With the stench of beer and wings heavy on our breath, Charles Grodin once again took the stage at Mullen's. It was your typical boy meets girl, boy eats mini electric eels to impress girl, girl gets killed by a swinging sandbag kind of love story. And let's not forget their pervy teacher who just wanted to find some no-strings-attached lovin' at the Red Lobster. Of course, it all worked out in the end and Lars discovered his mom was a bitchy supermodel. Thank goodness for random, deadly, ill-timed sandbags.

But seriously, y'all, if a teacher or vice principal tries to pick you up at a Red Lobster, run. Dont' wait to find whether their van has windows, just run. Unless! Unless, of course, it's during Lobster Fest. In that case, you should run. Run to the buffet table start stuffing as much lobster into your pockets as is socially acceptable.

Football.  Three guys watching a Bears game talking about what guys always talk about when watching football.  Existentialist identity issues and the possibility of existence being an all too realistic illusion of the mind.  On top of that, beers are 8 dollars!  If the world is only as we create and then perceive it, then beers should probably be cheaper at a football game.  The bears punter knows he is real, but the fact that the bears never punt isn't making it any better.  Bad t.v. salesmen, frustrated drug dealers, Ron doing the robot... Football. 

Alright, alright. So, Charles Grodin had a show at the magnanimous, newish improv venue Quenchers. And it was a blast. Particularly the Cuban Reuben. TRY IT!

Our suggestion was, obviously, Elliott Gould. Now, we could tell you all about how we painted a tender portrait of Elliott Gould's son, Gerard Gould, working at Starbucks after failing as an actor. We could go into how he lost his true love when she stole his Jaguar and Elliott bedded her. We might even mention that an old high school enemy of Gerard's stopped by his place of work just to create an unholy mess of the bathroom. But instead, we just want to make this humble plea. Go watch an Elliott Gould motion picture. He's fantastic. We can only hope our performance measured up to the man in some small way.

Pete the garbage man has found oil in the gulf, and now rakes in 300K per year.  He owns a boat, he's king of the ocean, but he's still faithful to his wife.  Pete loves boobs.

Mr. Cantankerous only hauls two shrimp a day.  He can't sell them to McDonald's, and he certainly can't sell them to a consulting firm.  But the son of a principal--a sailor boy in training--longs to be his first mate. 

Turns out the oil-slicked shrimp taste better than the clean ones.

Pete's oil fortune has fun afoul.  He has decided that Burger King, in addition to being the name of an already successful company, would also make a silly name for an oil company.  Unfortunately, Pete's Oil--a hamburger company--and Pete's Soil--a gardening conglomerate--have served Pete with notices to cease and desist.  Both companies dispute the naming similarities of Pete's Oil.

Now Pete's broke.  His wife, drunk from the pleasures of being married to a man who makes 300K per year, goes back on the dating scene.  She's seduced by Bill Gates, who's eaten 400K in Kennedy half dollars, but she settles for Brian, the legless cashier from the burger joint, Pete's Oil.

Pete and Brian both die trying to swim their way through the Gulf oil spill.  Richard Branson helps deliver the eulogy, but Tony Hayword interjects with one simple message: "Fuck you, we don't care."

Also, Shirley Temples are delicious.

Oil spill.