I hold you responsible.

Robert Goulet is dead. He needed a lung. Why didn’t you step up?

Don’t you feel guilty now?

Goulet! Why? Why God? Why?

I remember Goulet from classic appearances on The Simpsons, King of Queens, those Emerald Nuts commercials, and Goulet’s Snooze Bars. Smooth, baby. He could so undress you with his silky tones. That’s how he rolled.

Goulet!

Do you realize he was the original Sir Lancelot in Camelot? Do you? Man, you don’t know nothing.

Goulet’s motto: “Check it out.”

Can you deny the power of Goulet? No, you cannot. Can you look into his mustachioed face and not swoon? No, you cannot. You should just submit to his delicious baritone. Submit!

He was a master craftsmen. Much like me. Everything Goulet touched: Gold, baby!

Apparently Goulet passed yesterday. Thanks for letting me know. I had to take half a day today once I found out.

Educate yourselves here: www.robertgoulet.com

I have to go lie down.

Godspeed, Goulet.

Call me!

"Hi. How are you? I'm great. Shiny Penny may or may not be home. What do you want?"

That's pretty much how my last conversation went with the telemarketer. The telemarketer calls me almost every morning at precisely 7 a.m. I ignore these calls. Thank you, caller ID.

Today, I answered. I think I needed to talk to someone. And this telemarketer had something very important to say to me, otherwise why would this telemarketer call me every day for two months at the same time? This telemarketer is dedicated. I appreciate this kind of devotion, as I deserve it.

Turns out, this telemarketer didn't have much to say of an urgent nature. I was tempted to ask my own questions of this telemarketer.

"How about a subscription to the New York Times?"

"Are you happy?"

"One month free plus weekends!"

"Do you feel exclamation points really convey your emotion?"

"And free access to all this great content on the Web."

"The InterWeb is evil. Comment."

Yeah, this telemarketer was not engaging. At least in my imaginary conversation with said telemarketer. I tried diligently to get said telemarketer off script. No dice. I suspect said telemarketer was a robot in disguise.

The phone is funny that way. It's a pity teleconferencing never caught on. Or video phone. I suspect the urge to talk on the phone naked or while on the john or while picking your nose is too strong to allow for teleconferencing or the videophone. Pity.

I think I signed up for that DO NOT CALL list. It doesn't seem to have taken. People still want to talk to me. And who can blame them? I am an excellent conversationalist.

So fine. Call me if you must. I may answer. I may probe deep within your heart. I may unravel your mysteries. I may just hang up. It's the thrill of the chase. Try me.

I dare you.

Very Scary

A lot of folks are really getting into the Halloween spirit. I’ve seen a fair share of costuming in the last few days. Some good. Some bad. Most just slutty. All of which confirms my belief that Halloween is kind of stupid.

Despite my anti-Halloween proclamation, I felt it fitting to draw up a list.

I submit the following.

PEOPLE, PLACES, OR THINGS THAT SCARE ME a list by Shiny Penny.

-- Ferrets.

-- People who own ferrets.

-- Places where there are a hell of a lot of ferrets.

-- Hell.

-- Fundamentalists. (Note that “fun” and “mental” are contained herein. Not a good sign.)

-- Grilles. As in decorative braces.

-- Redheads. Pretty much across the board. Sorry, red.

-- People who thank the Lord or Jesus or the Lord Jesus after they’ve won something, like at the end of a reality show or the Super Bowl or after receiving a free bowl of soup at Chili’s.

-- Those starving people on “Survivor.”

-- Alec Baldwin. But only mad, “you little pig” Alec Baldwin. I might enjoy him yelling at me. Ergo: scary.

-- And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead. In name only; musically, thumbs up.

-- Trail(s) of Dead.

-- The Dead. Pretty much in any form (including musical ensemble).

-- Staph infections. Flesh eating diseases. TB. Mad cow disease. Bird flu. Any combination therein.

-- When you innocently Google someone and the results go on for more than 10 pages. Unsavory topics contained therein. And exclusive photos! Yay!

-- Results.

-- Mayonnaise.

-- Teenagers. Teenagers on the street. Teenagers on mass transit. Teenagers hanging out outside my Rite-Aid.

-- Rats! As an expression: awesome. As an animal: opposite of awesome.

-- The Japanese. Far too creative for their own good.


That’s a double Top Ten, as in a list of 20. Do not attempt to use the above items in some kind of mass scare tactic against me. If jars of #17 mayo start arriving at my headquarters, you will not enjoy #16 the results as it will most likely involve #10 Alec Baldwin getting somewhere close to your face with #1 ferrets or #7 redheads. Not good odds however you shake it.

Word.

Full disclosure

I am beginning to really despise Chicago. It's like an underground vacuum sucking the very life out of New York. First, Sam. Then, Siggy. Now, Kate. (Yeah, it's all about naming names because I'm pissed off.)

