Amazing People

That's not the moon in the right corner. It's a cumspot on the porthole window. Ew.

You and I are not amazing people. We might be pretty decent. We might rock it: be good spouses, parents, make decent cash, have cool hobbies. Sure. We could be those things and more.

But we are not upper echelon. I’m talking like Astronaut level.

Because I am a total slut for astronauts. I mean, can you imagine waking up one morning and saying to yourself: “Today I’m going up into space to do some repairs on a 500 million dollar space station.”

No. You cannot imagine that. Neither can I. My brain is literally incapable of comprehending that.

Like that astronaut who was Congresswoman Gabby Giffords’ husband. Kinda funny looking, but still — he’s an astronaut. In zero gravity, everybody looks better. Those space suits are the final word in looking like an absolute badass.

He was on all those news programs talking about his wife’s recovery. The man’s wife, you’ll recall, was shot in the head at point-blank range.

You and I — mere mortals next to this guy — would probably freak out a bit. Some of us might take a few days off work, maybe delay going on a long business trip.

Not this guy. He’s staring into those news cameras, day in and day out, just giving his deadpan report on the situation. Talk about equilibrium.

I need about four Xanax to achieve that kind of equilibrium. This guy’s got it in spades.

I suppose you’d have to to become an astronaut. Number one requirement on the job description for an astronaut: Anything short of a total nuclear holocaust should not impress you in the least.

That’s why guys like him go to Space while guys like me go to Dunkin Donuts.

If I went up into Space, you can be sure that the mission would be pursuing a lot of non-scientific objectives. They’d want me to go up there and monitor some plant experiments or conduct a few tests using the robotic arm mechanism and I’d be busy shooting blue racquetballs at floating space debris.

I can tell you one thing: there is no way I’ll be passing up zero gravity sex. Or, at least, if there’s no one to let me into their fold, I plan on conducting one of the most elaborate masturbation rituals in the history of mankind.

I’d go into a closet, open my tub of petroleum jelly (which I brought as part of my 10 pound personal effects allowance) and start in. I don’t think they allow incense burning on the space shuttle, but if they do, I’d be burning some nice jasmine/lavender blend. I’d put on a little Pink Floyd, look out the tiny porthole window at the dazzling blue ball of earth as I cupped my own dazzling blue balls with fingers recently dipped in KY Hot Sensations. Think about how awesome that would be. And no cleanup! Your semen would just float up in little clusters and you could simply snatch it up into a small tupperware, close the lid, and let it keep floating.

If Mission Control started hassling me to finish up, I might even put my headphones on mute for a while and just let those buzz cuts blabber on:

“Unibrow. There’s a small fire in Compartment B. Please check it out.”

“Mission Control, can it wait? I’ve almost taken this experiment to its fullest completion.”

“No Captain. The fire is growing steadily.”

“Okay. Let me just grab my s’mores kit and I’ll head over to check it out.”

Quintessential nut warmer

Yep. I’d make the world’s worst astronaut.

Ernest Borgnine, the old school Hollywood actor of McHale’s Navy and Dirty Dozen fame, once shared his favorite quote with Esquire magazine. He said:

“When I was young, I wanted to light the world on fire; now I just want to keep my nuts warm.”

That’s why I go gaga for astronauts. Next to them — and Presidents, Nascar driver Jimmie Johnson, and those guys who freeclimb 500 foot cliffs — we are all just nut-warmers.

So relax.

Why not join me in the luke warm jacuzzi of the middling millions and billions?

The Astronauts among us have got it all under control.

The Gay Godfather

This man cannot sweat.

Recently, I had the good fortune of being present at a baptism where the godfather asked me, during the celebration, to stand up and say a few words on his behalf in my best Don Corleone impression. I pulled out some of the classic stuff: “Never go against the family.”

Or “Maybe one day you can do a favor for me.”

The audience liked it. They were easily pleased and already drunk, I think.

Doing a good Godfather impression is really not that big of a deal nowadays. Of all the impersonations out there, the Godfather is probably the most ubiquitous besides Elvis. So I got to thinking about how much funnier it would be if you put the Godfather in situations he didn’t normally belong.

The Godfather at the neighborhood pool.

“These floaties you want I should pop them?”

The Godfather takes his grandkids to the ice rink.

“I would like to sharpen my own skate blades, please.”

The Godfather working his second job at Dunkin Donuts.

“I gonna give 20 munchkins he can’t refuse.”

The Godfather walks into a gay bar:

“Well, hello Mr. Man in the fancy suit and the red rose. Is that for me?”

No answer.

“So. What can I do you for?”

