Please note that tomorrow (Sunday), if things work out, I intend to spend some time fooling with Mr. Template to make some blogroll adjustments. This, for me, is somewhat akin to defusing a nuclear device.

If I am never heard from again, you’ll know what happened.

It was a beautiful sunny day today, with temperatures in the high 60’s – a perfect day to sit outside, relax, enjoy the last breaths of summer –perhaps with a good book. I, however, got to spend the shank of the day kneeling, lying, and contorting in what used to be the vegetable garden, but what became a patch of fully-grown weeds and little trees longing to become big trees. I was tugging things out of the ground with roots as long as my forearm. Everything I own is tired.

I am not a “Man of the Soil,” and manual labor makes my hair hurt.

In light of yesterday’s report of an Arkansas man killing a deer with his bare hands after discovering that the deer had crashed through the window of his daughter’s home, we were surprised to learn of a similar incident having occurred in the Garden State.

According to police reports, in the early morning hours, a five-point whitetail deer crashed through the bedroom window of the home of Paulie “Pasta Face” Filliponi. The police were summoned by Filliponi’s next-door neighbor, and when they arrived at the scene they found the broken window, but they did not find any sign of a deer.

When questioned by the police about the alleged incident, Filliponi stated, “Aaay, da deer came troo da winda, and by da time I got here he was gone. No big deal; fuggetaboutit.”

Later that day, PRS operatives followed Paulie “Pasta Face” Filliponi to the local pizzeria and overheard the following conversation he had with his associate Tony “Zits” Rizzi.

Tony: “Aaay, Paulie, is true what I heard – some freakin’ deer broke into your freakin’ house?”

Paulie: “Yeah, it’s true. Scared the shit out of me at first. I thought it was that prick Carmine comin’ around to gimme some shit about dat thing wit his wife.”

Tony: “Yeah, everybody says Carmine was pissed about dat. Guy’s got no sense of humor.”

Paulie: “Yeah, so I’m thinkin’ it’s that prick Carmine makin’ all that noise. I grab a tire iron and walk into the bedroom. I’m ready to kick Carmine’s ass, dat prick. But, what do I see? Dere’s dis big freakin’ deer staring me right in the face. He just standin’ dere starin’ at me. So I sez, ‘Yo, asshole! Get the f**k outta my house!’”

Tony: “The freakin’ deer left then?”

Paulie: “No, the sonofabitch just stood there starin’ at me, so I whacked him – Bada-BING — in the f**kin’ head wit da tire iron.”

Tony: “Did ya knock the sonofabitch out?”

Paulie: “No! Do you believe it? The asshole wobbled a second, but he still stood there staring at me.”

Tony: “No shit?”

Paulie: “Yeah. No shit. So I get right in the asshole’s face and say, ‘Listen to me, you piece of shit. If you don’t get the f*ck outta here like I told ya, you’re gonna get another smack across your f*ckin’ head, only harder this time. Then I’m gonna shove this f*ckin’ tire iron up your f*ckin’ ass. You got that?’ The asshole turned around and left.”

Tony: “Aaay, so you made the prick an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

Paulie: “F*ckin-A.”

Tony: “Try da pepperoni. It’s good tonight.”

Paulie: “Aaay, who d‘ya like on Sunday?”

Tony: “Take the Giants – give the points.”

Paulie: “F*ckin’-A”

OK, so you’re home one night, and you hear a bit of a ruckus in one of the bedrooms of the house. You investigate, only to find that a five point whitetail deer crashed through the bedroom window, and, from there, it dashed into another bedroom and began hopping back and forth across the bed.

What do you do?

Well, here’s what Wayne Goldsberry of Bentonville, Arkansas, did. He left the deer alone in the room long enough to tell his wife to call the police. Then, instead of waiting for the police to show up, he returned to the room, empty-handed to kick the deer’s ass!

After about 40 minutes of mano a deero combat, he emerged from the room, somewhat bloodied after having managed to kill the deer with his bare hands by breaking its neck. His next stop was to have the deer butchered and stick the dismembered body in the freezer for future grub.

I have a question and an observation:

The question: Where were the farookin’ cops?

The observation: This must be the only guy in Arkansas without a gun.

Thanks to my buddy Mike from New Jersey.