I'm really tired of these bon voyages to Chicago. I curse you, Chicago. I don't care how many songs are written about Chicago and how fabulous it is. You still suck, Chicago. Not as much as Boston, but right there behind it.

Deep dish pizza sucks. The John Hancock? Big deal. Lakes? Duh. The Cubs? As an animal, fine; as a team, pbbt!

I don't get it so I'm just going to continue my hating.

F' Chicago.

This is just the tip of the proverbial melting iceberg of my wrath on all things Chicago. Minnesota is next. Then California but that state is burning so I'll delay the true storm until it rains out there. You're on notice, California.

Apparently the acupuncture is not puncturing my hatred of all of humanity and its environment. We'll have to acquire deeper needles. For your sake.

You're welcome.

Damn.

Next stop: Tchotchke

The tchotchke derives from the Yiddish, circa 1971, otherwise known as the trinket.

I hate the tchotchke and all that it represents. In fact, I categorically reject the tchotchke.

I didn't always hate the tchotchke. Until today, I had contained my distaste for the tchotchke.

Today was black indeed.

I attended what is commonly called a trade show. The origins of the trade show go way back and frankly I don't care enough to look it up. This particular trade show was for various tchotchkes and tchotchke hawkers.

I have visited hell.

It is full of tchotchkes.

You are well aware I reject clutter. Picture a trade show full of clutter. This is from whence the tchotchke was issued.

Pens! Mousepads! Golf shirts! Cheese boards! Stupid thing you throw on the wall and watch it climb down! Clocks! Staplers! Chocolate with your logo on it! Post-its in various shapes and sizes! Paperweights! Catalogs of all this and more!

Now a tchotchke on its own might actually bring a small amount of joy. That stress ball shaped like a brain came in handy now and again when I imagined whose brain I was squeezing the stupidity out of. However when you get more than one tchotchke in a room, it's akin to a gang bang. Everywhere you look, there are more and more tchotchkes. They breed like killer rabbits -- they appear cute and useful but they are demons, lords of darkness, minions of Satan himself.

I am now imposing a ban on all tchotchkes. Should you even mention the word tchotchke, I will throw down my Bruce Lee high kick all over this planet.

For serious.

Stop the tchotchke in its wicked path of destruction. Before it's too late.

My soul is black.

This was the accusation leveled at me today after I casually mentioned I hate Halloween. Not very PC, eh? No. It is not. We have feelings over here too. We don’t believe our soul to be black. Or any other color for that matter. We don’t even believe we have a soul; although we do have rhythm (see previous dancing posts).

So what if I hate Halloween? What are you going to do about it, punk? Hey look, some people are really good at the dressing up part and the spooky decorating and the hoarding of delicious candy. I remember fondly filling up my pillowcase after begging around the block for some treats or else. It really is the only time kids are allowed to threaten adults with bodily harm unless they fork over some sugar. And that’s pretty sweet if you’re a kid.

Currently, if I desire candy, I buy it. I no longer have to beg or dress up for my candy so where’s the benefit of Halloween? People don’t TP trees in New York and I’m pretty sure no one eggs around this town either. L A M E. See, there’s no joy left in this holiday. And I’ve seen kids trick or treat in Rite-Aid and the deli. That’s just weird and wrong. “Buzz off, kid, I’m buying beer and smokes.” Is that what you want your tiny Spiderman exposed to?

I do laugh at a good costume. I am not heartless. Kids pretty much look high-larious in anything, especially if it’s vegetable related. I’d love to see a kid dressed as a giant T-bone steak. God, that would be awesome.

Adults dressed up don’t do that much for me. I took a spin through the local Ricky’s to see what manner of costumes were available. There were a preponderance of slutty costumes for women: slutty nurse, slutty nun, slutty pirate woman, slutty slut, slutty gangster, sluttly slut in negligee, slutty cheerleader, slutty dominatrix, slutty construction worker woman, slutty nerd, slutty girl dressed as ape. A lot of ladies take advantage of Halloween to really whore it up and more power to you. But why not just dress that way year-round? What’s stopping you, cowards?

Halloween used to be about dead people and spirits and black cats and superstitions and cool Celtic stuff. But America botched it all up. Now it’s about boobs and booze, like every other day of the year. Stupid America. Bunch of ruiners.

In conclusion, Halloween may have once been cool but now it’s corrupt and vile and bankrupt. This is not only the way I feel but the way you feel as well deep down, if you weren’t still trying to stuff yourself into your slutty turnip costume.

Fashion Finds

If you find yourself flush with cash money this fall, may I suggest the following fashion-forward items.


