Was gonna give my review on Harold and Kumar go to White Castle, instead I’ll share with you a deleted Guestbook entry…

Your guestbook has been signed by mark.

The message was:
i saw you at the M Bar in LA and you hosted the worst show i’ve ever seen in my life. talking louder doesn’t make you any funnier, in fact you’re not funny at all. every second i was in that room i was gritting my teeth. everyone at my table felt the same way. plus you screwed up every act you introduced by butting into their act. you suck. you SUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKK!!!!!!!!!
telling every one i know to never attend anything you will be within 20 miles of.

Date: 30th July 2004 – 18:17
E-mail: masternibblet@hotmail.com

My response…

Just doing the best I can, sorry.

Hey Mark, be a real man and write me privately. Saw the crowd, know I can kick your ass, plus you’re a nobody (I think?). And you don’t get it, that’s the worst of all.

But then again, maybe you’re right.

Natalie Portman is turning into Julia Roberts and I’m sick of Jeff Bridges’ AmeriQuest voice overs.

Last night’s Brody Stevens and People II was a critical success, the community of humor came out in force, looking for diversion, bogged down by what other less sophisticated types call politics.

No Bush bashing, no robot jokes, no rape, too gay, babies or anything like that. My crew and I provided 80, okay 60, maybe 55 partial strangers with chuckles, no doubt carrying over to select respective communal popcorn microwaves.

Hamilton Beach now makes a popcorn-only microwave, more specific housewares doesn’t necessarily equate to smarter appliances. Yeah, tell Fry’s that.

Final word on show, almost forgot to mention, full frontal male nudity (not me), beyond uncomfortable, beyond in a time sense as well, visible for over two minutes. Felt like a junior college art class, pass the clay. Gross doesn’t even begin to do this spectacle justice.

Earlier today, slightly sprained my ankle shooting free throws. Usually sprain left ankle, it’s been through a lot, also broke my foot in 7th grade.

Another severe ankle sprain back in 86, Anaheim Stadium where the Angels beat Boston’s Red Sox, Game 4 of the AL Championship Series. We ran on the field following California’s victory, celebrating a commanding three games to one lead.

Did my best Gary Pettis imitation, leaping up against the left center field wall, robbing a would be fantasy home run. Instead, rolled my ankle on the warning track. Instant fetal position, ouch.

Oil Can Boyd was laughing.

The next day, Dave Henderson hit the infamous home run off Angel closer Donnie Moore. I watched at home with ice, ace bandages and all. Moore struggled with the loss, just one strike away from the World Series.

Three years later, Moore committed suicide.