Hello, dear readers. Remember me? I haven’t had much to write about for a while, so I haven’t written anything. Anyhow, I just read this fascinating story about a boy who started off poor and managed to become a millionaire at age 14.

Coincidentally, I started off my business in a similar way. I collected large rocks and painted popular Star Wars characters on them. I called these works of art “Star Wars Paperweights” and priced them at $7 a piece. Before too long, I had managed to sell the nine rocks I had made and received orders for 20 more. I quickly painted up another batch of rocks and increased the price to $10. The rocks sold out within days and I started getting orders from as far away as New York (that’s really far from here). Unfortunately, I also got a call from a lawyer who said George Lucas was pissed and unless I pulverised any existing Star Wars Paperweights and mailed the resulting dust to George Lucas, they would sue my ass.

Now, keep in mind, at the time, I was only 12 and had no idea what “suing my ass” meant. So I ignored their warnings and kept on making those paperweights. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for George Lucas to come knocking at my door. At least I think it was George Lucas. He was wearing a disguise: a big, black mustache and a sombrero. He called himself Jorge, pronounced WHORE-HEY, and used a very racist accent. Anyhow, Jorge asked if he could come inside and, being the stupid 12-year-old that I was, I gladly invited him in.

Once Jorge stepped inside, I asked him if he wanted a drink or maybe a snack. Continuing with his racist stereotype, he requested something called horchata and some refried beans. As Jorge chowed down on a can of refried bean, sans horchata, he asked me if I had any hobbies. I told him that I like to collect dead flies and glue them into Civil War dioramas, but he didn’t seem too interested in that. I also shared with him how my alchemy experiments destroyed 17 bathtubs. Again, he didn’t give a shit. He was also disinterested in my collections of rare paperclips, false teeth and plastic sushi I had stolen from various Japanese restaurants. But when I happened to mention my Star Wars Paperweights, Jorge’s eyes lit up.

I brought him up to my room (stupid kid) to show him my latest works: a stone depicting Boba Fett riding a Tauntaun and a smaller rock with a Jawa face on it. Jorge picked up the Boba Fett stone and admired its craftsmanship. Then, without warning, he brought that stone down on my hand, shattering almost every bone I had in there. And just to ensure he did, he bashed my hand in ten more times. As I held my basically boneless hand, Jorge punched me in my 12-year-old stomach, then kicked me in the face while I was down and dumped his remaining refried beans on my head. “You want to fuck with George Lucas, motherfucker?” he said, his accent strangely disappearing. Before I could reply, he continued, “This is just a warning. Next time, I’m not gonna be so nice.” Jorge then took the Boba Fett stone and the Jawa rock and left me on my bedroom floor, gasping for air.

After a severe beating like that, you’d assume I’d give up on my dream—if you were an idiot. I mean, did you not read the title to this blog entry? I became a millionaire at age 12. You think I’d lie about something like that?

In any case, having the bones in my hand pulverised into dust never deterred me. Sure, it slowed me down a bit—OK, a lot—but, still, I persevered. I purchased the hand of a lunatic for $50 and had it attached in Chinatown for $30, plus tip. Though slightly off-colour from my original skin tone, the hand functioned well. About the only noticeable side effect was that my thumb would often twitch violently for hours on end. And sometimes I would involuntarily give people the finger and tell them to fuck off.

With my new hand and a new lease on life, I decided it was time to get back into business. Of course, Jorge made it clear that continuing with my Star Wars line of paperweights would not be a wise choice, but making stuff out of rocks was the only thing I knew. Besides, if Jorge should return to crush my new hand, at least I wouldn’t feel it, as I could not afford to have any of the nerve endings reattached.

And so, one night, as I was strolling through the town in my top hat and tails, because I was a very strange child, I spotted one of the most amazing rocks I had ever seen. At that very moment, I was struck with inspiration. I tossed the rock through the window of the local jewellery shop. Then, covering my face with my new hand, I used another rock to break into the display cases and got away with about $50,000 worth of gold and diamonds. I sold the jewellery on the black market for half of its worth, then used the money to purchase one of the most amazing rocks I had ever seen.

Now, you might think that $50,000 was a lot to spend on one rock, but that would prove how you’re not really paying attention. I said I got away with about $50k in jewellery. But I sold it for half of its worth. That means I only had $25,000 to spend. Now don’t you feel stupid?

