Here's a more personal picture of my princess and I. Her name is Faccia di Merda (She's Italian - don't know what the name means though). She played hard to get at first, and it took me about 3 months of pursuing, a fair bit of begging, and a promise to dive her muff three times a week, but in the end persistence paid off and she's all mine! You guys can feel free to drool but keep your hands off!

Some of her hobbies include dungeons & dragons (she's a level 83 elf), collecting pictures of her hero, Hillary Clinton, and doing crossword puzzles, which can sometimes be a challenge considering her notorious dyslexia. She also enjoys skiing, romantic walks on the beach while the sun sets, and high-friction anal sex.

She works part time at a hot dog stand outside the local Home Depot, which is great because it means half-price hotdogs for me. 

That's right, you heard that correctly - half-price. Hot dogs. For me.

Life is good.

Sometimes in life we do things that we are not proud of. In moments of heated emotion our behavior can become a bit irrational, and although our actions may be justified, in a civilized society, we must hold back and restrain ourselves. This picture captures one of those moments where I forget that simple lesson.

The reason I was being arrested is a bit complex, an unfortunate cascade of events that got out of hand. I was in the middle of an intense negotiation with a six year old girl scout over a box of chocolate mint cookies. After the sale was complete, and as I was walking away, I discovered that she had short changed me. When I demanded my 54 cents back, she stonewalled, claiming that she would need to "discuss" the matter with her scoutmaster before any money could be returned; the smirk on her face couldn't be more evident.

Well, you know six-year old girl scouts. Prying money from their hands is like trying to dislodge pipes from crackheads. Things got intense. I saw red, and somehow she ended up flying head first into a nearby plate glass window. At what point I ended up on my knees pounding her with my fists I don't know. Later in court witnesses would testify that I was foaming at the mouth screaming something about "how do you like me now, bitch!" I'm denying that, but the memory of the entire episode is a little sketchy.

Well, as you can see, some asshole called the police. I was carted off to jail and her to the pediatric hospital. The judge, in his infinite wisdom, charged me with justifiable battery and I was sentenced to a 30-minute anger management course.

I never did get my 54 cents back, though.

I probably don't have to tell you that as we go through life we meet all manner of friends in different walks of life.

I would like to take the opportunity to stretch the definition of "manner" to its breaking point in this case.   

Let me introduce you to Olivia, A special friend of mine. How we know each other, and why she holds my picture dear are details my lawyer has advised me not to discuss publicly. This really isn't the proper website for that kind of stuff anyway.

All I'm willing to admit is that the division of Wildlife Conservation has me listed in their "top ten most degenerate" list, whatever that means, and People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals has put a contract out on my life, which I don't understand because I was nothing but tender with her.

Here's a special picture that was taken of me when I had an opportunity to visit with President Clinton during his last year in office.

How I was able to gather special audience with the former president is a funny story involving forged paperwork and a stolen Canadian consulate identification badge, but that's for another time.

The day went very well at first. I had some pretty productive discussions with the President about my idea to eliminate Canada's sovereignty and annex the country as the 51st state of the Union. He especially loved my idea of outlawing the French language in this hemisphere. At one point I had him agreeing to draft a law that would decrease the tax on Canadian beer imports, which was the real reason why I was doing all this in the first place. 

Unfortunately, the feeling of power started to overwhelm me. During a photo op, while journalists were snapping pictures, I couldn't resist taking  a moment to send a little message to my old high school classmates who voted me most likely to die in prison. 

It didn't take the secret service very long to deduce that the Canadian ambassador to the United States is unlikely to shoot  the bird in front of the President of the United States and an army of photo-happy journalists. When confronted and asked who the Prime Minister of Canada was, "Michael J. Fox" was the wrong answer.

I was immediately arrested and told, with no uncertainty, that consulate immunity didn't apply to asswipes who only pretended to be one.

Shame, really. Could have made some real change that day.

Andy Warhol once promised everyone fifteen minutes of fame. This picture represents mine in all of its glory. A screen test for the role of Jack Dawson. 

Unfortunately I was allowed only one test which lasted all of twelve minutes (I fell 3 minutes short) before I was unceremoniously thrown out of the studio.

As I was being tossed (I mean that literally, the door was opened and my body was physically thrown into the air), I distinctly heard one of the  security guards mumble indistinctly about "immature asswipe" or something to that effect. As I was then gliding 3 feet above the ground, and my immediate thoughts being on the impending landing I was about to perform, I could not make out the rest of his commentary.

Considering I got slapped in the face twice by Kate Winslet (apparently actors are supposed to resist the urge to stick their tongues in their costars' ears during screen tests), I'd say overall the audition didn't go as well as I had pictured in my head beforehand. The role went to Leonardo DiCaprio (who was the studio's second choice after me) and the rest is history.

I've since been blacklisted from any audition in Hollywood and I've been relegated to recording one man Shakespeare plays in my basement, which is fine with me because I heard that Titanic movie tanked at the box office anyway.

A while back there was a special event called Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones. To insure that I be one of the first people in the country to see this film, a few friends and I stood in line.

Well, lived in line is more like it. 

This picture was taken 13 weeks before the opening of the film, a mere 5 weeks after we had begun the line and as you can see from the activity behind me, it's a good thing we started early.

Living in a ticket line is not the easiest of enterprises, however. Besides the obvious problems of sleeping on a concrete sidewalk and figuring out how to find food (I won't even discuss how we had to go to the bathroom), body odor becomes a particularly tricky proposition. The truth is, after a while, you start to offend your own damn self.

And then there is the dilemma of having all those people in a confined area, tired, cranky, and bored. Remember these people are armed with light sabers and laser guns. Talk about a recipe for disaster.

Not a day passed where at least two Jedi would duel after one accused the other of cutting into the line. It got really ugly when a gang of evil Jedi started harassing people, led by some dude in a really sweet Darth Vader outfit. We had to form the "Federation of Yoda Knights" to keep them in check, while still holding our places in line. This is not as easy as it sounds.

The irony of it all is after all that, the movie ended up sucking big time. I threw away my Jedi knight costume in disgust and at the present time I'm a storm trooper. Unfortunately my friend, Darth Maul, took the realization that the movie stunk far harder than I. In protest he decided to burn himself alive in the theater while the final credits were rolling.

With 18 weeks of letdown to overcome, how can you blame him?

One of the few drawbacks to being born 100% Italian is the genetic disposition for hair. And I do mean "disposition".

I don't understand the reciprocal relationship (some might argue exponential) between the Italian peninsula and follicles of body hair. Maybe there's a chemical in pasta that revs up the body's testosterone enzymes. If so, apparently it has affinity only for the receptors that generate body hair, not the ones responsible for penis size. One day I'll perform a study on the subject and most likely earn a Nobel Prize for useless information.

Although often mistaken for the missing link (I was almost kidnapped by the Smithsonian Institute at one point), and despite masseuses fleeing in terror when I enter a massage parlor,  generally I find that it is not a handicap as long as I keep my shirt on. At least it keeps the bears at bay when I go camping.

Unfortunately, my campaign to convince women that excessive amounts of back hair is actually quite sexy (I have an evolutionary theory that Neanderthal men were considered desirable based on how much body hair they possessed) hasn't been a roaring success. The worst part is that full body wax shops charge me not only by the square inch, but also by thickness.

However, to look on the bright side, at least I'll have plenty of replacement hair to transplant to my scalp in the event of male pattern balding.