Category: Humor

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

I think The Richmond State may have teased this above the fold on A1 as a “Hooters expose.” We didn’t actually expose anything at Hooters, except the fact that Hooters waitresses only made $2.13 an hour and depended on the tips of loser guys like ourselves to make a living, which made the whole thing more sad than funny. At least the wings were good.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul. Some folks say we’re the “Pongo Twistleton of the ‘90s!”

If you have never heard the expression, “A city is made by its food,” it’s because that’s a rotten expression and no one would ever use it. However, it remains true that one must look at a city’s restaurants before one can really understand a city, and authoritatively say, for example, “This city sucks.” It is for this reason that we, Jeff and Paul, visited each of Richmond’s finest restaurants last week just to run up our lavish Richmond State expense account. 

Well, actually, that’s a lie. The Richmond State couldn’t afford Jeff’s bar tab.  But we did drive past a lot of restaurants on our way to “Hooters.”

Writing about our visit to Hooters is risky, not only because of its controversial nature, but also because of the possiblity that our girlfriends might read this column. It wasn’t easy to write, because, let’s face it, it’s just hard to think when you’re waist-deep in cleavage.

But since the mayoral election idea was deep-sixed, we needed something important and thought-provoking to write about besides David Hasselhoff.  In a bizarre coincidence, we just happened to decide to write about something that had a large quotient of scantily-clad girls with large breasts.  Pure coincidence, really.

Before we go on, we should mention that many people — most of them do-gooder-liberals and other derelicts — do not like Hooters restaurants. The Real Truth is that every word the restaurant chain’s critics have ever uttered has been absolutely 100 percent true. 

The wings really are not that good.

Furthermore, in a blatant case of false advertising, owls were nowhere to be found on the menu.  So why do people go there?  We had to investigate.

We arrived late one night at the restaurant on Broad Street (which we’ve heard was named after Hooters).  As we opened the door, a strong gust of cold air blew in on the scantily-clad greeter.  

It was a sight that every 15-year-old boy on earth figures Heaven looks like. 

The greeter, who we are sure is a wonderful person and a sensitive intellectual, was, through no fault of her own, EXTREMELY attractive. She was wearing an outfit that could only be properly described by males through a series of guttural sounds and mildly obscene hand gestures.

We, of course, deplore this nonsense. 

We paused a moment and deplored from a couple of different angles, then followed the extremely attractive hostess (Making sure to deplore some more along the way!) to our table.  As we looked around the dining room, we noticed that Hooters was filled with celebrities and other important people. In a booth to the left, we saw Associate Supreme Court Justice David Souter. Then, on the right, we saw hick superstar comedian Jeff Foxworthy, and several other people who were also Jeff Foxworthy.  Also, unsurprisingly, Elvis was there.

The actual building reflected the spirit of the restaurant. The architecture was sort of Post-Colonial Lincoln Logs, designed by Fisher-Price and decorated by Beavis and Butthead, but without the AC-DC posters. On the walls, which were lined with large multi-colored Christmas lights, there was a series of humorous but obviously fake signs: “Caution: Blondes Thinking,” “Look Out!  There are Many Large Breasts Here!” and “NewsChannel 6 — Coverage You Can Count On.”

As we sat down, we noticed that one of the waitresses was using the intercom system (a megaphone inside an enormous tin can)  had organized a trivia game for the customers, which they were all actively engaged in ignoring.  An actual quotation follows:

SCANTILY CLAD HOSTESS: Who discovered the electric light?

PEOPLE EATING: …..

(five minute pause)

PEOPLE EATING: ……

SCANTILY CLAD HOSTESS: Um, okay, that was, uh, Miles Standish.  Next question!

We would have preferred an informal version of “The $20,000 Pyramid.” involving her and several of the restaurant’s patrons. The exchange would go something like this:

“Umm … these are things on your chest …”

“Things which are minty?”

“You put them in a bra…”

“Uhhh … toilet paper?”

“No … they have nipples …”

“Newt Gingrich?”

“No … OK … ‘Everybody has seen Madonna’s …”

“The TV show Sheriff Lobo?”

“No, no, uh … PASS!”

At any rate, when the food eventually came, it was kinda okay.

