Thursday was my final day in Las Vegas. It was also my luckiest.

I was Sin City working on the production of a huge pharmaceutical sales meeting at the MGM Grand Hotel, scheduled to return to New York on Friday. But I was released a day early - with pay!

That means I am getting paid on Friday to do absolutely nothing.

You're probably thinking, "Will, I get paid to do nothing at work every day. What's the big deal?"

The big deal is I'm freelance. And I make a good day rate. You don't usually pay a freelancer to sit around and do nothing. There are plenty of staff people for that.

This is a first for me. In 16 years as a freelancer I've never been paid to do nothing (please excuse the double negative). I feel like one of those no-show construction workers on The Sopranos!

If you're looking for me today, I'll be sitting on a lawn chair and drinking Coors Light with Paulie Walnuts.

When I go on the road to produce one of these pharmaceutical shows I make a day rate, plus overtime if I work more than ten hours. And I almost always work more than ten hours - sometimes a lot more.

I love overtime. I don't love working long hours, but I do love getting paid at 1.5x my hourly rate.

And Vegas is the perfect place to work overtime. It's just like gambling. You don't really know how much money you're going to walk away with until it's all over. But unlike gambling, there's no chance that you're going to lose it.

I guess if I told the client to go fuck himself, they probably wouldn't pay me. But I've never tested that theory out.

This particular project was pretty stressful, and the hours were long. So I was already making a lot of money. But on Wednesday I got some great news.

I found out that I was going to be making more for overtime work than I had originally thought - almost $2,000 more! Of course, this information inspired me to gamble another $500 at the routlette table.

And of course I lost, as usual.

So I ended my five days of gambling with a $1,900 loss. But when you factor in the $2,000 of "found money" that I wasn't planning on, I still managed to end up on the plus side!

I lost at every game I played in the casino. But somehow I managed to win money at work.

On Wednesday night I called my airline and attempted to change my flight home from Friday to Thursday. The representative informed me that there would be a $100 fee to guarantee a seat on a Thursday morning flight back to New York

"Is there any way I can avoid that fee?" I asked.

"Well, you could stand by," the operator said. "But the rest of the flights on Thursday are fully booked. If you don't get a seat on this one you won't be able to leave until Friday."

I decided to risk it and make one last bet.

I awoke on Thursday and checked out of the MGM Grand. I stopped by the ATM in the casino to withdraw some money for cab fare to the airport, but the ATM wouldn't give me any.

I even lose at the ATM. Am I lucky or what?

I have plenty of money in the bank, but apparently there is a 24 hour maximum for cash withdrawals, and i had exceeded it the night before, when I withdrew the $500 I "donated" to the routlette table.

So there I was, in a rush to get to the airport, but with no money for a cab. I thought about panhandling, but I was wearing nice pants. Nobody gives change to a guy in nice pants.

Luckily I ran into a coworker who was also on her way to McCarran International. So I hitched a ride and checked in at the airport as a standby.

I waited at the gate, hoping that my name would be called.

"Passenger Goldstein!" the Continental attendant announced.

"Passenger Lee!" she continued. "Passenger Miller!"

She called so many names it t soundeded like she was reading the phone book. But still no me.

"Passenger McKin...McKennel? McKinnnel? McKinney?" She never properly said my name, but it was close enough for me.

"Here!" I yelled, as I made my way to the counter. Then I boarded the flight back to New York with an extra $100 in my pocket.

I may have lost all week long, but I left Las Vegas a winner.



One thing I've noticed about Las Vegas: a lot of people here have tattoos.

Once upon a time, tattoos were strictly for soldiers and sailors, a permanent record of a night of drunken revelry while on leave from armed combat.

But tattoos are not just for Popeye anymore. The tattoo craze has officially swept the nation, and shows no signs of abating - at least here in the casinos of Sin City.

Nowadays, tattoos are commonplace for both men and women. In fact, among young women of a certain moral compass, tattoos are de rigueur.

I'm on the fence about tattoos on women.

On the one hand, hot, young girls with tattoos have a certain low-rent sexiness to them. This is not true of all tattoos, of course. Neck tattoos are not attractive on women. Nor are big tattoos on the bicep. Both strike me as unfeminine and more at home in a federal penitentiary than poolside at the MGM Grand.