When I was a boy, my family made several trips through the South, almost always to get to Miami Beach (which was not then, nor is it now The South). So, for me, The South, was a blur of Stuckey’s stores, Burma Shave signs, and lots of farmland.

However, since I have been blogging, I have had a few occasions to travel to The South, where I have had the opportunity to get a ample dose of the culture and become friends with more than a few genuine Southerners. Turns out that I like the South and I like Southerners, despite the massive cultural divide between the North (Jersey, in particular) and The South.

I know that I could never “be” a Southerner, or even pass for one, for that matter (I’ve got Jersey in my bone marrow), but with each trip I learn new things, and I find myself becoming more and more comfortable down there.

Some examples:

Service.
Service in The South tends to be real slow, but always very pleasant. In Jersey, we always are in a damned hurry, and we have zero patience. Hell, I get a case of the ass when someone walks up to a cashier in a store and doesn’t already have his money in his hand. ”Yo, dipshit! You’ve been waiting on line for five goddamned minutes and only now that your stuff has been all rung up do you take out your wallet? Did it come as a surprise to you that, at the conclusion of this transaction, you might actually have to produce money?”

Similarly, in Jersey, I really go nuts when I am waiting on line, and the cashier decides to have a conversation with the person at the front of the line. “Yo, lady! Just ring the shit up and save the bullshitting for your own time.”

A few days ago I was waiting to rent a car, and the lady behind the counter was smiling and chit-chatting with the guy in front of me in line, while she worked (slowly) on his rental. In Jersey, my blood pressure would have been spiking dangerously, but it really didn’t bother me, probably because the lady behind the counter was just so nice. When it was my turn, the counter lady also chitchatted with me, and the people behind me in line didn’t freak out. ”Toto, we’re not in Jersey anymore.”

My experience has also been that service in restaurants can also be very slow, but there is just no way to get angry with someone who smiles and calls you “darlin’” when she shows up to take your order.

Food.
In the course of my trips down South, I have eaten fried green tomatoes, hush puppies and grits, and I’ve drunk “sweet tea.” Thanks to Eric, I have also eaten some excellent ribs (pronounced REE-ubs). Next trip, I’m damned sure going to have biscuits and gravy. At breakfast, That 1 Guy let me try his, and I liked it.

I think it may be time for a cultural exchange. The South can send us biscuits and gravy, and we’ll send them Taylor Ham and hard rolls (and a decent pizzeria or two).

Guns.
Here is truly a massive cultural divide. I like guns, and I even own a couple, but the norm in New Jersey is that firearms are something to be loathed, feared and regulated to such an extent that only the criminals have them. As such, it is a cultural shock to go to a state, such as Tennessee, where a significant number of people are carrying guns at any given time. I haven’t checked the figures, but I’ll bet that, per capita, there are fewer break-ins and carjackings in Tennessee than there are in New Jersey. Even criminals, who are notoriously stupid, are smart enough to know that the intended carjacking victim in Tennessee might well be toting a 357, which could most assuredly screw up a carjacker’s day.

It is interesting to note that, even in Tennessee, one cannot carry a gun everywhere. I got a particular kick out of a sign over the bar in the Knoxville airport (which is past the metal detectors) that recites the penalties for carrying a gun in a place where alcohol is served. Assuming that one could get his or her gun past the metal detectors, what is the person supposed to do with the gun while he’s having a beer?

Manners.
While there surely are exceptions on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line, I think it is fair to say that, when it comes to manners, Southerners have them, and we don’t. It is true that we wear our Jersey “hard edge” proudly, but a bit more manners would be nice.

And, that’s what I like about the South.

I got a bit of a kick out of Mr. Santa. Helpful putting the heat on Zonker, Eric and Yours Truly for attending so many blogmeets. He cites The Official Travelocity Blog-Meet Directory (a highly suspect document) in support of his position.

It seems to me that The Official Travelocity Blog-Meet Directory (Did I mention that it is a highly suspect document?) makes its ratings based on air miles traveled, when everyone worth his or her domain knows that the correct metric would be “Hours Spent at Blogmeets” (hereinafter, the “Accurate Metric”). When one considers the Accurate Metric, it is plain that Zonker clearly is the leader in Blog-Meet attendance, with Eric running a close second.