So whither the Hooters Controversy?  Recently, the ACLU vowed to fight for men’s rights to work as waitresses at Hooters. The controversy culminated in a Washington D.C. rally that featured many (“eight”) Hooters waitresses chanting catchy slogans (“Hey, ho! Having men as waiters would suck because guys go there to look at our enormous breasts and since guys don’t have enormous breasts — most of them, anyway — we think they should not be waitresses at Hooters!” … um, OK, maybe the slogans weren’t that catchy) outside the White House until Al Gore had the Secret Service bring them in for “questioning.”

As semi-responsible journalists, we took a moment to interview our waitress about the male waitress controversy.

Paul: So, have you had any men come in here to apply for jobs?

Waitress: You want a job here?

Paul: No no no. We’re doing an interview for The Richmond State.

Waitress: The what? You can’t work here, you know.

Jeff: Will you go out with me?

During the course of the interview, we discovered some disturbing facts. First, it was revealed that a Hooters waitress earns an hourly wage of $2.13, plus tips, which consist of roughly pocket change and half a pack of chiclets per night.

The second, even more disturbing fact revealed during the interview was that we had been ogling somebody’s mom.  In fact, our waitress talked about her child at length.  This really brought it home, because Paul and Jeff, oddly enough, both have moms – neither of whom we could imagine working at Hooters.  

In reality, it’s very difficult to look at the whole Hooters Male Waitresses Controversy and see the restaurant and its current female (very female, we might add) waitresses as the villains.  At least the restaurant is upfront about its purposes: it is designed for guys – who obviously need girlfriends – to come there and feel cool, staring at the surroundings (or, as Paul remarked at one point, nearly spitting out his Ultra Mild Menthol Chicken wing, “There’s … there’s just ass everywhere!”)  Male waitresses simply don’t fit in.  Every job should be open to both sexes as long as both sexes are qualified.  The qualifications for being a Hooters waitress/waiter are something like this:

Y   N   1. I have large, floppy breasts.

Y   N   2. I can fit into really tight shorts that were OBVIOUSLY not designed with the male anatomy in mind.

Y   N   3. I am suitable to be stared at by guys who aren’t “getting any” but need to prove their manhood while eating chicken wings.

We’re guessing that most guys would have to answer “no.”  And we don’t want to meet the guys who answered “yes.”

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

For some reason, whenever there was even a 5% chance of snow, the entire City of Richmond would go apes**t and start driving into trees and hoarding 2 percent milk. So, we made fun of them. Oh, and on the unlikely chance that anyone ever reads this, Paul Dipasquale was the designer of the widely panned Arthur Ashe statute on Richmond’s Monument Avenue. Pongo Twistleton was a fellow Richmond State columnist with an outlandish persona that in retrospect I recognize as a modern Bertie Wooster homage but at the time I just thought he was a nerd. So if you harbored any illusions that this would be funny if only you understood the references, that’s one more myth dispelled.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul. This week, we will be your kooky Eskimo pals, Nanook and Elvis.

If you turned on your TV last week-end, you undoubtedly saw your normally-calm local weather person (Biff or Bunny McGargle) in an all-out panic. His or her hair was disheveled, articles of clothing were buttoned wrong and he or she grabbed hold of the camera with both hands and stared at you with bloodshot eyes, imploring you, for the sake of God, to get to a grocery store AND PLEASE, PLEASE PURCHASE MILK before you had to spend the next month eating insects or old lampshades.

You should be getting used to this by now. Of course, at the beginning of the month, we experienced what the newsmedia called “The Blizzard of ‘96,” which was followed a week later by what the newsmedia called “Also The Blizzard of ‘96” (or “Blizzard Lite”). Then, just this past weekend, Richmond was subjected to the “The Blizzard of the First Week of February,” which was followed by Monday’s “Blizzard From 2 O’Clock until Three-ish.”

That’s right, folks, it’s been snowing in Richmond lately. First, it snowed in history-making droves, prompting this concerned headline from the Richmond Times-Dispatch: “Sources Reveal Clinton Has Fat Butt;” and this this story on the fourteenth page of the Science section: “Richmond Attacked by Very Cold Water.” Then, this last weekend, it just seemed blasé, and TV weatherpeople pleaded for milk-purchasing frenzy in a much calmer, detached way.

As Richmond Mayoral candidates, we hereby Announce that We Are in Favor of Snow, not only because it allows us to throw snowballs through Paul Dipasquale and “Pongo Twistleton”’s car windows, but also because when people ask us, “How did you find the roads?” we get to say, “We just went outside and there they were.”

