Two Hit Wonder, R.I.P.

With heartfelt thanks to both fans of 2HW, I'd like to announce the end of an era in internet comedy. As Barney Gumble said in Puke-A-Hontas, "Don't cry for me, I'm already dead". 2HW is no more.

But, take heart...as Mufasa's Ghost said in the Lion King, "Look inside yourself Matt Hit Wonder. You are more than you have become. You must take your place in the circle of life". I've found that place...

Action Jackson's Eighties Music Blog

History of Two Hit Wonder

This post was originally dated 11/1/06, but I'm moving it to the top to try to explain exactly what 2HW was...

Welcome to the website that got me fired from my job pretending to be an Accountant. Since HR encouraged me to stop coming in to work, two hit wonder’s web hits have gone up dramatically. With a lot of new incoming traffic, I thought it would be a good time to write a brief history of the train wreck that is 2HW, complete with links to my best posts.

In September of 2005, my friend Craig and I started 2HW. On the surface we may have appeared to be fat, balding, badly mustached dudes from Kansas working ridiculous jobs in Corporate America, but deep down we knew we were really Hollywood A listers. We figured the best way to make the transition from average office workers to international phenomenons would be to write ridiculous letters to Hollywood stars asking for assistance…

Letter to Neil Diamond

Letter to George Lucas

Letter to James Frey

When Hollywood didn’t immediately respond, we changed our Hollywood letter writing slogan to, “If you can’t join ‘em, beat ‘em (with verbal barbs)”…

Letter to Extreme Makeover Home Edition

Letter to Mel Gibson

Letter to Brokeback Mountain Author Annie Proulx

In February, we posted an ad on Ebay offering our services to star in a Super Bowl Ad…

Ebay Ad

Letter to the Dove Self-Esteem Fund

In April, I was laid off. But, before I could cash in on my 10-week severance package, I was offered an Accounting job for which I was completely unqualified. I set up Operation Set Matt Free and the Save a Wonder Foundation to solicit donations to help prevent me from having to become an Accountant.

Letter to Angelina Jolie

Letter to Bob Barker

2HW Benefit album

In July, we thought having a mid-life crisis would help, and it did. Soon after our annual shareholder’s meeting in Vegas, Craig and I broke up over creative differences (read: he wanted a more physical relationship). I took over all of the writing for 2HW, made the Craig character gay and started a new section called Work’s for PHAGs…

Work’s for PHAGs intro

You’re an Eight Update

Suggestion Box/Fun committee

Letter to Congressman

You’re an Eight video

In October of 2006, HR called me in for a meet and greet/formal investigation. They asked all about the website and video and concluded what I tried to tell them in my initial interview…I am not an Accountant.

I may have lost my job. I may have lost Craig as a buddy comedy partner. But, I have not lost my passion for using 2HW as the platform to screw up my life/get a paying job in the entertainment industry.

Update 2/20/07 I still don't have a job. But, I'm keeping in shape by running for President.

Village Inn

Mom had back to school night tonight, and since she's gone back to work I've exhausted every possible fast food option, so I put the kids in their church clothes and took them to Village Inn for dinner. It was about as funny as that movie, The Village. The highlights...

I watched a grown man wait for the coast to be clear and sneak into the server station, grab about 40 napkins, stuff them inside his button-down shirt and make a hasty exit with his best girl.

I watched my daughter blow her straw wrapper clear over the head of her intended target (her brother) and hit the lady in the booth behind us. I'm a good father.

I watched a stretch limo drop off 8 people who spent all of 12 seconds in the lobby before realizing that Applebee's was accross the street. Actually they were on a scavenger hunt, but they seemed intent on spending as little time as possible with us common folk.

And the highlight for me was the sign that read:
"Special of the Day:
We seat incomplete parties at our discretion."