I believe that while Mr. Santa Helpful (himself, an attendee of the Wreckll in Jeckyll all the way from Washington farookin’ state), may have taken his eye of the ball in relying on that highly suspect document, he nevertheless has stumbled onto a Blogstory that has the potential of knocking Avian Flu, Sam Alito, Tom DeLay, Scooter Libby (who?) and even Chuck – the Weasel – Schumer off the front pages.

It is not a matter of serious dispute that Eric holds the position of “Ambassador of the Blogosphere”. After all, it was he who united the Jawja Bloggers (my Peeps) with the Bad Example Family in relatively neutral territory – a regular Henry Kissinger. However, it seems to me that Zonker has his eye on the Ambassador Gig.

I say this, because, when one considers the Accurate Metric, Zonker has out blogmeeted Eric and, what’s more, Zonker has demonstrated that he has the telephone number of every single blogger in the United States (and a few in Europe) programmed into his cell phone. Zonker can track down (and has done so) any given blogger in a matter of seconds from anywhere in the world, and his clever ruse consists of handing the phone to another blogger, leaving the blogger to wonder just who placed the call. He has also taken to showing up in strange disguises.

… Developing.

Counting the past weekend at Eric’s, I’ve attended three sorta-large blogmeets and one smaller one, and describing them is never easy. On the most basic level, there’s the physical thing. One is always, always dog tired after one of these events, which invariably involves heavy drinking a few cocktails, ridiculous late-night hours much discussion, and most times significant travel, with all the stress that comes with that territory.

However, perhaps more importantly, blogmeets are difficult to write about, because there is always so much going on all the time, making it impossible to tell the story in anything other than in a bit of disjointed fashion. There is no agenda.

Now that I’ve stated the problem, I cannot offer a solution. I, therefore will do, as I have in the past, which is to let my fingers do the “talking” and hope it comes out in something resembling English.

It was a swirl of activity and hilarity from beginning to end. We shot pool, shot guns, drank shots, cussed like sailors, ate like cave men, sat around a fire, played and sang a bunch of tunes and generally raised a bit of hell.

Some of the crew from past blogmeets where in attendance, such as Eric, our gracious host, (and his immeasurably understanding bride). Zonker (and his mullet which appeared only late on Night Two) and the lovely Key Monroe (along with her nice guy husband – his first exposure to a blogmeet) were also on the case. And, then there was Denny, who served as the other half of the “Elderly Brothers” (apologies to Don and Phil) as we played guitars and sang lots of “Elderly Brothers” faves. Denny, who with his atomic kazoo, served double duty as the “horn section” and, not surprisingly, wowed the audience.

There were also a host of bloggers there whom I had never met in person, and, as has been the case at prior blogmeets, they were all great peeps.

Foist, da goils:

Army Wife Toddler Mom (“AWTM”): She was the first “new” blogger I met. She is a genuine fox a very striking woman. She confided in me, before the craziness started, that this was her first blogmeet and that she was a bit nervous about meeting so many new people. More specifically, she was concerned about the possible unease that often accompanies long periods of silence that can occur when “strangers” all find themselves in one place

I assured her that, just as nature abhors a vacuum, bloggers abhor silence. We They are all incurable blabbermouths. Silence simply does not erupt at blogmeets. Ever. Not surprisingly, she took to the blabfest like a duck takes to water and even earned the moniker of “Red Hot Martha Stewart,” a product of her good looks, charm and mastery of things domestic.

Princess Cat from A Swift Kick & a Band-Aid: Cat, is a displaced Californian who currently hangs her hat in Washington D.C., but who discovered this weekend that blogging transcends geography, big time. She has a great sense of humor with just the right amount of Northeastern edge. She managed to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up with a real-live ghost story. And, when it came to party stamina, she (and AWTM) went the distance.

Boudicca, of Boudicca’s Voice: How often does one run into a woman who is stunning, funny as hell and who also happens to be a farookin’ rocket scientist? Really. Also, she claims to actually like listening to the “Elderly Brothers”. What’s not to like about that? She is most definitely a class act.

Mordicca, Sister of Boudicca: Holy Cannoli. I’ll be damned if she doesn’t look like Sarah Jessica Parker wishes she could look. She and Bou prove that it is possible to hit the jackpot in the genetic lottery more than once. In conversation, they play off each other, making it plain that they truly enjoy each other’s company, and they unselfishly share that gift with everyone around them. Mordicca reportedly has a boyfriend. I hope that guy doesn’t let her get away.

