Not content to be outdone by The Racist $25,000 Pyramid, this extremely familiar-can’t-place-her-80s-character actor (Jillian something? Little help, Jesse Thompson? Was she a voice on Turbo Teen or something?) gives her best clue possible for “Japan.” Thankfully, she passes before resorting to “Dirty Knees” or “Look At These.”

Ok, It’s not exactly Mel Gibson-level stuff going on here, but if there were a Perez Hilton page for Z-List Celebs, I’d like to think this makes the front page underneath something about Clint Howard or Reb Brown canoodling at Dick’s Last Resort.

Oh, no, Ichiro! She doesn’t mean it like that! Aww, see what you did, lady?

[UPDATE: Jesse "Junkstore" Thompson has no idea who this is either, and this is the guy who knows who Joe "Bean" Esposito is by heart]
[UPDATE UPDATE: "That's Teresa Ganzel from Transylvania 6-5000" says Adam "I'm the only one who's ever uttered that sentence" Tracey.]

Note: This is a long entry. Just man up and take the ride. There’s a contest at the very end to win a book called “What’s My Pee Telling Me?” from Chronicle Books and South Park Season 13 on Blu-Ray from Comedy Central.

First things first: My headline is probably misleading, because there are two definitions of “tryst.”

1. An agreement, as between lovers, to meet at a certain time and place.

2. A meeting or meeting place that has been agreed on.

Clearly, I would never intend to meet Gareb Shamus as a lover (though I totally might, have you seen him lately? We’ll get to that) But definition “#2″ deals with our agreed meeting place. Which, in this case, would be something called FaceBook.

Pretty straightforward questions, I think you’ll agree. Important ones, too. I don’t want to toot my own hose but I’m a reporter, you know.

But then something goes horribly wrong between Gareb and I. CLICK THROUGH to find out how Gareb responds to my sexual advances which I just couldn’t contain anymore.

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Welcome to part 2 of World of Ward Crap’s 13 WEEK series on filming junior dance competitions. Read about last week’s travesty adventure HERE.

Having survived a trip to the heart of Amish darkness last week, Bryan and I once again mounted our mini-van and headed to another dance competition in Nashville, TN—this one was at the Grand Ole Opry (or “The Grand AOL Opry” as my text messaging spell check kept insisting, giving me a possible glimpse into the not-so-distant future). To catch you up to speed, here’s what I’m involved in:

Terrifying, right? It’s weird how things work out. I first met Dan Raleigh (aka, Fred Price) when I worked for Wizard Magazine…my friend Junkstore Jesse Thompson and I picked his hilarious video Supercycle USSR as Wizard’s “Direct to Video” contest winner. We flew him out to Chicago to collect his prize, and Dan and I immediately learned we shared the same love for things like the Beastmaster and stuffing large plants into hotel elevators. Now, years later, he’s kind of my boss. Check out his winning Wizard video. I should mention that Josh Powers (seen below) is also my boss, which is AWESOME. Do you have a cooler boss than this? I don’t know, has your boss ever stolen a Russian super bike? There’s something else familiar about these two videos…listen closely.

Yep, after you hear the narrator from Supercycle, it’s hard to take the dance commercial seriously ever again. Hooray, Easter Eggs!

Now, on to Nashville…..Click through to hear about the Dukes of Hazzard museum bathroom incident, which country music stars are dicks, and why Tupac and milk go together so well…

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[note: As Chris grew up in and lives in Illinois, much was kept from him about Hanukkah. And by "much," we mean "everything." Though he now has many Jewish friends, they never stopped to explain anything to him, even when he thought Baklava was a traditional Hebrew dessert. We now present you with his entire 6th Grade report on Hanukkah.]

Today marks the beginning of a 33 day tea ceremony the Japanese call “Hanukkah.”  The Japanese are let out of school at 1AM, a full two hours early, and don traditional “giant banana hats” for the night’s activities.

Shown: The Jew in his Banana Hat.

This is the extent of human knowledge about this mysterious holiday and its people, though footage is rumored to exist (below). Some even say Jews live among us today. Thank You.

