I am now ranked first in Google searches for .

Also, I am ranked third for .

Strangely, I only rank 20th for the search , even though it was only the title of my original blog post.

I hope that whoever did these searches found what they were looking for (aside from some photos of a very angry — and very retarded — baby bird).

“Oh no, no. Too high, it’s too high.” — Cleveland Indians fan Ross Farmer tracking the flight path of a homerun, in Major League.

While watching my L.A. Dodgers pound the natty Nats 5-0 last night at RFK, I overheard two middle-aged men sitting behind me talking out of their collective ass.

Not literally, of course; but enough inane comments to nearly make me turn around and address them.

“Have you seen Fever Pitch?” one of them said. “That’s a great movie.”

Wince.

“He was safe by a mile,” after Ryan Church got caught stealing in the 2nd inning, even after television replays showed him out by a step.

Groan.

“I was rooting for Duke.”

Idiot.

There really should be three guarantees in life: death, taxes, and baseball fans saying stupid things. Attend any ball game and you’ll hear pseudo-managers argue obtusely about topics like the Yankees’ payroll, interleague play, and sabermetrics.

Or you’ll hear fans question a team’s strategy, the umpires’ calls, and baseball trivia — usually contrary to the facts.

Football may have its Monday-morning quarterback phenomenon, but baseball has more fan-based, second-guessing and ersatz expertise than any other sport. We like to think we know what we’re talking about; baseball and the nature of its provincial beginnings bring out that need probably more than any other sport.

P.S. Last night’s Dodgers win raised the ballclub’s all-time record to 9,389-8,542, a winning percentage of .524. Just in case you were wondering. Here are some reasons why some of us bleed Dodger Blue:

If you turned to Page 2 of the yesterday and happened to glance below the fold to the print ads, you might have spotted this disturbing image nestled among the promotions for Botox and Type 2 Diabetes.

Who in his right mind would ever consider Lasik eye surgery after seeing this advertisement by some outfit called ? If it manages to refer even one patient, I’ll consider it a small miracle. And having it appear in the Express’ “Eye Openers” section is just too poetic and groan-inducing not to mention.

I read the ad further (unable to ignore the punctuation errors) to figure out why the ad wizards chose to showcase their “20/20 Guaranteed or Money Back” offer in this way. But despite promises of FDA approval or assurances of safety, there was no explanation for why this poor woman appeared looking like the poster child for Graves Disease.

My natural curiosity unsated, I called I Surgeons to get some answers.

Arjewtino: Hi, I’m calling in reference to your ad for Lasik eye surgery in today’s Express.

I Surgeons Receptionist: Yes?

Arjewtino: Have you seen the ad?

I Surgeons Receptionist: Yes.

Arjewtino: Will Lasik make my eyes look that big, too?

I Surgeons Receptionist: No, it won’t, it’s a very safe procedure.

Arjewtino: Oh, so this isn’t a new trendy thing? ‘Cause I think it looks very cool. Can’t I have the doctor make them bigger?

I Surgeons Receptionist: No.

Arjewtino: So why does the ad look like that?

I Surgeons Receptionist: He probably wanted to stress the eyes [in the ad].

Arjewtino: Oh. So what are some of the side effects of Lasik eye surgery?

I Surgeons Receptionist: Mostly dry eyes.

Arjewtino: Not extreme eye augmentation?

I Surgeons Receptionist: No.

Arjewtino: Ok. Thank you.

So, Lasik-eye-surgery-considering, eyeglass-wearers of the world, think long and hard before agreeing to this procedure.

Then again, it might get you into the Express.

That we should redefine the meaning of “cool”?*

Or that an e-girl named “kttyprtty5″ wants to engage me in an online conversation using nascent video technology?

Or that submerging a cartoon facsimile of our President in a tank of water will yield me my choice of cellular telephone ringtones?

You’re starting to e-piss me off, MySpace. Stop being such an Idouchebag.

* This is a blatant ripoff of Dan’s .

Looks like I’m complaining about MySpace ads.

Photo credit: Cakeplow.com

When I was in junior high school, I had a bully. I called him My Bully because, like the ubiquitous My Buddy commercials of the 1980s, wherever I went, he went.

I had severe acne then and every day in P.E., My Bully reminded me that my pizza face was unacceptable. Also, he made himself quite clear that my ability to get better grades than he would not be tolerated.

As punishment for having hormone-charged sebaceous glands and a superior intellect, My Bully would push me to the ground and call me a FAG, which, for some ironic reason, stood for “Female Ass Grabber”. One day, I questioned his logic in front of the entire class and wondered if that made him a “Male Ass Grabber”.

This reverse psychoanalysis must have confused My Bully because I never did get an answer, only a violent shove. But it worked. He left me alone.