Tammi, of Tammi’s World: Finally, finally I got a chance to meet Tammi, whom I have “known” online for the longest time. She is everything I expected her to be and more. It takes all of about five seconds to feel you’ve known her forever. It is also not at all surprising that she was a major thorn in the side of the people who were in charge of the Mennonite School she attended. “Tammi, you know that bikini-wearing, dancing, drinking, and throwing punk parties is frowned upon in this school.” Cracks me up to hear those stories. Oh, and the girl can sing too. She capped off the weekend by running her fingers through my “great farookin’ hair,” thereby keeping her promise to Teresa of Technicalities (who, unfortunately, was not able to make it). Ya gotta love Tammi.

Smiling Dynamite: Also known as the “Beloved Wife” of Harvey of Bad Example. Harvey hit the long ball when he married her. She is a delight. I didn’t get to spend as much time with her as I would have liked, because she and Harvey did not arrive until Saturday, and that’s when Denny I did most of our noise making guitar pickin’. She seemed to actually like the noise, which makes her Aces in my book.

Sissy of And What Next: An exceedingly nice young raven-haired woman, who impressed me most by doing two things: (1) Having the courage to actually publicly don the hat with the horns on it, and (2) Actually asking Denny and me to play more. The former causes me to admire her party style, while the latter calls into question the state of her hearing. I like her.

Beth of She Who Will Be Obeyed: She is one of the blogging Donovans, who came all the way from Kansas with husband John to attend the event. She is a real nice person, with an ever-present smile and always ready with a story. She and John took front row seats to the “Elderly Brothers” concert. I hope that wasn’t just because they happened to be the most comfortable seats in the room. 😉

And now, for da boys:

Matt of Blackfive: This is one truly impressive guy. His strong military background and dedication to active duty military personnel and veterans is well known to his legions of readers. I wonder how many of his readers know that he is also an extremely easy going and friendly guy, who is a pleasure to be with and who enjoys a few cocktails. I’m going to make it my business to buy one of those Blackfive tee shirts and help support Soldiers’ Angels, and I urge you to do the same. I hope to see him again.

Harvey of Bad Example: Now, this is a real good guy, who has a most engaging personality and a lightening fast sense of humor. Many of the attendees are part of Harvey’s Blog Family, and it’s easy to see why he has spawned so many “offspring.” He has an eye for good writing and the ability to encourages those who can write (and may not even realize it) to give blogging a try. Besides, he came to the blogmeet armed with a bag of quality cigars to share, which is always a good thing. It did, however, take me a few minutes to convince him that I really am a drummer and not a guitar player, which, come to think of it, made me feel pretty good myself and about Harvey.

That 1 Guy: This is a bear of a guy who, a few months ago, drove his Harley from somewhere north of Chicago to Eric’s house in Tennessee – in the rain. He looks like a guy I would not want to have angry with me, but it takes about the duration of a handshake to see that he is a extremely friendly guy, who can even manage to smile while dealing with a seemingly intractable nosebleed. He also plays guitar. Next time, I hope he brings his axe.

John of Castle Arrgghhh: John has encyclopedic knowledge of weaponry and things military, and the distinguished look to go with it. I fully expect to turn on the TV one day and see him on the History Channel wearing white gloves while demonstrating the features of World War One British firearms. In addition, he surprised the hell out of me when, during a musical brain fart, I jokingly began singing a song in German, and he began to sing along! Yep, I figure that the History Channel is in John’s future.

Redneck of Redneck Ramblings: I’ve “known” ‘Neck for some time online, but I’d never met him. After having done so, I’m convinced that anybody who doesn’t like Redneck must have his head in his ass. This is a guy whose “down home” style belies a rapier sharp wit and the ability to deliver nonstop laughs. I got the chance to spend some time with him sitting on the tailgate of his pickup (something we don’t get to do very often around here) and shooting the shit about everything from dogs, to golf, to beer drinking. Quality time, man.

RSM of When the Smoke Clears: I regret that the only chance I got to chat with RSM was while a bunch of the guys were standing around watching Eric work his grilling magic on the ribs (pronounced “REE-ubs” in Tennessee). He left for his three-hour drive home while Denny and I were doing our act. I hope I have the chance to see him again.

Johnny Oh of Closet Extremist: What’s not to like about a guy who can strum and sing a John Prine tune folllowed by the hillbilly version of “Gin and Juice,” and who can fix elevators? Johnny wears an ever-present that makes me think that good nature and a constant smile is a Tennessee Thing.

