His name is really Weiner...

Not since Magic Johnson got AIDs has a celebrity (albeit political celebrity in this case) provided such serendipitous correlation between name and action. Anthony Weiner, Congressman from Queens/Brooklyn, decided it was a good idea to send pictures of his cock along with lewd tweets to various and sundry young pretty things spread *ahem* all over these great united states. While some may argue that your private life has nothing to do with your politics (complete horseshit, btw), deciding to tweet your dong shows such poor decision making and profoundly poor impulse control, that I can't say it any other way: Anthony Wiener is an idiot and not fit to serve. Sadly, he's probably smarter than most and I do agree with his position on several issues (best angle to photograph your boner, not in agreement), but his digression from smart thinking with this episode is nuclear. This is a young guy who's hip to technology and still, he chose to launch is cock into the twittersphere. Did he want to get caught? No. Absolutely not. He wanted to go on a tax payer junket to strange-poon-ville while his gorgeous, brilliant wife stayed at home gently caressing her growing belly secretly hoping the baby wasn't the demon spawn of Dick Tweeter. Does power corrupt? Sure. Do politicians of all stripe have dalliances with pages and wide-eyed dewy interns, sure. The art in all this is discretion. Bill Clinton, ironically officiated Wiener's wedding, set the bar pretty high for lewdness. Mr. Weiner, apparently, didn't follow through with any of his hot talk, but I wish he did. Instead, he just creepily came onto and sent stalker-like tweets and photos to women. This guy is an unmitigated douchetoad and should be placed in a public port-a-potty at a Nascar event, not seated in our esteemed halls of Congress making the laws of our country.

Obama gets Osama. Really?

Now I don't mean to put a damper on the fist pumping at Ground Zero, but c'mon! How 'bout a picture of a very dead Osama? I'd like to believe we made his head go 'boom', but for reals, yo! I need to see. Let's just add it up real quick: President Obama facing a possible poor showing in the next election, first has to prove he was born here, and then, all of a where-the-fuck-did-this-come-from-sudden, he's all nonchalantly telling the world that he capped Bin Laden. And then proceeds to say that they did it, quick and easy like Jiffy Pop and then chucked him in the ocean. I mean, COME ON! REALLY? This does not smell right from where I sit. That dude better be dead, or Jesse Jackson will have a better chance at being the next president.

Maybe he just killed this guy? Not a tragedy, but not Osama, either.

I passed a nice wine shop today

...and all I could smell was dog piss. I live in Brooklyn and tend to think it's shittier here in some ways, than Manhattan. Well, today, I was cruising through the Upper East Side of Manhattan, and remarkably, the whole god damned area smells like dog piss. And these are rich people who ostensibly went to college and know better than to turn their whole neighborhood into a dog toilet. The urine smell was bad enough, but there were schmears of poo all over the place where the well-heeled or their help attempted to clean up little Coconut's high-protein-diet-loose-stool. It's a one-two punch: rich people feed their dogs rich food, which is terrible for the dog, but they love it (see humans; dietary problems) and then they pooze it like soft serve. Great. Now the person attempts to clean it up but is only able to schmear it along and paint the sidewalk brown as they attempt to gain purchase of something that is so elusive to grip: soft dog mess. I'll dispense with the 'curb your dog' rules because it's plainly obvious that dragging an 8 lb dog 4 feet is beyond the physical capabilities of the average do-nothing upper east side female and certainly beyond the pay grade of the help being forced into canine servitude - they're pretty much like, 'oh, look at little Marmalaide, spreading some love for the rich assholes to step in.' Well fuck you! I walk the streets too and I may act like an asshole sometimes but I am not rich and I do not look down on the help, though I might if I had any (not true. I'd bend over backward so they didn't feel bad so I didn't feel bad, thus rendering them ineffective help, and then I'd be too chicken to fire them making the whole situation terrible as I suspected they were stealing everything).

