AMEN

F-STOP: WOOK WATCHES THE WATCHMEN, ENJOYS POPCORN MORE

Is there no greater proof of one’s commitment to a spouse than the fact that The Hammer actually agreed to see The Watchmen this weekend? I think not, even when one takes into consideration that the deal was brokered without one party coming clean on the film’s 160-minute length. Off the top, I can think of at least fifteen things she’d rather have been doing as we expended valuable babysitter time, and none involve spandex, bad make-up, wooden performances nor stale popcorn. But more surprising than the omnipresence of blue cock – the fact that The Hammer seemed to fancy the film more than I.

Perhaps it was an appreciation of the omnipresence of blue cock.

Truth be told, I entered with reservations, all of which were proved correct in one way or another as the film ramroded its way into hour #2. It wasn’t horrible, nor disrespectful to its source material. And in retrospect, there are some sequences that have lingered in memory memorably. Yet it’s telling that my current highlights – the origin tale of Dr. Manhattan, the case that cracked Rorschach – are sections where director Zach Snyder actually allowed the work a chance to breathe, a fact that supports the notion that Alan Moore’s classic was never adequately destined for compression.

DIME IN THE JUKEBOX: ALKALINE TRIO

On a morning survey of the holdings in The Manhole, I actually have three Alkaline Trio albums, but truth be told, I can only recall ever listening to three songs. This is the one I played air guitar to more often than not near the turn of the century, and the accompanying video proves shoestring budgets tend to showcase bands at their most approachable. It also captures perfectly the feel of getting lost in a song - be it while on the shitter, in the car, or in the backyard, playing air guitar with friends.

These are the other two tracks I adore, performed by those who have moved past the air guitar, and into the realm of utter awe:

And I quote..."We censored the lyrics because we go to a Catholic School."

Frickin' pussies.

WORLD PREMIERE: DJ KOOL VS. CONGRESS

Jimmy Fallon may have The Roots, but I will always have DJ Kool. Clear your throat, genuflect, turn up the synth, homegirl! A Wookified Video Mash, starring Barack Obama, John McCain and Steven Seagal.

GENUFLECT: IF YOUR PHONE CAN FART, YOU ARE PART OF THE PROBLEM

The expenditure of political viritol in '08 had left me in a rather passive state these last few months, obviously not helped by the fact that (a) "we" won and (b) the oh-so poorly timed break Real Time took right before the election cycle wrapped.

To which nothing gets the pilot light back to the on position quite like Bill Mahr's absolute disdain at our culture.

To which I ask...Bill, does it count if the Snuggie was gifted?

CHANNEL NEVERFAILS: BRING ME THE HEAD OF RICK MORANIS

Because I too often ponder what became of Rick Moranis, promise myself to investigate, then totally forget mere minutes later. In that respect, The Vulture drops some additional knowledge, admirably.

"GUILTY" BECOMES THE FIRST CASUALTY OF SNOW DAY 2009

Today's closing arguments by Team Fumo get pushed a day, meaning this whole thing just might see Easter yet, and, by proxy, the regurgitated vendetta against Councilman DiCicco by one "wascly wabbit".

2007: Pink wabbits were sooooo in!

WHILE SOME WORRY OVER SNOW TOTALS, WE ROLL DIFFERENTLY AT THE COMCAST CENTER

These are the questions that try our souls. Ladies and gentleman, today's first work-related inquiry, delivered by the power of the intranets...

"You know, I really need to know WHY are there two different kinds of TP in the mens room?? One thin and smooth, one thick and textured. This is some procedure that missed during my formative years and am really at a loss as to how to proceed. And while we are on the subject, if there is no smoking anywhere in the building why does the mens room smell like smoke and why are there little ashes on the floor of some of the stalls."

In other news, Ralph's Cafe is hosting the Phillies' World Championship trophy this afternoon. Comcasters only, if you will.

RELATED: "The tenderness of the delicate American buttock is causing more environmental devastation than the country's love of gas-guzzling cars" NAMED GREATEST LEAD TO A STORY EVER.

SPOTTED: SIXERS GAME SPORTS SUPPORT FOR LOSING WAYS, BREASTS

Just another family outing at the Sixers game Saturday night, where highlights included:

Mary Carey and all of her appendages - being two of the largest breasts on record and a small cup that, if containing alcohol, surely spoils the remaining episodes of Sober House for Herr Wook. For the record - the guys in section 105, big fans and not afraid to lift their shirts in honor.

A very pregger Jennapher Fredericks, surely reeling from Dan McQuade's temporary retirement.

A halftime show that featured both (a) the Catholic school girl 'tude of the St. Joe's Dance Team followed by (b) seven minutes of Hip-Hop - whose involvement during the game is now on par with Jerry Springer's role on "America's Got Talent" - handing off basketballs to the bustiest of Sixers dancers, who in turn ran the court in ever more feeble attempts at dunking off a trampoline. All of this captured expertly by the Jumbotron, which fittingly enough, was next used to hunt down the wholesomeness of McDonald's "Small Fry of the Game".

The Sixers. Losers. Again.

RELATED: JASON SMITH HAS NEVER BEEN THE SAME SINCE THAT NIGHT WITH MARY CAREY