Sooper Delishus.

-On August 18, 1992, a promotion at the newly opened Mall of America in Bloomington, MN sparked chaos as a banner that was supposed to read “Free Slush Puppy for every MOA customer” instead read “Free Puppy for every MOA customer.” Parents and children swarmed the food court for hours, waiting for — and eventually demanding — their free puppy. When none materialized, roaming groups of would-be puppy owners spread throughout the huge mall, searching in vain and questioning employees, who began to hide once they caught wind of what was happening. Persistent claims of false advertising led to a class action suit against the mall’s ownership, which offered gift certificates from local pet stores rather than go to court. All told, more than 6,500 gift certificates were claimed. PR manager Ted Gundersen, who had ordered the banner from a printer, noticed prior to hanging it that the proper spelling of the drink is actually ‘Puppie,’ but decided it was too late to print a new one. He completely missed that they had left out the ‘Slush.’

-On August 21, 1830, famed Italian violin virtuoso Niccolò Paganini played before a packed audience at La Scala in Milan. So incredible was his skill, so passionate was his performance, that women began fainting by the dozen. Many men were moved to tears, others to madness. Paganini’s interpretation of one concerto in particular sparked an intense debate between the fourth and fifth balconies, and several duels erupted throughout the theater. It is said that a number of children were conceived during the performance, such was the virtuoso’s power. Paganini swept the crowd into a roiling frenzy before concluding to thunderous applause, then made love to a beautiful woman right there on the stage. Historians agree that this was pretty much a typical Saturday night in 19th century Milan.

-On August 23, 1997, Deep Blue called Gary Kasparov a “temperamental sack of shit.” IBM engineers were astonished, given that the machine had no audio capacity and was not plugged in at the time. That was more or less when they decided it was probably best to dismantle it.

Let’s talk about good ideas for a minute.

Good ideas are like building blocks. Pretty much everything worthwhile, from a fun weekend to a breakthrough in medicine, begins when someone puts a good idea out there into the ether. Often the idea stands alone, a self-sustaining entity. Other times it is met in kind with other good ideas, stacking upon one other, an endless bucket of Lincoln Logs.

For the most part, good ideas are instantly recognizable:

Hey, I’ve got an idea, let’s get a puppy. — Good.
Hey, I’ve got an idea, let’s try putting some cheese on that burger. — Good.
Hey, I’ve got an idea, let’s wash our hands before we operate on people. — Good.
Hey, I’ve got an idea, let’s play ping-pong. — Good. Excellent, actually.
Hey, I’ve got an idea, let’s watch birds and then write down what birds we see. — Good? I guess?
Hey, I’ve got an idea, let’s have sex and eat candy. — Depends on several variables, but probably good.
Hey, I’ve got an idea, let’s build a swarm of robots. — Good. Wait, hang on, bad.
Yeah! And we can design the robots to re-program themselves, and assemble more robots on their own. — Whoah! Stop right there, definitely bad.
Then we can launch them throughout the solar system. — What th- Are you fucking kidding me? Mother of mercy, bad! Very, very bad!

Alas, that particular sequence of ideas is on its way towards reality.

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The shortest professional baseball game ever played took 47 minutes. It was June of 1966, and on their way to a World Series title the Orioles stopped in California to take 3 of 4 from the Angels, winning the second game 1-0. In that game, every batter swung at the first pitch, only Andy Etchebarren made it past first base, and anyone who struck out did so on 3 pitches.

The game played out as follows: F7, F7, G4; G5, P6, K; K, 1B, DP 4-6-3; L6, F9, G4; E6, DP 6-4-3, P3; K, L8, L1; 1B, DP 3-4-1, G6; K, G3-1, P8; 1B, DP 5-4-3, L9; G1, L1, P1; K, 1B, DP 3-3; G6, G4, P7; P9, G5, P2; K, G2, L5; P8, G4, G6; 1B, DP 4-6-3, P3; K, HR, K, L9; G5, L9, P9.

Dave McNally got the win, while George Brunet took the loss. All told, they threw 78 pitches. The crowd, many of whom were still arriving, were so bewildered that most remained in their seats for almost half an hour. They started to get restless, so a mic was hastily arranged and the Angels took turns telling jokes and displaying various talents. Jim Fregosi played the banjo.