#1. The vending machine skirt.
Not surprisingly a Japanese designer came up with this season’s must-have. "First I’m a skirt. Now I’m a head-to-toe vending machine." Did you just see that? This is what’s known in Japan as a “queer tool.” Its creation is actually in response to the miniscule crime rate in Japan. Rather than engage in an all-out throwdown, the Japanese prefer to blend or rather disappear. I think I can support that. Actually I’m not quite sure. Aren’t ninjas from Japan? And samurais? And sumo wrestlers? Hello, Pearl Harbor! This is not a passive people. Am I wrong? I need to go to Japan immediately. Let’s start a collection fund for me to hightail it over to Japan for this very important research. Thanks!


#2. Fundies.
Yeah, jury’s out here. I’m not so sure how fun these actually are. Practical? Negative. Maybe worth a 30-second chuckle? Definitely.


#3. Gold Sneakers.
Wow! Have all your dreams just come true or what? I know. I was so excited about these metallic slip-ons, only to discover the item is unavailable. I knew it! Someone bought up every last pair. Hoarders! I deserve these gold sneakers. I bet they’re in Japan. Even more reason for me to get over there pronto, tonto.


Start saving up, kids. Luckily Christmas is only a stone's throw away. I do not endorse wearing all three of the above-mentioned fashion-forward items at the same time. I fear for you. I really do.

You're welcome.

Dr. House

The doctor is in my house.

It's been two days since the doctor arrived. I can proudly say I am now well. The doctor has some wicked power. The doctor's ministrations have made me all but new -- but better. Newly better. Better than new. Better new.

Since I bounded back so quickly, the doctor took to the streets for some spontaneous field work. The doctor's preliminary findings are not so shocking to a genius such as myself but I'm not so sure you are ready to handle the magnitude of the doctor's geniosity. (I totally just made that word up. I think I like it. You like it too.)

The doctor and I plan on performing several experiments over the course of the next two days. Things will be revealed. The truth will be known.

While Dr. House roams the streets researching, I thought it befitting I make a list.

HOUSE CALL LESSONS a list by Shiny Penny

-- The world is ending. It is 75 degrees in October.

-- House calls are generally awesome when announced in advance. Unexpected house calls can result in robbery.

-- Being well is super fun; being sick is also super fun but only if you are me.

-- Sofa City should be outlawed in all states. However, Sofa City is a generous gesture not to be underrated.

-- Slow down. WARNING: only slow down if you are not in, or near the vicinity of, Times Square.

-- Joe Torre is gone, baby, gone.

-- Your superhero headquarters always look dirtier when the doctor is in the house.

-- ZOMBIECON!

-- The doctor and I agree we hate Halloween. The very word contains "ween" as in "weenie." Surely this is a clue.

-- I will now introduce myself as a doctor. Doctors command respect. You can become an honorary doctor for doing absolutely nothing. Bill Cosby is a doctor. Bruce Lee should be a doctor. I deem him Dr. Bruce Lee from now on. You may also refer to me as Doctor Penny.

Contrary to my popular opinion, I've given you a Top 10. Consider this a boon to you. It will not happen again, that I can assure you.

Back to the lab!

Death & House Calls

I am totally dying as I write this. The good news is the doctor is coming into town tomorrow! Hooray! The doctor is not only making a house call, the doctor is like totally staying in my apartment for as long as it takes to nurse me back to health. That's the kind of company I keep.

I'm really hoping the doctor brings something powerful to cure me of the death currently waging war on my innards. The doctor has warned me that the doctor is not that kind of doctor but a doctor of research. Bah! What kind of doctor are you without prescriptions? I will humble this doctor into a diagnosis and immediate treatment. Research this, doctor!

I would totally donate my body to science, by the way. Why should the world suffer without my presence, alive or dead? I could hold the cure to all kinds of wonderful ailments (none of which I have at present, save for a mild case of death). I'm sure my body would really blow the research world up. My body might just be too intense to cut up though. Researchers may have to encase me in glass like Jesse James or the Pope and showcase me. I would be okay with that option as well.

So yeah, other than the death, things are great! Thanks for asking. I haven't reached SICK: THE ANGER phase yet. I'll let you know if it's imminent but I'm really banking on the doctor to shake things up in here.

The doctor and I may even share a post. The doctor has a lot to say. If the doctor eradicates the death, the doctor will be granted an audience, that being you. This is very exciting for the doctor. It is very exciting for you.

I'm really busy with this death thing so that is all for now. Word.

Philly's Finest

My new favorite commercial. Raise the roof, Philly.

Colbert: My Biggest Fan

I was riding the subway the other morning and saw an advertisement for Stephen Colbert's new book "I am America. (And so can you!)" The copy read:

I wrote a book. You're welcome.

Obviously this caught my eye immediately as I routinely end posts with "You're welcome." I'm not going to get all up in Colbert's face about this infringement -- I'm just going to say "YOU are welcome, Colbert."

Yeah, that was super generous of me. I don't claim to have coined "you're welcome." I'm just saying it's all starting to make sense that Colbert is my biggest fan.

