What I think about when dog and I get into a staring contest

(719 words)

I sometimes find myself staring at the dog and wondering how I’d look with his nose and how he’d look with mine. And I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

I doubt it. I think when he looks at me he’s wondering when I’m going to eat again. 

He’s a very small dog, a yipper. I guess his brain’s about the size of a walnut. I think he devotes all his minuscule brain power to thoughts of obtaining and consuming food. 

I’m surprised dogs like him don’t try and leap through the TV whenever they see commercials for things like Hot Pockets.

One of the things I most admire about dogs is they’d never pause to read a nutrition label. They just eat what they enjoy until what they enjoy is all gone.

Yet, dogs have what must be an instinctive dislike for anything we’re told is healthy. I’ve never once seen my dog slobber over a salad.

If dogs were smart, they’d spend less time wishing for food and more time wishing for opposable thumbs that would allow them to pull open the refrigerator door. It’s like the Biblical parable about giving a man a fish or teaching him how to catch them.

I know a lot of humans who’d look more interesting with the noses of their dogs, me included.

A nose, even a properly functioning one, is a terrible facial focal point. If eyes are the windows to the soul then noses are the chimneys to the respiratory system. Nothing good comes out of them.

I’ve always thought it would be cool if what you sneezed revealed your personality. Cheerful people would sneeze confetti; sweet people, jellybeans; politicians, bull crap.

I once read that the size of our eyes is the same when we’re born as when we die.

That’s probably for the best. I’m trying to picture my 82-year-old mother with saucer-sized eyeballs. It’d be very unnerving, like she could instantly tell when I’m lying to her about how delighted I am she lives nearer to me instead of my deadbeat brother in Tennessee.

That same article about the consistent eyeball size said human noses and ears grow a little bit each and every day.

On days when I have very little to do I spend hours staring straight into the mirror intently trying to detect some growth. I can’t see it, but old pictures from around high school prove growth is, indeed, happening.

My butt’s getting bigger, too.

I’ve read we’re on the verge of physiological changes that will allow the average human to live to extraordinary ages, like 200 years.

That sounds great until you think about relentless ear and nasal growth.

Standard elevators will only have room for two or three old timers. Everyone else will either have to take the stairs or ride a few floors huddled beneath a nostril.

I’ve always been baffled by the way ears look. Why we need all that superfluous gutter cartilage around the little ear hear hole is a mystery.

I wish I could evolve dog ears, little mud flaps that would hang over the actual ear.

Like a beagle’s!

Many people say, ah, but having a furry flap over your ears would impede hearing.

To which I respond, ah, but having a furry flap over my ears would impede hearing!

Have you heard what’s being said or sung?

The only reason I don’t walk through life with my fingers jammed in my ears is because I’m either carrying something or my hands are up in the “Don’t shoot!” position necessary for surviving today’s society.

Think of the splendor if you could walk around with thick mufflers dangling over your ears. You’d wouldn’t hear stupid political opinions, unwanted sports discussions or disagreeable music.

If you wished to engage in conversation with someone intelligent, you could fasten the ears above your head with a little clip, something fashionable.

So that’s some of what I think about when I’m staring at the dog and he’s staring back at me.

What he’s actually thinking we’ll never know.

Like I said, he’s probably thinking about food.

I just hope he’s not thinking vengeful thoughts against me because a few years ago I approved the surgery that severed maybe the one thing dearer to typical male dogs than food.

I guess it’s something to think about.

Related . . .

Blaming conservative for nearly killing my dog

Now ear this!

Mom’s making crazy contagious by a nose

Nosing around heaven & hell

Daughter, 7, says Bible says I must like our dog

I think our dog is gay

My Saturday speech? A surprising sell out

(659 words)

I had my best speaking engagement this weekend if for no other reason I’ll now know where to go if my wife ever changes the locks for a laundry list of reasons, not the least of which being her desire to reduce the time she spends doing laundry.

Mt. Pleasant, here I come!