[The Godfather leans on the bar].

“Come here. I wanna talk ta you.”

“Oooh, up close and personal. I like it.”

[Flaming bartender leans in].

“Are you, uh. Are you uh a one of those guys who doesn’t need to go to prison ‘fore he takes it in the ass?”

Ohhhhh. Bam. The Godfather cuts to the chase!

See the thing about The Godfather — about being that kinda pimpah’s pimp — is that you are never thrown off by any situation in which you find yourself. You are one of those rare people whose very presence dictates the temperature of a room.

The Godfather could be hangin’ qwith Idi Amin and Lady Gaga and he’d roll how he wanted to roll. He’d be like:

“Hey Idi how do people taste? I never had a reason to try one myself. Nothing beats a good filet mignon.”

Or he’d be like: “Gaga, is there something the Godfather can do for you?”

Gaga would at first say no. But then she would realize that owing the Godfather a favor was a privilege. The threat of having the Godfather be disappointed in you and breaking your limbs was better than the threat of him not having anything to do with you at all.

The Unibrow should remind you of The Godfather.

He only likes to DO. Even if he’s wrecking shop and causing calamity, he still believes that’s a better use of his time than finding out contemplating Voltair or getting a pHD in what-the-fuck-ever.

So today, if you’re walking around letting the temperature of a room set your mood, remember that your own inner (or maybe outer) Unibrow has a different agenda.

The Godfather says:

“Give me one good Unibrow, and I’ll bring this city to its knees!”

Tribe Mentality

His mom lived in another galaxy and he still needed to call her. Your mom lives in Des Moines. What's YOUR excuse?

Since returning from Africa, where his kin live, the Brow has been experiencing a new-found love for his bloods.

Family is the shit sometimes.

Cause having a tribe is something we all need. We like to pretend that’s not the case, but it is. That’s why wars are here to stay. Because ain’t nobody touching my tribe.

Sure, today it could be a tribe called America versus a tribe called Taliban. But it could just as easily be a tribe called “chefs” versus a tribe called “softball rec league players” were the Armageddon to happen and you had to go with the group of people you were currently with, not having time to rush home and get the wife and kids.

The fact is, people love belonging to shit.

There’s this idea floating around out there that we like to go it alone, make our own way in the world. In America, especially, a sense that only when you leave home and strike out on your own can you really become a success. Even if your family’s home was posh, with guesthouses bigger than most people’s regular houses, and your every need or whim taken care of, you were not allowed to stay there. You had to leave in order to gain self-respect. And once you left, you could not come back, because there would be strings attached.

American young people don’t like those strings. Young people in other countries — you know, those places where there’s far less to go around and a scarcity of good things happening in the public arena — like to stay home around their parents and relatives. Americans like to judge those people in a roundabout way, where they might run major articles in their magazines that discuss things like: “Alarming Number of 30 Year-Olds Return Home.”

Why is “returning home” such a bad thing? I mean, if your dad’s an alcoholic and your mother is a hoarder, okay. You should probably adopt another tribe. But if they’re really nice people who just want you around? Is that bad?

Ray Romano, of Everybody Loves Raymond fame, lived in his parents’ basement until he was 30. I bet his parents were wonderful people. Ray, also, probably liked the fact that his mom did his laundry and would cook him his favorite meal every Monday night, like clockwork (it was Penne all Arrabiata, btw).

If your family lives in a really crap town, okay. Then you can move away. I see your point.

But other than that, what’s the rush?

Yeah, there’s the idea of having a place to call your own where you can have parties and host significant others for special playtime. Being with parents certainly cramps that.

What many Americans like to do, though, is strike out on their own, get jobs, raise families, and wait for the inheritance to kick in after mom and dad have been stashed in a nursing home for a few years.

Then, while cruising the lake in the new speedboat they bought with dad’s pension payout, they can look over at their friends and their children (who are plotting ways to kill them) and say: “Boy am I glad I left home and struck out into the world on my own. I learned so many valuable lessons that made me the man I am today.”

As The Godfather so plainly demonstrates, the erosion of the family in America is a harmful thing.

When you stick close to your family, you learn patience, tolerance, and acquire the skill of focusing on the good in each person. The Brow has been watching America closely. He has noticed that people nowadays are in less of a rush to cast off the chains of family and relations.

This is all to say that, if you haven’t done so already today, call your mother. Tell her how swell she is. Or tell her you forgive her.

She’s been waiting to hear from you.

Tribal pride. Over n out.

Chasing the Bush

Rodney Farva carries a deep Browness within him.