From the first mention of the word snow, every single person in the Tri-State area (Virginia, New Mexio, North Dakota? We’re not sure.) descended upon area grocery stores, apparently to stock up on vaseline to lather up their car tires.

While most people stock up on canned goods before a snow storm in case, say, Summer is canceled, it is our civic responsibility to point out this Actual News Item from just days before The Big Storm. According to the news story, a young woman whom we will call “Jabba” (although her real name is Carmella Sheets) was eating canned spaghetti straight from the can and almost choked to death on a plastic cheese-slice wrapper that somehow got into the can. So: what does this tell us? This tells us that “Jabba” had enough spaghetti on her fork to hide an entire cheese slice wrapper and that she chewed it little enough not to realize that she was swallowing plastic.

In the story (True Fact!), “Jabba” said, “I like spaghetti, but I don’t think I’ll be able to eat it the same way.”

Well, we hope not.

So if you must eat canned goods during the snow storm, make sure to remember the golden rule of canned food: There are probably at least two forkfuls in every can. (Another rule to keep in mind: “Just don’t be that person.”)

The entire East Coast was seized in the grip of panic, fear, mild nausea and cramps. It was a typical winter scene: people in Boston put on snow tires (we mean on their cars). Pennsylvanians got drunk and threw snowballs at the Philadelphia Eagles and little children. People in New York shot each other. Richmond-area road crews (two guys named “Buck” and a shovel) were out in force, laminating area roadways and covering them with ball bearings, so that even if it didn’t snow, Richmonders could still participate in the Southern winter ritual of crashing into things with their cars.

Whenever it snows, Richmonders join together in the sort of collective mindblock that can really bring a community together. Literally. As soon as it even smelled like snow, cars started skidding into telephone poles, houses, other cars and dairy farms. As Paul drove around after the Big Storm (which he can do because he’s originally from the North), he saw – strewn among the corpses of TV Weatherpeople committing suicide – abandoned cars in snowbanks, on rooftops and in the branches of tall trees.

Meanwhile, Jeff was busy being a Journalist. The first rule of journalism is that whenever anything happens, you have to interview somebody about it, even if that somebody is the Nigerian Under-Secretary for Fish Processing. So Jeff had gone to a grocery store to “take the pulse” of the city (it turned out to be 130 over 90). There, he interviewed an Actual Richmond Shopper. The interview went something like this:

JEFF: Hello, ma’am, how do you…

DISTURBED WOMAN SHOPPER: AIIIEEEE! Out of my way! I must have MILK!

JEFF: Is snow affecting…

WOMAN: Oh, the Snow Gods are angry at us! We are doomed! Milk! MILK!

JEFF: Are you…

WOMAN: I must buy it before snow falls! You should NEVER allow milk to get cold!

JEFF: Can I just ask…

WOMAN: God help me, I’ll even drink skim!!!!

GROCERY CLERK WITH SHOTGUN: Freeze!!! Are you a Valued Customer?

Or something.

At this point you may be asking, “So what’s good about snow? 

Snow is “neat” because it makes dogs — already somewhat dim — go totally insane. Also, it makes most Richmonders act like they’ve been snorting motor oil.

Furthermore, snow is neat because it is responsible for creating a situation in which Paul felt totally justified leaving his car right in the middle of Grove Avenue for almost half an hour. People could have parked their cars in George Allen’s bathroom and they wouldn’t have gotten towed. 

Snow also creates jobs in the booming Shovel Manufacturing and “Snoopy Snow Cone Machine-Operator” industries. We “dig” – as the kids these days say – snow because it reminds Jeff of his childhood in the last Ice Age, when mammoth were plentiful, and skiing conditions were always bitchin’. Most importantly, we are in favor of snow because it keeps The Richmond State’s editors from panhandling in the streets like ususal.

The Big Question is, why don’t we get snow more often? Because the short-sighted current management of this city simply has not appropriated enough funding for it. 

We are flexible candidates, meaning that Paul can sometimes touch his toes. More importantly, this means that if you’re against snow, we can change our minds. We would outlaw clouds, and make snow illegal. Police Chief Jerry Oliver would be authorized to execute people for humming “White Christmas.” We would invite disaster by ordering the construction of a giant Snow Shield over the city, which would eventually collapse under its own weight, killing thousands.

So, what have we learned?

1. Wrapping snow chains around your children will not give them additional traction.

2. The Snow Gods DEMAND that Leonidas Young be sacrificed to them, or they will DESTROY this city with another light-to-medium snowfall.