The sensational YouTube clips of me speaking or joking around about speaking are starting to stir interest in people who book speakers.

One of these interests asked me to forward a list of all my speaking engagements from the past year. There were more than 30 of them.

The crowds ranged from 250 at West Virginia University to absolute zero at the venerable Carnegie Library in Oakland.

The link is below, but I’ll share one anecdote from that humiliation, one that was so thorough I found it perversely enjoyable.

The organizer apologized profusely saying she couldn’t understand why no one had shown up. “Why,” she said, “last week’s speaker drew an enthusiastic crowd of more than 60 people.”

What, pray tell, was the topic?

“How to raise chickens in your home.”

I thought of that embarrassment when I walked into Leo & Sons Grille 31 in Mt. Pleasant and saw where I’d be speaking. It was fraught with pitfalls.

Now, we love Leo’s. It has great food, bountiful salad bar, and a conventional drinker’s bar with bit windows looking out on Main Street. It’s a fantastic place for a drink and a bite to eat. But a lousy place to hear a guy like me shouting about the benefits of using all the crayons.

And shout I did.

I had to. The acoustics were terrible. Music was playing over the speaker system — at one point I realized I was competing with The Stones’s “Satisfaction” — and my audience was from a demographic known to struggle with hearing.

They were the local Women’s Saturday Afternoon Club, a more than 100-year-old social organization dedicated to celebrating the joys of learning. Many of the members were elderly.

But that wasn’t all.

In addition, there were about a dozen disinterested people in the bar area. There were couples, families with kids, and buddies out to watch college basketball. No one in history has ever said, “Hey, let’s go to that friendly corner tavern and grab a bite. If we’re lucky, maybe some guy will be there trying to sell us his self-help book!”

All the elements were there for everyone to tune me out, or for me to go diva and take a pouty hike.

Here’s what I did: I instantly chucked my usual speech, the one with so many heart-warming anecdotes. I decided instead to ignore the audience that paid for me to be there and address the ones who were pissed that I was even there at all.

I just told joke after joke. I tried to fill the room with laughter.

And I did.

I don’t think the extemporaneous speech I gave is nearly as good as the one I usually give, but I learned when the situation demands just being funny is enough.

Because those dear ladies just loved me.

They laughed at all my jokes, stayed fully attentive and surprised me at the end with a wonderful ovation.

Then they lined up to buy books.

And I sold out. The last person in line got the last book. Twenty books, gone like that.

Even better was the complimentary reaction. They said they loved my speech and I was one of the better speakers they’ve ever had. Many bought multiple copies, took business cards and said more sales and speaking opportunities were in store.

Best of all, the bartender said I was a hit. “We thought you were going to be a bore. But you’re a real hoot. Very funny.”

It was all very satisfying.

And now I’m grateful a guy who got shown up by expert home-chicken raiser didn’t lay an egg.

Related . . .

Saturday, my most humiliating book signing ever!

Mom’s coming to my Lebo book signing

Bar book signing Thursday

“Use All the Crayons!” A 10-star review

Bullies, my ‘stache & insane reaction to my speech

A return to re-runs! "Dickin' 'round with Moby and other whales"

A friend of mine said he was upset that it seemed like I’d gotten out of the habit of having regular re-runs on Sunday. He said not having re-runs meant it looked like I’d gotten blog lazy. It would be a fitting trajectory, in fact, because the blog is at its heart an exaltation of human laziness. But I’d hate to disappoint even one reader because on many days that seems like the sum total of readers in a Type-A world who enjoy reading about the duties of indolence.

I’ll submit my 1,500 post sometime this summer. Conceivably, I could now stop writing new posts and just recycle old posts from now through 2019.

But I’m not going to do that. I enjoy blogging too much. There’s something interesting enough to blog about every single day. If I could squeeze money out of it, I’d never cease.

I’m choosing to re-run this one because I just saw a trailer for the new Ron Howard movie, “In the Heart of the Sea,” to be released in March. It’s based on the outstanding Nathaniel Philbrick book that’s based on the real incident from which Melville based “Moby Dick.”

