So there I am, like most of my generation, eating dinner in front of the TV. Tonight, we're dining with frequent guests Pat and Vanna, and they're attempting to bestow riches on a variety of shrieking contestants. I'm bringing a forkful of my delicious homemade ham fried rice to my lips when a commercial break begins and suddenly the screen is filled with a GIANT DISEASED FOOT.

This is no cartoon depiction of foot fungus, no sock-encased "itchy" foot, this is an extremity afflicted with something akin to Mongolian Toe Rot run amok. It looks like something from a George Romero movie ... something that would be dealt with via chain saw and/or flamethrower.

As soon as I managed to fight back my gorge and brush off the rice I'd spilled all over myself, I noticed the commercial was for something called Miracle Foot Repair. Whatever's in that tube had better be blessed by the pope and Dalai Lama and rubbed on Buddha's belly if it's going to do the object foot any good.

I don't generally mind commercials. I understand they're a necessary evil, and can even be far funnier and more creative than the shows they interrupt, but when diseased body parts start cropping up during the dinner hour, something's got to be done.

Side note: I've noticed the game-show half hour in the evening seems to be laden with all manner of patent medicine commercials. In 30 minutes, you can cure everything from psoriasis and memory loss to baldness and "lack of male performance." I'm figuring my fellow viewers must be a pretty sickly lot, if the demographics are to be believed.

There are other commercials out there, also, that while they might not have the sheer visual impact of the Foot From Hell, are nonetheless offenses against my good taste and intellect.

For instance, the purple pill pushers are at it again, this time with a poor sod who arrives at a cocktail party and is approached by a lovely hostess bearing a tray of appealing-looking hors d'oeuvres. It quickly becomes apparent that the cocktail in his glass must be a peyote margarita, as the hostess transforms into an evil temptress, proffering goodies while uttering all manner of threats to our hero's digestive well-being. The party goes on around him, while he's cornered by the Evil Munchie Lady.

By far the worst of the present batch, though, is the Insane Hallmark Woman. Her star turn opens with her hosting a couple of friends for coffee. Under the pretense of retrieving forgotten cookies, she scuttles to her giant box of cards and, while eavesdropping on her friends' conversation, paws through it, snatching ones that pertain to events being discussed. She presents them to enthusiastic accolades from her chums.

This one has recently gotten an audio makeover which now features one of the friends mentioning buying a new car. What do you know? Insane Hallmark Woman has a card for that, too!

However, this begs a question: how did she know in advance about the car purchase unless she'd been stalking her friend?

I now survey the crowds around me when I'm in malls or other public places, looking for anyone watching me and making notes for greeting card-related activity.

But enough about me. Let's take a look at a couple of items hot off this week's Weird Wires.

What's The Bag Limit?

I always encourage lawmakers to pursue truly important and relevant courses of action, and Omaha, Neb., state Sen. Ernie Chambers is my current poster child. He has filed bills in the Nebraska Legislature to protect his constituents' rights to hunt martians.

That's right. If Sen. Ernie has his way, any martians landing in Nebraska had better watch their little green butts.

Chambers has also filed motions to permit the hunting of Bigfoot and Osama bin Laden within state borders.

This does beg a few questions, though. What do martians taste like? Space chicken? What wine goes with Bigfoot? How likely is Osama bin Laden to show up in Nebraska?

I'm not sure I want to know the answer to that last one.

Brain Food

If you can't get your martian burger, how about a brain sandwich?

Despite all the mad cow hysteria, the Hilltop Inn, in Evansville, Ind., is still doing a brisk business selling sandwiches made from fried cow brain. The lunch crowd just can't get enough of the battered brains, which are served burger-style.

Recent difficulties in supply courtesy of the mad cow scare might force a switch to pig brains, but Tom Dewig, owner of the Hilltop Inn, says customers likely wouldn't notice the difference because "the flavor is really carried in the batter."

Now, you folks just go and enjoy your lunches, ya hear?

Coffee With That Sandwich?

What's better with a brain sandwich than a steaming cup of joe? This is especially true if that cup is full of Weasel Coffee

You probably haven't seen that brand on your local stores shelves, nor are you likely to. You see, Weasel Coffee is a VERY expensive gourmet brew, reputed to have aphrodisiac powers.

The secret is in the beans ... or rather in the fact that it's not made from coffee beans, at least not directly.

In Indonesia, where the coffee is found, weasellike creatures called civet cats enjoy dining on only the finest, ripest coffee berries. Enzymes in their digestive tract help break down the bean, then workers collect the cat droppings. The droppings are used to make the coffee.

I'll just let that sink in for a moment.

It will come as no surprise that the coffee is reported to have a very strong aroma and *urp* taste.

So, grab yourself a sandwich and a cup of coffee, but don't forget to take your purple pill first.

Oh, and the Insane Hallmark Lady left a card for you.

I welcome your comments, complaints, stories and professions of undying love. Large cash grants are also accepted. Just click here, type and send.

Previous Stories:

• Jan 16, 2004: Disturbing The Peace
• Dec. 27, 2003: The Weird Year In Review
• Dec. 12, 2003: Time's Running Out!
• Dec. 5, 2003: Gone Fishing
• Nov. 21, 2003: Weird: Revolutions
• Nov. 7, 2003: Fattening UP The Menu
• Oct. 31, 2003: Going Ghost Hunting, Part 2
• Oct. 24, 2003: Going Ghost Hunting, Part 1
• Oct. 17, 2003: So Weird It's Scary