Friday, November 20, 2009


Big Hollywood writer Carl Kozlowski is also the winner of the America's Funniest Reporter contest at the Laugh Factory and is the co-author of the self-help advice book satire "Seize the Day Job: The Humor Book Al-Qaeda Kept You From Reading" with Tim Joyce, a Chicago comic whose views are the COMPLETE OPPOSITE of Kozlowski's - but that clash makes a fun dynamic in their writing.

The book is just $14 and makes a perfect stocking-stuffer for the Christmas season. It's also the perfect "bathroom reading," if you catch their drift, It is not available in stores, but can be ordered from Kozlowski's website,, and Kozlowski will personally sign all orders.

 BUT THIS WEEK ONLY, through Black Friday (Nov. 27), you can check out two hilarious excerpts from the book and see for yourself why it's such a great buy!




Big Hollywood writer Carl Kozlowski is also the winner of the America's Funniest Reporter contest at the Laugh Factory and is the co-author of the self-help advice book satire "Seize the Day Job: The Humor Book Al-Qaeda Kept You From Reading" with Tim Joyce, a Chicago comic whose views are the COMPLETE OPPOSITE of Kozlowski's - but that Cclash makes a fun dynamic in their writing. The book is normally just $14 and makes a perfect stocking-stuffer for the Christmas season. It's also the perfect "bathroom reading," if you catch their drift, It is not available in stores, but can be ordered from Kozlowski's website,, and Kozlowski will personally sign all orders. BUT THIS WEEK ONLY, through Black Friday, ALL copies are just $10 (30 percent off!) and are still custom-signed by Kozlowski.

Here's an EXCERPT from a chapter about modern etiquette:

Living in America means that we have some fundamental freedoms, and one of the biggest is the freedom to travel. We're Americans – so we have the right (or at least the ability) to go anywhere we want on the planet (except Osama bin Laden's hiding place, and Al Qaeda's HQ).

But just because you CAN fly when,how or where you want, doesn't mean you SHOULD. In fact, there's tons of people who should never set foot on a plane or in an airport or, well, just about anywhere in public. And therein lies the need for a few basic rules.


You've gotta love air travel. It's one of the great inventions in human history, and can take us from one end of the planet to another within a matter of hours. Flying used to be a grand concept, something to look forward to, the glamorous way to go anywhere,

But nowadays, that sense of excitement is replaced by fear and dread: of terrorists, plain old crashes, endless waits in airport security, and a general reduction in service that now leaves you paying for your damn peanuts.

Seriously, tack a dollar on to my ticket price and I won't mind, but DON'T tell me you're charging me for a half-ounce pack of unsalted snack treats. I can perhaps think of no better example of just how friggin' cheap big business has become.

Sure, there's the first class section on a plane to allegedly make your life better. But is it really worth double the ticket price just to feel a little more comfy for the 90-minute flight from Milwaukee to Cleveland? It's the only section you can still get served a meal in while flying, but come on: you should be paying them NOT to force airplane food on you, rather than REQUESTING a meal.

Forget about “Snakes on a Plane,” it's space on a plane that's truly terrifying. There's not enough room for me to even stretch my legs, but I have to wear a seatbelt so I don't fly down the aisle if we crash. Right. Seat belts are supposed to keep you from flying out the window of your car. So what the hell's the point of having them on a plane? Do they really think a 300 pound guy like me is going to be thrust 200 feet down the narrow center aisle, slammed through the steel-reinforced cockpit door, crashed through the front windows, and then launched forevermore into the ether?

And don't ever fly into or out of Florida, unless you're willing to spend an extra three days getting on and of f the plane. There's so many old people in wheelchairs, it's like a flying hospital in the sky. And I love how planes are the one form of transportation that needs to tell you 20 ways to survive a crash before you even take off.

At least there's not as many ex-cons and felons as on Greyhound – unless you're on Southwest, which is so cheap, I call it Greyhound in the Sky. If you can't afford to fly Southwest, save your money, buy a gun and kill yourself. At least you won't be spending three days going cross-country with a guy who just got out of the clink for being a child molester.


Riding a bus across town is scary and embarrassing enough, but riding a cross-country just to save 56 bucks that you're going to spend on the crappy food at rest stops anyway is ridiculous. But hell, even I've ridden Greyhound a few times (including to Vegas – ah, the glamorous life!) so here's some tips to alleviate your trauma:

First, beware of everyone around you. Possibly even the driver. You never expected to see the other riders outside of a carnival midway or a racist '70s cop show. There's two types of people who ride Greyhound: convicts and grandmas. Both are likely to sport tattoos, and sometimes you can't tell the groups apart. Let's just say there's some scary grandmas on Greyhound.

There was a dude once onboard who had tattoos above his eyebrows. Then, just as I was thinking, “He never cares if he gets a job again,” he admits openly and loudly that he just got out of prison. Trust me, there's nothing you can say to a guy like that that can lead to a more productive or healthy situation, so don't say anything.

In addition, almost everyone who rides on Greyhound looks like they've stepped out of a Diane Arbus photo. But hey, this is life on the edge. Who cares if the most normal-looking person on the bus is an Irishman with one eye? The conversation is straight out of a David Lynch movie, but the travelers are genuine Americans. The experience will leave you praying for our nation's future.

