Well... I was pretty certain it would happen... and from the looks of things, I was right all along. My little creation, Poopy Bear, is budding into an overnight success in Hollywood. His new owner, MovieWeb film reviewer extraordinaire,B. Alan Orange, emailed to update me on Poopy Bear's life in Los Angeles. And let's just say...um... it's fucking awesome!!

B. Alan writes: "I'm in Hollywood for six years, and I can't get the phone number of the eight-toed Mexican lady that works at the Laundromat by my house. Poops is in town for less than two weeks, and he's already in Paris' Blackberry (she's the one that gave him the nickname Poops)."

That's right folks. Paris Hilton nicknamed him Poops! I have to call him that now, because Paris is like the goddess of trademarking phrases and names and shit.

Not only did B. Alan update me on Poop's life... he also sent me some photos of he and the lovable little guy, and some new celebrity friends, during a preview party for the new movie, "House of Wax."


I think it's love at first sight! Paris Hilton absolutely adores Poops!
I can see it now, "The Simple Life, Season 4: Poops & Paris!"

Elisha Cuthbert, on the other hand, thinks our little friend is a little... stinky.
I think she'd succumb to his irresistible love if she really tried though.

Jared Padalecki is already best buds with Poops!
I could totally see them hitting the bars for beers and babes in LA.

Chad Michael Murray is used to a One Tree Hill.
I don't know if he's quite ready for One Poopy Bear.

House of Wax writers, Chad & Carey Hayes (or Carey & Chad Hayes) are pleased
to be posing with the Poops.
They rock. I hope their movie does too!

I don't think House of Wax producer, Joel Silver, wanted anything to do with Poopy Bear.
That's ok though. I still like his movies.

It won't be long, probably, until Poops is directing his own movies.
He really looks comfortable in that chair!

There was a lot of cool shit to see during the party.
Poops really enjoyed the wax props.

Here's the man behind Poop's newfound fame, B. Alan Orange,
posing with screen legend, Burt Reynolds.
Thanks so much, B. Alan, for giving Poops the time of his life!
Now, if only WE could get into Paris' Blackberry!

I just flew in from Vegas... and man are my chips tired!! I don't think I've walked that much since... uh... the last time I was in Vegas. I'm pretty exhausted from all the excitement of this year's NAB Convention (aka non-stop drinking and Craps)... but I couldn't wait to post a few pictures from our adventures.
First of all, I stayed at the Imperial Palace, which is about the halfway point of the "Strip."

Despite the cheap cost of the Palace, I was really pleased with my room. The view of the "Strip" was pretty damn sweet... and the water pressure in the shower was very strong... which is always an important factor in a relaxing hotel visit for me.

The only thing about the Palace that creeped me out was one of its casino attractions, the "Dealertainers." These are celebrity impersonators who deal Blackjack... and occasionally crawl up into a cage-like stage, and put on a quick show for the gamblers. There's just something really unsettling about these performers though. I would walk by some of them and recognize them as their intended personas... Elvis, Shania Twain, Slash, or Little Richard. But others were completely off the mark. And then there's the whole "Michael Jackson" thing. I didn't actually see him in person. I'm guessing it's because the real Jacko is on trial for molestation, so they took him out of the rotation (smart move if this is true). But the pictures of the Michael "Dealertainer" was everywhere around the casino. And if you ask me, he looks more like a cross between a Grey Alien, and a zombie. Who knows... at least none of them tried to eat my brains.

When I wasn't running away from the "Dealertainers", I was accomplishing a few of my obligatory tasks in Las Vegas. First, I had to flip off that Sunnuvabitch, Danny Gans. Who does he think he is, anyway? Fucking bastard with his iconic, larger than life, photo plastered right on the strip. Below his ugly face, is a simple statement, "Entertainer of the Year." What year would that be?? 1982?!?! And where is he the "Entertainer of the Year?" His own backyard? He's a craptastic loser, and he shall surely go down in flames!!!

After reaffirming my hatred for Gans, I promptly made my way to the nearest showgirl, and had my picture taken with her. I hope to do this every year... and when I'm like 50 years old... they can do a photo-progression of me with a showgirl... kind of like they did with the Pope and how he degenerated over the years.

When I finally met up with Robot and Melinda, we kicked it up a notch in Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum in the Venetian. Being a TV News Producer, I thought it only proper to start off my visit by exchanging some skin with weather guru, Al Roker.

Of course, we left our respect for wax figures at the door... and went to work.
Robot seemed to be the friskiest. I know they're hot boobies, but they are just wax. Eh... who cares.

Boobies are boobies... and a fine badonkadonk, regardless of its wax makeup, is still worth a feel.

Of course, being the aspiring vampire he is, Robot did get a little hungry for blood... and tried all he could to suck some from our lifeless victims.