My Favorites

My favorite type of salt is iodized.
My favorite type of flour is all-purpose.
My favorite type of parking is no overnight.
My favorite type of pregnancy is teen.
My favorite type of brown sugar is pure-cane.
My favorite type of gow is hoose.
My favorite type of wear is active.
My favorite type of cloudy is mostly.
My favorite type of 2:30 is ante meridiem.
My favorite type of town is man about.
My favorite type of jump is standing broad.
My favorite type of agreement is non-binding verbal.
My favorite type of roof is hot tin.
My favorite types of islets are of langerhans.
My favorite type of ship is the mother.
My favorite type of ground ball is seeing-eye.
My favorite type of legal is perfectly.
My favorite type of pants is hot.
My favorite type of talk is pillow.
My favorite type of shirt is muscle.
My favorite type of genius is diabolical.
My favorite type of orange is agent.
My favorite type of plane is da.
My favorite type of place is running in.
My favorite type of summer is Henry Lee.
My favorite type of punch is three-hole.
My favorite type of warning is winter storm.
My favorite type of thriller is psychological.
My favorite type of successor is hand-picked.
My favorite type of investigation is ongoing.
My favorite type of panic is widespread.
My favorite type of lamb is on the.
My favorite type of axle is triple.
My favorite type of engagement is limited.
My favorite type of steering is rack and pinion.
My favorite type of shui is feng.
My favorite type of tang is pootie.
My favorite type of seat is bucket.
My favorite type of platypus is the duck-billed.
My favorite type of velva is aqua.
My favorite type of passage is nasal.
My favorite type of scotch is hop.
My favorite type of wall is load bearing.
My favorite type of rider is knight.
My favorite type of justice is meanwhile back at the hall of.
My favorite type of jerk is knee.
My favorite type of whore is two bit.
My favorite type of curl is jerry.
My favorite type of sex is post-marital.
My favorite type of red is infra.
My favorite type of jam is Lisa-Lisa and the cult.
My favorite type of ketchup is real tomato.
My favorite type of sheen is afro.
My favorite type of poeia is onomato.
My favorite type of neck is vee.
My favorite type of top is tube.
My favorite type of chief is handker.
My favorite type of back is baby’s got.
My favorite type of news is late breaking.
My favorite type of emissions is California.

Flight of the Conchords

I have a confession to make. My television gets over 300 channels, but I only want to watch one. After the wife and kids are in bed, I tippytoe into the living room and quietly turn to channel 314. Like most men, I’m drawn to the pay movie channels’ late night programming. Unlike most men, I’m watching a show about a couple of male (and fully clothed) folk musicians. In my defense, “Flight of the Conchords” is the fourth most popular folk parody duo in all of New Zealand (number three is a Flight of the Conchord’s tribute band).

The new HBO comedy series watches the Conchords (Bret and Jemaine) as they make the transition from mildly popular Kiwi band to struggling New York City based musicians. Their hapless manager Murray stalls their progress by refusing to get them nighttime gigs. “It’s too dangerous out there at night,” he argues. “Anything could happen…you could get murdered…or ridiculed.”

When Murray isn’t slowing the band’s development, a woman usually is.

First up is Sally, who used to date Bret, but drunkenly gives in to Jemaine’s dance moves and eloquent request for her to go back to his house so “we can feel each other up on the couch”. A sober Sally tries to get rid of Jemaine, who suggests that instead they take a break. “Break?!!” cries Sally, “No…there’s no relationship”. “Yet,” responds Jemaine, “Maybe we could start with a break”.

Next is Bret’s love Coco, who Jemaine constantly competes with for Bret’s attention. One show opens with a shot of Bret and Coco sitting on a couch tickling each other. Their apparent intimate moment is interrupted as the shot widens to reveal Jermaine sitting next to them. “Bret, how come you don’t tickle me anymore?” Jemaine wonders. “Seriously, you guys are just tickling each other and it might be nice to include someone else.” Coco (rhymes with Yoko) creates a wedge between the band members that may end up causing them to split.

Finally there’s Mel, the band’s fan. She doesn’t let her husband get in the way of fulfilling her duties as fan club president/stalker/sex-crazed lunatic.