Anyhow, so I took that perfect rock and I carefully sanded it down to get rid of all the shininess, then applied a thick black coat of paint. This would be the base of what would turn out to be my most significant work of my career.

I then had my parents drive me and my masterpiece to Marin County, California, where my artwork found its rightful home, right in the middle of George Lucas’s personal study. I placed it there myself by throwing the $25k-rock through one of George’s windows in the middle of the night.

As the alarms sounded and the security lights turned night into day, I sprinted away, literally blinded by the light. But my escape was cut short by a small hole in George’s yard, just large enough for my foot to slip into, which immediately snapped every bone in my ankle, tearing my foot clean off.

I sued George Lucas for $4 million, but settled out of court for $1 million. I used all but about $35,000 of the settlement to pay for lawyer fees, medical expenses and the cost of a bitchin’ new bionic foot. Unfortunately, I could never afford to pay for a more adult sized foot after I had grown up.

And that, dear friends, is how I became a millionaire at age 12. Oh, and in case you’re wondering what I painted on that $25K rock I threw through George Lucas’s window that fateful night, it simply said “You Suck” in red letters, with a crudely painted Darth Vader on it, giving him the finger.

While many may associate sensual massage with the arms, legs, thighs, buttocks and boobies, there is an often overlooked area of the human body that is bursting with erogenous zones. I am speaking, of course, of the gums. Now to some of you who didn’t read the title of this blog entry, this may come as a surprise. And all I have to say to those people is, read the fucking title!

Sorry. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Work has been overwhelming and, well, frankly, I just haven’t been myself. I changed my name to Sasha about six months ago and I started speaking with an obscure accent. Every day, I bring my lunch to the office and I make sure it’s something that looks weird and smells foul. I haven’t shaved—anywhere—since I changed my name. I’m not really sure why I did this, or why my employer still continues to employ me, but it’s really not important. You’re here to learn about sensual gum massage, so let’s get to it.

To begin, guide your lover to your gum-massage table. If you don’t have a gum-massage table yet, you can make do with a chair that has a reclining headrest. Don’t have a chair with a reclining headrest? Fuck, you are really making this difficult for me. Just figure something out. Use the damn couch, for all I care. And if you don’t have a couch, just kill yourself. The rest of us would like to get on with the massage.

Hey, sorry about that. I don’t really want you to kill yourself. You’re a good person. Maybe I shouldn’t be writing this right now. When I changed my name, I also decided that I wouldn’t change my clothes for a year, and well, the smell is really starting to get to me. Is it possible to faint from body odour? I think I’m close. Anyhow, back to the massage.

Once you’ve got your lover on the gum-massage table, you’ll want to gently—very gently—pull the bottom lip down and tape it to your lover’s chin. The cool air awakens the gum line and prepares your lover for the incredible sensations that are to come. Next, you’ll want to pull back the upper lip and tape it to your lover’s nose. It’s imperative here that you use professional lip tape. Using something like masking or cellophane tape could cause damage and will be rather uncomfortable to remove. I buy mine in bulk from Amazon.com.

At this time, you should have your lover’s lips securely taped open and the gums titillatingly exposed. I know you’re probably dying to dive in, but before you start sticking your fingers in someone’s mouth, you need to take some precautions. First, make sure your fingernails are trimmed down—all the way down. After all, you’re going to be dealing with very sensitive tissue, here, and nothing can spoil the mood faster than an unintentional laceration. Next, you’re going to want to throughly wash your fingers—but not with soap. Remember, you’re trying to reward, not punish your lover. I soak my fingers in a solution of blue Listerine® and crushed cloves. It sterilises the fiingers and makes them taste all minty and clove-y.

You’re also going to need some massage oil. Don’t bother with those store-bought gum-massage oils. They’re a ripoff. You can make your own with a base of extra-virgin olive oil, a drop of clove oil and just a pinch of dried and finely ground deer penis. You can find the deer penis at your local Chinese herbalist. It’s expensive, but a little goes a long way. Also makes for a delightful salad topping.

Now then, lower both of your pinky fingers into the massage oil and make sure they’re nicely coated. Pat off the excess oil on a finger towel, then place the tips of your fingers just above the upper front teeth. Don’t go straight for the molar area, pervert. Use some self-control. Build anticipation. Slowly work your way back using tiny circular motions until your lover is literally wriggling in ecstasy. For the lower gum line, I prefer to use my thumbs. Use the same small, circular motions in the front and then use your pinkies for the rear area.

