LA Comedy Writer

Cracker is my pet Shiba Inu. If you had asked me five years ago what the fuck a Shiba Inu was, I’d have responded with a mesmorizing stare  and a glazed look in my eyes, but now I know, it’s a dog. I get tired of hearing dog owners talk about how smart dogs are. They’re really not. What they are, dog aficionados, is trainable, nothing more, nothing less. Their reasoning capabilities are practically nil. Example? I take Cracker for a walk. He goes fast, I let the leash out. He slows down, and invariably gets one paw ahead of the leash. Does he stop and merely step back over the leash, thereby untangling himself? Nope. He limps around pathetically like a wounded Civil War vet walking home from Vicksburg, all hobbling around. And the other thing dog owners brag about is how loyal their dogs are. They’re not loyal, they just have a pretty good grasp of where their meals come from. Someone attacks you, the dog isn’t thinking about your loss of income or potential hospital bills. They’re thinking, “Hey, this dude is fucking with my waiter. He better step the fuck off before I lunge at his nuts.” And Cracker isn’t even good at that. I’m not even convinced how much Cracker actually likes me. Oh sure, he’ll come up and lick my face for a bit (after he’s licked his balls and his own asshole of course), but for all the times I’ve picked up his shit around the yard, do you think he even once offered to return the favor? As I stand up from the toilet, he’s never walked up with a little tp around his paw and said, “Here Rich, you’ve had a long day. Let me get this one.” Is a little gratitude too much to ask? Nope…not even once. Not from my Cracker. And the people who say, “Well, we might all be better off if we behaved a little more like animals”. Really? How about we emulate how dogs go to the bathroom? You go to the bathroom in a restaurant. Do you really want to start a shit in one stall, then finish in the next? Then piss in a urinal and the sink (a nod to sink-pisser Adam Carolla here) on the way out?

And scientists always talk about this special sense animals have when it comes to earthquakes. How they can “feel” the earthquake, long before humans. Fuck me, the last earthquake, 8:30 at night, the house shakes. He didn’t even wake up, much less give me an advanced warning. That being said, if nothing else, I’m a realist. I don’t annoy my friends with tales of how smart Cracker is. In fact, my theory is that if Cracker spent a week with a sight dog for the blind, the following week the sight dog would be walking Ray Charles down the 405 freeway during rush hour. But, being a realist, I recognize the little peckerhead for what he is…an adorable animal who relies on my generous nature to survive; a good companion as long as I have a Puperoni nearby, and he’s a pretty good chick magnet, though unintentional I’m sure. Damn it all, I love that little turd.

Diandra Douglass, who divorced actor Michael Douglass in 2000, is STILL looking for blood money. Reportedly, her settlement at the time was worth in the neighborhood of $45 million, plus a house in LA and Majorca. Well, apparently that just isn’t enough, as she’s now seeking upwards of $2 million more because the ex is starring in Oliver Stone’s sequel to Wall Street (which MD made while still married). Seems there’s a little clause in the divorce agreement which states poor Diandra gets 50% of any money Michael makes from any ventures which are spinoffs from movies made during the marriage. Really? $45 mil and a couple of mansions isn’t enough for you? You still need to siphon the blood from your ex ten years later (Michael Douglass has since remarried and has two children)? I’ve never understood the automatic 50% figure in divorces. Seems to me nobody is entitled to retain a status they were elevated to because of marriage. Fifty percent appears to be the lazy man’s calculation. A fairer method would be to figure out the earning potential of the wife (or in rare cases, the husband) during the years of marriage, assume she could have put 33-50% away (a generous figure to say the least), and give her that amount times the number of years married. That’s a pretty nice parting gift, certainly better than what I received when I appeared on Wheel Of Fortune years ago. Let’s look at Elin Nordegren (Tiger Woods’ soon-to-be ex). Who in their right fucking mind can say with a straight face that her marriage of a few years entitles her to a half billion or so? She was a nanny for fuck’s sake! She benefitted from Tiger’s being the best golfer alive by getting to live a lavish lifestyle, complete with mansions, private jets, and exquisite gifts. What sense of entitlement must Nordegren have to think she should get to live the rest of her life in this manner? Under my reasoning, she’d get approximately $180 grand. Let’s say she was a very well-paid nanny earning $60K/year. They married in late 2004, so I’ll throw in 2010 as a gift, and say the marriage lasted six years. $60,000 x 1/2 x 6 equals $180K. Tiger, write the lady a check, and let her go clean toilets. If Woods decides to be generous, he can add a couple of zeroes in there and give her 18 mil., which is more than you or I, or any of our friends will make together in our lifetimes! Under the fifty percent scenario, a beautiful women should marry rich and hope the guy cheats! She gets to walk away with millions and her freedom. And if Mr. Rich Guy is a loyal and loving husband, she can always stray and still wind up with nearly as much! It’s really hard for me to fathom how an educated society can still allow this to go on, but go on it does. And of course this doesn’t include the ridiculous money for “child support”, much of which will never be spent on the children. Look at it this way, if Tiger had merely fucked her and had his kids, all he’d be on the hook for is child support. I would think any man would have to think long and hard before even considering saying “I do” with the odds so stacked against him.

