Posted 11:06 AM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

And The Winner is…

Whether you remember or not (and most of you do because I’ve been receiving hate mail for months now), before the summer hit I was looking for a theme song. Not just any theme song, I was looking for a theme song to represent myself, The Brain. All good superheroes have one, and since I’m practically a superhero, I felt I needed one too. All the submissions were great, and it was really hard to choose a winner which is why it took so long.

But we do have a winner. The winner of the "The Brain Needs A Theme Song Contest" and our "Undiscovered Genius of the Month" is none other than the one, the only, Ms. Melanie Jo, who not only submitted an idea but also hammered out the new lyrics herself. For winning she gets all my expired McDonald’s Monopoly game pieces, a can of pop of her choice and a ticket to see a Reds game sometime next year with The Brain.

So, without further ado, I give you my Theme Song.

One of Us (aka The Brain’s Theme)
(re-written by Melanie Jo)

If THE BRAIN had some fame, what would it be
And would you recognize his face?
If you were saved by him in all his glory
How would you thank him if you had just one second
Yeah oh Yeah, Brain is Great
Yeah, oh Yeah, Brain is Super Sweet
Yeah, Yeah, ohhhhhh Yeeeah

What if THE BRAIN was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the ‘L’
Tryin’ to make His way to the LGB

If Brain had a mask, what would it look like
And would you want to pick its nose?
If seeing meant that you would have to believe
In things like baseball, in Griffey and the Reds
And all his wisdom and...
Yeah, yeah, THE BRAIN is a Badass
Yeah, oh yeah, Brain is a hero
Yeah, Yeah, ohhhhhhhhh Yeeeah

What if THE BRAIN was one of us
Just normal-size headed like one of us
Just a stranger on the ‘L’
Tryin’ to make his way to the LGB
tryin’ to make his way home
Back down to Nati’ all alone

Nobody screaming out his name
’Cept for the LGB in Chitown rain

Yeah, yeah, THE BRAIN is Cool
Yeah, oh yeah, THE BRAIN is dy-na-mite
Yeah, Yeah, ohhohhohohh yeah

What if Brain wedgied one of us
Just a nobody like you or me
Just a weirdo on the ‘L’
Gettin’ pick-pocketed all alone
Just tryin’ to make a little extra dough
Like a thug in Price Hill or Delhole
He heard your cries in Chi-ca-go
now he’s back in his cubicle
Nobody callin’ on the phone
’Cept for the LGB or maybe the poolice…

Yeeeeaahhh, yeeeahh oh yeeeahh

Thanks to everyone that participated. We’ll have another contest sometime down the road and I promise it won’t take five months to announce a winner. I promise to have it done in under three. –The Brian

Posted 9:11 AM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

The Strike is Over--Playball.

It’s been five months. FIVE WHOLE MONTHS since I’ve last written a column. Have you missed me? Where in the world did the time go? Why haven’t I been writing? What has been going on in The Brain of The Giant Head? Well, I’m about to answer all your questions.

As many of you may or may not know, I have been absent from the site because our union, NAFLHI (The National Association For Larger Headed Individuals) went on strike. The Jypsy belongs to it. The Authority Guru belongs to it. James Van Der Beek belongs to it. For years we’ve been underpaid while still carrying the burden of supporting, grooming and feeding unusually large heads. All that hard work takes money, and money isn’t something executives, such as the Wise One, like to just hand out for no reason. They like to hand it out for no reason to beautiful women. And I, unfortunately, am only a beautiful woman on the inside.

So exactly five months ago I sat down at the negotiating table with the Wise One and told him that he needed a haircut. After that, I explained to him that I demanded better treatment and for an increase in pay, which at the time stood at zero dollars per column. He responded by saying that he agreed, he did need a haircut. He also said that what he paid me was fair ($0 per column) and he wasn’t just going to hand me money.

So The Jypsy and I joined the good people at NAFLHI and went on strike. I spent the first month of the impasse outside the Wise One’s apartment, carrying a picket sign that read, "Wise One Not So Wise…Claimed Gigli Was a Good Movie!" But the Wise One was smarter than I gave him credit for, as he sent out his top negotiator, Giant Hose With Impressive Water Pressure, to convince me to leave his premises. It felt like a spit in the face--from a huge elephant. So after doing some watering of his yard on my own, I left.

I spent the next few months the same as most other people: sleeping, playing softball, moving from Chicago to Cincinnati--typical things that people do. And after I moved back to the hometown, the Wise One finally agreed to sit back down at the negotiation table with me one more time. Was it because he missed my enjoyable writing style? Was it because his Web site had become dull without my prose week in and week out? Was it because I got him really drunk, put him in a compromising position and took pictures that I threatened to release via the Web to the general public? I’d like to think it was a little bit of all three.

So we sat down at the rectangular table that had negotiation written all over it (because while the Wise One was in the bathroom, I carved it in five times). We stayed up all night trading proposals, trading counter offers, trading lunches (Moral Victory Note: What the Wise One didn’t know is that the bag of Cheetos I traded him for his pretzels had been opened 3 months ago and were stale. HA HA H…what? There was a prize at the bottom of the bag? $50 gift certificate to Best Buy? DAMNIT!).

I told the Wise One that we demanded better wages, better working conditions and a 12-month subscription to the dirty magazine of our choice. We argued for hours. We argued over money. We argued over whether it was appropriate to wear socks with sandals. Finally, after our jaws were sore, I agreed to no salary increase, no better working conditions, no magazine subscription and periodic steroid testing. He agreed to stop calling me Tina.

So after the months of hibernation, They Jypsy and I are back and better than ever. We roaring and ready to go. We’ve got knowledge pouring out of our ears and need to share it with someone. Hope you join us again.

And the strike wasn’t a total loss, I guess. I’m proud to announce that we now get off for Yom Kippur. And, more importantly, I got the Wise One to drop his idea of getting matching sweat-suits.

Posted 11:10 AM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

And Now, The Finalists ...