A full day of fun for all, to be certain. In any case, pack a camera. You can use the photos in court later when you sue Greyhound, and your grandkids will cherish photos of freaks at the turn of the millennium for decades to come.

With all the human tragedy buses and trains have to offer, not to mention the unique friendships one can forge there, how could you ever consider riding a plane again?



Have you ever driven your car away from the auto shop and had the uneasy feeling that the entire staff there was laughing like hyenas at you behind your back? That is a common feeling, and there is a simple reason why you think that.

They are.

“But why?” you may ask, “Why are they having a laugh at my expense?” The explanation for that is pretty easy, my friend, and deep down inside you probably already know it. Let us set the time machine back a few years and look at things as they were when you were in high school.

Chances are you thought you were pretty darned smart back in high school. Remember? You were on the debate team, the yearbook staff, you may even have been the valedictorian of your senior class. Your parents were so proud they gave you a car. They helped you take care of it. Then you went to college and really wowed 'em.


But before we move on, let's go back to high school. Remember that guy who took all the shop classes? Remember his friends? What was it you called them, Motor Heads? Grease Monkeys? Wrench Jockeys?

Boy did you ever look down on them! Ha Ha Ha! Look at the shop guys! Losers!

Admit it – that's what you thought. But now you're fresh out of school. On your own. With your own car. Your own used car, that is. Funny how life works.

See, Mom and Dad aren't going to pay for the repairs now that you've struck out on your own. So guess who's laughing now? That's right, Smartypants...all those guys you looked down on in high school.

Admit it – when you take that car into the shop you feel as dumb as a brine shrimp. When the man in the coveralls looks at you and gestures back at your disabled transportation, you haven't got the vaguest idea what he is talking about, do you?

Be honest.

If you are the average person you wouldn't know a catalytic converter if there was one floating in your soup. That's why you'll happily pay the “dumbest kid” in your high school class to fix it. See, he would know the catalytic converter if it was floating in your soup.

So who's the dumb kid now, Mr. Philosophy Major?

While you wait in the repair shop for the former dumb kid to tell you what's causing your 11-year-old dorkmobile to spew black smoke and sputter like a Cub Scout at a nude beach, perhaps you might want to check out the walls of the repair shop. Go ahead, look at the sign that lists their labor rate...Look at it!

No, no, you didn't read it wrong, Einstein. It says $75 an hour. Seventy-five dollars!

Even your psychiatrist doesn't charge that. And without your car, you can't even go see your psychiatrist. In fact, it's not unlikely that you will see your psychiatrist in the waiting room of the repair shop as well. See, he doesn't know what a catalytic converter is either.

The hour and a half you wait for the mechanic to return from the bay and tell you what's wrong with your car is the longest ninety minutes you will ever spend. You'll try to distract yourself by reading the three-year-old copies of Sports Illustrated they've thoughtfully left for you. Maybe you'll buy a can of pop. Perhaps you'll treat yourself to a nice gumball. If the repair shop is nice they'll even have free coffee for the patrons. Go head! Have a cup of java on the boys in the bay! At $75 an hour, they can afford it.

Finally, after half a pot of the strongest coffee this side of Istanbul, the mechanic will come out and call your name, If you're smart you won't answer. You'll run for your life.

He's about to start telling you why you have to give him five hundred dollars.

He'll start with the phrase, “Well, we checked the engine on the computer and this is what the problem is...” That's the last thing he'll say that you will understand at all.

Except the five hundred dollar part.

He will ramble on about the alternator fan belt or the fuel injectors or the overhead cams. All the while your eyes will glaze over. You will have absolutely no idea what he is talking about.

He will know that you have absolutely no idea what he is talking about. But he'll keep on talking about parts that he is about to replace in your car....and you'll nod. He will take an eternity to get to the only part of the conversation you really care about anyway.

The part about the five hundred dollars.

All along you will both know that you are giving him the money. But he'll make you wait.

Why does he make you wait? Why does he torture you like this?

Because you asked for it, buster. You deserve every second of torture he dishes out. You owe him that five hundred bucks, even if all that's wrong with your car is that it's out of gas.

Why do you owe him? Because you wated all that time in high school and college learning philosophy. And mocking him.

He knew you thought he was dumber than you. He wasn't. All along he was plotting this day of sweet revenge in his grease monkey mind. You will gladly pay restitution to him for your arrogance, restitution in the form of five hundred bucks. Your psychiatrist will pay him the same restitution as well.

It's a good lesson in humility when you think about it... guess that's why “kar” is the first syllable in “karma.”

Thus endeth the lesson, but since you will inevitably face a mechanic who knows you know nothing at all about your car, here's a short list of parts that your car does not have. Hopefully, this will save you embarrassment, if not money.

Your car does not have a :



Blinker Fluid Reservoir



Mine Sweeper

Ionic Transmographer

Semiautomatic transmission

Time Portal

Solar Interferometer

Martin Landau Roof

Starter Pistol

Cheese Filter


Electric Slide

Clown Vent

Serling Rod

Catatonic Converter

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy


Jimmy Hat

Snooze Alarm

Iambic Pentameter

Proton Torpedo Valve

Picnic Gasket

Litter Box