And by the way, for any man that catches his girlfriend reading any article about a huge divorce settlement, and hearing words like, “Damn right!” or “Girl should have taken him for more”, run for your fucking life. Run like the penalty for drug possession is death, and you’ve got a quarter-ounce in your pocket. If I were you, I’d wear a condom all the time, even when flaccid…can’t take any chances.

General Stanley McChrystal has now been removed from his post as big cheese in the war in Afghanistan, replaced by his superior, General David Petraeus. In case you’ve had your head in the sand (or up your own ass) for the past few days, Big Stan and his crew of aides were followed around by a Rolling Stone reporter, and had some unflattering things to say about President Obama, VP Joe Biden, and other peeps you’re not supposed to talk badly about when they have the ability to banish you to KP duty on the North Korean/South Korean border. But let’s travel back in time a bit. Here’s General Stan, in charge of what is now America’s longest war, and he’s approached by Rolling Stone magazine for a profile. Rolling Stone? Did McChrystal really think this was going to be a good thing? It wasn’t Newsweek, or Time, it was fucking Rolling Stone! How could a lifelong military veteran not see this ambush coming? It’s like walking into a supposedly deserted Vietcong village, where all you see is an old lady stirring a big pot of yak stew…are you surprised when 100 NVC jump out of the straw huts carrying Russian Kalashnikov rifles? Anyone stupid enough to believe Rolling Stone (or High Times, or TMZ) is just gonna hang around for a few days and do a puff piece to boost morale is much too stupid to be running a fucking war. And why is Rolling Stone following a general at all? What happened to following the music scene? Don’t they realize Miley Cyrus is flashing her underage, bald beaver all over the stage and Internet? And who is the military equivalent of Paris Hilton in McChrystal’s camp that thought it’d be way cool to have Rolling Stone do a story? Trace that dude’s job history and you’ll probably find it’s the same guy who told Sarah Palin that being able to see Russia from her backyard qualified as foreign policy experience. And by the way, what kind of moron thinks he can badmouth his bosses in the national media, then wake up the next day and go punch the old time card like nothing is wrong? Can’t we put a few people in charge of shit who have some semblance of common sense? Is that too much to ask?

Along the same “Why can’t the tail wag the dog?” reasoning, I’ve finally got around to commenting on Megan Fox being dumped for Transformers 3. The official statement on Fox’s dismissal was that Execs were worried about her extreme weight loss/appearance. Let me translate that for you…”Megan was a douchebag on the set. A pretty douchebag, but a douchebag nonetheless. And because we’re making a movie that will generate a gazillion dollars worldwide, it’s better to create a part for someone who will be a little more appreciative of the opportunity, and not so douchey.” Of course, it was Fox who, feeling like she was bigger than the movie/franchise on T2, expressed that Director Michael Bay was akin to Hitler (a charge dismissed by the entire cast/crew), and was constantly putting the stars in jeopardy with dangerous stunts. Really? In this day and age of stunt doubles and CGI, Bay is going to risk a potential billion dollars, just to have Megan Fucking Fox personally do a stunt? As Shakespeare would say, “Giveth me thy fucking break” (Hamlet, I believe). Fox should really just shut the fuck up, show up on time, and do her scenes. She’s quickly learning that hotness in Hollywood is easily replaced, and that ignorance, even in a smokin’ bikini, isn’t a career-builder (by the way, how’s that new Jonah Hex movie doing for ya?). If I were her PR rep., I’d say, “Megan, Booby, go to the press junkets, but no talking. Explain that you’ve got laryngitis and have to rest your vocal cords. And wear something skimpy, without a bra. If you need some wardrobe help, give Miley Cyrus a call.”