The latest from Founder J's Yafro camera-phone blog.
Founder Janowitz, 1.1.19

A tale for you on this, the birthday of 2019.

Nearly three years ago, on April 23, 2016, Brucil Sitaras-Wayne and I were invited out to Long Island to tour the grounds of Founder Voisine's estate and join he and the lady of the manor for dinner. We had both been unable to make it out there for quite some time, and between the delay in visiting and what I correctly assumed would be delightful hospitality, I felt that the situation warranted some sort of token of both appreciation and long overdue housewarming. It was a high bar to clear, but after arriving at what I determined to be a peerless solution, I was crackling with excitement.

Wanting the gift to be a surprise, I kept it concealed in the backpack that I had brought to ostensibly hold entertainment-stuffs for the train ride. Founder Voisine met us at the train station and drove us to his home, where we enjoyed an afternoon of gawking at Imogen, sipping brown liquor on the patio, assessing the need for a retaining wall to preserve the beachfront landscaping, generally roaming the house, and eating a delicious meal. Then, following dinner, with our departure imminent and Founder Voisine and Lady Founder Voisine in the kitchen, I saw my opportunity. I took the present from my bag and, without saying anything to our hosts, placed it discreetly on their entertainment console:

The Shake Weight had been given to me for a lark by my beloved wife years earlier. Now, I was paying it forward in the greatest imaginable way by bequeathing it to Founder Voisine, who at one time possessed a Shake Weight of his own. Did he still? Who could know. I left without broaching the subject, or the gift.

Since it has never been discussed, Founder Voisine and Lady Founder Voisine's response to the new Shake Weight remains the subject of much speculation among a small cohort of online observers. The subreddit devoted to the story is fascinating. My own mind soars when thinking about potential scenarios. Perhaps ...

… Founder Voisine first noticed the Shake Weight and found it confusing, since Lady Founder Voisine had made him get rid of the one he owned when they made the move out to Huntington. Had she not included it in their bags of donations to Goodwill? If not, why? And why did she have it out now, on this day of all days?

… Lady Founder Voisine saw the Shake Weight and was annoyed. Founder Voisine had promised her he would throw it out. Now she had proof of what she long suspected: that he hadn't. She began to wonder what other secrets he was harboring — and why he had been so careless with the dumbbell after keeping its existence in their house concealed for so long.

… Founder Voisine was impressed that Lady Founder Voisine had finally taken to heart his advice to incorporate the Shake Weight into her fitness regimen, and expressed as much to her. Not wanting to have the "Shake Weight talk" again, Lady Founder Voisine simply nodded and went on with her evening.

… Lady Founder Voisine saw it and was stunned: Back when they had first started dating, Founder Voisine would place the Shake Weight conspicuously in their living room whenever he wanted to initiate intimate times. If Lady Founder Voisine felt similarly, she would tie a green ribbon around its handle and throw it with all her might at Founder Voisine's head. If he successfully caught the weight, he would have demonstrated his worthiness, and they would proceed to oblige their amorousness. Standing in her living room on Crescent Beach Drive, Lady Founder Voisine was delighted that Founder Voisine had remembered this tradition. She tied on a green ribbon and sought him out, only to find him watching the Valero Texas Open in his downstairs man cave Business Bob's Basement Biergarten, weeping softly while whispering, "Tiger. Tiger." The mood dashed, Lady Founder Voisine instead threw the Shake Weight into Huntington Bay.

… Founder Voisine determined that he had achieved the optimal physique for his body type and donated his old Shake Weight to a local middle school. He took the arrival of this new Shake Weight as an indication from Lady Founder Voisine that his physical self-evaluation had been overly generous, and recommitted himself to an expanded daily Shake intensive.

… Lady Founder Voisine assumed it was one of the more than 40 Shake Weights in Founder Voisine's personal executive collection, and calmly returned it to his climate-controlled walk-in Shake Weight vault.

… Founder Voisine spotted the dumbbell and believed it to be a zombie of the Shake Weight that he had unceremoniously discarded in Chinatown years prior. When he showed it to Lady Founder Voisine, she shrieked, insisting that his read on the situation was correct. Not wanting to further antagonize this undead Shake Weight, they placed it in their garage on a shelf alongside the angry ghost of Founder Voisine's Rav4.