The show’s characters are great, but what sets it apart from normal sitcom fare is the Conchords tendency to spontaneously break into song throughout each episode. Of Sally they sing, “You’re so beautiful. You could be a part-time model. But, you’d still probably have to keep your normal job.” These lyrics describe their financial hardship; “You know you’re not in high finance, considering second-hand underpants. Check your mind…How’d it get so bad? What happened to those other underpants you had?”

Summertime programming generally leaves fans of well-written comedy longing for the fall return of shows like “The Office” or “30 Rock”. But, HBO delivers a summer show that is worth watching, even if it has to be done in the wee hours of the morning, so that my wife doesn’t find out I’m every bit as obsessed with the Conchords as their other fan.

I'm a Professional

Ticket brokers. Most of us hate them. I know my wife does.

My ticket broker career began as a hobby. I had a real job, but used my ticket income to finance my annual pilgrimage to Wrigley Field, home of my beloved Chicago Cubs. I technically became a professional broker the day my former employer encouraged me to stop reporting to work.

My wife would like me to regain my amateur status.

In the past, I kept her happy by consistently making good money buying a handful of tickets to games that featured the Cubs biggest rivals (the White Sox and Cardinals)and reselling them on Ebay.

This year, however, I decided to improve upon my business model by buying more tickets to worse games. I didn’t really intend to, but had a friend from Chicago encourage me to buy tickets to a July series against the San Francisco Giants since Barry Bonds would have a chance to set Major League Baseball’s all-time home run record. I didn’t listen to the voice of reason (or was that my wife?) as it tried to explain the improbability of a 42-year-old hitting exactly 21 home runs in half a season. Within minutes of talking to my friend, the 0 tickets I had planned to buy for the Giants series turned into 48. That $2400 was just eating a hole in my credit card available balance anyway. I was sure to make it back 5 times over. I was, after all, a professional.

Five months later, Bonds isn’t close enough to the record for the tickets to be worth anything. But, that didn’t stop me from making the 8-hour drive yesterday from Kansas City to Chicago to try to maximize my profit.

I got to Wrigleyville about 5 hours before game time, and began my quest to sell the 12 bleachers tickets (face value $50 each) that I had for tonight’s Cubs/Giants game. The first broker I visited ripped the tickets from my hand and I watched in horror as he passed some of them to his buddy. I was sure I was about to get three-card montied out of $600 worth of tickets. Instead he peeled off six twenties. “I’ll give you $120,” he said. “$10 a ticket! Oh man am I screwed,” I thought as I calmly walked away.

Two hours later, my calm exterior had deteriorated into equal parts wild-eyed panic and back sweat. After inquiring at almost every ticket agency within walking distance of Wrigley Field, the highest offer I’d received was $20 per ticket. Lacking confidence, I pathetically told one last broker, “I’m just trying to get my money back. I’ll take $45 each.” I’m pretty sure I slobbered on myself when he offered $40.

With a little hard work I was able to turn $600 into $480. Not every ticket sale goes that well, but with a few more successes like this, hopefully my wife will stop asking me to get a day job.

Letter to Bruce Willis

Dear Bruce Willis,

When I first heard that “Live Free or Die Hard” was coming to a Cineplex near me, I cringed. I assumed that Dick Cheney had followed Al Gore’s lead by putting together an Academy Award worthy PowerPoint presentation about the Pro-Life movement. I was relieved to find out that I would be watching you bleed for 90 minutes rather than the unborn.

And bleed you did. All that blood made me realize that you, like most members of the NYPD, have impossibly white teeth. I also realized for the first time that Detective John McClaine seems to have little interest in getting the girl. Live Free’s formula seemed to be: Boy meets boy. Boy kills bad boys. Boy gets boy? The viewer is left to wonder if your misgivings about Justin Long’s Matt Farrell character dating your daughter had anything to do with you wanting him all to yourself.

I can only hope that your life imitates your art. I’m taking a bit of a risk with this letter, but I’d love to reinvent the Hollywood power couple, by making you my better half. Technically we wouldn’t be the first same sex Hollywood pair, but our union would certainly generate a lot more buzz than Liza and David’s.