3. Anything that gets us off work for a day can’t be that bad.

© 1996 Puff Carpluto

Hey! “Dig “Jeff and Paul on the Internet at http://www.pluginc.com!

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

The Richmond State was a plucky upstart alternative newspaper (not that kind of “alternative”) that challenged the editorial might of the stodgy Richmond Times-Dispatch beginning in 1994. It folded in 1996 and left so little of a legacy that there is a grand total of one search result for it in all of the Googles, which is a link to the Library of Congress where you can find which libraries have copies on microfiche. At the time, Paul Caputo and I thought this was our ticket to comedy stardom. We were exceptionally stupid.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul … Tonight, on a very special episode of “Blossom.”

A TRUE STORY OF THE SUPERNATURAL:

Paul was driving on the Powhite Parkway (“Like the Road to Hell, but With Tolls”) when a song by a band called “Sponge Monkeys” or something came on the radio. Simultaneously, miles away, Jeff, sitting in a meeting at work, suddenly reached without thinking to change the station, accidentally twisting off the nose of the person next to him. “Psychic connection” … or “total crap?” Perhaps. But think about this: “Medium heat for 15 minutes, then stir in frozen weasel extract. Serves twelve.” 

Wait … no, no, no. Don’t think about that. We meant think about this: Immediately afterwards, the same mysterious thought occured to both of them at exactly the same time.

This SUCKS, they thought. I hate work … wait a second!

We’ll run for MAYOR!

And so with that thought and this column, we, Jeff and Paul, Officially Announce Our Candidacy for the Mayorship of the City of Richmond. We would also like to announce that a new study reveals that improper use of rubber cement can cause hair loss or, in some cases, mild death.

Many of you are no doubt wondering, “But what do geese think about this?” Well, you people are sick.

The rest of you are probably wondering, “Why should I vote for two people when it’s only half the calories to vote for one?” or “Wouldn’t two mayors cause problems with easily-confused TV news reporters, who might not know whom to interview and end up talking to a chair?” Or even “What?”

These questions are all valid, albeit incoherent. But consider the benefits of having two mayors:

• Always on call: If one of us were sick and could not lead the city that day, the other one would always be there to say, “Who cares?” and get drunk.

• It would be like having your mayor “Super-Sized.”

• One of us could actually attend City Council meetings instead of (like some mayors we know) sending a life-size cardboard cut-out.

• We would almost certainly get to be in one of those “double your pleasure” chewing gum commercials with the really cute twins in green bathing suits.

We cannot fully explain our platform because 1.) there are bubbles in the Magic 8-Ball right now; and 2.) boy, are we making this up as we go along. But here for you – Good and Wise State Reader – is a sneak peek.

If elected, we promise the following immediate changes:

• We would officially change the spelling of “Richmond” to “Funky Tøwn,” although it would still be pronounced the same. “Henrico” would be spelled “Hönkyville,” but pronounced “Toad Suck, Arkansas.”

• “The Mosque” would be renamed “The Diamond.” “The Diamond” would be renamed “What The HELL Is That Thing With An Indian Stickin’ Out The Side?” 

• Monument Avenue, as a compromise, would feature a statue of Andre Agassi on a horse.

•To demonstrate how much our city RULES!, we would declare war on Amelia County and beat all of its inhabitants with hockey sticks. After the invasion, we would give out free “We Invaded Amelia! We RULE!” bumper stickers and T-Shirts to everyone in the city.

• We would eliminate the “four-by-four” versus “seven-period” school scheduling controversy by ignoring it completely. Students, instead of saying the Pledge of Allegiance, would recite the lyrics to “Stairway to Heaven.” Metal detectors in schools would be replaced with Snickers candy bar detectors. To improve saftey, we would then personally eat all the Snickers bars.

• We would hold a contest to decide what kind of facial hair Police Chief Jerry Oliver should have.

• The Baltimore Stallions of the “Canadian Football League” – currently (True Fact!) considering moving here – would officially be told to “Bite us.” We want nothing to do with any league that has an annual (True Fact!) Most “Valuable” “Canadian” Award.

• So that you don’t have to remember two long, expensive, time-consuming names, we would shorten “Jeff Carl” and “Paul Caputo” into one name, like “Puff Carpluto.”