… Lady Founder Voisine inferred that Founder Voisine had re-subscribed to the "Weight of the Month" club despite her concerns about the company's stated participation in the sharing of client data. Furious over Founder Voisine's careless attitude toward her family's privacy, she threw the dumbbell into Huntington Bay.

… Founder Voisine found it after years of having thought that he lost it forever. He determined that its reappearance indicated that he possessed above-average luck, and henceforth devoted his life to impulsive, low-stakes sports gambling.

… Imogen noticed it, mistook it for a wobbly bone, and buried it in their front yard. Their Shake Weight tree is now more than two and half years old and thriving.

… Founder Voisine immediately saw it for what it was: incontrovertible proof that Eli Manning is a top-3 player in throwing-sports history.

… Founder Voisine and Lady Founder Voisine put on their ceremonial robes, lowered the lights, and took their usual seats in front of the Shake Weight. Then they waited for further instructions.

… weeks later, a seal in Huntington Bay was found dead from unexplained causes. Unrelated to its death, the marine life coroner discovered that its left flipper was swole.

… Founder Voisine and Lady Founder Voisine each noticed the Shake Weight, neither wanted to bring it up, and so it continues to reside on their entertainment console to this day.

May we never know the truth.

Founder Janowitz, 8.13.14

On this, the 3,395-day anniversary of the last update of what web historians and heb wistorians now recognize as the First Blog (, founded Friday, March 9, 2001, all honor the day), I have extraordinary news to share: Working in tandem (as is our wont), Founder Voisine and I rode a horse. To history’s great relief, Brucil Sitaras-Wayne was on hand to document the majestic canter:

(For those readers desiring to Tumbl our mosey, here’s the moving image in a format that is the currency of your chosen platform:)

The steed—a unicorn, it should be known—had been purchased by the future Mrs. Founder Janowitz and I just hours prior to the depicted event from the children’s goods store 2 Kids and a Dog—a fine boutique in my Brooklyn neighborhood, DUMBO—for a price that, though reasonable, will remain undisclosed, lest I violate the accepted etiquette of gift-giving. The eventual recipient was the wee toddling daughter of once and future Weiners, Jim? scribe Tam Kurvenaw, CPA, MD, TBN, ISIS, but Founder Voisine and I, being not yet parents ourselves, correctly intuited that it would be imprudent to hand the reins of an unpredictable bronc to a child without first putting it through its paces. The stick-based creature proved sufficiently docile, enabling Founder Vois and I to present it without concern to the angelic Isabella Kavanovick.

The occasion for the present presentation was a long-anticipated reunion, last Saturday in southwestern Connecticut, of the Weiners, Jim? brain trust (Founders Voisine and Janowitz and lead wordsmith Tem Kacophovanaugh, along with their be-ringed female companions, the inimitable Isabella, and, in keeping with the equine theme, noted white knight Brucil Sitaras-Wayne). Naturally, during our subsequent meal inside the Stamford location of Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, Weiners, Jim? was discussed for the great length of several minutes, much as it is on a routine basis at the dinner tables of an incalculable number of families in many corners of the world. Fructus fructus itaque amicitia.

(The "TextEdit" program on my MacBook (Pro!) just tried to auto-correct "fructus" with "fructose," a heavy-handed and contextually significant edit for which I would not stand.)

Later, once the returning travelers were safely back in Manhattan and settled in around a large table in a bierhaus-themed midtown tavern (the name of which has been scrubbed by Johnny Walker from the official Weiners, Jim? log), matters of horsiness bubbled up yet again in the form of an Alexi Katsetos-initiated session of Horserace. However, whereas the game detailed by Wikipedia prescribes punitive alcohol consumption, the variation undertaken by our ever-growing coterie involved real cash horsie betting. Here, sitting alongside Alexi, is friend of Weiners, Jim? Mouz "Mouz” Mouz, nearly completely obscured by his perilously tall stack of winnings:

The evening concluded with an impassioned karaoke outing. I sang, as always, Meatloaf’s “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)." The music video for the song doesn’t contain horses, but might as well.