The problem with modern bullying is that kids rely too much on the instant gratification of hitting someone. Psychological warfare, though, can be a much more satisfying tactic if applied correctly.

My friend GoPats was a self-described bully when he was 11-years-old, but not in a physical way.

“I tended to dominate the conversation and get laughs at other people’s expense, kind of like I do now,” he told me.

I asked him if mental bullying was better than its physical counterpart.

“It takes more brains,” he responded. “Psychologically tormenting someone takes a little more thought. Walking by and punching someone is stupid.”

When my future kid gets picked on –- and he will — I’m not going to treat it like an ABC After School Special and tell him to talk it out with His Bully or that he’s just more scared than he is or any of that other Growing Pains bullshit..

Instead, I’ll help him design a fool-proof retaliation strike aimed at emotionally scarring the bully.

And if that doesn’t work, I’ll teach him how to trim bansai trees and enter him into the All-Valley Karate Tournament.

After all, not every bully has parents as awesome as this mom.

Photo credit: Frank Bellino/The Press-Enterprise

Two days in a row, Wonkette? I’m blushing.

It’s over. It’s finally over.

When I started watching 24 more than two year ago, I Netflixed seasons 1 through 3 and watched all the episodes back-to-back. The DVDs were like crack cocaine and I couldn’t get enough. I often stayed up until 4am to wrap up a four-episode DVD so I could mail it back to that magical place in Netflix Land where leprechauns and unicorns mail my next movie the next day.

I watched seasons 4 and 5 in “real time”, greedy for each week’s episode, texting fellow 24 fan-friends as the episodes aired, and analyzing each second for a clue of where Jack was going to take us.

But Jeebus Chris, Season 6, I could not wait for you to end.

Baby Bien said it best when he wrote me: “It’s kinda like watching your girlfriend gain tons of weight, but you don’t want to break up with her because you know the hottie is still there underneath it all and you hope that one day she will come back.”

Here are 24 reasons to hate Monday night’s 24 craptastic season finale:

1. The final indignity that was the “cliffhanger” pun at the end. Some balls on those writers after such a piss-poor season to pull that crap.

2. Josh is NOT Jack’s son. Maybe Ricky Shroeder is.

3. Powers Boothe (greatest name ever) didn’t say “cocksucker” as often as he did on Deadwood.

4. Even as a traumatized coma patient with no lines, Audrey annoys me.

5. No Elisha Cuthbert.

6. It made me wish Jack jumped (off the cliff, not the shark). No, not really, that would have been too cowardly. It made me wish Jack had gotten blown up on the oil rig, though.

7. Chloe is pregnant, which in TV land means she must faint. There isn’t enough counseling in the world to save that kid.

8. It took Bill Buchanan five minutes to pilot a chopper six miles to the oil rig but it took an F-18 more than 20 minutes to scramble?

9. Only for the season.

10. Too many dropped storylines. What DID happen to Walid?

11. Bill Buchanan is a renowned yoga instructor.

12. Who are the Human Resources people at CTU? Applicants must be buying their top secret clearances on eBay.

13. “JANUARY 2008” did NOT give me goosebumps.

14. I was working on a crossword while watching this episode.

15. Nina wasn’t behind the whole thing.

16. Jack Baywatching up to the shore with his man purse lacked the slow motion shot.

17. Milo’s superfluous, one-scene brother. Even people claiming bodies at 4 a.m. can disappear into CTU. He’s probably in some systems room hooking up an uplink.

18. Grey’s Anatomy had a better finale. Yes, I watched.

19. Silent death clock. It’s either overused (Edgar?) or underused (Tony?). It’s dead to me, so to speak.

20. The end of Dave Barry’s 24 blog.

21. A passing mention of the terrorists as “confederates”. Is this the euphemism we’re using these days?

22. Father Hoggett calling Josh “Joshua”. I have a friend named Josh and I’m pretty sure he hates that name extension.

23. The contrived Star Wars vibe when Jack and Farmer Hoggett were in split-screen mode. Farmer Hoggett seemed to think, “I feel a disturbance in the force”.

24. Why, oh WHY is Josh Bauer so god damn important to Farmer Hoggett? Does he shit diamonds and bricks of gold? I heard that one possibility was that the writers were planning on revealing that Father Hoggett raped Rena Sofer and was really Josh’s father but decided to go with vague uncertainty and strangely misanthropic characters instead. Good job.

Think you know what Jack should do next year on 24? .

Thanks, Wonkette.

When I was 11-years-old, a newborn baby bird fell out of its nest and onto the pavement leading up to my house’s front door. I picked him up, put him in a shoebox, and watched him die.

I buried him in my front yard and placed a Star of David, fashioned out of colored pipe cleaners, on his “grave”.

Twenty years later, I tried to save another one. Only this bird was somewhat…how can I put this…”special”.