Without question, the ink of choice for the Girls Gone Wild generation is the lower back tattoo, also known as the "tramp stamp."

Are all girls who have tattoos on the small of their backs tramps? Probably not. Are they sexy in a slutified sort of way? Probably yes.

For now. But what's going to happen a few years from now?

There is one big difference between a tattoo and other fads of recent memory. Unlike, the Rachael hairdo or blue eye shadow or Ugg boots, tattoos cannot be cut off, or washed off or hidden in the back of your closet once their moment in the zeitgeist sun has come and gone.

That tattoo will be with you forever. And what seemed edgy at 19 will most likely not at 39. I know most 19 year olds cannot imagine the concept of being 39. But let me tell you, 39 is closer than you think.

Life is not a sprint. It's a marathon. It's a long-term proposition. Keep that in mind when making decisions about permanently altering your body.

No woman "of a certain age" wants to remind herself - and everyone around her - of what she used to be, but no longer is. You may as well just permanently etch the words "I used to be sexy" somewhere on your body.

So, to all my young female readers contemplating tattoos, I say the following:

think long and hard before you make your decision.

And to all my young female readers who have tattoos, I say the following:

send me pictures.



So I'm at the roulettte table here at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, as the dealer, a fiftyish white-haired gent, decides to tell all of us a joke.

This strikes me as ironic considering that I occasionally do the same thing in comedy clubs in New York City.

Here is the joke:

So the seven dwarves are hanging out having a beer after a hard day of whistling while they work.

And Dopey says, "I didn't know that dwarves could be nuns."

"Why do you say that?" asks Sneezy.

"Because I had sex with one last night!"

"Hey everybody!" Doc replies. "Dopey fucked a penguin!"

I laughed, politely. Then I lost $800 at the table. Politely.

I paid Dan the Roulette Dealer more money to tell me that joke than I have made in my entire five year career as a standup comedian.

Now that's funny, don't you think?



I saw an interesting thing in the casino at the MGM Grand tonight: a family gambling together.

There was a forty-something Mom and a Dad and their young daughter, who couldn't have been more than 18 or 19. They were playing roulette, and drinking and smoking cigarettes (required behavior in all Las Vegas casinos).

I don't know about you, but when I was a teenager, my parents would have never taken me to a casino. When I went on vacation with my parents, we took trips in our RV. Niagara Falls. The 1984 World's Fair in New Orleans. They even drove me to a Dark Shadows convention in Dallas, Texas during the summer, with no AC.

But no gambling. No drinking. And the only thing that smoked was our Winnebago when it broke down in the midsummer Alabama heat.

If you gamble, drink and smoke with your parents, what do you do to rebel? Go to church? Do volunteer work? Practice yoga?

Needless to say, this pretty young teenager did not seem at all embarrassed to be seen with her parents in public. Maybe it was because she was doing all the things with her parents that most kids do behind their parents' backs.

Perhaps there's something to be said for corrupting your kids before they can do it on their own? At least you know they're safe.

And the young woman won $200. So I guess there is a method to this madness.

I, on the other hand, lost $400. All alone.

The moral to this story is, a family gambling together is touching, in a bizarre sort of way. A 37 year-old gambling alone is, well, sort of tragic. Particularly when he's down $600 in three days.

Maybe I should have some kids. My luck might change.



Sunday was a lucky day!

First I was upgraded at the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino to a CELEBRITY SUITE! Obviously, these people know who I am. No crummy little rooms for me. I've been on Sirius Satellite Radio! THREE TIMES!

That makes me a CELEBRITY.

It's a gigantic suite with two TVs, a large sitting area and a giant Jacuzzi in the bathroom. Too bad I worked a 16 hour day and couldn't enjoy it.

Well, actually not too bad.

Because I made lots of overtime on the pharmaceutical meeting I am working on. So after I wrapped for the day, I decided to go blow my hard earned money in the casino. Again.


First I won $40 on at the roulette table. Okay, winning $40 is nothing to write home (or write a blog) about. But when you've been on an endless losing streak, $40 sounds pretty good.

Of course, I could have called it a night and gone to bed. But I didn't do that.

Once again, I heeded the siren call of the Wheel of Fortune slot machines. And this time I won $250!