Founder Voisine, I’ll ride with you anytime.

Barbaro was an inside job.

TBone and the News, 4.25.05

I was gonna get a little wyld here and point out the many ways in which fantasy baseball is better than regular baseball, but everyone agrees with me on that point anyways, so screw that, really. I’m all about efficiency.

OK, few things here. First, playboy’s name is Catfish Hunter; fully surreal and apt if he was indeed a fisherman, ergo a hunter of catfish. Second, that whole getup he’s wearing is ridiculous, but I want one. Lastly, he put his signature across his package, a practice that will be forevermore adopted (sanctioned if you will) by Timo.

Last things first, I was signed up to play in some sort of WAKA Kickball League last fall, but the jerks in charge effectively pooped their pants, and so no balls were kicked. In any case, there’s still an email listserv type deal that goes around to all members. Well, recently, and by recently I mean for one day as in this past Thursday, people started exploiting this newfound stage for their own ill wills. Some were funny/witty/cool, but some were herbs and elected to use the bully pulpit to make statements that bordered on the bizarre, such as "Remove Me from the list” or "I’M BEGGING YOU ALL TO STOP EMAILING ME” or "TIM, PLEASE DON’T REPLY TO ME WHEN YOU SEND OUT EMAILS” or the like.

The funniest were people who signed up with their corporate email address. Well done, sirs and madams. Cuz, ya know, it’s pretty expensive and difficult to get a free email address or seven. So, this one wyldman, he sent out some Wilson Phillips lyrics, incorrectly citing them as Wilson Phillip lyrics. As any of you would do in that situation, I responded with some Huey Lewis. Now, here’s where it gets a little nonsensical. This other guy, who, apparently, wants to date me, sent me a personal email with a pic of him and Huey Lewis at a recent "gig” in Las Vegas, shown . . . myeah:


A contingent representing the millions and millions of my fans had brought it to my attention that I hadn’t done very much dicking around with photoshop lately, and holy hell, what a ripe pasture was just presented to me on a silver platter. (Hrrmmm . . . that’s not much of a metaphor, but just go with it, as we take you on the WORLD TOUR through history of Huey Lewis and some random herb!!! I can send you the guy’s email address if you want to date him, Founder Janowitz or someone else . . .) Without further ado, get your dancin’ shoes on, here we go . . .

What a combo. Unfortunately, critics have recently just blasted this dichotomous duo’s first single, "It’s Hip to Be a P.I.M.P.”.

Even in a pit filled with fresh corpses, Huey doesn’t really care about anything but Huey, especially when’s on the mic.

Again, Huey, can’t you show some sort of COMPASSION for the slain?.

On to my new best friend . . .

This would be such a friggin’ hot picture if this jerkface wasn’t chaperoning.

I guess this guy just doesn’t like PDA. Note Tails lookin’ like she has the hots for ol’ Timo (obviously due to intoxication), Timo looking like a flipping idiot as per status quo (although this was during the era when I had eyebrows to DIE for), and our pal again spoiling a nice picture.
Founders' Note: He did, in fact, just say "eyebrows to die for." Just confirming that for y'all.

Founder Voisine, Esq., 4.04.05

In continuing this week of mourning, we refect on the life of one, Johnnie Cochran Jr., of the most famous and talented lawyers to grace the courtroom since Clarence "Da-Dizzy" Darrow.
Throughout his impressive career, Cochran represented and exonerated many high-profile criminals - er, people. Most notable was of course, was Orenthal James Simpson.

I can't touch this.

In a brilliant move that will forever live in courtroom infamy, Cochran arranged for OJ to try on a glove found at the murder scene. This glove would potentially make or break the case for the defense. If the glove fit, Simpson would have surely been convicted of murdering his wife Nicole and her semite "companion", Ron Goldman. Otherwise, as Johnnie famously said, "if it doesn't fit, you must acquit." Quick: get this man a beat.

However, before trying the glove on in front of millions of viewers, Cochran instructed OJ to put on another glove first in order to "protect the key piece of evidence." Well wha'dya know! The glove didn't fit! OJ couldn't possibly be the killer! I for one was shocked . . .

