German police said on Monday that after making his getaway from the Hell’s Angels club, the 26-year-old dumped the bulldozer, causing a 5 km (3 miles) traffic jam near the southern town of Allershausen, local police said. He then fled to his home nearby where he was apprehended by the police.

“What motivated him to throw a puppy at the Hell’s Angels is currently unclear,” said a spokesman for local police, adding that the student had lately been suffering from depression.

The puppy was now in safe hands, the spokesman added.

(Reporting by Max Chrambach, editing by Paul Casciato)

The best line is “”What motivated him to throw a puppy at the Hell’s Angels is currently unclear.” So marvelously deadpan, and if you imagine it being said with a German accent, it’s even better.

June 15, 2010 10:55 AM ET
BERLIN (Reuters) – A German student created a major traffic jam in Bavaria after making a rude gesture at a group of Hell’s Angels motorcycle gang members, hurling a puppy at them and then escaping on a stolen bulldozer.

Not everyone appreciates the work that cats do in protecting us all from the trans-dimensional creatures (TDCs) that pose a constant threat to our way of life. In fact many of us remain blissfully unaware of the threat and of the fact that, without the constant vigilance of our feline defenders, the TDCs would wreak havoc on our dimension. No one is sure exactly what they would do, and Osiris willing, we will never find out; but without a doubt it would be terrible indeed.

Now you may be saying, “But wait, my cat sleeps upwards of 20 hours a day. What kind of protection is he or she against anything?” Well, the fact is that the TDCs appear on our plane of reality only rarely, often in the middle of the night, local time. Thus it is vitally important that the cats are well-rested at all times, so that they may respond swiftly and decisively when the moment comes. There is some kind of circuit in the feline brain that warns them when the dimensional barrier is breached (it is particularly strong in female cats for some reason), and this is why even a cat who seems to be wrapped in the deepest reaches of slumber may suddenly come alert, looking this way and that at what appears to be nothing at all.

This is also why cats feel entitled to anything they want to eat, the warmest places to sleep in, and as many hours of uninterrupted repose as they care to enjoy. So the next time you see a sleeping cat, by all means do not disturb it; instead lean over and whisper your thanks quietly in its ear. It may appear entirely oblivious, and may well be so, but rest assured the message will get through somehow.

Defense attorney Jeff Deen said his client admits putting his wife’s body in the freezer, but he doesn’t know how she died.

The love that cannot speak its name.

Over the years I’ve had numerous crushes on women who are, to varying degrees, less than real. For the most part, these fall into two categories: sitcom characters (Bailey Quarters, Elaine Nardo, Lisa from NewsRadio, Pam from The Office) and movie stars (Marilyn, Jessica Alba, Drew Barrymore, Scarlett Johansson). The nature of TV is such that one tends to conflate the actress with the character, and I’m not sure if that makes the crush object more or less real than a movie star, who has the name of an actual person but is experienced as a series of identities that change from film to film. And I’m not sure how you categorize feelings one might have for the image of someone who died before you were even born (technically speaking, that does fit the definition of necrophilia).

I also have a strange, longstanding attachment to the character Trillian from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, who started out as the smart, sexy, and I’m pretty sure brunette voice of Susan Sheridan in the BBC radio series, became a literary character for many years, morphed briefly into a blonde bimbo for the TV series, then turned into Zooey Deschanel in the movie—which was doubly confusing, because I like Zooey Deschanel very much, but I hated that movie.

Anyway, this whole thing has reached a new depth lately, because my latest inamorata is not only unreal in every sense, but doesn’t even have a name. She is the female Wii Fit yoga trainer, and although she has a funny way of talking where her words don’t match her lip movements and she is sometimes brutally critical of my attempts to balance on one leg, I am smitten. She has an impish smile and a killer bod, and I find her presence at my training sessions equally distracting and motivational.

I tried to learn more about her on the Internet (only for the purposes of this writing, I swear) but came up oddly empty. (Instead I kept coming across references to the Wii Fit Girl, who is also wonderful, but a whole different kettle of pulchritude.) One lady blogger referred to her as “Wiilma,” and while that name is clever it really doesn’t fit her; she seems more like a “Maia” or something else kind of new agey.

Well, I’m not really sure where I’m going with this. I guess I just felt like embarrassing myself in public today. Carry on.

A few notes and updates:

• Almost five years after I first wrote about him, Abe Vigoda—against all rational likelihood—remains alive. In fact he seems to be getting better; he even appeared in this ad broadcast during the most recent Super Bowl:

• The mural on the side of the former Dave’s Coffee Shop has been repainted and looks more or less as it did before, with the same Gandhi quote in big bold letters. This gladdens my heart.

• I correctly predicted that the Easy Star All-Stars would record a version of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, though in retrospect I wish I’d correctly predicted they’d cover Abbey Road or the White Album. To test the strength of these powers, I’m now going to predict that their next project will be The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardub and the Spiders from Mars.

Which brings us right back, again, to David Bowie, who I’ve written about probably more than anyone. In the future I think that Bowieism will be recognized as a viable religious option, probably after the great man himself passes on to the next Bardo, assuming he ever does. It’s possible David, Lou, and Iggy will be granted eternal life by the aliens when they land in 2012, having travelled many light years to follow up on that Chuck Berry we sent them a while back.

And I’m sorry, but I have to ask: what the hell does he have in his beard?

As mentioned in my last post, I picked up a copy of the Hold Steady’s latest CD at their show on Thursday. It’s a good album, and I am entirely satisfied with my purchase, except for one thing: On the front cover, the spine, and the disc the title is rendered as “Heaven is Whenever.”

This drives me batshit crazy. This is wrong.

Here’s the deal: In headline case, every word is capitalized unless it is an article, a conjunction, or a preposition. This is a simple and elegant rule and it has been in effect for hundreds of years; and yes, because this is English, there are a whole coterie of exceptions, but that’s not the point. The point is that whether a word is supposed to be capitalized depends on which part of speech it is, not how many letters are in it. “Is” is a verb, and gets the capital “I.” Always has, and the Lawd willing, always will. End of discussion.

Unfortunately, misunderstanding of this rule has become a widespread problem. I consider it emblematic of the general decline of American literacy. One of the major theater chains flashes a card before every movie to remind you to turn off your phone—it reads “Silence is Golden,” and every time I see it I want to scream. It makes me so tense that it ruins the first five minutes of the movie. So as a personal favor I want you, dear reader, to take a pledge to fight the scourge of the small “i” wherever you see it. Never surrender, never compromise. By any means necessary. Hallelujah.