Pancake City

I’m going to add to the pile another way of measuring one’s fame through Google.

If you have the Google toolbar installed on your computer,  you know that it comes with a search bar that automatically gives search suggestions as you type. I’m not positive, but it seems like the suggestions are listed in order of popularity.

You can judge popularity in a few ways. How many letters you have to type before the search term appears (e.g one for Wikipedia, three for Robin Williams) and how it ranks with similar search terms (Robin Williams is more popular than Robot Chicken, unfortunately).

The auto-suggest function also provides a celebrity threshold: can you even get your name to appear? I can’t even get my blog name to be suggested, much less my real name.

If you are curious, the following are the first suggested terms for each letter of the alphabet. One, You Tube is so popular that is the top search for ‘U’ as well as ‘Y’. Two, they are mostly one-word searches, which is odd for a few reasons. A one-word search (”car”) can’t give you targeted information unless what you are looking for is the name of a web site (”Carmax”).  But why would someone search for Carmax instead of type “Carmax” (or Carmax.com) in the URL bar? I wonder if Google is incorporating web site traffic rankings in the listing order.

Finally, if you want to test your basic Internet familiarity, see how many of these terms you recognize.

a amazon

b bebo

c craigslist

d dictionary

e ebay

f facebook

g gmail

h hotmail

i imdb

j john lewis

k kelly blue book

l limewire

m myspace

n next

o orkut

p photobucket

q qvc

r runescape

s sears

t target

u utube

v verizon

w wikipedia

x xbox 360

y you tube

z zip codes

(The referenced video)

Two friends of mine, Amy and Lori, have a very funny blog called Trashy Celebs. Where else are you going to find headlines like “Joey Lawrence’s Man Boobs are Blossoming?”

Nah.

A reenactment of the past week:

SHERIFF: “Do you want to finish your sentence at home?”
PARIS: “Really?”
SHERIFF: “Sure. Three days in jail is enough. You can do the other 42 days as home arrest.”
PARIS: “Thank you so much!”

Paris goes home. A few hours later, the Sheriff’s phone rings:

SHERIFF: “Hey.”
JUDGE: “Did she buy it?”
SHERIFF: “Oh, yeah. It was hilarious. Her face lit right up.”
JUDGE: [laughing]: “Oh my God. This is going to be great. Get one of your guys to bring her to the courthouse. Tell her the judge needs to speak with her for a few minutes. Tell her it won’t take long, and to leave her things.”
SHERIFF: “This is so wrong.”
JUDGE: “I know. Isn’t it awesome?”

At the courthouse:
JUDGE: “Paris, I have some bad news. We’re putting you back in jail. Right now.”
PARIS: “What? But he said I could do my sentence at home!”
JUDGE: “Lee, did you tell Paris she could serve her sentence in her house?”
SHERIFF: “Don’t believe I did, Mike.”
PARIS: “You liar! Yes you did!”
SHERIFF: “Hold on a second. Let me think.” [Sheriff strokes his chin slowly.] “Hmmm. Hmmmmmmm. Wait, yes! Yes!”
PARIS: “You remember?”
SHERIFF: “I remember that ‘The Simple Life’ sucked. Now get your scrawny ass back in your cell, bitch.”
JUDGE: “Oh! Smoked!”

[SHERRIF + JUDGE give each other a high-five. An officer shakes his head and escorts PARIS out the courthouse.]

[cover]
Screen superstar Tom Cruise asks: ‘Who’s To Say What’s Normal?’
Not you.

[Personality Parade]
Please settle a bet. My wife says the best-known Three Stooges are still alive. I say no. Who pays?
Tell your wife the Stooges are dead. As well as your marriage. Your idea of excitement is a Three Stooges-fueled clash of the minds? And what did you bet, loser has to tape “Green Acres” on Nick at Night for a week?

[Ask Marilyn]
What can be found in the following words: zygote, taxi, wave, cuts, re–
Hold on. I’ll finish the list. Inane, insulting, genius, IQ, opportunities, lost, job, answering, moronic, questions, depressed, suicidal, death.

I actually have some material brewing around in my head, but I’ve been in a lazy mood recently.