• As mayors, we promise never to appear on local TV news commenting at length on “what a horrible tragedy this shooting was, or how awful that hurricane was, blah blah blah.” We know that actual news has NO PLACE in local television and it only interferes with the stories you really want to see, like the one about the surfing kitten, the Radical Lesbian Transvestite Chapter of “Jews for Jesus” or the 83-year-old nun who plays for the Renegades. Therefore, we promise to spend our entire tenure doing nothing but going to events with free food.

• Just for the heck of it, we would add to Monument Avenue a statue of Kermit the Frog. On horseback. With a tennis racket.

• Our City cabinet would comprise entirely newspaper columnists. For example, Dave Barry would be our Secretary of Booger Jokes. George Will would be our Official Long-Words-Talkin’-Guy. Ross Mackenzie of the Times-Dispatch would be our Footstool.

• VCU students with pierced noses would have them filled with Silly Putty. Anyone found in coffeeshops wearing black talking about angst (German for “fish?” We don’t know.) would be burned at the stake.

• To improve their disposition and efficiency, City Hall and DMV workers would be replaced by Cocker Spaniels.

• We would eliminate the City Meals Tax, Personal Property Tax, Thumb Tax, etc. We would make up the money by declaring a Civil War Reconstruction Tax, paid for by giving $800 speeding tickets to everybody who drove through town on I-95 with a Yankee license plate, claiming that “We need the money to fix all the damage you guys did the last time you were here.”

• To further establish our position as the Bitchin’-est City in the State, we would beat up Charlottesville and take its lunch money.

• City council decisions would all be decided by a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos, or possibly Twister. Council members would be required to take drugs so we could win.

• We would cut Richmond electric bills by sneaking over at night and plugging an enormous extension cord into Norfolk. If they complained, we would retaliate by claiming that they were trying to siphon the energy out of OUR appliances and INTO their walls. That’ll confuse ‘em.

• The Richmond Symphony would be forced at gunpoint to play nothing but “Def Leppard” songs.

• K-9 Police units would be equipped with Small Yipping Poodles, to make criminals giggle hysterically until they wet themselves and surrender.

• We would change the confusing street address numbering system in the city back (?) to the Dewey Decimal System.

• You, the Average Taxpayer, could always have an appoinment with the Mayor, as long as you brought the beer.

Best of all – we’re not kidding – if enough people send in contributions to The State earmarked for our campaign fund to pay for the filing fee, we will ACTUALLY REGISTER TO RUN FOR MAYOR! No jive! For real! Call the State and ask about it! Also, stop by and pick up your Amelia Invasion bumper sticker! 

And if we win, we will personally mow the lawn of everyone who sent us money.

Can anyone else promise that? Besides your yard guy, if he’s running, too.

And so we proudly proclaim some of our campaign slogans: “We’ll paint any car for just $99.95!” or “Vote for us or you’ll learn a new meaning of Pain as you are slowly digested in the Belly of the Great Sarlacc for a Thousand Years!” Or “Or whatever!”

© 1995 Puff Carpluto

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

You’ll note that “ahoy!” is one of the funniest words in existence. This column’s highlight was probably the stoning of David Hasselhoff by angry reporters. I think at the time “gay” and “Richard Simmons” were still words that could get a cheap laugh just by mentioning them, or at least that’s the only explanation for how often we went out of our way to keep telling people we weren’t gay. Which we aren’t. Or, you know what, you can ask Paul since I don’t want to speak for him.

Hi.  We are “Jeff and Paul.”  Just like famed magicians “Siegfried and Roy,” except we don’t do magic tricks, we don’t have any huge invisible tigers and we aren’t gay.

Well, 1995 is over, except for those of you still on Daylight Savings Time. It’s time to dump Old Man ‘95 in the Matlock Memorial Nursing Home of Time and pluck Baby ‘96 from the Stroller of Hope. But before we move on to 1996 (“The Year of the Poodle”), it’s time to reflect upon 1995 (“The Year of Lots of Fish.”)  History will certainly remember 1995 as having been “after 1994, and before 1996.”  And that’s important.  Unless you’re on Daylight Savings Time, in which case 1995 comes after 316 B.C., and in the Mountain Time Zone there are 36 days in October.

It is said that “Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it, unless they bribe, sleep with, or shoot their teacher.”  Well, there are no bribes for the Great Teacher of Time, who calls the Roll of History, assigns the Homework of Experience, gives the Detention of Global Warming, gets sick and is replaced by the Substitue Teacher of Unregulated Interstate Commerce, and is sometimes Drunk in Class, which results in Leap Years and the weather formation known as “El Niño.”