All that attention would do wonders for at least one of our careers. I’m not concerned that your star doesn’t shine quite as bright as it did when Demi Moore stepped on your receding hairline to reach $10M paydays. Honestly, I’d be happy to use your bald head as a mini-tramp to land a $10 a week gig as a humor columnist.

But, I wouldn’t be a good partner if I didn’t let you use me too. I guarantee that playing the role of my husband would do as much for your career as playing Vincent Vega did for John Travolta’s. Before you know it, you’ll be making gay biker movies with Martin Lawrence.

You’re already on the right track. It was a brilliant business decision to let the Die Hard franchise evolve in much the same way our country’s views have on an issue like homosexuality. In “Live Free”, John McClaine made it cool to kick serious ass by day and go home with that kid from the Mac commercials at night. You’ve given publicity to an often-overlooked issue, a man’s right to choose (with whom he spoons).

Now, the choice is up to you…will you marry me Bruce Willis?

XXXOOO,
Matt

I'm a Recovering Accountant

I just finished a short humor writing class online through UCLA. It was a great experience....there were a lot of fun, talented writers in my class. Since, I've not written anything for a while on the blog, I'll post my columns back-dating them to when they were written.

I’m a recovering accountant.

I’m embarrassed that it was so easy for me to get caught up in that lifestyle. My English degree and I had no business accounting for anything, but before I knew it I was running around with a pretty rough group of accountants, who seemed hell bent on sucking the funny out of me.

I needed a way out.

My portal to a better life opened one day when a stranger bumped into me while I was standing at the urinals in the office restroom. That urinal bump instantly transformed me into a heavier, uglier version of John Stossel. In addition to the inexplicable desire to grow a creepy mustache, I had a burning urge to crack the urinal code.

At first, I found urinal law to be much more interesting than accounting, but I was completely unprepared for what I was about to uncover. The urinals at my office were in fact dangerously close together. What Jeffrey Wigand was to big tobacco; I was about to be to public toilets.

But, how should I blow the whistle without endangering my life? I emailed the city…the building manager…my lawyer. No one cared. So, I made a humorous video about the subject and posted it on my blog. I didn’t think it was possible that a group of people could take themselves more seriously than accountants…until my urinal video got the attention of two grumpy ladies from Human Resources.

They brought me into a conference room and peppered me with a series rapid-fire questions. “Do you have a website? Do you have a blog? Did you recently post a video on this blog? Did you film that video on company property without permission?” And, my personal favorite, “Matt, at one point in the video, were you in the women’s room?” That’s when I realized they’d actually watched the video.

At the conclusion of the meeting, I was told that I was being placed under formal investigation. Evidently there is not a crime more heinous in the accounting world than attempting to be funny. I was eventually found guilty of conduct unbecoming of an accountant and had my employment terminated. I’m proud to say I’ve been accounting free for eight months and am feeling funnier every day.

Incredibull

It took a bowling commercial to bring me back to the blog.

Back when I used to work I sent an email to my HR contact complaining about being forced to go to a teambuilder at a bowling alley or take a forced vacation day. I'm guessing that was when HR first categorized me as a problem accountant. Nothing like a dumb guy using an email to simulate frantic hand waving/shouting "Look at me! Look at me!" I imagine the email put me in some type of watch program which led to them reading my blog, including this beauty about the bowling alley I didn't want to go to.

That same bowling alley taunted me tonight in one of the most ridiculous commercials I've ever seen. Incredabowl has come up with a new concept called, "The Living Room". They've converted part of the bowling alley to a more upscale environment. The usual uncomfortable chairs have been replaced with furniture you might find in your Grandma's front room.

If you're like me, you might wonder who in the bloody hell would want to sit on poofy couches while bowling. Thankfully the commercial answers that question: "Individuals wanting a little more discretion while bowling". What? I'm not sure I understand that. Is discretion really the word they're looking for? Why would anyone want to be discreet about their bowling? And what does an upscale bowling environment have to do with being discreet?