And then I gave it all back. Yes, I'm an idiot.

But I broke even for the night. And that ain't losing!

P.S. If any nice girls want to help me enjoy my CELEBRITY status here at the MGM Grand, I'm in Room 22-339. And I'm free on Thursday night. Just putting it out there...



Greetings from Las Vegas, where I am working on the production of a sales meeting for more than 5,000 pharmaceutical reps.
I've been here for seven hours and I've already lost $200!

I'm not leaving until Friday at 2 PM. That means I'll be in Vegas for 134 hours. If I keep up this pace, I will lose a total of $3,828.57!

Have you ever played the Wheel of Fortune slots? Well if you haven't, don't start.
It's just like the TV show - except you lose money instead of winning it.

And you don't even get to meet Vanna White

Where are you when I need you, Vanna?!



I do not use a microwave oven and I will tell you why.

Microwave ovens heat food with radiation. I don’t want a box of radiation next to my box of Cheerios. I have a friend who - while it’s cooking - turns off her microwave by opening the door. That’s crazy.

Why not just buy a life-sized microwave? Then, when it’s really cold outside, you can jump in the microwave for a quick 30 seconds to warm up your molecules.

Fifty years ago people built cellars in their houses to get away from potential radiation from nuclear bombs. Today we buy radiation machines at Circuit City.

One time I looked at a microwave box in the store and it said, “FDA Guidelines require that leakage is kept well-below harmful doses.”

I don’t want well-below harmful doses, I want NO harmful doses. I have enough problems already. I don’t need to worry that in 50 years I’m going to start glowing in the dark.

I won’t use an “oven” that doesn’t have a flame or some kind of fire. An oven is supposed to cook things. The way you cook things is with heat. If you’re cooking things by swirling around their molecules, that sounds a little too Star-Treky to me

Okay. I’m just kidding. Of course I own a microwave oven!

I eat take-out almost every night of the week. How I am I supposed to live without a microwave oven? I’ve have to stretch that stuff over like three nights. Have you ever tried to re-heat Chicken and Broccoli in the regular oven? It gets all crusty, like it’s blackened, or Cajun or something.

I smoke cigarettes. So the radiation from the microwave is probably good for me. It’s killing the tumors before they even grow.



My Dad did a lot of hunting when he was younger.

My family even had a hunting lodge near Lake George, in upstate New York. It was this big cabin in the woods with no plumbing. We had to go to the bathroom in an outhouse - in 1982. It was like Back to the Future. I think I’m the only person in history ever to listen to a Walkman in an outhouse. I was afraid that I was gonna break the space-time continuum.

My family called the cabin The McKinley Camp, and it was the place where my grandfather, my Dad and his two brothers would go to kill things. But really, who hasn't killed things at camp?

It was a scary place for a kid. There were dead animals stuffed and mounted all over the house: deer heads, a small bear, a mountain lion.

And they all looked really pissed off, which is completely understandable.

Every night when I slept there as a kid I dreamed that these angry animals were going to come to life and eat me – like the Stephen King book Pet Semetary. Do you know what that does to a little kid? The first time I saw a Teddy Ruxpin doll I had a nervous breakdown.

I never went hunting with my father, and I think it’s probably too late now. He can barely operate the remote control. A shotgun is out of the question.

But I think the fact that I didn’t want to kill things with him really hurt my Dad’s feelings. And I'd kind of like to make it up to him.

I think we should head on over to Toys-R-Us and get one of those ping pong ball guns and bag us a Teddy Ruxpin. Then we can bring it home, cut off it’s head and proudly hang it on the wall.

I could re-program it to say, “Please Don’t Shoot Me! I’m Teddy Ruxpin!”

Or “Why are you beheading me? I’m Teddy Ruxpin!”

Or “Everything’s getting dark. I see a light. Momma...I’m coming home.”

Killing. It's fun for the whole family.



1) You don't waste all that time sleeping.
2) The next day you have that "partied all night" look without all that annoying partying.



Listen to me perform my story SHE DONE HIM WRONG live!

Click here to listen to the podcast for Talespin, the new monthly storytelling series hosted by Jodi Young.

Will McKinley with Talespin host Jodi Young - June 13, 2006.