Me . . . being shocked . . . at the retardedness of Lance Ito and the jurors who bought that load of crap. Incidentally, the gentleman behind me . . . Founder J?

In honor of Johnnie's genius in the clutch, I decided to do my own re-enactment of this episode to relive the spectacle of it all over a decade later . . .

Taken before I went on a Sasser killing spree. A nice, comfortable fit.

The unsuspecting victim falls prey to my Mary Poppins swoop attack. Notice the menacing glove adorning my shooting hand.

I just couldn't resist the chance to take another picture on top of the Sas sassin' it with an umbrella, hairdryer and winter glove on . . .

Anyway . . .

Months later . . . in court. To avoid contaminating the glove in question, I was instructed to put on this other glove to act as a barrier, thereby keeping my DNA off of the glove from the crime scene.

I try on the evidence and . . . Holy smokes! The incriminating glove doesn't fit! I clearly could not have possibly committed the crime! Time to go, thanks for watching.

Ahhh . . . the US legal system. It all its glorious stupidity you, Johnnie Cochran, took advantage of our Judicial Branch like no other. You manipulated the system, found loopholes, and set the bar for aspiring attorneys for years to come. Congrats on a fantastic run bruddah.

The defense rests . . . in peace.

Astounded Founder Jan O'Witz, 4.03.05

As we progress through the Weiners, Jim? 'Week of Death' tribute in chronologically skewed fashion, it's inevitable that we cross paths with the late Terri Schiavo. Perhaps you've heard of her?

Terri the babe during earlier, more sentient times.

There's no point in rehashing everything here, for Terri Schiavo will forever live in our memories as vegetative proof of the things that a bulimic woman from Florida can achieve with only the help of a psychotic family and some unscrupulous media.

But look at the bright side: she 'kept' longer than any vegetable I've ever seen. (Oooooooooooooooooooooof, who said that?)

But for serious, if anything positive came out of this episode, it's that it provided fodder for one of the most hilarious and poignant "South Parks" of all time. It also gave pathetic Americans something that they could zealously latch onto so as to forget their own miserable lives.

Terri, flattered that right-to-life advocates who don't know her would ensure that she is sufficiently lampooned by irreverent youths who are tired of hearing about this overblown case.

Though this poor woman is finally past all of the mania that she didn't know existed, not everyone walked away from the ordeal so fortunately. The Daily News, New York Post and their kin are downtrodden, knowing that they once again have to actually put some effort into finding trashy, sensationalist stories to cover.

So, we at Weiners, Jim? would like to say, "Rest in peace, Ms. Schiavo." No one's earned it more than you.

Founder "Papal poignancy" Voisine, 4.02.05

And so the white smoke has risen from the Basilica . . . Pope John Paul II has passed.

At an early age, sporting the first of many, many wild collars.

As we at Weiners, Jim? observe another moment of silence, let's all reflect on the life of a great man.

Johnny P grew up in backwoods Poland under the name Karol Wojtyla. Of all men, this guy was THE man. Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Christ, Prince of Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Patriarch of the West, The Colossus of Clout (The Colossus of Clout), Sovereign of Vatican City and the Primate of Italy (not sure I quite get that one) are just a few of the cool titles JPII so appropriately held.

In addition, JPII was the only Pope ever featured in a comic book . . .

Little known fact: this 'ish' was the actual first appearance of "Wolverine," but due to the comic's small size, it went widely unnoticed and thus, unread.

And was the Time Magazine "Man of the Year:"

The Deuce was featured as Time's MOTY in 1994. Afterwards, Quentin Tarantino - who thought he deserved the honor for his work on 'Pulp Fiction' - was heard complaining, "evidently John Travolta and Sammy L. Jackson aren't as impressive to the Time people as one billion Catholics. Who's next, Newt Gingrich?"

Thanks for the memories Pope. You've led the Catholic Church through some of the most difficult years in its 2000 year history. Rest in Peace bud.

High-fives all around, indeed. You the man, dawg.

A posthumous entry from korpse Kavanagh, 4.01.05


So for April Fools Day, I had some pretty killer ideas, guy.