We must study the mistakes of 1995, like the government shutdowns and Waterworld (also known as “Fishtar”), if we are to avoid repeating them. We gaze back upon the Major Events of 1995, and wonder, “Where did the time go?  What the Hell was I thinking?  Was I drunk or  something?  And why did somebody give me Tube Socks for Christmas?  Who the Hell wants socks?”

1995, Or Whatever

January 4: Baywatch becomes the most popular TV show in the history of the universe.  Star David Hasselhoff, in a special celebratory press conference at his Austrian mountain retreat (der Hasselhäus) inexplicably sings “Send in the Clowns” in German, but only gets as far as the second verse before he is stoned by angry reporters.

January 13: The Richmond City Council rejects the idea of Riverboat gambling on the Annabel Lee, saying, “Wow! Try some of these red pills!”

February 6: It’s really cold.

March 12: Investors cheer as the Dow Jones Average breaks the high of 4000, allowing them to enter their initials on the High Score Board.

March 15: Gen. Douglas MacArthur signs the treaty ending World War II. Um, well, we’re pretty sure something like that happened last year.

March 20: Hundreds are killed in Japan after the maniacal Aum Shinrikyo cult plants deadly bombs in subways that release concentrated doses of Jeff Foxworthy’s “You Might Be A Redneck If…” CD.

April 2: The Major League Baseball strike ends when ABC, in place of baseball, broadcasts documentaries on “Our Wacky Friend the Lemur” and “The Mystery and Magic of Sand.”  Ratings go up.

May 24-31: We don’t remember what happened here.  Paul was out of town and Jeff was drunk.

June 21: 28-year-old Nicholas Leeson manages to single-handedly wreck the entire British Barings Bank after losing $1.2 billion of England’s money.  He later claims he “just lost it under the cushions of his car seats.”

July 7: The worst drought in years kills every plant in the state, making Virginia’s leading crop “Thatch.”

July 30: The worst floods ever to hit Virginia wash away all of the state’s freshly-harvested thatch crop, making the new leading cash crop “Gravel.”

August 2: The “Unabomber” threatens to blow up somebody unless The Washington Post prints his 35,000-word treatise on the evils of Static Cling.

August 12: Plucky but brain-damaged Peter McNeely announces he will fight Mike Tyson.  Hopeful children gather outside the arena to catch McNeely’s head as it comes out over the left-field fence.

August 19: Plucky but porcine Shannon Faulkner quits The Citadel.  Hundreds of cadets celebrate jubilantly, saying “Boy are we sure glad there’s no GIRLS around anymore!  It’s just us GUYS, hanging out in sailor suits and getting sweaty doing push-ups!  Yaaayyyy!”

Later that afternoon: Richard Simmons applies to The Citadel.

August 27: Citizens of Quebec vote narrowly to support the referendum stating that “Playing ice hockey and speaking French just don’t seem to go together.”  It is a terrible defeat for the ultra-nationalist Passez les Croissants Party, but they vow to continue their fight “by any means necessary.”

September 3: Shannon Faulkner knocks out Peter McNeely in 91 seconds.

September 21: A pack of ruthless Quebeçois terrorists from the PLC Party sneak into a crowded shopping mall at mid-day, and savagely hand out leaflets explaining their position.

October 3: O. J. Simpson is found “Not Guilty.”  Angry upper-middle-class whites riot, looting BMW dealerships and setting several Starbucks Coffee stores ablaze.

October 7: Colin Powell announces that he won’t run for president, but is thinking of getting a part-time job.

October 9: In a commercial, Peter McNeely is (True Fact!) knocked out by a greasy piece of pizza.

October 12: Under renewed threats of mail-bombing attempts, The Richmond State publishes a 35,000-word treatise on how to survive after college.Our weekly column is born.

October 15: Hurricane (Real Name!) Opal hits the east coast, resulting in one tree falling over and three hundred surfers appearing on the local news talking about how “Bitchin’!” the waves are.

October 16: The Million-Man March in Washington D.C. attracts, according to the U.S. Park Service, 400,000 marchers and 514,000 reporters.  March organizer Louis Farrakhan claims attendance was under-counted because “the white man insists on placing several numbers between 3 and 8.”