Harry Moses Horowitz
born 6/19/1897
died 5/4/75

Happy birthday, you knucklehead.


Here's a question for all you people reading this on your computers:

Are baby daddys allowed to celebrate Fathers Day with their kids? How about if they don't pay child support??

I'm asking cause Tiffani says I'm not! And that is some bullshit if I ever heard it! And I have heard some bullshit, trust me.

So I holla at her today on the sidekick and I'm like "Yo Tiffani!" cause that's her name. I'm like, "Yo Tiffany. I'm coming over to see my motherfucking baby!"

And she was like "Well you better be bringing a check with you motherfucker!"

Ain't that some shit? She gotta call me motherfucker in front of my own motherfucking kid? What kind of example does that set? I'm no lawyer but I think that shit has gotta be illegal.

But here's the best part.

My baby mom thinks I need to pay to see my own flesh and blood? I am not trying to hear that! She don't sound like the baby momma she sound more like the baby massa!

Why this bitch is trying to rent me out time with my baby is be-fucking-yond me. I'm no lawyer but that shit has got to illegal?

You know, nobody ever thinks about the rights of Deadbeat Dads. Where's our watchdog group? Where's our PAC? Where's our commemorative bracelet?

It's not our fault that we have to spend all our money on crystal meth? It's an addiction.

have some compassion people.





I started slowly losing my hair when I was 18.

I parted it on the side and, each year, the part moved further and further to the left. You can actually look back at pictures of me from the 90's and chart the migration of my hair line. The part got so close to my ear that sometimes I could actually hear my hair falling out.

It made a high-pitched twang sound, like a ukelele.

I spent 12 years helplessly watching my hair desert me like my birth mother. Then, when I turned 30, I shaved my head.

This was the best decision I ever made.

At the moment I shaved my head, my physical appearance became frozen in time. I halted the aging process.

As long as I don't get fat, I will pretty much look exactly the same for the rest of my life. I could be 30. I could be 70. But you'll have no idea how old I really am.

Shaving your head is like becoming a vampire.

Stop Male Pattern Baldness! Shave your head!



It all started back in 1968.

There was this girl, this college student. I don't know her name, but she was Catholic and she was pregnant and she wasn't married.

Let's call her Mary. She probably wasn't a virgin, but she sure was carrying a special little boy! Mary gave birth to a baby that she called "Christian" on November 11 at 10:14 a.m.

I'm not really sure if Christian was my name or the reason that my Mom didn't terminate the pregnancy but, either way, I'm appreciative.

Of course, my birth mother would never have aborted me. Because I was her child, and she loved me and she wanted me to have a great life, even though it wouldn't be with her.

Sure, abortion was technically illegal in 1968. But I'm pretty sure that had nothing to do with her decision!

I'm sure Mary was a nice girl, but she was too young to be a mom. She was a college student, in her teens or early 20's. She and her boyfriend, Pedro, her parents' undocumented Dominican landscaper, couldn't afford to raise a child on their own.

Pedro even got a second job, playing flamenco guitar in a mariachi band at a local Spanish restauarant. But it was no use. The young, star-crossed couple just couldn't afford a baby.

So Mary and Pedro kissed little Christian goodbye and sent him to live with a lovely family named the Foster's. The Foster family made little baby Christian feel right at home. They gave him love. They gave him a home. And then they gave him away a four months later.

The new owners closed on Baby Christian on March 14, 1969. Their name was McKinley and it was St. Patrick's Day. They had found their pot of gold, in the person of a blond haired infant who was now to be known as William Jr.

Little Billy settled in with his third set of parents in four months and began an outwardly happy childhood.

He was a beautiful, gifted child. But he was a stubborn lad!

Mrs. Gill, Billy's kindergarten teacher, summoned his parents for a conference because she thought that Billy might be "slow."

But he wasn't slow. He just didn't like Mrs. Gill, so he stopped paying attention to her. Plus she was really old. And she smelled like fish.

Billy wasn't a slow child. He was an observant child.

The 1970's were good years for Billy. He became a star student at St. Joseph's Roman Catholic school. He had lots of friends and lots of fun. He even got over his anger at his parents for adopting another child, a little girl from South Korea.

Billy loved Richie Rich comic books, and Star Wars and the New York Mets. He became an all-star pitcher on his Little League team.

