of me. She said because he’s dorky, acts stupidly cute, and loves his wife.

So I did some research into Mark Addy’s life (who hasn’t, right?) to see if we were as different as I thought we were or if he is, truly, my spiritual doppelganger.

First, I compared similar photos. Obviously, I’m way better-looking:

Arjewtino 1, The Princess 0

I also learned that Addy has won BAFTA, MTV Movie, and Screen Actors Guild awards. I, too, have won many awards in my lifetime, including a third-place ribbon in the 50-yard dash when I was 8, Employee of the Month award when I worked in the hardware department at Sears when I was 17, and the Sportsmanship Award in Little League for my performance in the All-Star tournament.

Arjewtino 1, The Princess 1

Next, I learned that Addy has a seven-year-old daughter. I don’t.

Arjewtino 2, The Princess 1

Mark Addy is British. I can do a British accent, but only a Cockney one and only when I’m doing an impression of Austin Powers.

Arjewtino 2, The Princess 2

Addy got completely naked in his breakthrough role in The Full Monty. I like to walk around my apartment as naked as possible before The Princess either shields her eyes, laughs in my face, or runs screaming in horror.

Arjewtino 2, The Princess 3

“Mark Addy” is the name of a bar in Manchester, England. As far as I know, there is NO bar anywhere named after me. But there should be so I could have the following conversation:

Boss: “Why are you late for work?”
Me: “I’m hungover, had one too many at the Arjewtino last night.”

Rolls off the tongue.

Arjewtino 3, The Princess 3

There are no fan sites online of Mark Addy. I, however, constantly have women throwing their virtual panties at me through my blog.

Arjewtino 4, The Princess 3

It’s pretty obvious after this exhaustive analysis that I am nothing like Mark Addy and, this is going to be so sweet to say, The Princess is wrong.

Looks like I’M the one who now is still standing.