The copy writer for the ad had to be the same guy who wrote all the ridiculous notes in the lounge like "No coolers or ice chests allowed". He/she said in the TV ad that the Living Room is "the newest in chic bowling in town". Chic bowling? Really? Chic bowling is an oxymoron, yet Incredabowl is purporting themselves to be the "newest" Chic Bowling alley, as if there has been some sort of one upmanship between AMF West and Mission Bowl to become the Chic-est bowling alley in town.

As if they hadn't screwed up the copy enough, they concluded, "There's nothing like it in the state". How right they were.

Hypnosis: Career Suicide

Going through some old work emails...here's another one that needs to be filed in the "was it really the video that got me fired" file. When HR confiscated my computer and scanned every single file, did they really read everything?

Background...Craig H. Wonder had an appointment with a hypnotist, but was being suspiciously vague about the details...like if the hypnotist had any formal training. I pressed him and he responded as follows...

Craig's email: (The hypnotist is) a guy at my work and I won it at a fundraiser auction our company had for cancer research.

My email response: Nothing weird about that at all. A co-worker who has a man crush on you rigging the fundraiser to let you "win" so that he can inspect your junk while you are "out cold". Who needs the date rape drug? Don't be surprised when you show up and you're the only one there. Please bring a friend and a video camera, for your own safety.

Was it a coincidence that Craig quit the band soon after being put under the spell of an office worker/partially accredited hypnotherapist? Oh what I would give to have the video of that encounter.

Letter to Donald Trump

Dear Donald Trump,

Celebrity hobbies are great. The Jolie-Pitts collect miniature humans. Oprah can’t stop starting girl schools in Africa. Al Gore spends every waking hour trying to be the Nelly of politics, convincing hot women like Leonardo DiCaprio that it’s getting Hot in Herre. And you enjoy making fun of big boned lesbians.

Your feud with Rosie O’Donnell reached a new low this week. After Rosie admitted that she suffers from depression, you said, “All she has to do is look in the mirror and she's going to suffer from depression”.

When I’m President, I intend to be a peace broker. So, I thought I'd warm up by fixing your relationship with Rosie. Rosie...is DT really a huge ass or is he just the fifth grader who is so uncomfortable around women that he borrows his dad's hairpiece and is mean to the girl he secretly loves? Don-Don...wake up bro...not liking lesbians is un-American. If you two would quit bickering for a minute, maybe you'd see that you really have a lot in common. You’re both rich, you both never really say anything, but say it loud, and most importantly you both appreciate nice rugs.

Thanks,
Matt H. Wonder

American Idol: Top 12, Week 1

American Idol, why do I love thee? Last year’s mix of unique contestants got me hooked and I can’t freaking stop watching this year even though the contestants are so much less interesting. Tuesday night, Simon and Ryan’s “you know how I know you’re gay” jokes were more entertaining than any of the contestants.

My only chance to have enough material to do an Idol blog this year is if Sanjaya keeps advancing. And if he can come up with a new hairstyle every week, he deserves to win. He was sporting a smoking hot Ogilvie Home Perm on Tuesday. His strategy is ingenious. He may not be a great singer, but his sleight of hand/misdirection is amazing. He gets you so focused on his mop that you can’t possibly concentrate on his voice. I would not be one bit surprised if he turns out to be David Blaine. That is the kind of shocking twist that this season needs to increase interest.

Simon’s interest in Haley’s performance was shocking. He has been mocking Haley for weeks, saying last week that he didn’t even remember her name. This week she forgot her words and was ripped by Randy and Paula. But, Simon said he was very impressed with her “presence on stage”. And by “presence” he meant “cleavage”. Chris Sligh would be smart to wear a halter top next week to get Simon back on his side.

Letter to Patrick Swayze

Dear Patrick Swayze,

Tonight at the video store my two-year-old son grabbed my hand and pulled me in the direction of the video he wanted. The title? “Another Gay Movie”. Talking about the man on the cover, who was wearing nothing but a quiche, my boy said, “Brrr”. I was so disappointed…that you weren’t the object of his affection.

I picked him up and frantically ran around the store trying to find “Ghost”. I felt it was important to let him know that he hadn’t seen gay until he’d seen you doing pottery wearing nothing but a mullet. Your masterpiece of cinema was nowhere to be found, so I settled for “Road House 2”. But, you weren’t in it. What the hell?