October 17: Terrorists bomb France, endangering the world’s supply of berets and pretentiousness.  A special U.N. peacekeeping force moves into Paris, but retreats after being ambushed by a pack of surly French waiters.

October 28: A seriously overexcited Atlanta Braves fan, doing “The Tomahawk Chop” during the World Series, cracks the skull of Jane Fonda, sitting in front of him.  Millions applaud.

November 14: The government wages a campaign to force the restaurant “Hooters” to hire male waitresses.  Keep in mind that your tax dollars paid for this.

November 15: In an official statement, men world-wide announce, “Yech.”

November 19: Part one of ABC’s  Beatles Anthology airs, surprising even the most die-hard fans when it reveals that Ringo was once the leader of the Gestapo.

November 21: President Clinton meets with Bosnian and Serbian leaders in similarly war-torn Ohio, where they agree to give the Bosnians control of Board Walk and Park Place, and give the Serbs the “War in Bosnia” Home Game and a lifetime supply of Turtle Wax.

November 23: In part 3 of the landmark Beatles Anthology, Ringo knocks out Peter McNeely in 18 seconds.

November 30: Peter McNeely announces plans to fight a rock. Oddsmakers give him 15 seconds.

December 3: Rome invades Carthage, beginning the third Punic War.

December 9: The first American troops, the 103rd Airborne (“The Screaming Weasels”), arrive in the war-torn Balkans.  They decide it is “no fun” and just go invade Luxembourg.

December 12: David Hasselhoff, in a bizarre stage-diving accident during a concert in Düsseldorf, knocks out Peter McNeely.

December 25: Paul gets Tube Socks for Christmas. Jeff gets coal and a “Slippy, the Christmas Weasel” necktie.

December 31: In Times Square, ten seconds before midnight, a wild-eyed and obviously drunk Dick Clark rings in the new year by knocking out Peter McNeely. McNeely, dazed, yells “Happy Hallowe’en!” and is then crushed to death by the huge dropping ball.

©1996! Puff Carpluto

Check out Jeff and Paul on the Internet at http://www.pluginc.com!

By Paul Caputo and Jeffrey Carl

Lots of people thought Richmond was just full of uncultured redneck whitebread crackers. In our review of the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, we proved them right. (You can tell by Paul’s overuse of the hackneyed cliche “WHOOO DOGGIES!.” It’s worth noting that, at the time, my sophisticated appreciation of modernist art was roughly on par with my appreciation of food that did not come in a wrapper or styrofoam container.

Hi. We are Jeff and Paul™ Culture Ahoy!

Culture: what is it? How was it created? How did it get there? Will it cost you 39 cents extra (41 with tax)? Is it bigger than a breadbox? Do you serve red or white wine with it? Does it go with tan or navy slacks? Will it change your life? Do you have to change your underwear?

These are the questions that we will answer for you, valued State reader (yes, both of you) in our landmark one-part series:

“Hey! CULTURE!” 

Among prolific and respected historians, Dr. James Vünderthise is one of the least prolific or respected. This notwithstanding, it is Vünderthise who is responsible for what many consider the universe’s most worthwhile definition of “Culture.” In his book, Ancient Greece, Modern Scotland and other Cross-Dressing Cultures, Vünderthise defines Culture as “objects which are æsthetically pleasing, morally uplifting, and not nearly as interesting as ‘Knight Rider’ reruns on the USA Network.”

For any serious Art Critic, or even us, this definition of Culture leaves several problems. First, according to this, objects such as Action Figures and Taco Bell’s Bacon Cheeseburger Burrito classify as Culture. The second is that Dr. Vünderthise does not specify which “Knight Rider” episode he’s thinking of. For instance, the episode where KITT ends up in the Hicksville to save the Hick Woman from the Hick Mob is not even close to being as interesting the episode in which KITT’s evil twin, KARR, tries to kill David Hasselhoff. Incidentally, we applaud this idea.

In our relentless, almost maniacal pursuit of Culture, we selected the its nearest local purveyor, the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. We figured we have exactly what it takes to be Professional Art Critics: Free Time. As Famous Mayoral Candidates – where we were greeted with a humongous wave of total apathy – we had the requisite Free Time to go to the museum and select several objets d’art (French for “objects of – duh – art”), review them and give them a Culture Rating in stars (or something), so you – wise State reader – will know which will give you Culture and which you can skip, saving valuable minutes of inconvenient and expensive walking.