There was an overwhelming response to my "Theme Song" contest, and I’d like to thank everyone that participated. Your suggestions made my day. I got so many, in fact, that I had extended the contest an extra week. And, out of the thousands of song ideas I received, I am going to list all my favorites below for consideration (With some of my thoughts below each response). The winner should be announced sometime next week. Here were your "Theme Songs For The Brain" ideas and thoughts (in no particular order):

Hey Wise One, Where did you find this guy, The Brain? How about "The Joker" by Steve Miller Band?
-- Brian Imhausen
Brain’s Thoughts: In a trash can down by the river.

The first song that came to mind was the theme song from "Pinky and the Brain". Of course, if you don't plan to take over the world, this might not work and who would be Pinky. An obvious song, which you might not want to remember is "Indiana Wants Me", but then you couldn't go back there and how would you get home (Cincinnati). But this song leads to the Mellencamp tune of "I Fought Authority And Authority Always Wins".
-- Doug Westerman
Brain’s Thoughts: The Wise One could be my Pinky ... Indiana already hates me.

Dr. Feelgood. . .Come on, that theme song always implies that you have some skills.
-- Meghan Holohan
Brain’s Thoughts: I do have lots of skills...and I you KNOW I always feel good. Except when sitting on hours of endless traffic.

WHAT A) WONDERFUL WORLD by Cooke/Alpert/Adle. "Don't know much about history/Don't know much biology/Don't know much about science books/Don't know much about the French I took/But I do know that I love you/And I know that if you loved me too/What a wonderful world this would be"
-- Kelly Delaney
Brain’s Thoughts: Either she thinks I’m really stupid or has a big crush on me. Can’t say I blame her. ;-)

How about "It's Raining Men" by The Weather Girls? It was even co-written by Paul Schaffer. It's perfect for you.
-- Kevin Dick
Brain’s Thoughts: Did you know your girlfriend has a crush on me?

Everyone that knows The Brain as well as I do knows that the brain is merely a puppet of the LGB. She controls everything he does, as he has admitted his valentine's day debacle in his column to all of his large fan base of seven people that don't have anything better to do with their time. So that would make your theme song, "Tell me all your thoughts on God (cause I’d really like to meet her)." I'm not sure if that is the correct title, but I know you know the song. That or "Mary had a little lamb." I think that could be a great theme song for you. brian had a little brain/ little brain/ little brain/brian had a little brain/you don't know what he knows.
-- Jim Huth
Brain’s Thoughts: I am a puppet to no one! Please disregard the box of tampons in the trunk of my car.

Right now I'm thinking the Theme to the Greatest American Hero. "Believe it or not, I'm walking on air..." Good song.
-- J-ZO
Brain’s Thoughts: I emulated him as a young chap. What ever happened to that guy anyway?

What about that Jump song by KrissKross. It seemed to be a theme for you. Or any Green Day song. Or Take Me Out To The Ball Game Or They're All Here for B-Rod. Have you heard that one? Or WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS! (in reference to Bo 2003, not the Reds). Any of those should do.
-- Joe Ursitti
Brain’s Thoughts: Mr. Ursitti is unfortunately suffering from Reds envy...but being the wonderful person that I am I don’t hold it against him.

I think your theme song shall be "What if God was one of us" ... what if you are God, Brain? And you’re one of us. Or maybe since you - like any other super hero would be in average clothes and Brian by day...however when out saving the world "what if Brain is one of us?/Just a slob like one of us?/ Just a stranger on the L?/Just trying to make his way to the LGB..."
-- Melanie Tracy
Brain’s Thoughts: Someone finally gives me the respect I am due. Bonus points for Mel.

This was the first thing to pop into my head. Might be a little too obvious but it’s Cypress Hill: "Insane In The Brain."
-- Derek Eversmann
Brain’s Thoughts: That was obvious...why the hell didn’t I think of that? Great tune.

I was thinking since you have no special talents as you pointed out ... how do you feel about that Beck song "Loser" ... just a thought.
-- Jennie Klems
Brain’s Thoughts: I have always been my sister’s hero.

"Loser" by GET A LIFE!!! ... It’s scary to think that one day I may be related to this kid. LGB, he’s thinking about men in tights!?!
-- Dale Silver
Brain’s Thoughts: Take some notes from your niece Mel.

This is it. I am certain it will win. The lyrics are perfect, and border on pompous. Hilarious and perfect for a confident super-hero. Plus, it's obscure and not everyone will have heard it, so it will be yours. Chesney Hawks - The One And Only ... I think it was on the Doc Hollywood soundtrack
-- Evan Dawson
Brain’s Thoughts: I didn’t even know Doc Hollywood had a soundtrack. I don’t think I’m pompous, just awesome.

I have the perfect theme song for you: "My Buddy" How is that for a good one! Or am I the only one who thinks it is perfect for you? "Nights are long since you went away/ I think about you all through the day/ my Buddy/ my Buddy/ no buddy quite so true." This was written by Gus Kahn whom I'm sure you never heard of, but he was a famous lyricist. I think it might have been written about a soldier off to war.
-- Marlene Nesi
Brain’s Thoughts: I do kinda look like My Buddy, the doll. More importantly, what ever happened to the name "Gus?" I think I will use that on my first-born.

How about Billy Ocean's "Caribbean Queen" or "Get outta by dreams (get into my car)." Just a thought.
-- Anthony Zembrodt
Brain’s Thoughts: I am no Caribbean Queen ... Though I know some of the Wise One’s photos may say otherwise.

Bad/Fat, by Mike Jackson...whichever version you choose is fine by me. Or "Ice Ice Baby"... or "Under Pressure," I guess the "ting" won't make that big of a difference. "What would Brian Boitano do?," by the kids of South Park. Or, the ever obvious..."Asshole," by Denis Leary.
-- The LGB
Brain’s Thoughts: The LGB has been disqualified for not rubbing my feet on demand. That’ll learn her.

Well, here are all the nominees. Feel free to email me and comment on all the choices and check back in next week as I pick "The Undiscovered Genius of the Month" and have the lyrics to what will forever be known as "The Theme Song of The Brain." Thanks again to everyone for your participation.

Posted 12:35 PM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

I Need a Theme Song

I love superheroes. From Spider-Man to Superman to Bubbles the Power Puff Girl, they all have a special place in my heart and always led me to the deep dark question every human has wanted to know, "Why do all superheroes wear tights."

