the double wide salon

Full House

Three "D.P." Moynihan's and a pair a Tiegs:

DW- R.I.P.

william hussein buckley 1925-2008

The Double Wide mourns the loss of our founding editor, William F. Buckley.

she said 'missile'

O Dana!

And I always thought the Cuban Missile Crisis was when Joey Delgado pulled out his wang in Sister Edith's 11th grade religion class.

From the Washington Post:

Still looking for that last-minute Christmas gift for White House press secretary Dana Perino May we recommend a gift certificate for the forthcoming book on the Cuban Missile Crisis by our colleague Michael Dobbs, "One Minute to Midnight: Kennedy, Khrushchev, and Castro on the Brink of Nuclear War," due out next summer?

Appearing on National Public Radio's light-hearted quiz show "Wait, Wait . . . Don't Tell Me," which aired over the weekend, Perino got into the spirit of things and told a story about herself that she had previously shared only in private: During a White House briefing, a reporter referred to the Cuban Missile Crisis -- and she didn't know what it was.

"I was panicked a bit because I really don't know about . . . the Cuban Missile Crisis," said Perino, who at 35 was born about a decade after the 1962 U.S.-Soviet nuclear showdown. "It had to do with Cuba and missiles, I'm pretty sure."

So she consulted her best source. "I came home and I asked my husband," she recalled. "I said, 'Wasn't that like the Bay of Pigs thing?' And he said, 'Oh, Dana.' "

Old High School Chum Tells World: Take Your Preconceived Notions About the Bildungsroman and Stick Them Up Your...WAHWAH!

Remember that geeky guy Joey from Mr. Murphy's history class? Yeah, the one with the rat-tail. Well, it turns out he's a Communist or something and somebody's paying him to prattle on about Human Rights and shit. I know...om, isn't that what we have Dick Cheney for?...but, still, if you have any room left on your summer reading list we recommend Human Rights, Inc., this month's DW Book Club Official Selection. Trust us, it'll leave you feeling disabused.

Michael Vick, Friends to Start Dog Brain Brawl League

Under fire for his dog-fighting hobby and not wanting to let go of his "affinity for the culture of dog-fighting," Falcon's quarterback/scumbag Michael Vick has decided to channel his competitve energies into the nerdy, high-stakes world of Doggie Brain Brawl.

In a joint press conference today with his head trainer J.T., and former competitors Booker, LeRon Q., El Slick, Rollo, and Brain Brawl consultant Joey Slaughter, Vick announced a full slate of matches to take place over the summer in various alleys and out behind a series shacks, barns, and flophouses throughout the Southeast. "People will still be able to enjoy the fellowship of other bloodsport fans in a comfortable setting," said Vick. "They can still wager a little and drink a cold one, but instead of watching the animals rip each other apart, we'll be watching them match wits on such topics as The Rules of Poker, Cats, and What's That Smell?. It'll be fun for the whole family."

 

fuckin trippy

The Codex Seraphinianus on flickr. [registration required]

Watch it as a 420 slideshow.

The interweb is for learnin'

Nerve.com runs down 40 best celebrity rumors of all time, and some of 'em are pretty damned nifty:

--Danny Thomas loved a cleaner version of the "Hot Karl";
--Milton Berle had the biggest pecker in Hollywood;
--Nancy Reagan smoked more turkey neck than Hickory Farms;
--Marilyn Manson had a rib removed so he could smoke his own pole and stop bothering Nancy.

Plenty more, but I dont want to spoil all ya'lls fun.

In Search Of: James Hallam

Welcome to the DW's new feature: In Search of: (Your Name Here). Occasionally we will be running a profile of some long-lost friend, enemy, lover or, in this case, freaky-ass genius, in the hope that by harnessing the power of the internet and their own vanity, we can locate them and ridicule them mercilessly. Hey, if Charo's boobs ever did a vanity search for Charo's boobs they'd end up at the Double Wide, right? So it's definitely worth a shot.