I will explain. I have a particular visitor who I cannot identify for the life of me. You might say this visitor is enamored of me.

Hey, thanks! I'm flattered! (That was two exclamation points in a row. You know I'm serious.)

Anyway, there's this repeat visitor. And then there's Colbert's advertisement co-opting my favorite phrase. Coincidence? Nah, man.

I could unleash my detective-like skills on this situation but why bother? Let the man adore. You be who you want to be, Colbert.

You are, as always, welcome.

Alice Cooper Goes to Hell

Hi! How are you? Great news! I am writing to you from Hell, where I've taken an unexpected trip. Turns out they could use some extra hands down here so I'm pitching in for a spell.

While I'm doing the hellfire thing, I thought I'd recommend you take a listen to the very awesome Alice Cooper album "Alice Goes to Hell." It's super!

For serious. It's hard to beat tracks like "I'm the coolest" and "Give the kid a break" and "I'm always chasing rainbows."

You have to listen to the album in order so you get the story. So don't put it on your fancy iPod and listen will-nilly because my spirit is already angry and I may bust my wicked Bruce Lee moves on you.

Okay, eternal damnation calls. Take care; brush your hair.

Stick it out.

In an effort to counteract The Reading's predictions, I recently underwent acupuncture. As a result, I have not only been poked and prodded but now have magnets in my ears. The magnets have thrown me a little off kilter. You could say I've experienced some disorientation, fatigue, confusion, general malaise. All of which means, IT'S TOTALLY WORKING.

If you've never undergone acupuncture, allow me to give you a taste. Your acupuncturist will ask you very personal questions for at least 45 minutes. These include, but are not limited to:

-- What do you eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?

-- Do you dream in color?

-- What is the consistency of your bowel movements?

-- On a scale of 1 to 10, how awesome are you?

The Chinese leave no stone unturned. I'll get my official "diagnosis" in a week after my acupuncturist has a chance to really mull over all that is so wrong -- and yeah so right! -- with me.

Initial prognosis was I don't have enough blood circulating throughout my body. This makes my spirit angry. No shit! I'm angry just thinking about it. I'm not exactly sure how I remedy this blood issue but you can trust that I am on top of it. If puppies start to go missing or blood banks get looted, don't look at me.

As far as the actual acupuncture part, it was pretty awesome getting stuck with tiny needles. I had a few in my feet and legs, two in each hand, and the motherload in my stomach. Something truly dastardly must be cooking underneath my rock hard core. This does not surprise me one bit. I have to admit I did keep my eyes closed while the needles were in me -- more for your sake. I can only imagine how freakalicious I looked with those needles sticking out of me. You'll have to imagine too.

In conclusion, my spirit is angry and you may be responsible. Full diagnosis to come. Acupuncture is really fun. I can't wait to get needles in my head and neck. Keep your puppies close. That is all.

Wrestle it out.

I think it's time I gave the WWE (formerly the WWF, as in World Wrestling Federation not World Wildlife Fund) its shout out. Consider this your props.

I have watched the WWE on and off for three decades. I am neither proud nor ashamed of this admission. It is what it is and you can go scratch if you don't like it. I can say that I have in fact watched live Wrestlemania I, II, and III. I can say that I have in fact enjoyed watching live Wrestlemania I, II, and III. How many people can make both those statements? I am unique in every way imaginable.

As a youth, I very much liked the WWF. The Hart Brothers, Andre the Giant, Rowdy Roddy Piper, The Iron Sheik, Hulk Hogan, Nikolai Bolshevik, and others all bring back the memories. I'm not sure exactly what drew me to these muscle-y acrobats but I dug the drama of someone getting the smack down and then coming back to win it all.

At some point I strayed from the WWF. For at least two decades I'd say. And then surprisingly it resurfaced. First there was that reality show on MTV about becoming a professional wrestler. It was engrossing. I'm not sure why that show isn't still on but I suspect it's because Americans are generally fat and lazy and don't like getting slammed on their backs.

Later that same decade I was forced to watch RAW every Thursday night. I did not enjoy this. The characters were fairly different. Most of them I didn't recognize but after a few weeks of this, I got sucked right back in. I especially liked that Chris Jericho. He's bad. He's good. He's bad. He's good. It's hard to keep up. His pants were consistently tight though and he was always ready for the gun show. I would like to get in the ring with him.

I digress. Last night I went to see a play about a professional wrestler. I am totally serious. It's called "American Sligo" by one of my new favorite playwrights Adam Rapp. You should go see it because it's disturbing and uncomfortable, like Neil LaButte, but funnier. There were some priceless phrases in there, which I can't summon at this particular moment which is why you should go see it and stop relying on me so much.

Yeah, so, wrestling. I don't have any big proclamations. Like much in life, it is what it is. Word.