So, even if you think the following story is weak, none dare call it baseless.

Plus, this one starts out with what I think is one of the funniest lines I’ve ever written.

If people who revere the Grateful Dead are called Deadheads, what does that make those of us devoted to “Moby Dick”?

Hmmm . . .

There’s a bunch of us gathering today through Sunday for a 25-hour marathon “Moby Dick” reading at the New Bedford (Mass.) Whaling Museum. Hundreds of volunteers will take 10-minute turns reading aloud without interruption one of America’s great novels.

I wish I could be there.

I’ve been Dickin’ around for the better part of a month now. It all started when I saw Nathaniel Philbrick’s book, “Why Read Moby-Dick.” The slim volume obviously led to re-acquainting myself with Ishmael, Queequeg, Starbuck, mad Captain Ahab and that great white whale.

It’d been 10 years since I’d last read the book by Herman Melville, a man who overcame one of history’s nerdiest names to achieve literary immortality.

I, in fact, bought my “Moby Dick” at that very museum. It was June 2002. I was in New Bedford to write a feature story for People Magazine.

What the story was about is unimportant. What is important is that I had five days in New Bedford to immerse myself in whaling history, culture and to become acquainted with some of the sites and customs key to Melville’s 1851 story.

Did you know that Moby Dick was based on a true story?

In 1819, the 238-ton ship Essex set sail from Nantucket on a routine whaling mission. Fifteen months later in the farthest reaches of the South Pacific, she was attacked and sunk by an enraged 80-ton sperm whale. The aforementioned Philbrick details the story in his compelling 2000 book, “In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex.”

The sailors who survived the sinking were doomed to three months adrift in whale boats and desperation cannibalism to survive.

Melville took facts about the ill-fated Essex and extrapolated them into what can be called without exaggeration a true whale of a tale.

And did you know why men risked their lives to go the most remote reaches of the godforsaken globe to hunt the largest animals on earth?

These sailors craved whale sperm.

Now, it’s not what you think. And there was not even a bit of romance involved in getting the whales to part with their sperm or spermaceti, a substance that had nothing to do with whale reproduction. Not that it mattered.

No, these leviathans were slain and butchered aboard boats like the Essex to get at the vast oil-like spermaceti reservoirs that were used to light the world’s lamps and candles and provide unscented foundations for dozens of other of the day’s luxury goods.

For nearly 200 years whale spermaceit was considered among earth’s most precious resources. Fortunes rose and fell based on who was able to obtain it. 

Let’s for a moment, however, imagine without getting into whale porn how the story would be different if the sailors used, not deadly harpoons, but more traditional methods to extract true sperm. The sailors might ask the whale’s parents for an introduction, read it whale poems and earn its trust until intimacy ensued.

Or maybe they could find a really slutty whale and feed it a boatload of squid.

The former alternative scenario might make a dandy big-screen musical extravaganza with Nathan Lane playing Ahab.

It would be in keeping with the trajectory of the whale’s ever-softening reputation.

It’s like they’ve all lost their balls, although anatomically speaking I’ve never seen balls or a penis on any picture or drawing of a whale, even the one famously named Dick.

Moby Dick may be the last popular whale to enjoy a masculine-sounding handle (Melville never explained the name’s construction).

Check out these uni-sex names of current SeaWorld performers: Corky, Trua, Unna, Orkid and Tuar.

Huh?

Those aren’t killer whales. They’re Tele-Tubbies.

Of course, what the hell do I know?

I’m just another Dickhead, one who’ll remain forever fascinated about the story of whale named Dick who gave a one-legged captain an eternally hard time.

How recollections of good bourbon & horny farm girls influence my NFL picks

(1,044 words)

Many football fans around America and serving overseas will be rooting for teams based on hometown affiliations, favorite players or coaches.

With the Pittsburgh Steelers out of it, I could care less about any of those factors. 

I root based on nostalgic recollections about the cities where I can recall either getting kissed or getting good and drunk.