For the curious, I received an A on that report. Everyone else in class being from Illinois, they took me at my word. Looking back, it seems silly to think of a time when Christmas dominated the Midwest, before our Jewish friends invaded every Wal-Mart and Dollar General with their crassly commercialized “hot toys of the year.” Happy Hanukkah, Midwestern Illinois!

Shown: Impossible to find toy of the year 2009 and Toys R’ Us 4AM crowd who will soon be turned away.

If we were at a Texas Roadhouse Chain Eatery right now, you would hear the faint sound of forced employee clapping make its way from the kitchen right to our table, followed by a cowboy hat and saddle for this website to sit upon and pose for pictures. And then a 17 year old kid with a looming Ford Mustang payment would say “Hey pawdners, today marks this website’s 100th post!” and they would woop and holler and everyone would try very hard not to look up from their Chicken Ding Dillers and Texas Tonyun Boomin’ Possum Blossoms. And what a good time we’ve all had in the process. Thanks for stopping by. And now, as always, I hope your Monday sucks! PSHHHTTT!!!

This is what we got from my wife’s aunt one year for Christmas. It’s lingerie. For a Christmas tree. They say it’s the thought that counts, and her thoughts turned to buying us naughty, mini-undies to hang on our Christmas tree.

Ahem.

So I guess these are official Hallmark keepsakes for the family that likes to put the “Sex” back in Chrisexmas. [Sad trombone!]

On the plus side, her aunt got me my all time favorite ornament, the Pac-Man Arcade Keepsake, the next year…which Cobra Commander enjoys playing in his Hallmark Keepsake Boxers from the previous year.

“High SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSScore!”

Hey! Now here’s a holiday tradition you won’t want to miss: pictures with Santa Claus. And how could you miss it, with all those hours he’ll be appearing? Oh, what’s that, little boy? You’re here to see “African-American Santa” instead? Well Black Santa’s appearing one day only, for two hours. And I hear he’s not even really African-American…I hear he’s African-CANADIAN! [Sad Trombo-ho-ho-hone!]

Also please address Santa as “Santa”—or Regular Santa—and not Caucasian Santa. And make sure that when you lie to your kids about Santa, you’re also lying about the correct race of the Santa. If your white kid thinks a Black Santa screwed him out of a present, you’re just just stirring up racial resentment at an early age. Best to tell your white kids that Santa is white, and black kids that Santa is black. It’s easier that way. Separate, but equal Santas, you know?

“But what about Chinese Santa?”

Don’t be goddamned ridiculous kid. There is no Chinese Santa. Just pick a line—Black Santa or White Santa. But, between you and me, it’s best to pick White Santa (he’s here more often).

Still, on the positive side, no waiting line for Black Santa! Why? Because there’s a bearded black man yelling “HO! HO! HO!” in the center of the mall and a white lady freaked out and called security. Once they get all that ironed out, I’m sure you can sit on his lap.

Isn’t holiday diversity a wonderful thing?

…And after a hard day of deciding what race the Santa you worship is, why not bring the family in for a warm Pooboy Sandwich? Mmm, Mmm! Just like momma used to pinch right into a hot oven. Nothing says Christmas like a moist, juicy, steaming Pooboy Sandwich. [Poo Trombone!!!]

Check out this holiday special from the Best Buy Geek Squad! For only $19.99, the Geek Squad will drive to your house in their awful car and install the latest firmware updates to your PS3! Hey, that’s terrific. Because when the PS3 tells me “Latest Firmware Update Required” (roughly every fucking time I turn on the PS3), it’s too much trouble for me to hit the “X” button to Accept. I love how helpful the Geek Squad is. Like how they’re willing to sell me a $200 Monster HDMI cable, or “set-up” the picture on my Plasma TV by adjusting the contrast and brightness, or push the “power button” on my remote with their able thumbs. I am useless without them! Here, just take all my money! I’m a complete moron! Of course, the price of this highly necessary service varies from place to place. $20 is a steal! [HI-DEF TROMBONNNNE!]