I know I keep harping on the dog shit situation, but seriously - why is it so hard to be a responsible dog owner. I'm gonna make it simple. Dogs are to poo and pee in the gutter (that's the street for y'all slow bitches). And THEN, you pick it it up! Voila! You should also carry a pee-squeegee to soak up the urine, but this, I realize is a fantasy.

The wine shop looked really nice, BTW. Had two (no shit! Two!) chandeliers. Too bad there was a dog peeing on the door when I walked by...

Hey you, sitting in a cafe on your laptop: fuck you.

Let's see...what should I do today? Oh, I got it, I'll head down to my local coffee spot and sip one fucking cup of coffee while using the free wi fi. Oh and I won't talk to anyone or move for 6 hours. Yup. And one more thing, my computer battery sucks, so you don't mind if I just plug my computer in behind you, do you? Of course not! Shit, why don't you bring all your rechargeable devices and plug them all in and put them on my lap. They'll keep my peen nice and warm, thank you very much. BTW, I'm terribly sorry my son said hi to you 8 times. He's just being friendly and trying to strike up conversation in what was formerly a pretty social place. I see you've got your laptop (a fucking Dell? What are you poor?) and you are prolly IMing with Steven Soderberg about writing Sex Lies and Netflix, the sequel to his bravura debut, Sex Lies and Videotape. Aren't you clever. I bet you even have a blog where you write about your fascinating life of sitting in cafes on your Dell Experion with it's Lithium Ion battery sticker advertising it has a Lithium Ion battery. FAN -CEE! Wooo. Blog writers are like the dog shit that gets stuck in the channels of your rugged soul - that was poetic. Maybe I should head over to the cafe with my MacBook and join the saddening crowd.

If your dog craps in snow, you still have to pick it up.

What the gumdrop is wrong with people? Do people who leave their dog's shit on the street LIKE to step in shit? It's far too easy to understand why it's good to pick it up (not to mention, it's the law) for there to be any reason people don't pick it up except for they like to step in shit. Oh right, they're just lazy scum. That too. No matter where your dog craps, you must pick it up - that means even if you curb your dog, congratulations, first of all, and BTW, you still have to pick it up. If your dog shits into a champagne glass that happens to be left on the street on, let's say, a Saturday morning, I'd say, take a picture and then pick up the glass and put it in the garbage. That said, I'd be pretty intrigued if I saw a champagne glass filled with poo on the sidewalk. If your dog poops on top of some other dogs earlier poop, well, then you gotta pick up yours off the top, at least. If you're a responsible person, you understand that the comingling rule comes into play and you should pick up both poops as it's really just one pile at this point. If your dog pinches his loaf any grassy area, like a tree or flower pit on a sidewalk, guess what? You still have to pick that shit up! Grassy or other bits of flora lining our streets are there to beautify, not be a crap catcher for your shit machine. Just to be clear - if your dog shits on grass or dirt or the roots of a tree or on mulch or decorative stones surrounding a plant - YOU MUST PICK IT UP. Let's not even get into the fact that you shouldn't have let your BFF take a dump in or on anything I've just mentioned because it's nigh on impossible to get it all up. Utilize that leash you should have on the beast and drag that fucker to an appropriate place to shit, like your fucking front yard or your driveway or your sidewalk or your zen sand garden. Which brings me to the city's au courant problem with the lingering snow mounds. I get it - you think because it's a slippery snow mound, people won't be walking on it and thus makes it fair game to shit on. WRONG. Hot brown shit is a visual eyesore as well as being an organic bio hazard and placing it on white (ish) snow just adds contrast and really draws the eye. For this, I say FUCK YOU. All you dog owners who don't pick up their shit should be rounded up and have your heads placed between the open car door and frame of the car door and we should all be able to slam the door on your head. As much as we want. You are a selfish, useless piece of caca yourself and smashing your skull in a car door will only begin to make me feel better. Making you eat some of your dog's own creation would actually make me happy. Genuinely. Let's get this done, people.

More Croquet Chat - New BCDC Logo unveiled at Gala!