Once your lover gets comfortable with the idea of receiving a sensual gum massage, you may want to consider adding a light Waterpik-ing or perhaps a refreshing tongue wrap made by soaking a standard tongue sock in iced peppermint tea. Speaking of peppermint, I also like to sometimes place shreds of the leaf on the gum line at the end of the massage. Not only does it freshen the breath, it leaves the gums with a delightful youthful glow, kind of like Meg Ryan in her heyday.

Anyhow, those are the basics. The professionals, of course, use much more advanced techniques (slipping warm pebbles between the lip and gums, for instance), but those methods are not for amateurs. Just keep it simple and  follow the instructions above, and before you know it, your lover will be putty in your finger tips—or my name isn’t Sasha.

I’ve come to that stage in my life where I just want to buy a small house with a lawn. Not that I love lawns. I just have this incredible urge to yell at kids to stay the hell off my lawn. But first I need a lawn. Otherwise, I would just look insane.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

With the kids jingle-belling

and everyone telling you “be of good cheer”

Now wait just a damn second.

Look, I know this song is a holiday classic, but the lyrics are pretty half-assed, don’t you think? Kids jingle-belling? Really? What exactly does that look like? Does he mean they’re singing Jingle Bells? Then I suppose they’re also Frosty-the-Snowmaning and Ruldolph-The-Red-Nosed-Reindeering. OK, point made. Moving on…

It’s the hap-happiest season of all
With those holiday greetings and gay happy meetings

What the fuck? “Gay happy meetings”? Sorry, I can’t let that one go. Yes, I know, this song was written back when the word “gay” only meant “happy.” So, if that’s the case, what’s with the redundancy?  Not to mention the fact that he used the word “happy” two lines in a row. Is there no other word for “happy”? What about “joyous” or “cheerful”?  Or why not just go with “wonderful meetings,” which would actually fit the song better. Anyhow, it’s a great tune. Please, don’t let me interrupt.

There’ll be parties for hosting
Marshmallows for toasting
And caroling out in the snow
There’ll be scary ghost stories
And tales of the glories of
Christmases long, long ago

Ah, now this brings me back. I remember how every Christmas, after we hung our stockings by the chimney with care, we’d turn out the lights and illuminate our faces with flashlights, taking turns telling Christmas ghost stories. One of my favourites was about a reindeer that got very sick during the long trip around the world (some versions of the story say it’s Vixen. Others, Prancer). Santa was in too much of a hurry to deal with it, so he just cut the sucker loose. They say that every Christmas eve, long after Santa has made his rounds, you can still hear that reindeer convulsing and moaning on the roof, as if it was begging for the angel of death to have mercy on its soul.

Think that’s frightening? One time, my father actually hired someone to climb up on the roof  and flail around up there to add to the horror of the story. The next year, he had us look out the window to see four stiff reindeer legs sticking out of  the snow. Needless to say, we cried ourselves to sleep that night. Ha. Yeah, I miss those days. Maybe it really is the hap-happiest season of all. Anyhow, I’ve got some vegetarian marshmallows to toast. I hope you all have a very scary Christmas and an exceptional new year.

Sorry, I’ve been very busy with work and whatnot lately. Not much creativity left at the end of the day. That said, I watched Marie Antoinette the other night and it got me to thinking:

In the film, when the ladies approach someone, they lower their eyes, grab their dress and curtsey. I’m not talking about some weak-shit curtsey either. When they curtsey, they mean business: all the way down, one leg crossed behind the other—and hold two, three, four—and rise. No doubt the ladies of that time period had some major thigh muscles. Do you think they worked out? If so, what kind of exercises do you think they did? I mean, I don’t think The Queen would be doing squat thrusts, but I guess you never know.

Of course, the guys of that time period had it easy. All they had to do was bow: one hand in front, the other in back, a full bend at the waist, and rise. Not much of a workout, but it’s certainly a sign of respect. Sometimes, they might top it off with a “and a good morning to you, Madam” or a simple “good afternoon.” Classy and respectful.

So why is it that we’ve evolved into these people who insist on shaking hands when we meet someone new? I mean, we just met them. How are we to know where their hands have been? Is it a sign of respect or are we just saying that although we don’t know this person, we are willing to trust that they are not carrying any diseases and have thoroughly washed their hands after using the bathroom? Whatever the case, I don’t like it.