Ever since I wore a younger Brain’s clothes, I’ve always wanted to be a superhero. Running rampant throughout the house, wearing any blanket or quilt or towel I could find as a cape and using wrapping paper cardboard rolls as swords, I’d defeat the evil empire known as The Vicious Triclops, who just happened to look very similar to Rainbow, the cuddly Care Bear. Just because I’m pushing the ripe age of 24, doesn’t mean I no longer have those ambitions -- now it’s just more embarrassing to run around naked with a towel hanging from my neck.

And I’ve tried everything to become a superhero. I let myself get bit by a spider. The only superpower that gave me was the ability to pass out at the first sign of blood. This hasn’t come in handy yet, but I’m sure that eventually a situation will arise when some evil is going on and they will need someone to pass out. I can be that guy.

But I can’t be "Pass Out-Man." I mean, that just doesn’t sound cool. I need a cool name, like "Viper-Man" or "Panther-Man" or "Philip." But since I’m not tough enough to have any of those names, I’ll stick with "The Brain-Man" for now.

So I continued forward in my quest to become a superhero. I tried placing a call to Batman, but apparently he has an unlisted number. So I called the operator:

Operator: How may I direct your call?
The Brain: Can you please connect me to the Batcave.
Operator: The Bat-what?
The Brain: The Batcave.
Operator: Is that in South Dakota?
The Brain: No, it’s in Gothem City.
Operator: I have no listing for the "Batcave." And sir, Batman is a fictional character.
The Brain: Maybe the number is under Bruce Wayne?
Operator: Have a good day sir.
(Click)

Now I’ve tried to go through the metamorphosis to become a superhero, but that didn’t work. I even tried to seek council on the subject from one of the most esteemed fighters of evildoers around, but I had operator problems. And after an eternity of brainstorming, eating donuts and staring blankly at the wall, I finally got it. I finally figured it out. I now know what I need to do.

So, in an effort to grant myself superhero immortality I have decided to do what every great superhero before me has done -- get my own theme song.

Oh sure, I can’t jump large buildings in a single bound or climb walls with stealth or even find my missing left shoe for that matter, but I can create the occasional play on words. And I’m old enough to buy beer. Those talents combined, I think, are enough criteria to warrant my own personal theme song. I mean come on, Spider-man has one. The Greatest American Hero has one. Gilligan has one. Those are all great men with great songs, and I need one so I too can be a great man.

The question is: What kind of theme song suits me?

But that is not a job for me, my good friend. That is a job for you! I need a theme song and I need you to send me ideas. That’s right, I want you to pick a song, any song you want, and email me fozzie007@yahoo.com. Pick a song that you think suits me best. If you want to submit "The Gambler," by Kenny Rogers, do it. If you want to submit "A Boy Named Sue," by Johnny Cash, do it. In fact, I’ll take the best suggestions and rewrite the lyrics (keeping them true to the song) in a future column so they fit me and my legendary status, and then I’ll let everyone vote on them. The winning entry will be my theme song FOREVER, and the person that submits the song will be dubbed "Undiscovered Genius of the Month." The winner will also get a prize, though it’s a surprise. So send in the suggestions please. It’ll only take two seconds of your time. I have a birthday coming up and I only want one thing for it. I beg of you.
I NEED A THEME SONG!
Click here to email: fozzie007@yahoo.com.

Posted 9:12 AM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

Fond Memories...
Sponsored By Crayola

This past Wednesday was Mama Brain’s birthday, and being the wonderful son that I am, I sent her a card and made sure to remember that birthday phone call. The family was over the house, enjoy birthday Chinese food around the birthday table with birthday cheesecake. It sounded like a lot of fun and I was kind of bummed that I was 300 miles away and unable to partake in the festivities, but I celebrated her monumental day with the family last weekend when I was in Cincinnati. And we did what most families do on the Mother’s birthday.

We went gambling.

Nothing like waking up before the cartoons come on to drive many miles just to drop $100 on slots. If you haven’t tried it you should. Just take $100 from your father’s wallet and gamble it all away. If he asks where the money went, tell him the dog ate it. If you don’t have a dog, tell him your younger sister ate it. After all, when you were 5 and she was 3 she did blame you for drawing all over the freshly painted walls with a red crayon while she just happened to be an innocent bystander with melted red crayon all over her hands. Not that I hold a grudge or anything.

On the car ride over we jammed to the Blue Tape. Oh yes, the Blue Tape. Every family should have a Blue Tape. The Blue Tape is a compilation of some of the finest music ever recorded, or at least the only music we ever listened to growing up because that’s what our folks listened to. From Billy Joel to Harry Chapin to Martin Mull, Papa Brain, Mama Brain, Little Sister Jennie and I sang loud, sang proud, and sang without any idea what the word "harmony" meant. But that didn’t matter, just like most embarrassing things don’t matter when you’re with family. It was fun. Everyone has fond memories of growing up that they never let go of -- mine just happen to be of Blue Tapes and red crayons.

When we arrived a the casino, we didn’t waste any time riding up the elevator and plopping our butts down in front of the colorful slot machine lights. Casinos are an odd place. It’s the one place in the world where class, race and gender don’t matter. The casino does not discriminate -- it robs everyone blind equally.

Without hesitation, I, like my other family members, started feeding the bellies of the machines. The goal to playing slot machines is to make the machine sick. Every time you feed a machine’s belly, it wiggles its eyes at you and, depending on its digestive track, it’ll either give you a happy or an angry face. If the machine is happy, which is generally the case, it’ll just sit there ignoring you, much like Michelle Walton did back in 3rd grade when I passed her a note asking her to be my girlfriend and she responded by saying "Go poop in your hat." Which confused me because she didn’t seem happy later in the day when I handed her my Reds hat filled with "her instructions." Ah ... fond memories, but I digress.

If the machine is happy it ignores you. If the machine’s angry, it’ll throw-up all over the place, leaving shiny silver chunks. What’s odd is that, unlike humans, the machine likes it when you put it’s revisited-lunch back in its mouth. The more you do it the more likely it is to keep throwing up on you. And get this -- people at the counters will actually PAY YOU for the puke. How great is that!

So I kept throwing money into the machines left and right, trying to win enough puke to pay my college loans. But my machine was too happy. It kept smiling at me as I dropped about $50 in its mouth, which is considered a healthy diet according to the Federal Slot Machines Association.