The ice sculpture of a single blade of our club's proprietary hybrid of Zoysia and Bermuda grass was slowing dripping its life away amidst the boisterous clatter of a bunch of croquet heads pounding Mallet Mashes (BCDC signature cocktail) whilst talking trash away from the pitch. Adding to the general cacophony was Die Valkyrie on a loop at deafening levels, all members idiotically thinking it was anthemizing their pre-season attack dialogue (when in fact the song belonged exclusively to The Course Whisperer as per a fine print clause in the contract all members had blindly signed after a few MMs at his Bed Stuy Atelier one snowy evening in 2009). Like the game, it's all details and angles. Why were we gathered at this exclusive fete in the rec room of the Bedford Armory on Sumner Avenue? It was an unveiling of the exciting new logo of the BCDC. This new icon does not replace our classic original logo, but provides an alternate logo that appeals to a different design aesthetic, namely the 60s Espresso machine aficionado crowd, which dovetails into the vintage Ducati crowd, which tolerates the vintage Lambretta crowd, which lassos the Rock Steady kids, which of course pulls in the Vinyl collector, arcane rare groove crowd. I like all these people, so lets welcome our new logo and our new potential members.

If you'd like a tee with this logo on it, email me and I'll make you one, in the aforementioned atelier. Word.

There's 10 inches of snow on the ground - let's talk CROQUET!!!

Some of you may know that the Communal Brands winos like to unwind with unflinchingly vicious croquet when possible. There have been t-shirts made to prove that we can wear t-shirts...and of course validate our fledgling club. The club is called the BCDC which stands for Brooklyn Croquet and Drinking Club and we generally play in Prospect Park, but have artfully arranged wickets in Long Island and the Catskills as well for the purpose of humiliation and bragging rights. People who even have an inkling of what croquet is about generally think it's about putting a ball through a metal arch sunk into the grass. This is true, but the arch is called a wicket and the balls are called balls and one utilizes a mallet, gripped appropriately to perform this task. What is more true is that putting the ball through the wicket is actually secondary to the primary task: preventing your opponents from doing aforementioned wicket transcendence. The art of screwing other players on the grass is really where the rubber hits the road when it comes to good times at a BCDC outing and if you've got a vein of wicked running somewhere through your corpus, you'll find croquet very deeply satisfying.

Sooooo, while we've been happily smacking each others balls in Brooklyn, NY, thinking we were clever AND cute to be playing such a quaint game, we've been blithely ignoring our rival Brooklyn Croquet Club that's been around a lot longer than us in, can you guess where? Fucking right! New Zealand! Can you believe it? Here we are, being led on the pitch by our stalwart Kiwi cock-of-the-walk croquet master, Dan Saunders, aka Mr. Through & Screw, and all the while there's a Kiwi club called the Brooklyn Croquet Club!

Upshot: I hereby challenge, on all the rights and authority of being a founding member and creative director of the BCDC, also known to those who matter as The Course Whisperer...where was I, oh yeah, I challenge The Brooklyn Croquet Club to a round in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, NY, USA on June 12th at 1 PM in the Great Meadow. Let's see if these turkeys show up!

My mandatory 1 year blogging ban has been served!

Who knew that if you published a video of a suggested romance between a turkey and a bottle of wine, a uproar of disproportionate size would result? I was a facking joke, for Christ's sake! Be warned: those PETA freaks do not take kindly to even the hint of exploitation - heck, I thought I was actually giving this turkey a pretty exciting day leading up to his inevitable decapitation, decavitation and third-party degustation! It's like putting a terminally ill kid into an action movie and using him like a crash test dummy - what's the harm? Especially if he has a lark doing doing it? Our country is so chock full of people who know better (usually I'm one of them), it's amazing anyone is still thinking for themselves. I salute you, Otto, for still being the master of your own grey matter, even if you do use it so very narrowly - excluding that sick corner that covets Turkey love! What other dark corners do you possess? Hmmmmmmmm.

Well, I suppose you learn something every year. I've taken a closer gander at Otto and sure enough. You know, you think you know somebody...