Your turn as James Dalton (head bouncer of the Double Deuce club) brought in thousands of dollars. Why on earth did you turn the Road House franchise over to Jonathon Schaech? “Road House 2” could have been another “Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights”, but instead it went to straight to video.

I beg you not to make the same mistake with “Black Dog”, the greatest trucker movie of all time. Will there ever be a cast as great? You, Randy Travis and Meat Loaf in the same movie…incredible. Trying to do a sequel has proven impossible due to the salary requirements of your A-list co-stars. Craig and I would be glad to fill in at a reduced salary just to be near you. This idea might sound crazy, but remember, “Black Dog” distributor Universal greenlighted a shot-for-shot remake of "Psycho".

Thanks,
Matt H. Wonder

P. S. I just listened to your smash hit “She’s Like the Wind” and realized that it’s the perfect soundtrack for this letter if I sing it to you with slightly altered lyrics…

Feel his breath on my face
His body close to me
Can't look in his eyes
He's out of my league
Just a fool to believe I have anything he needs
He's like the wind

I look in the mirror and all I see
Is a young old man with only a dream
Am I just fooling myself
That he'll stop the pain
Living without him I'd go insane

Firestarter

In first grade I was in love with Tracey O. She had long hair…therefore she was hot. So, I did what any normal first grader would do, every night before I went to bed, I prayed that she would start coming to my church.

I’m not sure why I wanted to subject her to my church, because I was not fond of it. In fact, I used to root for one of my family members to get sick, because that meant we all could stay home. But, I vaguely remember there being some kind of directive from our pastor, the esteemed Dr. Alan Combover, to invite others to church. I immediately thought of Tracey, but I couldn’t just ask her to come to church with me out of the blue. I had never talked to her and that seemed like a weird pick up line.

Instead, I prayed for God to deliver a hot little first grader to Christ Church. Much to my surprise, God responded. Tracey’s church caught on fire and her congregation started meeting with ours. It was odd enough that there was a fire at her church. But, the fact that out of all the churches in town, they started meeting with us still seems unbelievable.

You see, our church met in an old folk’s home…nothing like the smell of death to get you in the mood to praise the Lord. Dr. Combover knew his audience…the sermons were geared toward the almost dead. Rather than have their only son literally die of boredom, my parents let me bring a book to read while Combover spoke. One week I brought the phone book…not the interesting phone book. I brought the white pages.

But, church became a lot more appealing when there was a chance that I’d get a glimpse of Tracey on Sunday morning. Our congregation met early, Tracey’s met late and we shared a coffee and donut fellowship time in between services. I literally could not believe my eyes when I walked in and saw Tracey for the first time.

Remember this old Pepsi commercial? That’s what it was like. Tracey was Cindy Crawford, except 10 times hotter. She was eating a donut, instead of drinking a Pepsi. I looked exactly like the kid with his mouth open. And the antique cars in the background of the commercial were reminiscent of the vintage ladies of John Knox Village whose varicose veins were somehow visible through their extra dark panty hose.

It was surreal. God wasn’t the Dude I’d heard about in the bore-the-hell-out-of-you sermons. He was on call to start fires for me so that I could be near the girl of my dreams. If it had been a movie, I would have sauntered up to Tracey and swept her off her feet with a line like, “Hey baby, howsabout I get that powdered sugar off your lips…with my lips.” Instead, I froze up and didn’t say a word.

Today I realized that I’m still that little wiener boy. God answered my prayer to get fired from my accounting job and here I am, still sitting on the sideline like a schoolboy. I need to finish writing my script and stop being the scared little Nancy boy who refused to go after his dream (girl) even though it’s been gift-wrapped and dropped on my doorstep. The DaVinci Code made over $200 million and it wasn’t even that funny. There’s no telling how much more a film would bring in that features me cracking the urinal code. It will no doubt become the Titanic of office men’s room comedies. The problem is, I’m completely out of money.