If any of you live in the New York area and are looking for:

A) Something to do on a Thursday night
B) A good way to support local theater, or
C) Oh hell, a little bit of both

Then check out … hey, wait a minute, why am I suddenly getting déjà vu?

Anyway, Point of You Productions, the theatre company I helped start in 2000, is holding a fundraiser variety show on August 21. Among the many splendid spectactles — including several women performing Mamet and a one-man tribute to John Cazale — yours truly will be onstage, performing “Big Mike and the Cavendish” live.

Details are below:

Thursday, August 21 @ 7:30pm

Gotham City Improv
48 West 21st Street, 8th Floor
New York, New York 10010
(between Fifth and Sixth Avenues)

Tickets: $25
Includes one drink and access to various snacky-foods.

Reservations: (212) 613-6138

The Summer Olympics! A time when the finest athletes in the world can come together, run around, throw things, have their fluid specimens tested, and insist that yes, they’ve totally heard of Bahrain and can find it on a map. With the Games of the XXIX Olympiad just hours away, we here at SD wanted to take a few moments to get you up to speed.

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“As you can tell from these photographs, the hieroglyphs inscribed in the tomb’s antechamber are fairly straightforward. Here we see a kneeling man followed by an eye, some water, two ravens and a foot — which, as our best Egyptologists indicate, can be loosely translated as ‘foreign interloper.’ Here, the man is shown entering the tomb with a shovel. And then here, he is being devoured by Wepwawet, the Jackal God of Hunting. This is almost certainly to be construed as a blessing upon those who would enter the tomb, and should not be seen as a warning, curse, or dire omen of any kind. Likewise, these inscriptions around the sarcophagus itself, which depict the Death-Guardian Anubis feasting on human skulls, likely mean ‘Go ahead and borrow these treasures to display in your homeland.’ I believe our generous hosts in Cairo would definitely agree. And of course, we could only humbly oblige.”
-Lord Royce Pellington, leader of the expedition that discovered the tomb of Pharaoh Setulhotep II, presenting their specimens at the British Museum, 1853. Pellington was dead within 4 days, killed by a dart laced with excruciating poison. His colleagues commented that his demise was as gruesome as it was predictable.

“When you go out there today, I want you to pulverize ‘em! I want you to pound ‘em! I want you to hit ‘em in the mouth, put ‘em on the ground, and then hit ‘em again! I want to see ‘em so dizzy they’re not sure which end zone’s theirs! I want you to trample ‘em so bad they can’t remember their uncles’ names! Not a single one! If I walk up to one and ask him to name even one of his uncles, I want him drawing a complete blank! I want him to run home to his mother and say, ‘Gosh mother, not only did the Crimson Tide whoop us, I can’t remember your brothers’ names!’ Eleven uncle-free bastards on offense, eleven uncle-free bastards on defense! See this? It’s a list of all their uncles! If one stinkin’ player on that team can remember one stinkin’ name on this list, you bums are doing two-a-days for the next week! You got that? ZERO! AVUNCULAR! THOUGHTS! Now let’s get out there and play some football!”
-Alabama coach Paul “Bear” Bryant, prior to a game against Vanderbilt, 1971. Alabama won 42-0.

“War is hell. Except for the days when it is really, really fun. Those days are few and far between, but boy, when they come along, sakes alive! Seriously though, it’s almost all hell.”
-William Tecumseh Sherman, 1879

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Antarctica: The Forgotten Continent. Earth’s feety-pajamas.

This vast, wind-swept expanse of frozen hell stands its constant vigil at the end of the world, ever silent, ever watchful. The land lingers just out of sight, just off the map, and for centuries has captured the imaginations of … well, approximately no one. No one lives there, no one has friends there. No one really thinks about it at all, unless they’re qualifying a claim of some sort.

“For the best damn chili anywhere on the seven continents (except the one that doesn’t count), come to Steaky McPorkmeat’s Poultrylicious Baconarium.”

The only people who go to Antarctica at all are the thousand or so researchers whose job it is to study, in precise detail, just how much we’re wrecking the planet. The amount of data locked in the ice is a bit staggering. The mathematical coefficient x=HHMWS (Here’s How Much We’re Screwed) can be expressed to 3 decimal places, on several axes.

But no one particularly cares about that either, so let me address something that actually matters.

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