The Suggested Donation          Rating: FIVE STARS

The first display as you enter the building, it is a striking example of Modern Art. “The Suggested Donation” portrays a small wad of crumpled bills and change, encased in glass, mounted (and we use this word in its classy, artistic way) on a wooden stand. Its meaning, like much of Modern Art, is open to interpretation. Some say it represents class struggle; some call it an indictment of materialism; others call it a comic, satiric piece. Most critics admit that it shouldn’t be taken seriously.

Anyway, entrance to the museum is free.

Big Scary African Masks         Rating: TWELVE STARS

This section of the museum contained a bunch of HUUUUUUUGE African masks designed to SCARE THE LIVING CRAP OUT OF various Wussy Belgian Explorers who came to conquer the continent.  These masks were great: about eight feet high, 12,000 pounds and shaped like buffaloes or Republicans.  Either way, they were Huge And Cool-Shaped, obviously designed by smart African Tribesmen to be distributed to archæologists, rather than to be Actually Worn, because they bear tiny African inscriptions saying: FOR IDIOT AMERICAN ARCHAEOLOGISTS ONLY! WEAR ONLY IN CASE OF HURRICANES!, of which there are obviously none in Africa.

English hunting pictures         Rating: TWO HORSES AND ONE COCKER SPANIEL

This is an actual section of the museum. We saw it on the free museum map and thought that maybe there would be pictures of gored animals or crazed, gored Englishmen hunting wild bison. This is not what was there.

We said, “Look! A horse! Standing!” And, “Look! Another horse in a very similar pose!” And, “Look, a DIFFERENT horse.” And, “Hey! A horse jumping!” And, “Hmm … here is a horse NOT jumping.” And, “Oh. It’s a horse.” And, “Ha ha, how amusing, the same horse from a different angle.” And, eventually, “PLEASE DEAR GOD NO MORE HORSE PICTURES!”

The whole section looked like vacation pictures from Sea World, if Sea World had fat horses instead of dolphins and they drained all the water out. There were pictures of Englishpeople (exciting!) standing by horses, riding on horses, and … um, standing by horses.

Did our tax dollars buy this?

If you were to rank all of the parts of the museum (and why would you, since we’re doing it for you?) according to the level of interest they arouse, the English hunting section would come in just above Andy Warhol, and just below the floors tiles and parking lot.

The Enormous Head in the Arts Café Garden            Rating: NEGATIVE 7 STARS

On loan from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, this sculpture is one of the most unsettling pieces in or even near the museum. In fact, it is so unsettling, they put it outside the building just so it wouldn’t spook the horses in the English Hunting Art section. The sculpture itself is an enormous disembodied old man’s head, positioned just up a small hill from several tables where patrons eat and relax in the Arts Café Garden. 

Of course, it’s impossible to eat or relax because there is this … huge … HEAD. Watching you. It looks like a cross between God and Mr. Magoo.  Creepy.

A Bunch of Elvises, by Andy Warhol     Rating: TWO THUMBS JAMMED UP YOUR (censored)

Okay. It’s a bunch of colored pictures of Elvis.  True, it serves as an important precursor to the Velvet Elvis Period in American art. Warhol supposedly popularized “Pop Art,” which sounds like soda stains and looks worse. But … oh, come on.  Andy, your 15 minutes are up.

Dégas ballerina          Rating: WHOOOOOOO DOGGY!

Don’t you think this guy was a bit too interested in little girls in leotards?

Something I Just Did in a Hurry, by Vincent “Vinnie” Van Gogh        Rating: THREE GROSS SEVERED EARS

We guess every museum has to have a Van Gogh. But the VMFA’s is sort of a “Van Gogh Lite” – one of the less expensive ones that The Louvre uses for napkins. It is the size of a large postage stamp, and looks like the kind of thing Van Gogh used for a game of Pictionary. Still, it’s a Van Gogh, even if he DID sneeze all over it.

On the whole, the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts has a lot going for it, and, while the “cool” kids these days might not think it’s “hip” to “hang out” there, that’s okay, because you “young people” are “idiots.”

If you are a classy, educated individual, which clearly you are not because you are reading this column, the art museum is a place to revel in the glories of Culture and fine art. If you are a cretin or a derelict (which is fine, if you like that sort of thing), the art museum is a great place to vomit in while the Art Museum Elite Strike Force Guards glare menacingly at you. Or whatever.

As you leave the art museum after your next visit, do not rub the giant golden bunny’s head for good luck. 

They hate that.