Thanks to their forechecking, they scored glove-side on a one-timer during a power play, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

The US Air Guitar Championships are in Los Angeles this August; the title of Air Guitar Champion is the second most useless title to Best Blowup Doll Lover.

Kim Kardashian and Kanye West named their baby girl North West; apparently the name: Messed Up For Life was taken.

New York Yankee great, Joe Torre’s daughter, Christine, caught a baby that fell from a fire escape in Brooklyn; good thing she wasn’t a Mets player’s daughter. She would have made an error throwing the baby to first.

Tonight is game six of the Stanley Cup Championship series between the Chicago Blackhawks and the Boston Bruins. Or as Chicago Cubs fans call a championship series; “What’s that?”

After Hostess went bankrupt, Twinkies will be back on shelves July 15^th; “Thanks goodness Twinkies are coming back because Americans were getting too skinny,” said nobody.

Ho Hos are back. And I don’t mean the Kardashian sisters, Hostess is bringing back the other Ho Hos, the cake treat. Our long National Nightmare is almost over.

Random Thoughts;

Saw a guy who hit the douche-bag cinco-fecta; socks with sandals, loudly scuffling the sandals on the pavement while wearing wool hat and slowly meandering down the middle of the parking lot while yammering loudly on his blue-tooth.

What do I hate? Having my Time Warner WiFi out all day and having to listen to Time Warner commercials during the Blackhawks game.

Why does someone I admire so much, David Letterman, insist on allowing Paris Hilton to be on his show? Let that silly, slutty, stupid vapid bitch disappear for crying-out-loud.

Folks, you can either whine about the government ignoring you or you can whine about the government snooping in on our phone calls, you don’t get both.

Are there any athletes tougher than hockey players? Navy Seals should recruit NHL hockey players to go on water that is frozen.

Seriously, has anyone ever heard a loud one-sided cell phone conversation that wasn’t completely useless? It is never “Snip the bomb’s red wire.” Or “Place the stint in the aorta” or “The terrorists are in apartment 232, move in now.”

No. It’s always “I dunno, whaddya you wanna do?” “I dunno, what do you wanna eat?” “I dunno, what do you wanna watch?” Working at NSA and going over these conversations must be a living hell. Your friends calling me on the horn. Used car sales appearances. That’s why I don’t do two shows a night anymore. I won’t do it. We come for your daughter, Chuck.

(Growing applause for those last few “BeetleJuice” references)

Mark my words, next time I am standing in line at the snotty, organic grocery store, I am going to take out my cell phone and say out loud;

"The jihadist Mombasa operatives are sequestered in the arms depot; initialize air support and proceed with ground assault on my count:  five, four, three, two, one, Mission Gopher Alley Truncate is a go, repeat M.G.A.T.  is a go, go, advance with extreme prejudice, no prisoners, repeat, no prisoners. Over."

Then I will turn to the person next to me and say; 

"Hey, how is it going? Beautiful day, huh? Isn't that coconut water the stuff?"

There are maybe one thousand people in this country out of 315 million who have absolutely now idea how a grocery store check-out machine works. So why are they always in front of me at the grocery store?

Coolest name in sports? Close between Colt McCoy and Tuuka Rask. 

Didn't I tell you this Snowden dick-bag was an a-hole? Just like the  "whistleblower" vile reptile I knew. Whistleblower is a fancy term for lying snitch. 

Nothing sums up how miserably unhappy I was the summer of our bicentennial, 1976: hamstring and back horrible injured, future at college in Long Beach wildly questionable, and, for lack of a better word, dating and then dumped by an albeit pretty yet spoiled, selfish and sexually repressed Winnetka mental basket case – and believe me, that is saying something – rich-brat most-psycho girl in all of the North Shore, nothing brings that entire horrible memory back faster than the insipid song “Afternoon Delight.” Lord only knows how much I hated that song. 

One year later, I was dating - and this time I mean really DATING, if you know what I mean -  a veritable phalanx of gorgeous Brooks College fashion design and modeling wannabee models and was headed for UC Santa Barbara.

Life be funny. Life be quick. Life be funkier than a space food stick.