As he entered the decade of 1980's the future looked bright.

Then he got to high school, and everything changed.

to be continued...



I'm good with my mouth.

And I like to swallow.



After more than a week of rain, we finally had a sunny weekend in New York!

Saturday was a beautiful sunny day. And what better place to spend a sunny day than at the beach?

My journey began at Penn Station - the Gateway to Long Island's beautiful, only slightly polluted beaches!

I headed to the south shore of Long Island, to a quaint little oceanfront community called Long Beach.

When I arrived at Long Beach's famed boardwalk, I noticed something: there was nobody there!

"Great!" I thought to myself. "I'll have the beach all to myself!"

I was headed for the ramp that led from the boardwalk to the beach, when I heard a lone, high-pitched voice coming out of a wooden guard box.

"It's $7 to go on to the beach!" the teenaged guard said. "Can't you see the sign?"

No wonder there was nobody on the beach. It's too expensive!

I don't believe that anyone should pay to enjoy a natural resource. So I decided to bypass the beach guard and make my own route to the water!

Unfortunately, it was further to the sand than I had calculated.

Not an award-winning landing!

Sand is harder than it looks!

But finally, after my long journey, the beautiful water of the Atlantic Ocean was within reach!

I pulled offf my trusty backpack and established a base camp.

I took off my shoes...

and my shirt...

and my shorts...

and moments later I was in the swimsuit that the Good Lord gave me.

I felt so free, just being there and communing with nature. It was a spiritual moment.

But then I noticed something.

The guards had called in the Emergency Mobile Unit!

And I was now The Beach's Most Wanted!

I quickly made my way back to base camp...

and put my clothes back on.

Then I headed back to the boardwalk from whence I had came. It seemed a lot higher from the other side.

But there is no challange that I cannot overcome!

I called upon all the strength I had within me...

"Arrrgh!" I growled, as I used my super-human strength to pull myself to freedom.

Almost there...

I looked back at the beach guards and laughed. "You'll never take Will McKinley alive!"

I made my way back to the train station, proud that I had beaten the system and enjoyed the beach for free.

As I waited for the train back to New York City, I noticed a flier on the bulletin board.

"I've always wanted to take guitar lessons!" I exclaimed, as I tore the phone number off the flier.

Now I get to do two of my favorite things at the same time! All in all, I think it was a pretty good day!

Have a great summer, everybody!



On Tuesday night I will be performing in TALESPIN, a brand-new storytelling show here in New York City.

I will be doing a ten-minute (or so) version of the story about getting arrested (unless I change my mind and do something else). I will not be telling my usual short-and-funny jokes about being adopted and bald and single, etc!

I am not your joke monkey, okay? So get off my back, man!

Hosted by Jodi Young

Tuesday, June 13 at 7:30 PM

Bar On A
170 Avenue A (@ E.11th)
(happy hour daily from 4-8!)

This Week's Talespinners:
Will McKinley (Sirius Satellite Radio)
Pat O'Shea (Boston Comedy Festival)
Jessica Wood (Def Comedy Jam)

"TALESPIN" is in no way affiliated with the
1990 Disney cartoon series of the same name.



It seems like everyone I know has gotten arrested recently.

And the weird thing is, none of them are black.

So I say “kudos” to the NYPD for extending racial profiling to white people. I guess fascism truly is color-blind.

I got arrested one time, in the subway. Which makes sense, because I consider myself to be an underground performer.

My girlfriend Maggie and I were at Grand Central Station on the way home from a party. In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that there had been some alcohol consumption on that particular occasion. The drinking was mostly on my Maggie’s part, though. She was 23 at the time and somewhat fond of Tanquery.

I was 31 at the time and somewhat fond of drunk 23 year-old girls. So we made a pretty good combination.

We get to the subway station and I swipe my Metrocard through the turnstile, and Maggie decides that it would be hysterically funny to push behind me and go through on the same fare.

I didn’t think it was funny. And neither did the cop. God bless the NYPD. They’re always there when you don’t want them to be.

So I look up at the cop, and then I turn back to look for Maggie, so I can blame it all on her. But she has mysteriously disappeared, which seems to be a pattern for me with women.