Happily, I have some experience in both realms from all four cities.

Let’s run ‘em down:

Seattle Seahawks

Esquire magazine sent me there in 2003 to do a story about the Waterfront Seafood & Bar in nearby Bellingham. I’d pitched them the story after learning the divey little joint had been home to three serial killers — Ted Bundy, Hillside Strangler Kenneth Bianchi and D.C. sniper John Muhammad — and that they were all considered good customers. I asked the bartender to share her idea of a bad customer. “That’s be anyone who steals, breaks shit, or starts a fight right when my shift is about to end,” she said. The three men (their eras did not coincide) had combined to kill 50 innocents. In fact, those notorious killers weren’t the only homicidal regulars in this friendly spot. She told me about James Allen Kinney who in 1998 had been convicted of beheading a date. I asked if he was as nice as the serial killers. She said no. “Now, that guy was just an obnoxious ass.” Despite the history, I had a great time at the Waterfront. People treated me with good cheer and no one tried to behead me when they learned I was a Steeler fan. Of course, the Steelers beat the Seahawks in the 2006 Super Bowl so another visit might have a different outcome. It’s the only bar I’ve been where even a designated driver can wind up with a real killer hangover.

Green Bay Packers

It was my pleasure in 2009 to enjoy a jaunt across Wisconsin to write about all the great golf in The Badger State. It was very sweet. I came to love Milwaukee and the great Sobelman’s Pub where the Bloody Mary’s are like spicy salads with vodka dressing. But I really enjoyed Kohler, home to the American Resort and its five championship golf courses. It’s about 20 miles south of Green Bay. I’d intended to drive up and have a look at historic Lambeau Field. The first night I was sitting at the bar for an early dinner and sipping a great big bourbon when five cheerful friendlies from Milwaukee found out I was from Pittsburgh. I’ll never forget what one of them said: “Man, I’ve never met anyone from Pittsburgh who wasn’t a really great guy!” I told him he hadn’t met me after I’d had four big bourbons. I was joking. I didn’t do anything to diminish Pittsburgh’s reputation and  they guy bought me bourbon all night. I never made it to Green Bay because my new friends made sound a lot like Latrobe only with everything named after Vince Lombardi instead of Arnold Palmer. But I’m very fond of Wisconsin and its inhabitants, so based solely on the free bourbon let’s take the Cheeseheads in a squeaker upset over Seattle, 35-31.

Indianapolis Colts

One of my favorite descriptions of any locality was authored by Chicago columnist Mike Royko from about 30 years ago when he was trying to determine which was America’s most awful state. I can’t recall the “winner,” but I’ve never forgotten what he wrote about Indiana: “It’s a state whose two major cities, Indianapolis and Gary, give visitors a choice of dying from either boredom or multiple gunshot wounds.” Much has changed since then. I’ve enjoyed several family and work-related visits to the town Santa Claus and its Holiday World amusement park, and the French Lick Resort’s fantastic. I don’t know if Gary’s changed, but I know that thanks to the aggressive efforts of N.R.A. lobbyists, I can die from multiple gunshot wounds right here in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. But my fondest memories are of my college days in ‘83 when my buddy asked me to join him barnstorming the midwest in a traveling carnival. We spent weeks in Goshen, Fort Wayne, Elkhart and at the state fair outside Indianapolis. I remember a lot of beer consumption and happy encounters with friendly farm girls who liked to kiss. If any of those farm girls survived their reckless youths that featured drunken encounters with transient carnies, then they’re bound to be big Colts fans.