…Why hey, it looks like Slate.com is running a related story on Best Buy scams. This one’s about the Geek Squad “optimizing” your new Mac (read: turning the power button on). That I can agree with but…hey, Slate, I hate Jon and Kate as much as the next American who built up their celebrity status in the first place. But maybe tell your underpaid web-designer to ease up on the violent imagery in his subliminal banner scroll. Merry Christmas! BLAM! [Sad Trombone Plus 8!]

Shitteriffic Costumes #10-6 are HERE, so let’s dive into part 2 of my worst childhood costumes, shall we?

5. The “Silver Surfer”

Halloween being my favorite holiday, and getting out of any and all learning activities a close second, you can imagine how I kicked myself when I forgot to dress up for Mrs. Fife’s drama class one morning in High School. The deal was, if you dressed up, you got to leave class and go show off your costume to the little kids. Everyone else got to stay behind and do assignments. Thinking I was sneaky, I got into the prop closet before class started and had my friend Bryan spray silver hair color all over my entire visible body.

And here’s how that conversation went:

TEACH: What the hell is this?

CHRIS: I’m the Silver Surfer!

TEACH: Tell me you didn’t use that hairspray color to do that

CHRIS: Yeah, you caught me, ha ha ha!

TEACH: Chris, you have to wash that off your skin.

CHRIS: Ok, I will, ha ha ha! Oh well, I tried! HA HA HA!

TEACH: No I’m serious…like right now. Any minute now your skin is going to stop breathing. You have to get that stuff off immediately.

If my face wasn’t doused in a thick chemical aerosol, you would have seen it go immediately pale when she said that. Try to imagine this being how you die: your pores were blocked by silver paint, your body stops getting oxygen, and you die on the floor of your drama class…and not even particularly well, since you suck at acting.

It literally took hours to get all this shit off my body. My skin was raw and bleeding. And when it rinsed off, the paint dripped all over my sensitive bunch. I’m talking real Tin Man’s balls here. But I missed most of the school day, which was kind of the point. And I got the shiny set of testicles I still sport today. What, do you think I washed them off? Dude…c’mon, chrome balls! I finally figured out how!

4. Hobo with Distended Ulcer

“Hi! I’m Apple Cheeks the Gainfully Employed Hobo! I gotta BIG CEE-GAR! I got me a Dick Tracy HAT! I’m a Lone Ranger memorabilia collector! Straight off the black gold, nuts in my hand, trustin no man, got my glock cocked, runnin this thing, ya understand ! AH CHA CHA!”

I think this picture ran in the paper. I have zero recollection of being this…whatever I am. The Green Hornet’s hayseed-in-the-city cousin? Jimmy Durante’s loser kid? I don’t know. If you know, then GIVE YOURSELF A GIANT CEE-GAR, KID! AH CHA CHA CHA! One thing’s for sure: there must have been a fire sale on Lone Ranger masks. Why does a Hobo need a Lone Ranger Mask? Why does the Pumpkin Girl in front of me? Was this some bizarre Kid Identity Protection clause at the newspaper? Or have you just wandered into a junior production of Eyes Wide Shut? I think this is right before I tricked Nicholas Cage into rescuing me, so we could put him in a giant Wicker Man. THE DRONE MUST DIE! THE DRONE MUST DIE!*

*middling reference to the 2006 Wicker Man remake, which I have just watched and feel I must immediately reference before my brain purges all memories of that movie from my cortex. Which happens right about….now.

3. Anton Chigurh

Left: Mugshot of Death Cab for Cutie keyboardist after some hostile snicker-snag with unruly fangirl. Right: Oscar-Winning badass.

Guess how many Halloween bar-patrons have heard of the 2007 Best Picture “No Country For Old Men,” and Best Supporting Actor Javier Bardem as Anton Chigurh, most iconic screen villain in recent years? The answer is zero. Or, to be more exact…

….how many Halloween bar patrons, after several beers, could recognize a walking broomstick of a man holding a painted garden sprayer with a Prince Valiant shag as the most terrifying film villain of our time? The answer to THAT…is also zero. I was so in love with Anton Chigurh that year, that I was blinded by the fact that you should never, ever go as a person for Halloween. And without the larger-than-life screen personality, eyes that could stop a man’s heart, or blood curdling voice, that’s essentially what I went as that year: a person. Jesus, THIS guy looks more like Anton Chigurh, and was better received at the bar:

I guess I figured people would say, “Who are you?” and I would say “Anton Chigurh, friendo!” and they would laugh and laaaaaugh and say, “I love that Oscar winning movie!” and I would flip one of the many quarters I was carrying around in my pocket that night and say “CALL IT, FRIENDO!” and they would say, “Oh no! ha ha ha. Don’t do it!” and I would squirt them in the forehead with my water-spraying, fake oxygen tank thing.