Dear Friends of the Unibrow (can I call you my pallicles?):

The UniBrow was in Africa for the past two weeks getting in touch with his ancestral Browness. Hence the lack of posts.

While on this trip, an elephant trapped The Brow on a small dirt road, 4 miles from camp, just before sunset, appearing very eager to use the car for tusking and goring practice.

It was, by these people’s standards, a thoroughly dull and insignificant encounter.

Funny. The Brow was under the impression that the threat of being trampled by a musking bull elephant, having to crawl out of a mangled car and traverse 4 miles of raw African wilderness in the dark without so much as a compass or flashlight would count for something.

But here in Africa it’s just called livin’.

THAT is why Africa is the true Temple of The Brow.

Oh, and is it juvenile for The Brow to mention that the South Africans call the wilds “the bush”? The Brow spent much of his time trying to get South Africans to repeat “the bush” with varied other linguistic attachments, such as in:

Me: “What’s the best part about the bush?”

Woman: “When I’m in the bush, I feel so connected to my roots.”

Me: “How long before we get to the bush?”

Woman: “Oh, about twenty minutes.”

Me: “What’s one of the first things we’ll do in the bush?”

Woman: “That depends on what you prefer.”

Me: “I’m into whatever.”

Woman: “This bush has something for everyone.”

See? South Africans are great sports.

It’s good to be back in the saddle, blogging among my Browmates.

Scoot over.

Super Troopers is on.


Johnny Chimpo also loves going to the bush.

Robot From Future Sent Back in Time to Edit Blog

T-22: Blog Control Bot - Sector Omega 31

In what many see as a last-ditch, desperate ploy to save the internet, a robot from the year 2037 has been sent back in time to help a novice writer give focus and clarity to his budding blog. T-22, a late model titanium composite humanoid, remarked: “Young talent unchecked or unguided can have negative outcomes for the species.”

After suddenly appearing next to a dumpster beside the last-remaining Barnes & Noble on the west coast, T-22 politely adjusted his bow-tie and proceeded to the nearest bus stop to catch the Blue Line west on Alameda Avenue.

The young writer, area twenty-something Joe Mancuso was at his girlfriend’s house furiously composing yet another rambling blog entry, this one tentatively titled “Kittens Have Claws Too.”

“Last month, he posted forty-seven entries,” added T-22. “This month, it will be 58. By the year 2015, he will be averaging 150 posts a month. Then, after inheriting some money, he will employ a team of college interns to write ‘in his voice’, though he will still not have received the kind of careful, wise mentorship that would have helped him define just exactly what that voice might be.”

“Without someone of normal disposition to give meaning and validity to his efforts, it’s entirely conceivable that Joe could continue doing this for the rest of his life, never fully aware of the tragedy of it all.”

Shuddering, T-22 adds: “Now, hold on. Yeah, I think I missed my stop. These L.A. bus routes get me every time.”

Jessica Williams – Comedy Kryptonite

Cute chipmunk cheeks store nuts of unfunny

Are you an expert at something? That must be so, like, totally awesome. I couldn’t imagine being an expert.

I suppose you could say that I am an expert at being inexpert. If you want to see someone fall off a balance beam, I’m your man.

People find the most incredible things to become experts at. Sure, you’ve got your run-of-the-mill expertise — businessing, lawyering, doctoring, engineering, sciencing. These are what we call the “Big Five” in the expertise world.

Then you’ve got other types of expertise that are decidedly second-tier, but still very valuable: taxidermy, baseball trivia, fly fishing, car stereo installation, astrology, governance.

Below that come the really ridiculous expertises: Beetle taxonomy, geocaching, photography, biblical scholarship and the like.

But way down at the bottom, beneath such ridiculous expertises as tightrope-walking, archery, acting and geology — you find the comedians and the writers.

Think about it: these are people who believe there is a world out there that will actually pay you money for your effort to pluck original thoughts out of your brain that might elicit varying forms of amusement.

Somehow — utilizing an alchemic blend of knowledge, experience, and timing — the comedian/writer is meant to put food on his table.

Sure, a comedian is good for wearing witty obscure t-shirts or asking you to check out his butt tattoo. But if there’s a fire in the house and no firemen to come around — you’d still rather have a doctor or businessman nearby than a comedian. The comedian would be like: “Whoa, looks like you weren’t kidding when you said we’d be blazing today, bro!”

Then you’d be like: “Can you grab some water for that fire?”

And he’d be like: “Dude. It’s like that fire totally has cotton mouth.”

You might then say: “This isn’t funny. My dog’s running around with his tail on fire.”

“Yeah. I always knew your dog liked to get lit too.”

