I “met” Jesse Friedman in 1997, on the prehistoric bulletin board alt.books.kurt-vonnegut, in the course of an argument about Nirvana and the Pixies. Some years later, we were simultaneously editors at our respective college papers, UC Irvine’s New University and UPenn’s Punch Bowl. And some time after that, we actually and serendipitously met in person at Harvard, where we were both students en route to becoming dropouts.

He was funny as fuck, and smart as fuck. If you knew him, chances are you’d describe as the smartest, funniest motherfucker you knew. I lack the humor and eloquence to provide the remembrance he deserves. In its absence are these assorted anecdotes. He will be missed. Fuck.
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Circa 2000, Jesse organizing an International Conference of Jesse Friedmans. His outreach to the Jesse Friedman community brought him into contact with, among others, the Jesse Friedman featured in Capturing the Friedmans, some time before that documentary’s release. The two had a brief acquaintanceship, although Jesse was always quick to qualify himself as not-the-guy-imprisoned-for-child-molestation.

Jesse commissioning me to write a letter of recommendation to his first college crush. Reviewing a draft of the letter, he removed the gratuitous Jew jokes and added a line about the girl’s then-boyfriend, Brad Moore, being “an anagram for DRAB ROMEO.”

Jesse writing a treatment of his memoirs, entitled “Stop Laughing, What Have You Ever Written? (Oh, Leaves of Grass? Carry On, Mr. Whitman),” and concocting a scheme to get it into the hands of Dave Eggers by attending an Eggers reading while wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Jesse himself wiping his ass with “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.” The scheme fell through, with Jesse subsequently threatening me with violence should I mention to anyone the existence of “Stop Laughing, What Have You Ever Written.”

Jesse announcing with great fanfare that he’d devised a “fool-proof” plan to turn the tables on Chris Hansen of “To Catch a Predator,” and his fool-proof plan consisting of telling Hansen that he knew it was a sting all along and just wanted an autograph.

The unresolved, intractable debate Jesse and I had about who he resembled more: Richard Alpert from “Lost,” or Charlie Day from “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.”

Jesse’s idea of a Twitter joke: “Tupperware should make sheep costumes. Tupperware brand tupper wear.”

Jesse brutalizing me in Scrabble even when I cheated outrageously.

Team nicknames are a big part of the World Cup’s fun and spectacle. Algeria are the Desert Foxes. Spain are the Red Fury. Germany are Die Mannschaft, which is German for “the team.” Australia are the Socceroos, which is Australian for “being assholes at the beach.” 


Cameroon are by far the nickname champions: the Indomitable Lions. Just in case someone else appropriates that symbolism-rich animal, there’s the trump-card of a modifier. Cameroon have the “infinity plus one!” of team nicknames.

Host nation South Africa are “The Boys.” In addition to home-court advantage, they should count their blessings that neighboring Namibia, “The Priests,” failed to qualify this year.

Some teams don’t actually have a nickname. Team USA are simply MNT, which stands for “Men’s National Team.” Not to be confused with MGMT, which stands for “Look at my man-ankles. Aren’t they pretty. I’m a man and I’m wearing pants that expose my ankles. A complete absence of taste in music is the least of my problems.”


Sometimes, fans dislike a team’s official nickname so much that they make their own. Switzerland were the Oath Comrades, but that’s kind of embarrassing, so fans call them Schweizer Nati.


A few other teams could use a grassroots re-naming campaign. Why are Japan the “Boys in Blue”? Mexico are “El Tri” (tricolor), but why would you reference the least interesting aspect of your flag and not the fucking insane eagle-murdering-snake part? Saudi Arabia failed to qualify in an upset this year, which gives them four years to replace “The Green” with any of the following available choices.



260 Billion Barrels

The Solid Gold, Gold-Plated Gold Tigers

The Opulent Mediocrity

USA BFF!

Milk-Fed Veal and a Private Harem Take Your Mind Off The Human Condition, For a While

¡Aye dios mio! I was watching mi compadre Rick (pronounced “Reeek”) Sanchez on his daytime CNN show, Rick’s List (“Reeek’s Leeest”). I always feel such pride for my people when I watch this program.

On this episode, Rick announced a debate between Representatives Debbie Wasserman Schultz (D. – Florida) and Ron Paul (R. – Texas) that was to take place after the commercialidades. I was excited, as I’ve been hearing a great deal about Mr. Paul’s revolution. Details of la revolución have so far eluded me, but it sounded like he was a man with real outsider ideas.

The show returned from commercials and this is what I saw:

Now I’m kind of confused about what “revolution” means, if anything. Maybe it just means something different to my middle-class white friends. Personally, I feel more comfortable enlisting for the RuPaul Revolution at this point. (Thanks, I’ll be here all semena!)

You can always tell a person is honest and sincere when their voice constantly goes in and out of high pitched-tones at belligerent speeds with a spattering of slurred speech. As for the substance of that fluctuating speech: Yes, the reason insurance is out of control is because of a “government mandated function”! Apparently the government mandates exorbitant executive profits, the arbitrary dropping and reducing of coverage, punitive rate increases on the people who can afford it the least, and the hiring of proctologists with larger than usual manos.

You know what? ¡Chinga tu Revolución, Señor Paul! (Pronounced Pow-uhl!) Y tu madre.

What’s going on inside Joe Lieberman’s head? A recent brain scan, provided to End Happy by sources close to the senator from Lieberman, sheds some light.

Based on the previews alone, two dimensions just can’t do justice to every OH SNAP moment in Michael Moore’s latest project, Michael Moore’s Capitalism: A Love Story starring Michael Moore.

For example the moment when he’s all, “Where’s our money,” and Clueless Lady is all quiet, and then she’s all, “Uh … I don’t know.” OH SNAP! She seemed pretty clueless about our money. But it was hard to tell for sure.

Or when Michael Moore waves a bag at a security guard in front of a building, and he’s all, “We’re here to take the money back for the American people.” OH SNAP! But what kind of bag was that shit? You can’t hardly tell in 2 fucking D.

Like my bumper sticker says, “Somewhere in Texas a village is missing its idiot … and its 3D glasses, because I took them to go see this shit in 3D!” My bumper doesn’t say the last part, I made it up for effect. OH SNAP!

I absolutely love HBO’s new viral marketing campaign:

Pelosi gets emotional about political climate

“This kind of rhetoric was very frightening and it gave — it created a climate in which violence took place and so I wish that we would all, again, curb our enthusiasm, in some of the statements that are made.”

Pelosi continued that she believes “once Americans see the true blood of this health reform bill, I think they’ll be feeling a lot of big love for the president. Chuck Grassley and his entourage of obstructionists are going to be six feet under. Politically speaking. If you know what I mean.”

White House press secretary Robert Gibbs praised Pelosi for “Keeping it eastbound & down for the administration,” adding, “Sorry, I’m new at this.”