Next thing I know I’m in handcuffs doing the perp walk through Grand Central Station. And the cop walks me past a bunch of homeless guys and they all break into a spontaneous round of applause. And one guy yells out something about “forty acres and a mule.”

I don’t know what that was all about.

They put me and my handcuffed ass in a squad car and transport me downtown, to Union Square. Did you know that there was a jail in the Union Square subway station? It has one cell in it. It looks like the jail from The Andy Griffith Show. I think I was arrested by Deputy Barney Fife. I expected Aunt Bea to walk in with a tray of homemade cookies.

“I gotta take your shoelaces," the cop says to me as he prepares my cell.

“Why?” I ask.

“So you don’t hang yourself,” he answers.

Who knew you could hang somebody with shoelaces? I'm glad I wasn't aware of this in high school. I would have taken out my whole freshman gym class.

So I give him my shoelaces, and my belt. Apparently everybody in jail walks around with their pants falling down. I think that's actually where that baggy, falling-down pants look orignated. Unfortunately, the look doesn't work as well with pleated khakis from Brooks Brothers.

Then the officer very politely invites me to get into my cell. I very politely oblige, not that I had much of a choice. And he very politely locks me in.

Then I got my mug shot taken. I tried my best to look all thugged-out. But most thugs don’t wear blue blazers with gold buttons. Maybe the thugs from Enron do, but they are not the kind of thugs I was worried about encountering during my journey through the New York City penal system.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your perspective) my time in lock-up was brief. My uncle is a cop on Long Island and he made a few calls and I was a free man. I felt like a Kenndy. We blamed it all on the Ambien.

But I still had to go to court a few weeks later.

I got a public defender, who told me that if I pleaded guilty and stayed “clean” for six months the arrest would be expunged from my record.I loved that. If I “stayed clean.”

More like, if my girlfriend stayed sober.

So I go before the judge and he asks me how I plead.

“Guilty, your honor,” I replied, as I dramatically hung my head in shame.

I’ve heard that line in so many movies and TV shows. It was exciting to say it in real life.

I ended up getting one day of community service. I had to clean the gum off the subway platform at the 96th Street #1 station. Because, in the subway you do the crime and in the subway you do the time.

So there I am, in my glow-in-the-dark orange vest. And neon is really my color. It goes with my eyes.

So I’m on my hands and knees, with my gum scraper and my co-worker and new best friend, a very large African-American gentleman named Tiny.

That's the great thing about getting arrested. It allows you to interact with people who you would otherwise do your best to avoid. Just like stand-up comedy.

"What are you in for?” Tiny asks me, with a scary laugh. “Jaywalking?”

“Fare evasion,” I reply in my butchest voice. “So step to that, Mister.” Because that’s the way I heard them do it on HBO's award-winning prison drama Oz.

“So what are you in for?” I asked Tiny.

“Assault,” he answered. But the bitch set me up.”

“You know what, the same thing happened to me!” I said.

At that moment, it didn’t matter that Tiny was black and I was white. We were just two guys who got set up by a bitch.

And isn’t that what racial equality is all about?

Will McKinley behind bars! May 27, 2000.



Teenagers today are less likely to smoke cigarettes, drink alcohol or have sex than their peers 15 years ago, according to a national study released Thursday by the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

"The new report highlights some very good news," said Howell Wechsler, director of the CDC's Division of Adolescent and School Health. "We're delighted to see some progress."

But he said the statistics were "not going down fast enough."

And apparently, neither are the teenagers. On each other.

And that makes me sad. Engaging in risky and experimental behavior is what being a teenager is all about. You're supposed to do that stuff when you're young and durable and unburdened by the responsibility of work and family.

If you don't, you end up being 37 years old, drunk and trolling around Craig's List for chicks who enjoy coke-fueled threesomes. (Or so I am told by friends.)

So kids, take my advice. Drink (but don't drive). Smoke (cigarettes, pot and pretty much whatever you can get your hands on). And have lots and lots of sex (safely, and preferably with people you are NOT in love with).

Don't let the PC police deny you of your birthright! Now is the time for you to spread your wings (and other things) and FLY!

I promise, when you're 37, you'll thank me.



The proposed Constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage has failed once again. This is a great disappointment to many conservative Christians.