Jason and Brad: The former is Eric’s buddy and fellow pool shark and the latter is Eric’s cousin. These two, like Johnny Oh and Eric further prove that being friendly and smiling all the time must be part of the Tennessee Culture.

And FINALLY, a special word about our Host and Hostess: I’ve known Eric for a couple years now. This is the third blogmeet I’ve attended with him, and, in addition, we got to spend a couple days together when he interrupted his and Mrs. SWG’s vacation in New York City this summer to come across the river to my neck of the woods. He is a great writer, and, I’m happy to say, a great friend. He broke his ass to see that everyone felt at home in his home, and for that, I am most grateful. As for Mrs. SWG, she is just plain super – in every way. I figure the luckiest day in Eric’s life was the day that he first “chatted her up” in Scotland. Thank you both.

It was great seeing you all, and I hope to do so again.

Yep, I had a Tennessee adventure this weekend at Eric’s place, along with a collection of fantastic bloggers and others (all of whom know what a blog is). And, I’m now sporting a Big Orange “T” on my guitar case to prove it.

Right now, I’ve got to go make the daily bread.

More later…

I will be away from the keyboard through Sunday. I’ll catch up with you either on Sunday night or on Monday.

Play nice.

As you know, the trial of Saddam Hussein recently began, only to be adjourned until late November. Following the court proceeding, Saddam was returned to his cell, where we learned that he received an interesting telephone call. Our PRS operatives managed to obtain a transcript of the telephone conversation.

RINNNNNNGG

Saddam: “Hello. This is Saddam Hussein, the President of Iraq speaking. Who is this?”

OJ: “Hey, Saddam. This is the Juice calling.”

Saddam: “Did you say the ‘Jews’ are calling? The President of Iraq does not speak with Jews.”

OJ: “No, not the ‘Jews’ – It’s the ‘Juice’ – You know, OJ? OJ Simpson?”

Saddam: “Hmmm. The name is familiar to me. … Yes, I remember you. You’re that black man who butchered his wife and that other guy – a Jew, as I recall. Damn, she was a real looker, but believe me. I understand how some women can really smash your testicles.”

OJ: “I think you mean, ‘break your balls’, and, besides, I didn’t do it.”

Saddam: “Ha! You didn’t do it? Do you take me for a buyer of a used camel? I watched it all on CNN. You killed those two as sure as Allah rules the universe.”

OJ: “Look, let’s just say that they’re both dead, and I have a nice house, plenty of money, all the women I want, and I play golf every day. Pretty sweet, wouldn’t you say?”

Saddam: “You’ve got a point there, but why are you calling me?”

OJ: “Man, I saw that your trial is getting started, and I figure I can give you some tips on how to beat this rap.”

Saddam: “I don’t need any help. This so-called court has no jurisdiction over me. I am the President of Iraq, and these American puppets can’t try me. This is nothing but an American, what do you call it? Orangutan Court?”

OJ: “I think you mean ‘Kangaroo Court,’ but you gotta stop that ‘I’m the President of Iraq’ shit, ‘cause it ain’t gonna work, at least not there.”

Saddam: “How dare you talk to me in such a manner. I will have your head for that!”

OJ: “Let’s cut the shit here, Saddam. You’re locked up, and several million people want your sorry ass executed. I was locked up too, you know, and damned near as many people wanted me juiced (no pun intended). And, like I said, I’m free and you’re not. I think you oughta listen to me.”

Saddam: “You do make a good point. I’m listening.”

OJ: “Good. By the way, are you eating something? I hear you chewing, and it’s a bit distracting.”

Saddam: “Prunes! I’m eating prunes. I asked for dates, but these pig Americans gave me prunes. I’m shitting like a sick camel. This is pure torture, I tell you. How dare these pigs treat the President of Iraq this way!”

OJ: “I thought we agreed that you were going can that “President of Iraq” bullshit.”

Saddam: “OK. I’m listening.”

OJ: “OK. Let’s get down to it. I think you might want to take notes. Do you have a pencil?”

Saddam: “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. These imperialistic dogs allow me to have one pencil! Imagine treating the President…”

OJ: “Hold it!”

Saddam: “Sorry. I’m listening, and I am ready to take notes.”