But out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my sister getting puked on by every machine she sat down in front of. She pissed off so many machines, that she walked away with 3 tubs of upchuck, which the cashier paid her handsomely for. Mama and Papa Brain were like me, keeping their machines too happy and throw-up free.

As we walked out of there, with the three eldest in the group now as poor as youngest was when she walked in, and the youngest now rolling in riches, I leaned over and asked my sister just exactly how she made the machines so angry. And she leaned over to me and, in a soft voice, explained:

"I’m just better than you in everything."

And I smiled the rest of the ride home, joking with my family, singing along with the Blue Tape and remembering all the fond memories of my childhood and how each new day, including our gambling experience, was filling me with new memories I will cherish forever. I’m sure the rest of my family cherishes them as well, especially Little Sister Jennie once she realizes that her cabbage patch doll, Pearly, is missing and reads the ransom note for 3 tubs of puke.

More importantly, I hope she notices it was written in red crayon.

I hope you all join me in singing Happy Birthday to my Mom. I’m sure she’ll hear us, especially since all of us sing off-key. Happy Birthday Mom.

Posted 4:20 PM by Wise One

From The Brain of the Giant Head

The Etiquette of Smack Talking

Smack talking is an integral part of all fantasy sports leagues. Most guys and girls say they join Yahoo fantasy baseball for the competition and goodwill of the sport, but that’s all a big fat lie. I didn’t join 4 different leagues this year just to win -- I joined them to make everyone else look stupid through a plethora of arrogant statements and funny jokes about their mamas. It’s an artform that doesn’t get any respect, except for the few of us that have mastered the skill.

To partake in the smack-talk community you must have three things:

1) A quick wit -- because smack-talk responses lose their luster when uttered two days after the original smack. For example, say you are driving to work on Monday and your friend says to you, "My grandma drives faster than you." It’s bad to wait till Thursday to say "It’s because my large genitalia prohibits me from pressing on the gas too quickly." While clever, your friend will have forgotten his quip and just think you are a big perv.

2) A thick layer of skin -- because sometimes jokes can get out of hand. This has happened to me before when they tell you your head has gotten to big to fit through the doorway and you tell them their butt is too big to fit through the Grand Canyon and they tell you to sleep on the couch until you’ve thought about what you said. This is damaging to your relationship and, more importantly, your back.

3) The ability to make the other person sound stupid at all costs -- it doesn’t matter what you say, as long as you have a plan of attack you will do alright. Themes are always good, like attacking a person’s body parts or lack of Nintendo skills, but the theme must fit the particular situation. That’s why fantasy baseball makes for a perfect outlet for excellent smack talk.

There are very few people I know that can efficiently pull off proper smack talk without pissing people off enough to get punched in the face. The people are the move-and-shakers of the world. They are the people with enough intelligence to run successful companies and own multi-billion dollar corporations, but get stuck doing clerical work. Why? We offend the Powers That Be with our clever verbiage and become pee-ons for life. Word to the wise, don’t ever tell your boss his wife looks like a giant potato -- he will have you alphabetizing file drawers till 2005.

Here is an example of good smack talk dialogue during a weeklong battle of Fantasy baseball:

The Amazo: "You're employment of witchcraft caught me quite off-guard. Luckily (as I thought you would now realize) I carry my anti-curse kit with me everywhere and have successfully shed off your evil spell. Better luck next time."
The Brain: "If I had a nickel for every homerun I beat you by, I’d be able to own you, your family and Microsoft."
The Amazo: "I’d like to save you the embarrassment of getting pummeled by offering you the chance to concede defeat for the week and move on with dignity."
The Brain: "I would concede, but I have faith in my team unlike the lack of chemistry in yours. I suggest you sell the team so they have a fair shot at competing instead the embarrassing defeats you put them through week in and week out."
The Amazo: "Wow, now that I think about it we both have pretty good teams, unlike that Authority Guru. His team blows."
The Brain: "Yeah, his team scores even less than he does."
The Authority Guru: "You guys are assholes."

If there was an Olympics of Smack-Talking, my friends would talk most of the medals. But until that day comes, we will have to settle for the joy of knowing we can outwit most everyone.

You don’t believe me? Of course you don’t cause your mama used to tell you there was always one really stupid kid in every class, but you looked around and couldn’t find him. BOOYAH!

Posted 1:30 PM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

Why Can’t I Just Email It To You?

"I hate you!

"You suck!

"I’m going to rip your heart out and stomp on it a zillion times until you decide to stop screwing with me!"

The fax machine is the last great technological frontier that I have yet to figure out. Other technologies are easy to fix when you have problems. When the copier breaks down, I add more toner and it works. When my computer breaks down, I unplug it and move it to a coworker’s office so it can sit next to her computer, Loretta, and get its jollies throughout the night -- cause everyone works harder after a good night of jollies. But when the fax machine breaks, my only recourse is to stare at it angrily for three hours, while waving my finger and yelling "Why won’t you work right!?!" It gives me more headaches than My Sister Jennie, my 21-year old younger sibling, who screams bloody murder when I spell her name with a Y instead of an IE.

I got a call from a client of ours that needed important papers faxed over right away, and by important I mean the updated leaderboard list from our NCAA College basketball pool. He could have called anyone in the office and asked for help, but out of all the cubes in the entire world he had my number on speed-dial, much like everyone else on the planet with any type of complaint.

So I grabbed the bracket sheet and ‘skipped to My Lou (My Darlin)’ over to the fax machine station, a cubical where many coworkers enter and then vanish, never being heard from again. As sad as that is, I’ve found the station to be useful for disposing of irritating interns and "Sing-O-Gram" clowns. If I could only get Ted Nugent in there.

The lighting in the cube was dim, creating some instant drama, as the LCD screen on our fax machine was the only source of light and glowed as bright as a full moon. (Editor’s Note: quit mooning me, Kevin). I approached the machine, quietly, hoping not to disturb its peaceful rest. I assumed the less aggravation I caused, the more likely the machine will grant my request.