A lot of people ask me, “Phil, why are Christians so anti-gay?”

This is an odd question to ask me. I’m not gay. I’m not really a practicing Christian. And my name is not Phil.

But I am a Biblical scholar.

For the answer to this question you have to go back to the Ten Commandments. The 10th Commandment says: Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his house, nor his ass.

This is a real quote from the King James Version of the Bible. It sounds more like the Rick James Version.

Of course when the writers of the Bible say ass, they are referring to a donkey.

A lot of people don’t know this, but remember that videogame from the 1980s called Donkey Kong? The original Japanese version was called Ass Kong. But they had to change it because that was also the name of a gay porn movie.

I never saw that particular gay porn because, once again, I'm not gay. But I did see the sequel Ass Kong vs. Rodzilla.

I borrowed it from my neighbor, a Japanese lesbian. So you might say that I coveted my neighbor’s Ass Kong which, in the eyes of the Christian church is a sin, because the Christian church is anti-gay.

I hope that clears it up for everybody!



I was standing in front of a Subway Sandwich Shop at lunchtime when a guy asked me for a light.

He was a young guy, maybe still in college and he was dressed like a skateboarder. I don't know for a fact that he was dressed like a skateboarder, because I don't know any skateboarders. I don't really know how skateboarders dress. For all I know, skateboarders nowadays wear three piece suits, in an ironic way. Maybe dressing up is the new dressing down.

I don't know. I just know that he seemed like a skateboarder.

So I pulled out my lighter and handed it to him.

"Boy have I had a day!" the skateboarder said to me with a sigh, as he pulled a Camel Ultra Light out of his pocket.

I thought long and hard about what to say in response to this. I decided against "Really?" because that would inply that I was interested in knowing more about his day, which I wasn't.

I thought about not replying at all, but that would be rude. I may be ill tempered, but I'm not ill mannered.

"Yeah," I finally said to the skateboarder. "Quite a day."

I looked down and shook my head, as if I too was having a tough day. This approach, I believed, would dissuade this chatty young man from sharing further detail before he returned my lighter.

I was wrong.

"My fucking girlfriend broke up with me," he said as he finally lit his cigarette. "But you're probably not interested in my problems."

"That's amazing," I said.

"What's amazing?" the skateboarder asked me, as he returned my lighter.

"We met like ten seconds ago," I answered. "And you already know me better than most of my friends."

Then I got on my skateboard and rolled away.



Today is a June 6, 2006 - 6/6/06.

And it's a bad day for hexakosioihexekontahexaphobes.

People with hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia
are fearful of anything that involves the number 666. This is different from people with Mexakosioihexekontahexaphobia, who are fearful of anything that involves undocumented workers from south of the border.

Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobes are Christians, since the fear of the number 666 has its genesis in the Biblical Book of Revelations.

Revelations 13:16-18 states:

Let anyone with the understanding calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a person. Its number is six hundred and sixty-six.

Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia is more common than you might think. Prominent hexakosioihexekontahexaphobes include U.S. President Ronald Reagan.

"The Great Communicator" attempts to ward off the forces of evil.

In 1989, the former President and his wife Nancy bought a home at 666 St. Cloud Road, in the exclusive Los Angeles community of Bel Air. But before the Reagan's moved in, they changed the address to 668 St. Cloud Road.

When you're a former president you can do things like that.

Unfortunately, President Reagan's hexakosioihexekontahexaphobic attempt at revisionist history was unsuccessful. Because we all know what happened to him.

He's dead.

When Ronald Reagan moved into that house he was a healthy, handsome, robust former president of the United States. Then, a mere 15 years later, President Reagan was tragically cut down in the prime of life - dead at age 93.

Coincidence? I think not.

One prominent nonhexakosioihexekontahexaphobe was Johnny Carson, beloved host of The Tonight Show. Carson owned the house at 666 St. Cloud Road before the Reagan's, yet he never seemed bothered that his home held what many believe to be the Mark of the Beast.

Johnny Carson as the mystic, Carnac the Magnificent.

When Carson moved out of the house on St. Cloud Lane in 1989, he was the healthy, handsome, robust host of The Tonight Show. But then the new owners of his former home toyed with the dark forces of the Underworld.

And we all know happened to Johnny Carson.

