ROASTING PEEPS: AN EASTER LESSON

I took my niece Sausagella and her brother Dominic camping last spring, and I brought Easter Peeps marshmallow chicks and skewered them so the kids could roast 'em over the fire. And I had my buddy Ernie hide behind my pickup truck and throw his voice so it sounded like the Peeps were Joan of Arc ... "Nooooooooooo! Nooooooo! I'm stabbed and buuuuuuuuuuuuurning! I'm dyyyyyyyyyyyyyyying! Peeeeeeeep! Peeeeeeeeeep! PEEP PEEP PEEP!!!!!" to indicate the suffering and the sacrifice of death that's necessary before we can have bunnies and new life and a risen Christ.

Sure, the message is pretty confusing, especially since Sausagella and Dominic were crying hysterically at this point and Ernie slammed his thumb in the passenger door of my Dodge and was crying even louder than the kids were.

But I think they learned an important lesson. Sin always ends in hell fire.

Oh I forgot to tell you something important about how I made it all a morality lesson. Before all this happened I staged a little puppet-show scene in which the Peeps chicks had premarital sex, which was why they had to pay.

So yeah. I guess I'm a natural teacher.

The Way I Approach Your Table ...

I approach you adroitly, my long, lithe torso slinking and angling expertly up to your table. I seem to be pouring myself like an oil-spill, like an ermine, into the totality of your proximity, so near in so many places that you don't know whether to whelp or cough.

From behind my back I produce (1) two lilacs planted in soil in pots for you to take home and smell later as you remember this moment, (2) a silver tray full of salted, brownish, head-on herring, and 3) an ill-engineered, laughably awkward love-seat-style double-Champagne flute (both partakers have to drink exactly the same amount for the same duration at challenging bents of our bodies, and my GOD this thing is BEGGING to shatter) that's nevertheless obscenely foxy, if only for its kinky excess.

My shirt is really something, too. You can't even figure it out, let alone get over it. It's black, but somehow shiny and cut SO languidly yet tautly over my masculine, lean, powerful upper body. My wrists are turned at the perfect degree for presaged lovemaking. How do I DO that? And -- what's that? You detect a VERY expensive precious-metal WATCH occasionally peeking out beneath my left sleeve. Oh my!

And what's that cologne? OMG! It's ... Gucci Pour Homme II, isn't it? My GOD. How enTRANCing.

Then it only gets worse / better. You look into my brown eyes and really, REALLY are almost in hysterics at just how unashamedly seductive and charming they are, containing as they do pools of such MIRTH and MISCHIEF and WARMTH and DEPTH and NAUGHTINESS (adjacent, equally full pools, of course). Goodness! Those eyes must get you in TROUBLE, you think with a sudden, crushing wave of jealousy.

But it's All About You in this moment. You have my Full Attention as I deftly cup Herring Corpse Number One into your mouth and drink us both a preliminary Champagne-quaff. The fish-vintage is intoxicating -- Sweden, December 2009, salted then shipped straight to my table and into your eager mouth! Oh heavens! HEAVENS!

Then .. what's THIS? Robert has somehow magically extricated your cashmere cream-colored winter-unitard underwear-stocking-onesie thing up / down / out / through the back / ankle openings of your jeans! How in HELL did he do THAT?!?!

But you're swimming now. You've gone under with lust, desire, and salt-fish. Your wits and presence are but a memory, regrettable and comical in the rearview mirror of your rapidly unraveling evening.

GOODNESS!

Robot Vacuum-Cleaner Scarecrows

Your best defense against thieves when you're on vacation is to create the illusion of activity in your home.

That's why I employ a fleet of a dozen of those new robotic artificial-intelligence vacuum cleaners, jam upright broomsticks into their bases, put a wig and coat hanger at the top of each, hang six tuxedos and six evening gowns, then BOOM: scarecrows. I set my vacuum-motion to "random" and blast Yanni music. Your would-be thief peeks in the window, sees your ballroom scenario, thinks "YANNI COTILLION!," either (a) flees, or (b) joins the party, forgets to rob you, maybe pulls down a little broom-handle-spined robot-Hoover tang. Everybody's happy.

Except maybe your cats, who studies show HATE Yanni's music. They love Yanni; just not his jams.

The Opening Monologue

Sharon Osbourne ripped British singing sensation Susan Boyle on the popular Opie and Anthony radio show yesterday, saying Boyle was talented, but overly hirsute and in urgent need of a razor. Osbourne then coughed, liberating both an Ozzie hairball and the head of a dove.

Pakistani designers are set to defy the Taliban by hosting their country's first-ever fashion-week, exposing shoulders, legs, and even tattoos. One visiting American observed "Last time I saw that many necks and ankles, I was buying chicken at a gas station."

Matthew Broderick has been criticized this week on several theater Web sites for apparently relying on a tele-prompter for lines during previews of the new Broadway play he's starring in, "Wonderful World." Broderick responded by saying "There are theater Web sites? You're kidding."

England's Rachel Christie, recently dubbed "Miss England," gave up her crown recently amid reports of a barroom brawl with another beauty pageant contestant. Matthew Broderick responded by saying "There are English beauty queens? You're kidding."

A team of four Louisiana scientists have concluded that potbellies may be more the result of genes than of diet. They then loosened their belts, shoveled jumbalaya, beignets, and bourbon into their gullets, and burped out the chorus to "Iko Iko Anay."

Scientists now say that hormonal fluctuations associated with pregnancy may hinder the ability to sing, forcing a lull in an artist's recording career. They say their next scientific challenge is to impregnate Sting.

Fallen pastor Ted Haggard, dismissed from his Colorado Springs megachurch after a man alleged that Haggard had paid him for sex, says he plans to retake the pulpit and commence ministrations. "I think that may have been the problem before," he said. "I was letting him do all the ministrations."

My Halloween Stand-Up Bit, AND My Vampire Video!

I warn you, this stand-up bit is wrong. But I maintain it's more idiotic than offensive. Anyhow, don't say you haven't been warned.

Oh and click through to the AWESOME new 3-minute vampire webisode that reached number one on Atom.com with like 50,000 hits, AND WHICH I STEAL OUTRIGHT WITH A WICKED CAMEO!

Happy pumpkins, fans. xo BUSCEMI

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I've never cared for the scary holidays. Flag Day, Arbor Day, or Cinco De Mayo--which is fun to mispronounce as "CHINK-Oh" De Mayo because it offends two cultures in just two syllables....

But I especially hated Halloween. Because when I was a kid we'd go to haunted houses, and they'd do that tactile sensation trick, where they'd take you into a dark room and say "Reach in here!" and you'd put your hand in a box or whatever and you'd feel, like, wet grapes. But they'd TELL you it was human eyeballs, so you'd freak out and scream.

Or they'd say "Reach in here", and it was, you know, wet noodles and pasta, but they'd tell you it was ... guts and worms or whatever. So you'd freak.

Well this one year they got me really bad. They did that same thing: "Reach in here!" And I did, and ...

Well, it turned out to be ...

Well, a hippopotamus rectum.

And of course they'd TOLD me it was gonna be ... Frankenstein's rectum.

And I gotta say, it felt just like him.

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Ta-daaaaaa! I told you it was brainless.

Anyhow, now CLICK HERE TO WATCH THE VAMPIRE WEBISODE, which they really did make funny and great.

Happy Halloween, everyone.