Once in front of the faxing device, I acted quickly, much like an artist that is instantaneously hit by inspiration and has a pen and paper close enough to jot down the lyrics in order to remember them. (Without that inspiration we wouldn’t have such great tunes as "Let It Be" or ‘Um Bop.") I punched in the numbers of my client’s extension, like a pianist tickling the ivory. If you don’t do it fast, the machine may wake up prematurely and kill all hope of having a successful fax.

After hitting the final number, I shoved the NCAA sheet in the fax machine’s mouth, making sure it’s tongue grabbed the edge and began swallowing it. It was working! Sometimes I think life is wonderful.

Then it woke up.

Sirens began going off as the machine started spitting papers out at me, which read "HA HA HA." I’m not quite sure how to react when a mechanical device insults me because 1) It’s a machine and shouldn’t have feelings and 2) I’ve already been reprimanded twice for screaming at the Pop Machine.

So after careful thought and consideration, I grabbed the fax machine, smacking it, punching it, setting it on the ground and doing the leg-drop on it. At one point I climbed to the top of one corner in the cube and actually jumped down on it, giving it what we wrestling fans like to call a "Flying Elbow." The machine was in pieces, in shambles, in hell where it belonged.

I can’t tell you how invigorating it felt to destroy my Archenemy. I was relieved, ecstatic, overjoyed, and hungry. It was my own personal catharsis.

And I smiled knowing that somewhere, someplace, sometime, my office manager is smiling too -- especially while reading the nice anonymous note I left explaining how I saw the new Intern knock over and beat up the Fax Machine.

Posted 3:31 PM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

You’ve Got One Nice Ash

This past Wednesday was Ash Wednesday, an important day on the Catholic calendar. Since I was born and raised Catholic, I figured it was best if I abided by God’s rules for a day. The two main rules on this, of all holy days are:

1) Don’t eat meat and
2) Go to church.

The church thing I don’t mind, as I figure one hour a week isn’t really that big of a deal when it comes to protecting my soul from eternal damnation, but the no meat part of the rule is as devastating to me as finding out the Tooth Fairy gave my sister $1 per tooth compared to the nickel I got. In retrospect maybe I should have taken the money I invested in Dot.coms and put it toward teeth. More importantly, did you ever wonder how the Tooth Fairy has a bottomless pit of money? But I digress.

So I woke up that morning and had to replace my usual sausage, bacon, ham, goetta, burger, steak and cow omelet with a bowl of Fruit Rings, the generic version of the more expensive version. While my arteries thanked me, my stomach complained for about 2 hours. And on my drive to work I experienced the lack-of-meat-shakes, not to be confused with angry-road-rage-shakes.

As my day moseyed on, my body began to adjust. And for lunch I had pizza, though not my usual meat-lovers-heart-stoppers pizza. I got a veggie pizza, which to a meat lover like me is like decaf to a coffee drinker. I survived the day and headed home to get the LGB to go to church.

As we got to church, we sat in a pew in the back. This church must have held about a gillion people, and it made me stop and think that if this many people are holy and live by the "Do unto other as you want them to do unto you" theory, then why do they all bring their dogs to poop in my yard?

We enjoyed the usual hymns and psalms and other funny spelled things you can only find in church. The priest rose and said, "Come forth now to receive your ashes."

I exited my pew and walked down the center aisle. Now at my old church in Cincinnati, I remember there being an orderly fashion of following the row in front of you. Not so in Chicago. Getting ashes or communion is similar to highway traffic -- you get in line as fast as possible and if you're caught leaving even the slightest of room between you and the person in front of you, another church-goer will cut you off. And unfortunately, you realize you are in church and have to put that middle finger back in your pocket.

When I finally arrived up at the alter to receive my ashes, the priest stared at me for a few moments. He was staring at my crotch, which was an extreme concern of mine with all these priest allegations of crotch-staring in the news. I slowly waddled up to him. He placed his thumb in a bowl of ashes (ever wonder where they get those ashes?) and moved his thumb to my enormous forehead.

Then, the priest makes the sign of the cross and says, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."Then came that incredibly awkward moment where I have no idea what to say. It’s not like communion where you give the ever-important word, "Amen." No, this is a special situation that required a special response. Unfortunately I’m not that quick on my feet and blurted out the first thing that came to mind in a loud voice that I’m sure everyone in a 50-mile radius could here:

"SWEET JESUS!"

A deafening silence came over the congregation, as they didn’t know whether or not any of the commandments frown on laughter inside the building of worship. Hanging my head, I began to walk away until the priest grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

"Yes, Father?" I said.

"Son," he said, "Your fly is down."

I looked down and saw my underwear hanging out the place in between my legs where my zipper usually is. I zipped up, shook my head in embarrassment, and headed directly for the exit of the church.

So that’s my story for Ash Wednesday. And after church we did what any good and holy Catholics would do. We hit the bars.

Posted 11:20 AM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

She’s One Smart Cookie

Valentine’s Day is upon us again. What a load of crap. It’s the one day of the year that makes single people feel awful and people with a significant others feel worse. Why? Single people look at other couples and say, "Look at them all happy and stuff. I’m going to be angry and alone for the rest of my life!" And people in relationships look at single people and say, "Look at them all happy and single and not getting yelled at for buying their girlfriend a garbage disposal for Valentine’s Day. Lucky bastards."

The LGB and I usually take it easy for Valentine’s Day. Years ago when we started dating I learned that her birthday was exactly one week after Cupid’s holiday, February 21, and I threw down the gauntlet and said, "Well babe, we can either celebrate your birthday or Valentine’s Day because I only do one holiday per month."

She chose her birthday, which sucked because DVD players and jewelry are more expensive than Snickers bars. But because of that I get one "Get Out Of Jail Free" card each year on the hallmark of all love holidays. Or so she would have me believe.

I have to admit, the LGB is one smart cookie as she knows how to trick me into things. When we initially talked about Valentine’s Day last week, I told her, "Listen, I don’t want to do ANYTHING for Valentine’s Day except sit around and watch TV with the woman I love." I thought that was sweet and at the time she agreed whole-heartedly. So I had plans of coming home, microwaving leftover pizza and sitting on the couch and watching America’s Funniest Home Videos till I fell asleep.

Then two days ago she sent me an email suggesting we see a movie just because we haven’t gone to a movie in awhile. I’m a fan of movies and figured it wouldn’t be too much trouble to head over to the local MegaPlex. It seemed like an okay idea so I said, "Why not."