It’s a good thing Moses — and not some comic old beardy man — was around to see the Burning Bush when it happened. Moses was a good community organizer and legal theorist. He knew to take a Burning Bush seriously when one talked at you.

Me? I’d just be cracking wise about all the redheads I’ve gone to bed with.


So when a comedy show does actually become a haven for good writing and money-making, I find myself getting a bit sensitive. The Daily Show is a great example of a group of people who somehow are making “the funny” pay. They are a clan of moderate leftists trying to speak some truth to power. Their leader, a kindly old Jew, is flanked by a team comprised of some token white people, an Indian, some African-American gents, a quasi-Hispanic, a quasi-Asian…as far as satisfying the affirmative action policies of broadcast comedy, they are stacked.

…with one exception. They didn’t have an African-American woman permanently on the correspondent team until this year. Enter Jessica Wiliams — sweet, young, charming in mixed company, I’m sure.

But we are also watching her learn on the job. They are trying their darnedest to give her good segments, feature her, and get the crowd behind her — and here’s one Unibrow that hopes she finds that right note soon.

Because, as it stands right now, we are seeing what happens when focus groups point out to the Comedy Central executives: “Hey, where all the funny sistahs at?”

Jessica Williams, you have the same bland name as my first girlfriend. And, like I was about her, I’m worried about you too.

C’mon girl, loosen up and get stoopid with this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

New Research Confirms Life is a Bowl of Cherries

All of life

Biologists at the University of Texas-Austin presented results of a decades-long study Tuesday, confirming that life is, in fact, a bowl of cherries.

“Initially, we thought this can’t be possible. Look around you. There’s cars, biscuits, chairs, livestock, fleece, rivers…more things in life than we can possibly even name,” says lead researcher Prof. Tom Gabriel. “Surely life can’t, at the end of the day, just be one thing.”

“And cherries at that!” he added, throwing up his hands in exasperation.

“We thought it might be a box of chocolates. Full of ups and downs. A game of give and take. A carnival, even. But no, after rigorous testing of all these hypotheses, it’s confirmed. Cherries it is.”

Dean Mike Kazmier, head of the UT-Austin College of Arts & Sciences, supports the findings: “There will be many people who will hold up things like babies and paychecks, saying, perhaps: ‘Life is love.’ ‘Life is work.’ I fully understand their misgivings. But the research has answered all these rebuttals with a resounding no. It’s cherries.”

“What many don’t understand is that, here on earth, we see variation and complexity in everything. But you need to comprehend astrophysics to fully answer this question,” added Prof. Gabriel.

Dr. Lars Simzick, of the Bonn Institute, provides the final analysis: “When viewed from deep space and through the lens of infinite time, all galaxies appear to be fine balls of dimly glowing crimson. The universe, we argue in this paper, is actually bowl-shaped, not infinitely expanding in every direction as was previously thought. Hence: Bowl of Cherries. It’s all very literal.”

In encouraging people to accept this cherry-ness of life, Dean Kazmier ends on a hopeful note. “Remember: some sweet, some sour, watch out for pits and don’t eat more than you can stomach. And always rinse out the bowl when you’re done. Non-metaphorically speaking, of course.”

Man Prefers Facebook Friends to Actual Friends

Brett Bucks, in the sweet bosom of solitude, planning his Facebook status updates for the week ahead

Glendale, Arizona resident Brett Bucks remarked Friday that he no longer has patience for friends who insist on “conversing” with him regularly.

“Look, it’s pretty simple. I’d rather run things through status updates. When I’m talking face-to-face with a friend I have to maintain eye contact, respond to what they’re saying in real-time, do things with them and, in general, avoid just sort of walking off in the direction of a pretty flower or some other friend I find more interesting. I mean, what’s up with that?”

Bucks’ wife, Tammy adds: “Through the power of the internet, Brett and I can sit safely at home, carefully planning our interactions with those people we call friends. Do I want to be funny or sincere in this interaction? Do I want to send this person birthday wishes or perhaps a cherry tree for their farm? Also, there’s the constant effort that goes into sorting and posting photos of us doing things without our friends, but which we want them to know we were doing anyway.”

“Pretty soon,” adds Bucks, “I’m also going to have to start passive aggressively expressing my dissatisfaction with my job and with my marriage. What am I supposed to do? Simply sit down with my wife and ‘talk it out’ for what could amount to a few hours of my undivided attention? No thanks. I’d rather change my relationship status to “It’s Complicated” and post a few pictures of this new houseboat I bought in Tampa.”