New England Patriots

That leaves us with the presumptive favorites to win it all. The Patriots are a great organization and have been perennial favorites for the last 14 years. But they haven’t won once since 2004 after they admitted they cheated. Being a Steeler fan, that admission really buoys me so let’s repeat it: They haven’t won since they cheated. The Steelers have won two Super Bowls in that span and might have won another if the Patriots hadn’t admitted they cheated to beat them. Being fair-minded, I might have a different opinion if I had a sunny recollection of a good romp in Beantown. I do not. I was there on a week-long assignment for People once in 2001. It was a rags-to-riches story about a petite little woman who overcame a troubled youth and reprehensible sexual harassment to become one of the Northeast’s most successful bricklayers and philanthropists. She’s very sweet and a wonderful example of how anyone can overcome great odds to do great things. But she didn’t try to kiss me and working for People was a terrible burden that left a bad taste in my mouth. I enjoyed a nice night at Fenway, had some expense account lobster and did a fair amount of touring. But no one hailed me for being a great guy from Pittsburgh so screw ‘em. Another upset: Colts 27, Patriots 17. 

So if randy recollections of good drunks and horny farm girls have anything to do with it, Super Bowl XLIX will feature the Green Bay Packers vs. the Indianapolis Colts, along with the usual national consternation about why the NFL insists on using Roman numerals.

Want to talk about it?

Call me!

My number is DCCXXIV CMLXI MMDLVIII.

Related . . .

The summer I ran away with the carnival

John Muhammad and a real killer bar

Wisconsin by a foot

Santa Claus: I’m back & a good man’s gone

Boston Corbett: America’s greatest eunuch

NFL playoffs ’13: a rooting fan’s guide

The day I staked out Charles Bronson's mom's funeral

(1,177 words)

Of the more than 1,000 stories I did for National Enquirer back in the ‘90s, my wife’s clear favorite is the one about what happened when I staked out Charles Bronson’s mom’s funeral.

I think I know why.

The story contains an appealing mix of bumbling incompetence, delightful coincidence, and a surprise happy ending. So it was just like a Muppet movie without all the feathers and felt.

Of course, to some the story contains elements of morally questionable behavior on  my part and they find it wholly distasteful.

So, to some, it was just like a Charles Bronson movie without the buckets of fake blood.

Born Charles Buchinsky, Bronson died in 2003 at the age of 81. He was a terrific actor with western Pennsylvania roots (Ehrenfeld, Cambria County).

His biggest success came with the “Death Wish” movies. In those five blockbusters, he played Manhattan architect Paul Kersey, an avenging angel who slaughtered evil-doers who’d made the lethal mistake of harming his loved ones or other hapless innocents.

It’s the same formula with which Liam Neeson’s succeeding in the campy “Taken” films.

It was back in the mid-90s I got a call from one of my Enquirer editors saying they’d gotten a tip that Bronson’s mother, a Mrs. Buchinsky, had died. They wanted me to attend the funeral to observe and ask Bronson how he was doing.

Now, this wasn’t my favorite thing to do. I loved writing features for Enquirer, stories that ran under headlines like, “Town Saved By Giant Ball of Twine!” Or “Puppy Love Turns Girl, 6, into Petty Thief!”

I had so much fun working for them, and they paid great, too. So I wasn’t going to say no if they gave me an assignment that involved something unsavory or morally objectionable.

It was all part of the job. And, yes, I enjoyed the skullduggery of a juicy celebrity caper.

If you’re going to be a premier reporter for one of the world’s most notorious magazines, you can’t pick and choose.

So I summoned my ace photographer and off we went to a Butler-area funeral to chronicle the grieving of the man who was once one of Hollywood’s brightest stars.

My photographer was more skittish than I. He slinked up the hill with his long distance peeper lens to hide amongst the tombstones. He told me later he was approached by a suspicious maintenance worker.

“I told the guy I was there to get pictures of Charles Bronson. I told him I wasn’t exactly proud to be sneaking around a cemetery, but that these assignments helped feed my kids. He said, ‘Do you think I do a lot of bragging that I spend my days digging graves?’”

Me, I discreetly snuck into the chapel and began scanning the tear-streaked faces for the widely recognizable one.

Then I saw clear back in the third row the silver-haired profile of one of America’s most successful actors. I remember thinking it odd that he wasn’t in the front row.

Maybe the star had an appealing shyness about him.

I told this story in the bar the other night and my bartender reacted with true repugnance. He was appalled. 