What actually happened is I just wandered around trying to keep an unapproachable look on my face, as everyone’s eyes darted in the opposite direction. I probably just looked like a retarded, angry landscaper.

So never go as another actor for Halloween. Unless you were horribly disfigured in a police accident, then you can go as Fred Krueger: Motivational Speaker

The next rule is, when all else fails, go as Gallagher, like my friend Sarah did. As in, “Who’s that cool Gallagher chick hanging around with that denim-loving ass-gardener?”

Pictured: Not at all a terrifying moment.

2. Every Clown My Parents Forced Me To Be

You see that mouth hanging open? That is the face of a brainless, mouth-breathing baby. That’s me. I’m that stupid baby. You know what I’m probably thinking right there? I’m probably thinking about eating my sock, or digging my fist into my own eye. That’s because babies are ridiculously, hilariously stupid creatures. Because they’re stupid and can’t make their own decisions, their parents decide what they are for Halloween until the child is cognizant enough to point at the TV and say “Mider-Man.” (that’s Spider-Man. That’s how I said it, and that’s how I got my first vinyl Spider-Man costume).

But until that time, my parents made me a clown. Year after yarn-brained year. And you can see, after half a decade of this, just how excited I was about it…

Pictured: From the photo series “Bad child gets what it deserves” or, alternately, “Purple clown placed in hot sun.”

Yes, I never got tired of this crap. I believe I allowed my face to be painted in this picture in exchange for a balloon and an A-Team shirt. Absolutely no dignity.

That’s also why, to this day, I believe I see a midnight visitor whenever I look out my bedroom window. Someday, my kids will too.

1. A. GOD. DAMN. CABBAGE. PATCH. DOLL.

When I was digging for these old costumes, this picture hit me like a pink nightmare. What. The. Hell. Was. This.

To be blunt—to be absolutely, frank, really—“Holy tits, why was I dressed like a fucking Cabbage Patch Doll?!??!” was one question that breezed through my mind. Again, I have zero recollection of this. I sincerely hope that thing hanging around my neck is a pacifier, and not a “plug” of some sort. Mom explains that this costume was thrust upon me, again, by my Aunt who hates little boy cousins, but enjoys little girl nieces.

There must be a big metal bin in most minimum security sex offender prisons where the mail sorters throw contraband pictures that come addressed to inmates. Near that metal bin must be a smaller, pink basket wear the guards throw only the most twisted and mind-shattering of incoming inmate mail. Alone, this picture would occupy that pink basket. Surely, this is the only reason I can think of for a picture like this to exist: be be mailed to a convicted pederast, or to bait one into appearing on Dateline.

Cabbage Patch related side-story: Kids of all sexes in my town went ape-shit for Cabbage Patch Dolls, like the rest of the country, in the early eighties. My small, backwater town was ill-prepared for this demand, but managed to get some dolls in that sold out instantly. And yet, somehow, my mom got my brother and I a Cabbage Patch Doll that just wasn’t selling in my tiny, values-driven Illinois town. No one had even touched it. I couldn’t believe our luck. My brother and I loved running through the yard with that thing, clutching our blankets. It wasn’t until years later that we figured out the reason my mom got her hands on it: it was a BLACK Cabbage Patch doll, and no other moms in town wanted it. Wow. Just….wow.

So, yeah, our family was ahead of the curve on human/doll race-relations.

The background of this terrifying picture is, of course, the popular Halloween posing spot in my house, as seen in “Skateboard Frankenstein,” so we’ve come full circle. I hope you’ve enjoyed a look at my most tragic Halloweens to date. Lord knows I’m now dead inside.