First, as I did last year, I have a Word document that has "badger” written in 8-point light gray font all down the right margin. Then, on the bottom line, it’s "SNAKE!!!” What you do is this: just print out about 30-40 copies of the file, then put it back in your office's printer, oriented so that what you've printed will be face up on any copy that anyone else prints. You may want to do a test sheet first, to determine how to do this. So you put your 30-40 "badgered" sheets in, and hilarity ensues when people try to print, and then there are all types of badgers and appliances all over their right margin. What do all the badgers mean/want? It doesn't matter. What you need to worry about is the snake at the bottom, really. Somehow this plan got hijacked, because when I came back from lunch, there were no reports of wyld badgers on the loose. Lame.

Second, Tim "Gaylord” Salmon hatched an idea with some of his fellow esquires, and figured that I’d make a good accomplice. The plan-suh? Some babe at his place of employ just got back from spring break in Fort Lauderdale. What the hell? Exactly. In any case, he thought it’d be funny if I called in playing Hog of the Road and saying that I was a producer from Girls Gone Wild, and that we had gotten some shots of her that we wanted to put in our latest release "Girls Gone Wild Spring Break 7: Fort Lauderdale”. So, in theory, this was a good idea. Sadly, in practice, the girl was somewhat hip to be square, but more on that later. Point is, I had to scramble, and told her to show up at 666 Fifth Avenue in order to sign the release waiver, suite 2500. Incidentally, well not really incidentally considering I have this fact memorized, they did all of the editing for the original The Exorcist in one of the offices at 666 Fifth Avenue. Pretty bone-chilling.

More bone-chilling was the plan I’d hatched for my roommate, a plan of HELLISH proportions that was sired in my domepiece circa 10 AM on 4-1-05. The plan was this: I normally get home before him, so I would buy myself some stage blood and whatnot after work... once I got home, I was gonna call him and just talk about regular stuff, but then, right in the middle of a sentence, I'd be like, "HEY!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?!?!?!?!", then make some noise like I was under attack, then when he got home, have our apartment fucked up a little bit maybe some stuff missing and door ajar, and be lying in a pool of blood on the floor. Well, all went to plan EXCEPT the Blaine in question hit up a happy hour and didn’t end up headin’ home until like 7:45 or so. By this time, I’d had the blood caked on me for about 90 minutes, and it was starting to get in my eyes and all, plus it was sticky. Anyways, here’s some bone-chilling crime scene photos.

I was blasted in the nose and lip. It was not fun warshing this out of my chest hair.

Well, even when you’ve gotten your ass kicked, you still use AIM as you can see from this photo. This beater went into the CanWorks brand receptacle after this episode.

BRAINS!!!!! Founder's Note: beaten to hell, or about to lay out one of the world's most vicious, bloody sneezes? You be the judge.

Founder "Mourning" Jan O'Witz, 3.31.05

A picture of Mitch when he was younger. Because all pictures of you are from when you were younger.

No hilarity here, my friends. Just a solemn tribute. Mitch Hedberg, longtime friend of Weiners, Jim? - however one-sided that friendship may have been - passed away today. The cause? Still unknown. The effect? Unimaginable.

Suffice it to say, back during our fledgling year in Morgan 535, Mitch was an icon. He kept us going. Like FDR and his fireside chats, Founder Voisine, myself, World Record Holder Williams, Hot Dogs and the rest of our rag-tag crew would crowd around the stereo and listen to endless loops of Mitch jokes. How much he molded us will never fully be understood. How much we loved him is indescribable.

And so, with a heavy heart, Weiners, Jim? says good-bye to an old friend. One who never really knew he was our friend. Or that we existed. But that's cool.

End of transaction, indeed, mon frere. No further paperwork needed.

Founder "Insomniac" Jan O'Witz, 3.21.05

It's now 5 am, and I'm impressed. I thought I had lost the ability to work late into the night somewhere around junior year of college. Then an otherwise innocent 2-litre bottle of Pepsi jump-started some long-dormant endurance, and we're truckin' over here. So truckin', in fact, that I added / fixed some links to the right. I'll let you experiment and discover which links now work - it's like a game!