“That’s obnoxious,” he said. “I don’t care if he was a star or not, these people had a right to privacy.”

He had point. But I thought it was ironic that this bartender whose job it is to inebriate folks like me had suddenly turned into the ombudsman for The New York Times.

But he was wrong. I was perfectly discreet.

I lingered in the back and listened as the minister delivered the standard eulogy for the widow Buchinsky.

She loved her family. She loved to bake. She enjoyed beach vacations at Ocean City. Taking care of her cat Buster brought her joy. There was no mention that she’d raised one of America’s most marketable movie stars.

I kept my eyes glued on the stoic Bronson. My plan was to approach him after the burial.

So I was surprised when Bronson beat a hasty exit before graveside services.

In my mind, I saw the eventual Enquirer headline: “Bronson blows off Mom’s Burial!”

I decided to stay with the family. My plan was to wait there through the burial and approach them as they made their way to the parking lot. When that time came, I straightened my tie and fell in line with the front row mourners.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m sorry about your loss. I’m a local reporter (true, in a shady sort of way), and we heard about Mr. Bronson’s mother. His fans would love to know how he’s doing (also true).”

The woman was baffled. She wanted to know: Who’s Mr. Bronson?

“It’s all right,” I assured her. “I saw him at the funeral. I’d just like a quick word.”

She said she was sorry, but she had no idea what I was talking about.

I told her she didn’t have to pretend. I knew Charles Bronson had been here to grieve for his late mother.

Now, I’ve dealt with many able liars in pursuit of difficult stories and I began to sense right away she wasn’t one of them. This was a sweet woman, about 60, who’d just buried her mother. She wasn’t dodging. She wasn’t insulted. She was just confused.

That’s when another man spoke up.

“He’s talking about cousin Frank.”

“Oh, cousin Frank! Yes, he looks exactly like Charles Bronson. He runs an auto body shop down on Maple. Frank and Mom were very close.”

She couldn’t have been more dear. She apologized to me, in fact.

“I’m sorry you had to waste your time,” she said. “Nothing newsworthy ever happened to my mom. The highlight of her entire week was getting the mail the day National Enquirer came out.”

Excuse me?

“Oh, she loved to read all the stories about the celebrities and what they were up to. It’s all she talked about.”

Is that so?

“Absolutely.”

“Well, let me come clean,” I said. Then I told her that the old widow Buchinsky’s funeral had been staked out by two hired guns working for National Enquirer. I told them all about our preparations, our sly deceptions and pointed to the paparazzo lurking up behind the mausoleum.

That’s when these five grieving family members collapsed with laughter. They were just overjoyed.

I’ve never worked on a single story that brought so much instant joy to the unwitting subjects.

I’m sure it’s still the first story many of them tell whenever recounting the life of the widow Buchinsky.

When I’d phoned in to report the non-story to my editor, he already knew. Their tipster had had it all wrong. Charles Bronson wasn’t fixing dented fenders down on Maple.

He was vacationing in France. His mother had been dead for years.

And that’s my wife’s favorite story from my National Enquirer days.

Guaranteed, you can go the rest of your life and never hear another story about two dead moms that has such a happy ending.

Related . . .

What happened when I spent 72 hours handcuffed to my fiancé

Long live National Enquirer

Fox News goes too far; lies about Enquirer

I have no middle name (& how F. Murray Abraham got his enigmatic F.)

My night with Julia Roberts

I know Victoria’s Secret

Jeremy Renner's Golden Globes boob joke

(776 words)

My wife and I are catching up on “Fargo,” so we didn’t watch the Golden Globes.

I’m resisting “Fargo” because every character is either a coward, a bully or a bore. I don’t like having to sit down and have lunch with cowards, bullies or bores, so why would I want to watch a show about their cruel little lives?

But “Fargo” is growing on me because “Fargo” is very violent and the victims of that sensational slaughter are uniformly cowards, bullies and bores. And that’s at least more entertaining than watching cheerful people getting stuffed down augered  holes in frozen lakes.