During a barbecue on Sunday to celebrate The Princess’ graduation from the University of Maryland, we found a baby bird lying in our side yard. Fearing he might become the neighboring cat’s lunch, some friends and I kept an eye on the little fuzz ball. We were happy to see when Mama Bird came back every so often to feed him a worm.

While we were distracted, though, the idiot bird walked onto a window grate and fell through into the window well about 6 feet below. What kind of moron mistakes a grate for a nest? In any case, I strapped on The Princess’ garden gloves and lowered myself into the well to help him.

I never saw a more ungrateful bipedal, warm-blooded, egg-laying vertebrate animal.

Despite an obvious fractured leg, this little turd-eater kept scampering about, chirping and crying like I was trying to eat him.

Eventually, I was able to snag him in a plastic bag and bring him back up to solid ground.

We put him back where we found him, but the avian moron found his way to the front of the house, where he tried to cross the street. We guided the IQ reject back to the front yard and near his nest, where we assumed he would be safe.

But instead of taking shelter, the little fucker made his way back out and started to get attacked by a couple of cardinals. We realized at that moment he was a bit slow, so we named him Special Ed.

We put Special Ed in a cardboard crate and made him our mascot. Still, instead of thanking us for our generosity, he kept trying to jump out. As you can see, he was not a happy -– or grateful -– baby bird.

We called the Humane Society and they told us to take him to an animal rehabilitation center called Second Chance. A couple of The Princess’ friends drove Special Ed there before he could imprint himself on me any further. Second Chance promised to treat Special Ed, make sure he regains his strength, and then release him to the wild.

Good luck. Special Ed. You’re going to need it.

My Green Line train was late by six minutes last night on my way home. I mumbled softly something about Metro’s inconsistent train schedule and went back to finishing The Examiner’s crossword.

What I didn’t do was this:



From the :

BUENOS AIRES, Argentina: Road rage is common in many countries. But in Argentina, railroad rage was the talk of the town after riots shut down one of South America’s busiest train stations during a midweek rush hour.

In one of the largest outbursts of passenger fury over poor service in years, mostly working-class commuters rioted at the Constitucion Plaza station in Buenos Aires after a train breakdown threw Tuesday’s departures into chaos.

Rioters set fires, destroyed ticket booths and looted shops. About 100 police fought back with tear gas and arrested 16 rioters. Another 21 people were injured.

Passengers on commuter rail lines, privatized in the 1990s under then-President Carlos Menem, for years have complained the new operators are failing to provide timely service on crowded routes.

My native country has a long tradition of social unrest and demonstrations. In an election year such as this one, it becomes even more common in Buenos Aires and Argentina for people to fight back at perceived inequalities, corruption, and incompetence in our leadership. This riot is yet another example of el pueblo’s level of frustration and, combined with the current airline strike, milk shortage, and threats to halt garbage collection, the frayed strings holding Buenos Aires together are ready to snap.

Thanks to Roosh for the heads up on this one. Good luck on your trip to South America, buddy.

Photo credit

During an afternoon coffee smoke break yesterday, I overheard a woman answer her cell phone and repeat “Hello?” seven times – SEVEN TIMES — to an obviously dead line.

I instantly flashed back to when I was 15 and my friend Riback and I would while away lazy summer afternoons playing Telephone Baseball.

Telephone Baseball, for those of you who actually had dates when you were teenagers, is a game in which you dial random people from the phone book, wait for them to pick up, and don’t say a word. You then count how many times he/she says “Hello?” before hanging up and giving the number a predetermined, corresponding value equivalent to a baseball event.

For example, if the unsuspecting mope said “Hello?” once, it was an out. Twice, a single. Three, two outs; four, a double, etc. Getting ten “Hellos?” was a homerun, if I remember correctly.

In the grand scheme of teenage pranks, Telephone Baseball was pretty harmless. I always loved it when I dialed a crotchety old man who would holler into the phone about “snot-nosed punks”, his Medicaid, or “that bastard Wilford Brimley”.

As a result, my personal policy on answering the phone these days is to say “Hello?” one time and, if I don’t hear anything, hanging up — for fear that I, in turn, might be getting pranked by someone like me.

Other pranks my stupid friends and I played when we were teens were Ding Dong Ditch (ringing someone’s doorbell and running away, repeatedly); throwing pennies at passing cars and hiding behind newspaper boxes; and stealing Playboys and Hustlers from the local am/pm convenience store.

Don’t look at me like that. This is what you do when you grow up in the LA suburbs.

What pranks did you pull?

Whenever I need a laugh, I go to my Netflix page and read some of my friends’ movie reviews. There is something inherently voyeuristic about seeing what movies your friends are renting. Luckily for me — and you — this means I get to share some of their more amusing critiques on my blog.

These are written by GoPats, J-Vo, Tits McGee, and Ladder 49.