Dear God,
Please send a benefactor to finance my project.
Thanks,
Matt H. Wonder

If you’re rich and don’t respond, you might want to check your smoke detectors.

Letter to Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston

Would America still have elected W if they had known he’d pick “Brownie” to head FEMA and nominate Harriet Miers as a Supreme Court Justice? Would Clinton have lost votes if we had been forewarned that he’d make Monica Lewinsky the Secretary of the Interior (of his pants)? I don’t think voters should cast a ballot for me without knowing the caliber of people that I’ll have in my cabinet. I hope to appoint Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston as my co-Secretaries of Family Values. I’ve written the letter below in hopes that they’ll help me make America a better place.

Dear Whitney Houston/Bobby Brown,

I never thought the day would come when Bobby would be singing “Mr. Telephone Man” about Whitney. If the marriage of the June and Ward Cleaver of R&B fails, what hope is there for the rest of us?

Searching for answers, I painstakingly researched your lives for five minutes on Wikipedia and was sickened by the way the liberal media has unfairly characterized Bobby as a drug-loving felon. I mean, come on, who hasn’t urinated on the car of a spouse’s ex? And if you settled out of court with the underage prostitute you raped, how is that news? Multiple arrests. Multiple positive tests for cocaine. Been there, done that. But, because the media chooses to shine its spotlight on you, these types of mundane events are seen as “criminal”.

All the negative attention Bobby received was understandably hard on Whitney. While the media shamelessly portrayed Bobby as a thug, Whitney stood by her man, selflessly putting her career on hold while supporting Bobby by taking interest in some of his hobbies, like smoking crack. Your life was a fairy tale, bringing Whitney’s hit “The Greatest Love of All” to life. I can’t remember the exact lyrics, but I think it went something like this, “No matter what they take from me they can't take away my dignity because the greatest love of all is illustrated by these pictures of my crack den”.

After all you’ve gone through together, it pains me that, after 14 years of marital bliss, you are letting the media break up your rock solid marriage. Now more than ever we need celebrity couples to make it so that we don’t lose our belief in the institution of marriage. As you probably know, I’m running for President. I hope I can give you the proper incentive to give it another go. If you two can smoke a peace pipe and get back together, I’d like to appoint you to the position of co-Secretaries of Family Values. The positions shouldn’t be too demanding and would count against the community service time Bobby needs to work off. If your recreational activities don’t allow you the time to put together curriculum to teach kids about the importance of marriage, just show them a few clips from the Desperate HouseMILFs of Wisteria Lane and America will be one step closer to reclaiming the family values on which our nation was built.

Thanks,
Matt H. Wonder

Letter to Paris Hilton

Dear Paris Hilton,

In September, after a long day of “work”, you were drinking “one margarita” at a charity event when you like totally realized that you hadn’t eaten anything all day. Knowing that millions of young girls with eating disorders look to you as their role model, you immediately hopped in your car and courageously drove towards In-N-Out burger. The importance of your mission should have warranted a presidential motorcade or at the very least a police escort. Instead the police had the nerve to escort you to jail. One minute, you’re drinking a margarita for charity and the next thing you know you’re charged with DUI. How is that fair?

Last month you plead no contest to the charges, were sentenced to probation and had your license suspended. Earlier this week, you were ticketed for driving on your suspended license. Understandably, you immediately called your lawyer to ask if your license had been suspended. How could you possibly be expected to remember that you weren’t allowed to drive? That sentence came down almost 5 weeks ago. If your probation is revoked, you’re looking at the possibility of a 90-day jail sentence.

Oh man would that be great. I can only hope that your sentence is delayed until after I become President. I'll preempt the crap that they normally show on C-Span and C-Span 2 with a live reality show about your stay in prison. On your show, “The Simple Life”, you lasted like 10 minutes when they made you work at Sonic. I’m sure you’ll do great picking up trash along the highway. Best of luck making friends in the big house.

Thanks,
Matt

When I'm in the shower, I'm afraid to wash my hair

For best results, try listening to the audio of this Youtube clip while reading this post.