The following day, which I like to call "Yesterday," she sent me another email saying "Well, since we’re going over to the Movie Theater anyway, we might as well go out to dinner at a restaurant over there." I like eating and it made logical sense, so I emailed her back and said, "Why not."

Valentine’s Day came today, on Friday and on my drive to work this morning I did my typical routine: I got in my car, turned the ignition, picked my wedge and opened my bookbag up to find the face to my car stereo so I could listen to Sports Talkers discuss whether or not the Cubs will win the World Series this year. Considering they haven’t won a series since 1908, chances are slim. While I dug through the mounds of crap stuffed in my bag I noticed a pretty pink card covered in hearts that said "To My Valentine from The LGB."

DAMN!

How did she sneak this into my bag? More importantly, how much trouble will I be in considering that instead of my usual Have-A-Nice-Day kiss I gave her a hearty high-five this morning. I’m sure that if there were a doghouse I’d be sitting in the stinky part. So I made a quick trip to Walgreen’s to look at possible cards I could get for her. Apparently everyone else remembered this holiday and out of the 4 aisles generally full of Valentines only 2 cards remained, leaving slim pickings for a guy whose life depends on it. I ran through my choices figuring at least one had to fit.

The first one had a picture of two cute little cuddly bears on the front, one with a bow-tie on top of its head indicating it’s a female and one without any underpants indicating it’s a male.

On the front it said:"1 plus 1 equals 2 -- Me and You."
On the inside: Happy Valentine’s Day!"

While this card probably would have come in handy in third grade when Sally Strumfield was hot stuff, unfortunately now it’s too cheesy for me and math isn’t exactly the LGB’s strong suit as I learned after cooking her dinner every night last week, which she counted as "twice."

The second one had an old lady on the front, wearing an old lady bonnet and sunglasses the size of Montana. She held a box of heart-shaped candy.

On the front it said: You’re sweeter than a box of candy.
On the inside: But since your doctor says you can’t have any because of your age, all you get is this card.

That’s just asking for a black eye, so with a lack of better options I chose the first card with the bears and picked up some roses to make up for the lame card.

When I finally got to my house after work, I opened the card. On the inside she wrote a bunch of mushy stuff as per usual, but then ended it with: "PS- why don’t you wear that blue tie that looks really good on you when we go out." Flattery will get you everywhere and she’s right, I do look good in that blue tie so once again I said, "Why not."

As I looked back over these emails and the card I realized that my quiet night of watching TV with the woman I love turned into me buying her a card and rose, getting dressed up and taking her out to dinner and a movie. DAMN! I can’t believe it. She’s good. She can be pretty cunning when she wants something. And she out-smarted me this time, but I don’t like her odds of ever doing it again.

They’re about as good as the Cubs winning the World Series.

Posted 12:41 PM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

Flying: Pack Spare Underwear
Part 2

Flying is one of the most miserable experiences in the world, just below being set on fire and just above watching Temptation Island. From the moment I enter the cockpit and the flight attendants, formerly known as stewardesses, give me a smile and a wink, I know I just paid $300 to be tortured in ways only James Bond can withstand. And while I am quite comparable to Mr. Bond, I can’t say I’ve ever seen him cry like a Sally when they shut the cockpit door and start pulling away from the terminal.

That is the moment I realize that I peed a little.

As the plane makes it’s snail-paced dash for the runway, the flight attendants start showing you the safety procedures.

1. Fasten your safety belt.

Is that in case we have a fender bender in the sky with another Boeing 747? If that’s the case, shouldn’t we also have airbags and check to make sure there’s a spare tire in the trunk? I think they force you to wear it just so they don’t get pulled over and given a ticket.

2. Here is the proper way to wear your air-forcing facemask in the case that the pressurization in the cabin changes too rapidly.

Honestly, if the pressurization is changing too rapidly, that means you are taking a nose-dive toward the ground. Instead of putting on the facemask, I think everyone should be given an extra bag of peanuts. Even death row criminals get a final meal. Also, the LGB once pointed out to me that Cosmopolitan dubbed those masks as a ‘fashion don’t."

3. In case of an emergency, you can use your seat as a floatation device.

I think it was Jerry Seinfeld that once said, "Why don’t they make the whole plane out of that stuff?" Valid point. But really, what good does a floatation device do you when you’re dead. Instead, I’d like to leverage for those uncomfortable floatation sponges to be replaced with Lazyboys. If you’re going down, why not go down in comfort.

4. The emergency exits are located at the front and rear of the plane.

That’s a complete lie. As we were speeding up the runway, less than 5 seconds from actually lifting off the ground, I ran back and told the flight attendant to open the door and let me out because there was an emergency. When she asked what my emergency was, I thought it’d sound stupid if I told her I was terrified to fly, so I came up with a completely logical and sound reason for my need to leave.

"I left my son Kevin, who’s only 7 year old, at home all alone accidentally. I’m worried he may eat lots of junk food and watch movies he shouldn’t be watching. I also live in a giant mansion and I’m afraid two inept burglars, known as the Wet Bandits, may try to break in and harm him. While I know he’s extremely cunning for a boy his age and will probably come up with clever traps using Christmas Ornaments and Micro Machines to out-wit and capture these two rogues, I’m concerned that he doesn’t know the code to close the garage door. I better get off and check on him."

For some reason she didn’t quite buy my story and led me directly back to my seat and strapped me in so tight that I had to pull down the air-facemask for oxygen. My neighbor sitting in the seat next to me didn’t appreciate that too much and decided to fall asleep and lay his head on my shoulder. It wouldn’t have bothered me so much if he didn’t have an uncontrollable drooling problem.

During the rest of the flight, all these things happen in no particular order:
Screaming.
Nausea.
Passing out.
Waking back up and passing out again.
More nausea.
Being asked never to fly that airline again.

When we finally landed, I plowed through the crowd knocking over three children, a beastly man and an elderly woman so I could escape the hell know as flight 1240. As I got off the plane, I fell to my knees and kissed the ground in the airport terminal -- then I spent the next twenty minutes trying to clean the gum, which apparently was stuck to the carpet I kissed, off my face.