OJ: “Pay attention”

Number one: You should hire Johnny Cochran. … No, wait. He’s dead. Never mind. I’ll call Geraldo Rivera and get the name of that black guy who screamed every night that I was innocent. Don’t worry. The guy’s a genius.”

Saddam: “But, I have lawyers already.”

OJ: “Hey, do you want to win this thing, or do you want to argue with me?”

Saddam: “OK, so you’ll talk to the black lawwyer and get him to call me. What next?”

OJ: “Number two: Have your lawyer move this trial to California.”

Saddam: “Ah, California. I’ve heard great things about California. Many people like me there.”

OJ: “Once your case has been moved to California, have your lawyer try to get your case assigned to that Chinaman. … What was his name? … Oh, I remember. It was Judge Ito. Wait … ‘Ito’ – Maybe he isn’t a Chinaman after all. He may be a Jap. Whatever.”

Saddam: “A Chinaman? A Jap? I’m not liking the sound of this.”

OJ: “Dammit, Saddam!”

Saddam: “Sorry. Continue, please.”

OJ: “Number three: Try to get that black guy Chris Darden assigned to prosecute your case. Man, if he shows up, you’re golden. Hell, the day he did that glove thing with me, I knew I’d be playing golf in no time. Oh, and if that sexy Marcia Clark is still in the prosecutor’s office, try to get her assigned to your case. She was one fine looking piece of tail. I’ve called her a couple times from the golf course to try to get something going. You know what I’m saying? But, the bitch won’t return my calls.”

OJ: “Number four: You need an alibi. You’ve got to be ready to say you were somewhere else when those couple hundred thousand people were killed. I suggest that you say that you were chipping golf balls at the time. It worked for me.”

Saddam: “What does ‘chipping golf balls’ mean?”

OJ: “Details, Saddam. Just go with me on this for now.”

“Number five: You gotta blame someone else for killing all those people. By the way, is it true that you gassed an entire town?”

Saddam: “Well, I’ve been accused of that.”

OJ: “Excellent! Now you’re catching on.”

So, let me continue. You gotta blame someone else for killing all those people.”

Saddam: “But, Mr. OJ, It might be difficult to blame someone else. There are lots of pictures of me running the country and giving orders.”

OJ: “Pictures don’t mean shit, Saddam. You need to hire experts, man. They’ll say anything you want them to say, including saying that the pictures of you are all doctored.. Hell, I left my DNA all over the goddamned place and I got experts to say it didn’t mean shit.”

Saddam: “Well, who could I blame? I did run the country”

OJ: “That’s an easy one. You can blame your sons.”

Saddam: “Blame my sons? My dear sons? What kind of devil do you think I am?”

OJ: “Saddam, for Chrisssake. Stop with the Father-of-the-Year bullshit. Your sons are already freakin’ dead., so why not blame them? It makes perfect sense to me.”

Saddam: “This is sounding pretty good to me, Mr. OJ.”

OJ: ” Number six: “Set up a toll-free number so people call in and give you tips about who really killed those thousands of people.”

Saddam: “I don’t understand why I would do that. I killed …”

OJ: “Stop! Don’t say another word. The toll-free number worked for me. Remember, there are lots of real dumbshits in the United States. They’ll buy it.”

Saddam: “I’m liking what I am hearing, Mr. OJ. Is there anything else?”

OJ: “Yeah. Clothes. When you get to California, I’ll give you the number of my tailor. He’ll make you a first-class set of threads. You have to come to court stylin’ in a suit and tie. And, for God’s sake, don’t even think about wearing one of those damned towels on your head.”

Saddam: “Towel? How dare you cal the kaffiyeh a towel? I’ll have your head….”

Saddam: “OK. OK. Take it easy. I don’t care what you call the damned thing; just don’t wear it in the courtroom.”

Saddam: “Agreed. Is that all? The guards are watching me.”

OJ: “That ought to do it for now. Any questions?”

Saddam: “I do have one question. Why are you doing this for me? Is it because you hate the imperialist, infidel dogs who wanted you dead?”

OJ: “No, actually I was thinking that, once you’re free, we can make a shitload of money together. Hell, we could do a book and appear on Oprah. We could sell a line of clothing or men’s cologne or some shit. Know what I mean?”

Saddam: “I’m down with that, my black brother.”

OJ: “OK, man. Peace out.”