Wow. This is kind of freaking me out. I feel like a character in a John Grisham novel. I thought it was bad when HR fired me for a little, innocent urinal video.

Now, comes this. According to Google statistics, this blog received a hit from Los Alamos National Laboratory. Googling the lab provided the following, “Los Alamos National Laboratory helps to ensure the safety of the nuclear weapons stockpile and reduce the threat of terrorist attacks on our homeland.” That doesn’t exactly sound like the target audience of a lowbrow comedy blog. They sound like they take themselves even more seriously than my former company’s HR department.

Maybe running for President isn’t as hilarious as I first thought. I could try to unseat Mayor McCheese instead if it will prevent future surveillance. On the other hand, whoever logged on from Los Alamos doubled my readership that day. Thanks for tuning in. Now if you could just click on some of the Google ads...

Smarter than some?

“Smarter than some” might be stretching it. I really thought the Presidential election was this November. It turns out the 2008 election is actually going to be held in 2008. That is not at all cool. I am a fat man. Moving the finish line of the campaign trail out 12 months is like giving me a death sentence. In order to have had any chance at all, I needed the race to be a downhill sprint where my girth/momentum would give me a fighting chance. This campaign is officially on life support. I don’t have the attention span or enough material to last 21 months. I was just looking at the Presidency as a stopgap…something to make my wife quit asking when I’m going to get a job. I thought I’d go through the motions as President until I got a TV show or movie deal, at which point I’d give my two weeks notice. Now what?

Using the Presidency as a Stepping Stone

My primary motivation for becoming President is the generous retirement package. But, I also plan to use the Presidency to launch my comedy career. I imagine it will be easier to get a meeting with Comedy Central as an ex-President rather than as an ex-accountant.

While I’ll be able to devote more time to the funny once I leave office, I think I can still find time to do comedy projects while presidenting. I’ve always wanted to work with Ashton Kucher and I think a Presidential version of Punk’d would get huge ratings. Imagine the look on the head of the CIA’s face when I have the secret service restrain him while I literally try to debrief him. How would Queen Elizabeth react if I told her I noticed her giving me the eye and wondered if she wanted to get busy? What if I asked French president Jacques Chirac if there really was a place in France where the women wear no pants? I wonder if Boris Yeltsin would fall for it if I called him on the red phone and said, "One, two, three, four, let's declare a Cold War". How many episodes could I do before being impeached?

To do: find out how long you have to be President before your retirement plan is vested.

Campaign Slogan

“Smarter than some, friend of a few” was a campaign slogan I created years ago in the unlikely event that I ever ran for public office. (Quick aside: Why is the adjective “public” needed when discussing the kind of office toward which you’re running? Has anyone ever run for private office?) The intent of the slogan was to depict myself as a borderline retard without many friends whose best chance for winning was to get sympathy votes.

Smarter than some. I’m not going to be the smartest Presidential candidate. In fact, I’ll likely be the dumbest ever. But, all the other candidates will have the burden of trying to prove they’re smart. This becomes next to impossible with the press hanging on your every word just waiting for you to misspell potato. If my slogan helps to convince people I’m stupid, any signs I show of actual brain activity will result in far more praise than I deserve. I’m making myself out to be the Presidential candidate version of a Special Olympian.

Friend of a few. I don’t like people. That’s why I don’t plan to hit the campaign trail in the traditional sense. I’m not going to travel. Kissing babies? Guess again. I can’t in good conscience put my lips on a little person who could take down my campaign by giving me jaundice or the colic. And shaking hands. Gimme a break! Not a chance. Why would I shake anyone’s hand before I’m able to enact my urinal code reform laws that require prison sentences for people who don’t wash their hands after using the restroom? While shaking hands and kissing babies, Obama, Clinton, and the rest are playing a dangerous game of Russian roulette. If their willingness to touch other humans ends up giving them a terminal illness, that’s their funeral…and more votes for me.

On the surface “Smarter than some, friend of a few” seems innocent, but underneath lies a carefully crafted strategy that depends on people underestimating me as well as the unfortunate passing of my opponents.