And as I praised the Lord that the flight was successful and I got home in one piece, I was saddened by the fact that no one was at the airport to pick me up. That used to be the job of my imaginary friend Mark. Boy I miss Mark.

As I returned to my house, I was so thankful that I made it home that I jumped right into bed and flipped on the TV. Unfortunately the cable was out and the only channel I could get was FOX, but that didn’t bother me. My life was good. Everything turned out A-Okay. This day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

"Thank you for tuning into FOX. Sit back, relax and enjoy this special commercial-free 24 hour marathon of Temptation Island."

WHY DO YOU HATE ME GOD!!!

Posted 4:10 PM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

Flying: Pack Spare Underwear
Part 1

I have a pretty strong fear of flying. Sure, I’m like everyone else once we’re in the air -- I close my eyes, throw on the headphones, and crank up some Ricky Martin on my Discman. Ah, if the actual flight was only as sweet as Ricky shaking his "Bon Bon."

I’ve only flown 6 times in my life, yet I’ve wet my pants 8. One extra time involved a giant grizzly bear with enormous fangs and the other dealt with me mistaking my My Buddy doll for a burglar. And I made My Buddy wear my soiled draws for two days as punishment for scaring me.

My hatred of flying doesn’t begin when I get on the plane; it begins when I check in and get my ticket. Usually I wait in line for 45 minutes, but each minute feels longer than watching an episode of Full House. And when I finally arrive at the counter and receive my ticket, I watch the luggage taker toss my suitcase onto the conveyer belt like it’s made out of foam rubber and impenetrable to damage. Then it gets whisked away down the magical shoot and sent to Los Angeles while the plane I’m boarding is heading for Pittsburgh.

Note To Self: Always pack a spare pair of socks and underwear in your carry-on.

The worst part is after the flight. Recently I traveled to New Orleans. While arriving at the luggage terminal, I watched the sticky black merry-go-round spinning round and round taunting me with luggage that I can only assume was intended to arrive in Guam. I’m not sure how many airports they have in Guam, but I’m sure an unusually large part of the population owns "I Love New York" souvenir t-shirts they found in American luggage. And to no avail, my luggage was nowhere in sight.

Now I’m convinced that the airline industry has formed a multi-million dollar committee whose sole responsibility is to determine the most strategic location to hide the "Report Lost Luggage Here Booth." I learned that most people become so lost in the airport trying to find it that they are never heard from again. This happened to Jimmy Hoffa and my imaginary friend Mark.

After three hours of trudging through the airport, in which I saw one man begging for change and another man selling the naming rights of his first born child to American Airlines for cab fare, I finally found the Lost Baggage Claim Desk. A small man that looked like the love child of Gary Coleman and Doogie Howser greeted me with a giant smile and an accent that made every word out of his mouth sound like "Osh-Kosh-Bigosh." To make it easier for you, I will do the translation.

Lost Baggage Man: How can I help you today sir?
Me: Well, I lost my luggage.
Lost Baggage Man: Did you check the baggage terminal for your flight?
Me: No, I did cartwheels around the airport for 4 hours assuming that my bag would magically land at my feet.
Lost Baggage Man: Well sir, you are in for a treat as we have just installed a new luggage-tracking device and it will be able to determine exactly where your luggage is.
Me: Perfect.
Lost Baggage Man: Let’s see. According to the system your luggage went to Los Angeles, made a quick stop in San Fransisco, visited the giant arch in St. Louis and then finally made it to South Dakota.
Me: Glad to hear it. My luggage had never seen the Arch before. Hope it enjoyed the trip. Will my luggage make its way home anytime soon?
Lost Baggage Man: Of course sir.
Me: How long?
Lost Baggage Man: About six weeks.
Me: Six weeks?!
Lost Baggage Man: Well sir, I know it will be hard to believe, but South Dakota isn’t one of our most popular destinations and the next flight in isn’t for six weeks.
Me: I’m never flying this airline again!
Lost Baggage Man: Most people don’t. Have a good day sir.

As I walked away from the baggage claim I noticed that the computer Doogie Coleman was looking at wasn’t even plugged into the wall. So he made everything up, much like my imaginary friend Mark used to do. Boy I miss Mark.

So as you can see, claiming luggage at the airport isn’t the easy task that you young blokes of the world may think. And I can take solace in the fact that somewhere deep in the heart of Guam, someone is enjoying my "I Love New York" shirt. I just hope they send back my Spiderman Underwear.

Come back next week for part two of The Brain’s series on Always Pack Spare Underwear.

Posted 5:17 PM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

King James: The Chosen One
And His Hummer

Not too terribly long ago, I celebrated my 18th birthday. I was a young punk and asked my parents for a car, preferably something I wouldn’t be too embarrassed to drive like a Honda or Toyota. Instead, they gave me a gift that dances in every child’s dreams. They gave me a blue ballpoint pen. And I used that pen to write my parents a thank you letter that included the phrases "You Suck" and "I’ll show you where you can shove this pen."

If only I could play basketball well like LeBron.

LeBron James is a high school senior with a gift known as "basketball skilz." This kid was better than everyone else in the country three years ago when he was 15. He knew it. His mom knew it. His high school began charging other schools $10,000 to play them because they knew it. And now the entire country knows how good LeBron is. Why? Politics and international affairs don’t sell newspapers like they once did.

Now, LeBron has been making headlines all year, which is unusual. He is the first high school basketball star to gain national attention. He’s been on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Every radio show has discussed him. He’s even had three of his high school games televised on ESPN2, and the ratings for all three games were higher than all but two collegiate games this year. Only one thought comes to my mind.

What in the *#%$ were we thinking?

Many people complain that we put too much pressure on young kids in sports, pushing them harder to live out our dreams of being the professional athlete we never became. Lucky for my child, I had bigger dreams of becoming a team’s mascot. So I will impose rigorous training in wearing giant furry costumes for 4 hours a day and have him practice falling on his face for a laugh. Maybe he can become the Reds new mascot (What the hell is that thing, anyway?).

But a mascot is exactly what we’ve turned LeBron into. He’s not playing for the love of the game like he used to. He’s playing for his high school to exploit him for economic gain. He’s playing for ESPN to exploit him for economic gain. And the NBA (National Boring Association) is exploiting him because they know Air Jordan will be gone next year and without his Airness, no one will watch pro basketball because it sucks.