Tammy, nodding vigorously at her husband’s confessions, adds: “Personally, I’m just hoping I can fix what’s broken inside of me by getting enough tokens in Castleville to upgrade my cottage, hopefully attracting a handsome prince who I know will treat my avatar right. I deserve that much.”

Let’s Go Commando

Naked from the waist down

In times of trouble, my sense is that fewer people are going commando. I mean, unless times are really bad — like Congo bad — then everyone’s basically just happy to have a pair of pants.

When the money and cocaine are flowin’ like they were in the 80s, a lot of people are thinking “to hell with all this underwear.”

Underwear is for people who can’t close.

Also, people rarely reminisce about how great the late 60s and early 70s were for the underwear-free movement. Thank you, Janis Joplin and women’s lib for making the down-the-shirt nipple sighting a possibility.

I’ll be honest here and say that, besides putting another layer of fabric between you and the external garment to absorb pee trickle, I’ve never really understood the point of underwear.

This is why I sometimes find it hard to make real headway in life.

Because while people like you are moving forward at the beginning of each day, thinking higher, more complex and adult thoughts, I still am often stopped in my tracks as I prepare to don a pair of undies. I think: “Wait, why am I doing this again? Oh yeah, the pee trickle.”

Frankly, the only piece of undergarment that makes innate sense is the bra. Even though I’m a guy, I feel ya ladies. See, I suffer from a hereditary condition which it pains me to talk about. Let’s just say that the men in my family can get a bit prematurely top-heavy. It’s manageable — much like with diabetes or asthma — only if I stay eternally vigilant.

As with any major medical condition, it can often be a blessing in disguise. Diabetics, for example, often use their diagnosis to get healthy and finally overcome their fear of needles. For chesty males, it’s often a question of empty carb intake. When I’m in a healthy mode, maybe staying on the wagon for a few weeks, you can hardly tell I have a disease. But when I go through a partying phase, you may as well name my man-maries Whiskey and Beer.

In fact, when I work out, that’s what I call them in my mind. Fuck you, whiskey. Fuck you, beer. And they bounce on and on, causing all kinds of back pain and nipple burn.

I think that, as part of health education class in junior high, students should be forced to cross gender for a day, just to see what the other team has to go through parts-wise. Boys should don a water balloon-filled D-cup and do ten laps around the soccer field. That will definitely do a lot to help them understand why women are so emotional.

And the girls should stuff a prosthetic cock n balls in their pants and go run errands. It’ll help them understand why men are always devoting at least 5% of their awareness and energy to maintaining a running dialogue with the little team down there.

As for going commando, it really is as its name describes — it’s about being bold, adventurous, almost ruthless. You say, “I am immune to the curse of the pee stain! There is no sagging here! I am ready to get undressed quicker — and have cocaine-fueled sex faster — than any of you!”

When the economy is down, we aren’t looking for commandos. We’re looking for grunts. We want everyone to hunker down, stop doing drugs and save a little money. Having that extra layer of underwear is an easy way for people to enhance their sense of security.

“My balls, you say? Oh, they, much like my stock portfolio and IRA, are completely secure.”

So let’s take a moment to consider going commando. Sure we need our grunts in a recession. But the only way you ever really get out of a pickle is when some commando motherfucker steps into the room and starts wrecking shop.

eHow Style Section Can Kiss My Ass

After the women, the Blacks and the Gays get all their rights, the ACLU is going to be looking for the next minority that needs some help doing judicial ass-kicking. Allow me, please, to make my case for the Unibrows of the world.

It seems that people in our society clam up every time someone makes an inappropriate gay or racial joke, but they have no problem telling Unibrows that they “really need to pluck that thing.”

Do we ask the gays to just stop being gay?? (Okay, we kinda do).

Well then do we ask the black folk to just stop being so darned black? (Okay, we kinda do that too).

Please read the excerpt below from’s “useful” tips on dealing with a Unibrow. This aggression will not stand, man. It just will not stand.

eHow recommends:
“Don’t be afraid to admit your unibrow status. Better to take care of it, and keep your style intact, than walk around sprouting whiskers from above the bridge of your nose.
Give friends and family subtle hints if they are not taking care of the problem. After all, if their style is affected, so is yours by hanging out with them. Offer to do your own (even if you don’t have one) to get them to rid themselves of theirs too.”
Personally, I wouldn’t take advice from people who think bleaching your asshole is a reasonable thing to do. It’s a topsy turvy world, indeed, when a Unibrow can’t just remain how the good Lord made him. Oh, and as for having fewer friends based on my style-affecting Unibrow? Well, I can’t really speak to that. It probably has a lot more to do with my personality.