He's dead.

Coincidence? I think not.

But the story doesn't end there.

In 1988, Ronald Reagan's Vice President, George Herbert Walker Bush, succeeded his former boss as the 41st president of the United States. And in 2000, George W. Bush was elected (sort of) to the presidency.

George W. Bush claims to be a born-again Christian. He claims to be informed by the will of God. And he claims to be the son of George H.W. Bush.

But here are the facts: President George W. Bush was born on the 6th day of the 6th month in the year 1946.

If you're scoring at home that's 6-6-6. Proving what Democrats have always believed...

George W. Bush is the anti-Christ.

Since George W. Bush became president in 2001 we have seen suffering, death, war, disease and natural disaster as the world has never known. These are all harbingers of what Evangelical Christians (like President Bush) call The End of Days.

According to Wikipedia (the online encyclopedia), there is a consensus among fundamentalist Christians that "sometime prior to the return of Jesus, there will be a period of 'trials and tribulations' during which the AntiChrist, working as an agent of Satan, will attempt to win supporters with great works, and will silence anyone or make enemies of any country that refuses their allegiance."

Coincidence? I think not.

The End of Days is here. And it all started with
The Tonight Show.

Have a good day, everybody! While you still can...



I'm a registered Democrat. That should not come as a surprise to you.

I live in New York City. I work in the entertainment business. And my parents are staunch conservatives, which is reason enough.

I've voted across the Democratic Party line in every election since 1988, when I proudly cast my vote for the next president of the United States of American - Michael Dukakis.

So the first one didn't work out so well. But the next two did.

I'm a big fan of Bill Clinton. In June of 2004 I waited on line all night to meet him at a book signing in New York City.

When I finally got to the table where he was signing copies of his autobiography, he looked at me like we had known each other for years. I've never experienced anything like it in my entire life.

"I'm William McKinley," I said to him. I was nervous.

"I think you and I had the same job," the former president quipped.

"I think it ended better for you than it did for me," I replied.

Clinton smiled, signed my book and looked up at me.

"He was a very under-appreciated president," Clinton said. And he's kind of an expert on that topic.

Then President Clinton turned to the next person on line, and looked at him exactly as he had looked at me.

It was like meeting Jesus.
I felt as if I had been born again. At that moment, I renewed my vows to the Democratic party. Never again would my imagination be invaded by thoughts of President McCain.

My copy is signed, bitch!

The last two elections haven't worked out so well for the Democratic faithful
. The 2000 and 2004 elections were like playing basketball with your older brother - even if you win, you still somehow lose.

The good news is that things are a mess in this country right now. I'm not saying I'm happy that things are a mess. Or that it's a good thing that we are fundamentally less safe now as a nation than we were on September 11, 2001.

I'm just saying, this is an opportunity for the Democrats to get back in the game.

The 2008 presidential elections are a little bit more than two years away, but the speculation has already begun.

Let's end it right now. Al Gore should be the Democratic nominee in 2008.

Let's skip the primaries. Let's dispense with the Democratic candidates slandering each other to get the nomination. And let's stop all this talk about Hillary Clinton. You and I both know that whole thing would be a mistake. And I'm sure that, deep down, Bill agrees with me.

Al Gore is the right man for the job. And if we decide that now we can begin a focused attack. Today.

Maybe you think of Al Gore as the stiff loser who allowed the Republican bullies to steal his presidential lunch money. Then maybe you should go see the new documentary An Inconvenient Truth.

Yes, the former Vice President's new movie is a documentary about the dangers of global warming. But it's also the coming out party for the new and improved Al Gore.

He's warm. He's passionate. And he's presidential, which is a lot more than you can say for the current president. Gore claims he's not interested in running; that his political aspirations are behind him. He tell us that he's hung us his presidential guns.

But that's what the hero always says - before they convince him to agree to one more mission.

It's no mistake that this movie is coming out when it's coming out. Or that it's as much about Al Gore's personal journey as it is about what the Republicans call global climate change.This is a calculated reinvention: Al Gore as the sage voice of reason in a troubled time. Al Gore as the globetrotting crusader. Al Gore as the healer.

Let's do this, people. Al Gore is back. And this time, he's not taking shit from anybody.

Boo yah!

And this time it's personal!