I, on the otherhand, was still fascinated by the wax boobies. Mmm... Britney... pre-Federline, and white-trash-bun-in-the-oven days.

During his vampiric rage, Robot also had the "slapass" fever. First up, it was Lucille Ball. She never saw it coming. But hey, who doesn't love a little Lucy?

Next up on the slap-ass-apalooza... Elton John. I know this was a "wax" figure... but I could have sworn I saw a little "wood" emerge from Elton, after Robot's love pat... who knows.

Apparently, vampires are also very amorous. Robot invited Jodi Foster to his prom, and she accepted. There they are in their prom photo.

Shortly after, we ran into Whoopi, so I decided to show her my love. But she was a little unsure about that, as you can see by her look of disdain.

The Rock wasn't up for any of Robot's shenanigans either. Oh well.
There are soooooo many photos from our trip into the House of Wax. So I'll call it a night for now... and post more pics later.
I think I'm having Craps withdrawals. I desperately have an urge to yell, "come on shooter" and play the odds on the field. Maybe I need to get a Craps table in my house... hmmm...
Oh well... until next time!

Daddy's Comin' Home!

Well... the phenomenon wasn't quite as big as I thought it would get... but my little friend Poopy Bear sure did find himself a new home on the eBay. He got all of two bids, but that's really more than I ever expected. I figured the auction would run its course, and end with no results. But luckily, I have good friends. A buddy of mine, I met through LL Robot, B. Alan Orange was hip to Poopy Bear's irresistible power, and appeal... and won the auction. So, after about a week of clinging to Poopy bear for dear life preparation, I finally mailed off Poopy Bear to his new home in sunny Southern California. I think he'll love it there... movie stars, Palm Trees, babes, hookers, and last but not least, booze! They're also a pretty liberal crowd down there... so they'll probably embrace him for who he is... a teddy bear living with IBS.

To sweeten B. Alan's purchase a little (I'm a good eBay seller), I expanded Poopy Bear's universe a bit. I created a certificate of authenticity for him, so everyone will know Poopy Bear is a one of a kind item (for now).

And like any respectable collectible, Poopy Bear now has his very own custom name tag. No one can ever not know who Poopy Bear is now.

I then, oh so very gently, packaged PB into his shipping container. I threw in some of that crappy packing nut shit that always brims over in every Amazon.com purchase I receive in the mail, lots of bubble wrap, an air-tight plastic bag around PB (in case of moisture), and a plastic sleeve around his certificate of authenticity.

On the outside of the shipping box, I made sure everyone who saw it, that there was some pretty fucking special cargo inside. Not only that, but it was good advertisement. The Postal Worker at the Post Office, saw the sticker, was taken aback for a moment, but then professed her love for Poopy Bear. She said she wanted a Poopy Bear of her very own. We'll see if that ever happens.

As for me, I'll admit, for being a 31 year old guy, who's supposed to be all tough and shit, I'm a little morose on my parting with Poopy Bear. He was a good friend. Loyal through thick and thin. Ok... maybe his complete lifeless stationary existence lends himself to being a loyal friend... but you know what I mean.
Maybe this is the closest to being a father sending a child out into the big cruel world I'll get.

All I know is, I'll never forget that last glimpse at Poopy Bear, when I smiled at him, probably for the last time, and wished him the best of luck as we parted our ways.
God Speed, Poopy Bear. God Speed.

I recently returned home from a trip to see my mother in Indiana.
It was a nice, restful vacation.

She enjoys taking voyages throughout the state whenever I come home.
On this particular trip, Mama Hasser booked us into a restored 1800's log cabin in Southern Indiana, near Louisville, Kentucky.

It was an interesting place full of history, country knick-knacks, and chickens.
Lots of chickens. Running around the yard. Making noise and constantly eating.

There was one rooster who seemed to rule the roost, as the old saying goes. He was, dare I say, cocky. He didn't care much for me, and I had an unusual dislike for him. Maybe he didn't like me because he knew one of my great joys in life was eating his kin. I think I didn't like him much, because, well, he wasn't on my dinner plate.

Luckily for the rooster, after a two day stay at the cabin, my mom and I ventured over to my all-time favorite restaurant for fried chicken... The Overlook... in Leavenworth, Indiana.

I've gone there on occasion, since I was a little lad... and I have to tell you, they have the juiciest, best tasting fried chicken I've ever eaten anywhere. And I've eaten A LOT of fried chicken.

Another reason I enjoy The Overlook is for its rich history. It's been around forever... and in a previous life served as one of the first stage coach stops along the Ohio River route. I'm kind of a history buff. Especially when it comes to good eatin'. Plus, after partaking in a deliciously huge meal, there's nothing nicer, than sitting out on the restaurant's deck, watching the barges roll down the picturesque bends of the Ohio, and enjoying the wild birds float around the trees.

Mmmm... would fried Cardinal taste good? Maybe a little too gamey.