Our first victim is former Landon Junior High School troublemaker/Valedictorian James Hallam. Poot, Elrod, and I spent many happy moments with James from 1979 until he transfered to another school under mysterious circumstances, some time in the 9th Grade. James and I shared a gym locker and it was in the stank-ass confines of the Landon boy's locker-room that his genius first became obvious and, not coincidentally, it was the first time I ever sang "Gimme Two Steps" with another man. It was there that he invented the "Hallam Stamp," by jumping up and stamping his muddy footprint on the first page of a math book someone had been unlucky enough to leave on the bench. It turned out so nice he did it in their social studies and science books, too. And oh how he loved to model his precious "Tuell's," an old unwashed pair of gym-shorts that someone named Tuell's mom had sewed his name in, that we found abandoned in a locker. Sure they were waaaay too small, but they were glorious.

The last time I saw Donald Armstrong he was staggering off oddly in the sun, but the last time I saw James Hallam he was running out of Mrs. Levy's class screaming "Diarrheaaaaa!!!!" James, is that really the way you want to be remembered?....Probably...but, still, if you ever get to use the computer in the prison library please drop us a line. There's a spot on the Double Wide staff waiting for you.

Great Untold Stories of the American West with Alistair McTierney

EPISODE 12: PORTLAND PORT-O-JOHNNY POTLATCH

The action in this week's episode follows close on the heels of last week's saga. Faithful readers will no doubt recall "The Great Vista House Massacree" wherein a rag-tag group of some 50 settlers in formal attire held a rocky escarpment, against the dogged attacks of an uppity red-headed park ranger from back East and the nice guy behind the Info Desk who will talk your ear off if you let him, just long enough for Clovis to experience connubial bliss...

Our story begins, later... that same day... in Clovis's backyard, as several of his friends began preparations for a grand reception to be held there the following evening. Elrod, Alvie, and Pete had seen photos of the decorations for Elton John's wedding which featured lovely Chinese umbrellas and decided they would be the perfect touch for Clovis's. As they were finishing fagging up the backyard, I chanced to notice a rather distinguished looking fellow inspecting the area where the Port-O-Johnny was to be placed the following day. Much to my surpirse, it turned out to be the eminent archaeologist, Dr. F.U. Bőwden-Bŏwden. Just as I began to introduce myself, Dr. Bőwden-Bŏwden turned towards the party and announced, ominously, "I, Dr. F.U. Bőwden-Bŏwden, have discovered an indigenous peoples' arrowhead in the spot where you intend to place your Port-O-Johnny. It is my, Dr. F.U. Bőwden-Bŏwden's, esteemed opinion that at some time on or about 25 August 1652 this arrowhead became lodged in an otter's ass. I, Dr. F.U. Bőwden-Bŏwden, believe said otter then made his way around Clovis's garage, knocked over Clovis's gotdammed garbage cans, and then expired here, on this very spot.  I, Dr. F.U. Bőwden-Bŏwden, am afraid you won't be able to place your Port-O-Johnny here until we have excavated the entire area and received a large check from the State. We will notify you once the check has cleared."

Naturally, I was panic-stricken. Having dined at Clovis's the previous evening, I knew unimpeded commode access to be of the utmost importance. I would say "my sleep that night was troubled," but that wouldn't be pretentious enough. My sleep that night was fitful, as I struggled to devise a solution to our dilemma. Finally, I hit upon an idea. The next day as the excavation was beginning I would take Dr. F.U. Bőwden-Bŏwden aside and offer him the tidy sum of $20 to make the problem go away.

I awoke that morning feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension such as I haven't felt since the time I accompanied Merriweather Lewis to the Portland Free Clinic to have Little Merriweather checked out. I was simultaneously exhilarated at the thought of the glorious reception that night; the lights, the dancing, the spirit of love and community in the air, but also worried about what I'd do if I had to take a crap.

Well, as fate would have it, Dr. F.U. Bőwden-Bŏwden was a little short that month. He gladly accepted the $20 gratuity and allowed American Civilization to continue its westward advance. "Oh..you thought I said otter's ass..ahahah, why, heavens no..." Clovis and Kimber's reception was as lovely as I'd imagined.  And the Port-O-Johnny? It worked out just fine. It sat there, in the moonlight, while we danced and sang and made merry, until that special moment when Poot got in there and blew the fuckin' door off.