Writin' a motorcycle round-up for FHM right now (well no, right now I'm updating Weiners, Jim?) In doing my research, I stumbled across what is doubtlessly the greatest motorcyle in the history of two-wheeled automotion.

Appropriately, this mean son of a bitch is called the "Rune." I don't know why that's appropriate, but make no mistake: if you so much as stand near this thing, it will snap your knees like twigs.

Meanwhile, while doing her own searching, the Lovely found an equally-worthy 'cycle. I mean, come on, it's as if Harley Davidson was catering exclusively to the Weiners, Jim? crowd.

Mere seconds later, Atticus would mistake the dog's bike-induced awe for rabies and shoot the poor pup. A moment of silence was naturally observed at Weiners, Jim? headquarters.

So, I'm just wrapping up another Sparknote; this time, on the Enlightenment. My amusement at being a future source for research has not diminished at all between projects. Must say, though - I learned a ton more from this project than I did from the French Revolution. Most of it, of course, was stupid, silly shit.

Those trees to the left-center of the picture? That was King Louis XV and his entourage entering some rockin' Versailles party (nay, a soiree) in costume. As yew trees. So badass.

How many times do you think this took place before some Enlightened fellow dropped the line, "well, I love you, but . . . I'm really attracted to your mom, too . . ."

Denis Diderot, editor of the controversial Enlightenment-era tome The Encyclopedie, or Paul McCartney playing dress-up? You be the judge.

A modern incarnation of 'Enlightenment,' according to Google image search.

In other news, Jimbo visited, dominated and is now moving to New York full-time to donkey punch the film industry. We took a celebratory photo before he left triumphantly:

An exhibition of the most narrow heads in all of Manhattan. Who parted that hair, Jimbo - Moses?

When out showing New York how the world really works, Jimbo accompanied myself and our posse for some burgers-n-beers, wherein we discovered the most ironic typo in the history of printing:

Hey, I mean, if you're going to spell a beer's name wrong, why not make it your own? Someone's head rolled at Coors that day - though, thanks to Coors' cold-storage technique, the head remains perfectly preserved and fresh.

Don't know if you all are following the NCAA tournament, but Weiners, Jim? now officially endorses West Virginia in their ascent to greatness. Why the DAP? For the heart of Mike Gansey and the name of Kevin Pittsnogle, of course. Pittsnogle? You serious? That man will be president; this I will see to.

In conclusion: I'm still up at 5:30 am, after a wildly productive day. Through all the writing and power moves, what accomplishment am I most proud of? You guessed it - my makeshift drum set:

Comprised of a large cardboard box bass drum, my hellraising double-bass pedal, a camera tripod, a practice pad, a music stand and the top of a hi-hat . . . hot damn, I'm the fuckin' MacGyver of poor drummers. Incidentally, this set took up 75% of the available floor space in my room. The rest is monopolized by the two boxes of 600 self-sealing bubble-wrap mailers. I collect them, aight?

As cool as the drum set is, possibly my greatest achievement ever lies in the fastening apparatus for the hi hat. The white loop being used as a washer is the bottom of a metal hook, the black padding is actually a covered plastic cell phone hands-free earpiece, and the entire shebang is sheathed beneath a girl's tank top, which muffles the metallic ringing. You seeing this, Pops? I'm starting a new Enlightenment over here.

And so, I'll spend most of the day rocking hard and writing harder. Such is the life of a struggling artist. Godspeed, friends; however fast God's speed may be.

Founder "Peppermint Patty" Voisine, 3.09.05

Nothing beats flopping a full house and then slow playing the crap out of it while three other schmucks catch a set, 2 pair, and a flush. It's just too bad I was playing at a $.5/1 table and the monster hand only yielded about enough to cover my latest purchase, a pack of tea tree chewing sticks.

Said sticks are, interestingly enough, turning the Chicago Cubs around by helping them overcome the curse of Bill "Billy Goat" Sianis. Apparently his pet goat wanted entry to Wrigley to catch a Cubs game. Fair enough. When the goat was denied access, the curse was born and the Cubs have been in the dumpster ever since. Whooda thunk? Who else...