Anyway, it’s much easier to post links to other people’s comedy.

Chuck Norris Facts

Hilarious.

“There is no theory of evolution, just a list of creatures Chuck Norris allows to live.”

The Washington Post’s Style section had a blurb on Dr. Phil’s recent visit to Washington D.C. It reported that he had a bodyguard everywhere he went.

People who give good advice don’t need bodyguards.

Heh heh.

I understand Michael getting off on the four counts of child molestation. And the count of false imprisonment. I wasn’t in the courtroom, and it’s plausible that there was enough doubt to find him not guilty.

But the Jesus Juice too? You can’t make that stuff up. Comedy gold like that has to be mined. If I were the lead prosecutor for that case, I would have stood up on the first day and said: “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I have two words for you: Jesus. Juice. The prosecution rests.”

Louis Armstrong: truly ahead of his time.

I know it’s been a couple weeks, but I can’t get over Michael Jackson’s name for wine that he served a kid. (Allegedly. Can’t forget the allegedly). Right after the wording came out, at least one child molester slapped his head and said: “Jesus Juice! Why didn’t I think of that? It makes Happy Sauce look like Homework Helper.” Allegedly. The hypothetical child molester may have been too busy taking notes from the trial to be slapping his head. “Ms. Jones. Parent. Not bright. Trusting of people with Ferris wheels.”

(The Ferris wheel was invented by George W. Ferris and unveiled in the 1893 World Fair. George Ferris invented the ride to give children of all economic groups a cheap way to soar high above the ground and hover above the city landscape, where he could then molest them).

I almost never pay attention to celebrity trials, but I’m having trouble resisting this one. Every time I think the spectacle can’t get any more bizarre, something loonier happens. It’s like the witnesses are having a contest where they are trying to out-loon each other. From the AP today:

SANTA MARIA, Calif., April 14 — The mother of Michael Jackson’s accuser told jurors Thursday a bizarre story of weeks during which she was shuttled around by Jackson’s associates, made a virtual prisoner and warned that “killers” were after her.

The woman said that, during the entire period, she never tried to call police because “who could possibly believe this?”

Yes, indeed. Who could?

I awoke this morning to a radio interview with Subway Jared. “I used to wear XXXXXX-large shirts. That’s six Xs. I was a big boy.”

I felt sad hearing that. Not out of sympathy for his former plight, but that a shirt maker had three inches of tag to work with and all he could think of to do was add more Xs.

Six Xs is two-porno-movie large. It’s “I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you You just want to be friends NOOOO!” large. It’s “Machine wash cold–if you can fit in the washer! Hi-o!” Shecky-large.

Or forget the tag. If you have to wear a shirt that large, the tag should be a scratch-off ticket. Everyone deserves some magic in his or her life, and the Subway job is already taken.

Snippets from an article on Marlon Brando’s life (July 3, 2004; The Washington Post).

“Mutiny” director Lewis Milestone was one of many directors and studio officials he confounded with his distaste for authority. “Before he would take direction, he would ask why,” Milestone said. “Then when the scene was being shot, he put earplugs in so that he couldn’t hear my direction.”

Starting in the 1960s, Brando became one of the first actor-activists to march for civil and Native American rights. He memorably refused to accept his Oscar for “The Godfather,” protesting what he said was discrimination against Native Americans on film and in government policy.

Instead, he dispatched to the Academy Awards a woman who claimed to be a Native American named Sacheen Littlefeather and read an abridged version of Brando’s 15-page indictment of policies toward the Indians. Later, she was revealed to be an actress named Maria Cruz, winner of the 1970 Miss American Vampire competition.

“Over time, he represented the disintegration of a sex symbol, as his muscular physique crumbled and he ballooned to more than 300 pounds; he often broke his diets by persuading McDonald’s employees to pitch French fries and Big Macs over his fence.”

One of his instructors was Adler, who came from a distinguished family of Yiddish actors. One day in class, she asked her students to imitate chickens in a henhouse who had just learned they were about to be hit with an atomic bomb. While others flailed about, Brando sat still and pretended to lay an egg.