That is, unless King James takes the throne.

Although no fuss was made over the pen I received on the 18th anniversary of my birth, controversy erupted last week as LeBron’s mother, a poor woman that lives in a house the size of an egg carton, took out a loan and gave her son a brand new Hummer, equipped with 3 TVs and a video game hookup. A Frickin’ HUMMER!!!

The high school athletic something or other is looking into the loan she received, because if the car was a gift from an outside source then LeBron loses his amateur eligibility to play in high school and in college. Though, everyone knows Lebron isn’t going to college. I wouldn’t either if I knew $35 million was awaiting my arrival in the NBA.

Honestly, I’ve heard arguments from both sides about the car controversy. He should be suspended. He should be labeled ineligible. He should get to keep his car. He did nothing wrong. And after lots of deep thought over a bag of Cheetos, I think the kid deserves his Hummer and we should all just leave him alone like my prom date chose to do. Everyone else is making boatloads of money off the kid, and I stress kid, so why can’t he bask in any of the benefits? Why can’t he enjoy any of the cash generated from his "basketball skilz?" Why can’t he drive the ugliest car in the world, which exhausts gas quicker than a dad after eating chili, if he chooses to?

LeBron may never make it in the NBA. And our expectations for him are so high that if he doesn’t duplicate the success of Michael Jordan, we will verbally destroy this kid and ruin his mind. And he’ll end up in jail with Bubba, his future husband. So let the kid enjoy what he can now, cause two years from now he could be collecting your garbage every Monday morning.

And in retrospect that pen wasn’t such a bad gift for my birthday after all. I used it to poke holes in all the tires of the car my parents gave my sister for her 18th birthday.

Posted 1:59 PM by Brian K

From The Brain of The Giant Head

God, I Love FOX

After a nice hiatus of Christmas cheer, lots of great food and a few games of foosball, I’m back for this new day and age of 2K3. My mind is refreshed. My body is a’bouncing. And I’m ready to welcome you into a New Year of insightful humor from my Brain.

Great news has been rampant over the first week of 2003 and there are about 8 billion things I could talk about from the economic woes of the United States to the Buckeyes national championship to possible war on Iraq. But out of all the latest news, the most prevalent issue I feel needs some poking is a brand new television show that has 20 eligible women, one handsome bachelor, and a love relationship based around the biggest lie since we landed on the moon -- which we all know was just a fictitious story to piss off the Commies.

God, I love FOX.

I’ve never been a fan of reality TV. Nothing interests me less than 30 people eating goat spleens to "survive" or 10 strangers trapped in a house without the annoyances of everyday life like Rosie O’Donnell, but FOX has finally created a show even I can sink my teeth into. Say hello to Mr. Joe Millionaire.

In this twist of fate show, Joe Millionaire is a tall, handsome man that looks like a cover of GQ. And although his brain functions a little slower than the average Cabbage Patch Doll, his dialogue chirps and aspires as charm. I mean, if I was gay I’d date the guy. Especially if he was worth $50 million, right?

To win his love, 20 lovely ladies made the trip to "his" castle in France and began fighting over him as soon as they arrived. Was it for his good looks and charm? Of course not -- they hadn’t even met Mr. Millionaire yet. Who they did meet was his butler, Paul Hogan (wasn’t that the name of the guy who played Crocodile Dundee?). The butler informed the sweet lassies that up until 2 years ago, Mr. Millionaire was a poor man who worked as a pooper-scooper for a zoo (or something like that), but then a rich relative died and he inherited over $50 million. The drool poured out onto their chins as they dreamt of wiping the drool off with million dollar bills. But of course, they all claim they are in it to find "true love."

The best part about this show, and the reason I’m breaking my "I Refuse To Watch Reality TV Edict," is that there is no money. This guy is no millionaire. This guy picks up animal dung for a living and, last time I checked, that career path garners slightly more in salary than your typical microwave. But none of the femmes know. And none of them will know until the finale, when he picks his filly, tells her "You’re The One," and then says, "Oh, by the way, I don’t have millions of dollars and I clean poop for a living."

God, I love FOX.

A friend of mine sent me an email his brother wrote after watching the first episode. Both my friend and his brother graduated from my alma mater, Ohio University. This was too true and too funny for me not to share with all of you. Here’s what his letter had to say:

"So there we were, enjoying the latest trash that Fox has puked onto our television sets, mindlessly staring at the godbox. All of a sudden, the flickering image ignited a synapse in my brain. Recognition occurred. "I know one of those girls!"
"My girlfriend looked at me. ‘What?’
"‘Dude, that's Melissa! My roommate in summer of senior year!’ We looked on with baited breath. Yes, there she was -- her red hair unmistakable and her name at the bottom of the screen. We waited through the first "choosing ceremony" were Joe gives each girl a pearl necklace (Get it? Very subtle, Fox), but unfortunately (?) she wasn't chosen.
"I feel the need to say here that she's a very nice, very good person. She subleased a room in our house, and turned a completely male pigsty inhabited by hockey players, skaters, and art freaks into a place that our girlfriends were no longer scared to stay. Her first day there, she put potpourri, flowers, and pictures of babies dressed like bumblebees in our very disgusting bathroom (that one baffled us for weeks). She was a cool girl. I would have never expected to see her on a show like that.
"Interesting side note: She was a theater major. Do we question the legitimacy of the show now (or did we ever need to)?" -- Jeff C.

As a fellow OU grad, I take solace knowing that other grads are going on to bigger and better things. And now we have another star graduate to add to the list of MacGyver, Matt Lauer and the guy who played Al Bundy. But I’m glad she got booted in the first round. And in retrospect, I bet she’s glad too.

Every other reality show thus far has cast stardom on all its participants. Shows like Survivor and The Amazing Race promote endurance and skill and attempt to give each contestant a stage to light up. But not this network. Not this show. Joe Millionaire will let all of America see what people are really like. They aren’t cunning or smart or able to count to 20 even while barefoot. They’re mean. They’re greedy. And now they have a platform to display those qualities and humiliate themselves in front of millions of viewers for the next 2 months.

God, I love FOX.