Your venerable Founders took the time out of their jam packed schedules put on fine suits and think on such things over dinner.

Founder V: "So Founder J, what say you regarding Billy Goat Sianis and goat discrimination?"
Founder J: "My, you have pretty eyes."
Founder V: "Yes, this is true. Yet your reply does not seem to answer my question."
Founder J: "I often house a kitten in my shorts."

The conversation went nowhere fast. So the founders made the executive decision to forget the discussion and instead rock out. Hard. Limp wristed.

Now that is raw, unadulterated, deer-in-headlights hard-rocking if I've ever seen it.

And finally this:

In an act where both parties were expected to be disgusted, or at the very least not-happy, we see only pure joy and excitement on their faces. This ritual was first performed by Mr. Mooney and Mr. Best over a year ago and has been joyfully repeated at locations around the globe. Check back for future updates to see where the clean shaven duo strikes next!

Mooney: "I hate the French."
Best: "I don't get it."
Mooney: "French people. I hate them."
Best: "So, what does that have to do with us?"

Boy am I hungry.

Founder "Celebrity" Jan O'Witz, 3.04.05

And, that's it. We're famous. I don't know what else to say.

It all came to fruition in the April issue of FHM, the current stompin' ground for proud Weiners, Jim? contributors. The most recent addition? Why, none other than official Weiners, Jim? flat-mate Alex "Voetsch" Voetsch.

Anyone else think that "Voetsch" is going to get drunk one night and call directory assistance looking for this girl, only to call her and identify himself (loudly) as her ex-boyfriend? 'Cause I pretty much guarantee it.

But then, as if 30 East 3rd. St. Apt. 2 wasn't already represented enough, and as if the Weiners, Jim? crew hadn't seen enough print . . . Mike the Roommate and I, your very own Founder Janowitz, had to up the ante yet again. It's just convenient that we could up the proverbial ante in a magazine, for neither of us could afford to up any antes in a real gambling event. We're both apocalyptically poor.

Right now, there are droves (seriously, droves) of Weiners, Jim? readers (yup, plural) saying to themselves, "Woah, he hasn't just been Photoshopping the heads of his friends into the 'It's Your Ex-girlfriend' section?" No, loyal readers, no I have not.

BUT STILL, this fame was not enough. No, I craved the spotlight, and that's why I submitted thie gem to

As always, striving to make the parents proud.

And that just about wraps it up.

In other site-related news:
  • Our Shoutbox seems to have an affinity for virus-carrying links, and that's awesome. Frequent writer Kavanagh also has a penchant for following links that lead to viruses.
  • My apartment bedroom recently developed an occupation by mice (or by mouse, it would seem). Since this far, far exceeded the posted occupancy limit of 0, something had to be done. As you can see in the grainy photo at the top, something was indeed done - and it involved the obliteration of a tiny, cute animal's skull. The world can be so cruel; and yet, that's what you get for dropping a tiny mouse deuce on my printer.
  • Baseball season has, kinda, started. And that's awesome.
  • Weiners, Jim? officially welcomes The Lovely, Rachelita, Medina (girlfriend of Carl . . .), Katie "Sassy" Lelli, Jimbo and Founder Voisine to 30 East 3rd St. Apt. 2. These fine fans will be crashing with us for the following week or so, and we haven't a fuckin' clue where we're going to put them.
So until next time, buenos nachos. Yes, good nachos indeed.

A walk down memory lane . . .
Shout outs, and such


The Hand-Sign

The Beginning
Halloween '01
Vaginal Croutons
Vic, the Arcade Manager

The Hot Dogs Song, A tribute to "JJHD"

All Your Bases

All Weiners, Jim? stuff contained herein is copyright Eclectic Fool Gaming. Contact neil [at] with burning questions, general comments, concerns, horoscopes, sex talks, Spanish Inquisitions, pop quizzes, girls' phone numbers (hot chicks for Jim), and really anything you feel like sending.

Disclaimer: We at Weiners, Jim?.com realize that in actuality, the word "Weiners" is spelled "Wieners", thus conforming to the age old i-before-e rule. We, however, are revolutionaries. We break rules.