But I read all the news about the Golden Globes and parts of it make me sorry I missed it. I would have loved to have seen Michael Keaton’s acceptance speech. I hear it’d make me proud to be a Pittsburgher, one who shook Keaton’s hand in a toilet at the old Three Rivers Stadium (link below).

The only way that story could have been more perfectly Pittsburgh was if we were in that dank stall sharing a Primanti Bros. sandwich.

But I’m mostly sorry I missed it because I missed Jeremy Renner’s boob joke.

I love a good boob joke and Renner delivered a dandy.

Renner and Jennifer Lopez were presenting the award for Best Actor in a Television Mini-Series. The winner, by the way, was Billy Bob Thornton from  . . . “Fargo!”

He’s great in it, yes, but that still doesn’t mean I’d want to have lunch with his character. It’d be like dining with Satan.

Anyway, Renner was looking dapper in his tux and Lopez was looking luscious in a what one observer described as a “stunning Zuhair Murad gown with plunging neckline.”

I know nothing about Zuhair Murad, but now I’m instantly curious. First, I’d like to know if his name is pronounced ZOO-hair, which might go a long way in explaining why he designs dresses rather than coifs hair.

From my observations, Murad must be from what I call the “Look-At-My-Tits” school of dress design. In fact, the dress was within an inch of being from the “Look-At-My-Navel” school of dress design.

Heck, had their been an sudden updraft on the stage, the dress would have been within a whisker of being from the scandalous “Look-At-My-Whoops!” school.

In fact, there was really very little dress there at all. It was mostly all Lopez.

And it was magnificent. She’s beautiful. Plus, she seems fun and friendly and I admire that in pretty people because, as we’ve all seen, they can be mean and stupid and we’ll still adore them and shower them with riches and fame.

So Renner and Lopez read their artificial blah-blah cue card banter and then Renner surprised the world with a rare burst of authentic wit.

He handed the winning Golden Globe envelope to Lopez for her to open. She said, “You want me to do it? I have the nails.”

To which Renner ad libbed: “You’ve got the globes, too.”

The only way it could have been more perfect is if Renner had delivered the line with a Groucho Marx leer.

This, according to news reports, set the Twittersphere on fire. Renner was called a creep and a pervert. It got so bad, Renner posted a defensive tweet: “A reminder not to take this shit so seriously,” he wrote. “Thanks, Jennifer. You’re a gem.”

Lopez, to her credit, laughed like she thought it was funny, too.

The whole episode dismays me because great wit should never be holstered. It should be at liberty to soar at even the most slight provocation, whether silly or risque.

Renner, 44, is an interesting guy. We loved him in the third “Mission Impossible” and especially in “American Hustle” and “The Town,” the great ’10 Ben Affleck flick about career bank robbers. 

Now, it turns out his greatest role may have been that he’s been acting like a heterosexual. His wife, Sonni Pacheco, is divorcing him on the suspicious-sounding grounds of “fraud,” and now National Enquirer is outing him as gay, something that’s been rumored for years.

It’s surprising because he’s an actor in Hollywood. Being known as gay there hasn’t exactly been an historic hindrance to career advancement.

So I hope he works it all out and enjoys a long and interesting career and that he feels free to pop off with a witty zinger anytime one sails into his noodle.

Because the guy’s funny.

It’s as plain as the nose on my face.

Or as plain as the globes on J-Lo when she’s dressed in nothing but Zuhair.

I on Monday attempted to set the Twittersphere on fire with an 8days2Amish boob joke of my own: “Fashion experts who work to ensure ample bosoms fit snugly in frilly brassieres are rack-contours.” It fizzled. My failed attempts to set the Twittersphere on fire have failed so many times I’m beginning to suspect fate keeps peeing on the fuse.

Related . . .

How real men like Michael Keaton (and me) shake hands

Hilary Swank & all my neighborhood nipples

Breast facts, by the book

On chicken fingers, chicken breasts & chicken nipples

Mom’s hip nipples & Breast Cancer Awareness Month