I say we start a new trend. Guys, the next time you meet someone, forego the handshake and give them a respectful bow. Ladies, well, you’re going to have to curtsey, so I suggest you start with those squat thrusts now. And for those of you who think this is stupid and refuse to take part in my little experiment, I metaphorically remove my glove, smack you across the face and challenge you to a duel.

It’s October and, of course, that means rain. It also means it’s time to pull out my stylish H&M automatic umbrella. For $16, it’s pretty nice. Not only does it shrink down to a convenient, pocketable size, it’s black, and I don’t have to tell you, anything black is cool. A button on the handle pops the umbrella open in less than a second. Push the button again and the umbrella retracts. Well, it retracts most of the way. You still need to push the damn thing back into the handle, which can take some effort. Nevertheless, it’s a nice umbrella and it does a good job. I have just one minor complaint: the stupid umbrella condom.

Yes, like most compact umbrellas, my H&M model comes with a nylon sleeve to store it in. The only problem with this is, it’s a pain in the ass to wrap up the umbrella tight enough to get it back into the stupid sleeve, and it’s next to impossible to do this without looking like I’m giving a sex-ed demonstration to a bunch of giggling 5th graders.

What exactly is this stupid sheathe supposed to be protecting my umbrella from anyway? Water? Dust? STDs? It makes no sense. The umbrella sleeve is made of the same material as the umbrella itself, which means if you’re in a hurry and grab the umbrella without looking, you might find yourself ejecting a fully-sheathed umbrella up over your head. It won’t expand to shield you from the rain. It’ll just stay up there, wound up tight, calling attention to how stupid you are.

There’s really no cool way to recover from such a mistake. You could curse the umbrella (“What the? This stupid piece of shit!”). But no one’s going to buy that. You could quickly lower the umbrella down and pretend it’s some kind of weird looking cane. Or you could grab the center of it and spin it around like you’re a master of the martial arts.

For the record, none of these ideas will work. I’ve tried them all. In fact, the last time I tried the martial-arts idea, a gang of 7-year-olds beat the living shit out of me. Fortunately, I was rescued by a troupe of Girl Scouts who just happened to be passing by. When I asked how I could repay them, they said I should purchase the rest  of their Girl Scout cookies. Well, $350 later, I’m finally home and safe—with a motherfucking year’s supply of Do-Si-Dos®.  The Umbrella Condom sucks.

Just last week, my stalker and I were at the Beverly Center, attempting to look like we could afford things there. On our way down the escalators, I noticed two teenagers in front of us wearing Ed Hardy clothing from head to toe (they even had on Ed Hardy tennis shoes). “Look,” I whispered to my stalker, “douche bags in training.” We chuckled to ourselves and then I noticed a much younger girl in front of them who was probably the sister or something. She, too, was wearing Ed Hardy clothing—which got us to wondering: What’s the female equivalent of a douche bag? My stalker suggested “douche purse,” but that doesn’t make any sense at all. And so I open the question to my readers. What is the female equivalent of a douche bag? Anyone?

Last week*, I had the pleasure of sharing my body with the influenza virus. No, I’m not being sarcastic. I kind of dig having the flu. Sure, there’s the fever and the sweating and the yacking. But after all that, if you’re really lucky, you might just be given the pleasure of having The Sexy Voice.

Yes, that’s right, The Sexy Voice. A deeper, manlier voice. A voice that seems to come from some other entity inside. A voice that makes heads turn. A voice of authority. A voice of influence. A voice that cannot be ignored. It is The Sexy Voice, and it is exclusively mine.

I had The Sexy Voice last week, but not for long. I was given the gift for less than a day. And that’s just the thing about The Sexy Voice: You never know how long you’re going to have it. So the moment you get it, you have to work fast. Call your friends and see if they can tell who’s calling. Rerecord your voicemail greeting. And if you work in Advertising (as I do), walk around the agency, reading as many radio and TV scripts as you can. People will tell you,  you should do voiceover work professionally. Thank them for the compliments, but don’t let it all go to your head. Because, before you know it, The Sexy Voice will be gone.

Which brings us to today. I woke up at around 5:00 AM, hacking and coughing. The time of the sexy voice has past. I am now nothing more than another victim of the flu, sniffling and sneezing, wondering when this torture will be over. When I try to speak, I sound like Satan going through puberty. It’s not a pretty voice. It’s not a sexy voice. It’s the voice of a sick, pathetic old man. And I can live with that — as long as it means I have those few precious hours of joy where my vocal chords sound like they’re lined with velvet.

Of course, I know influenza is a very serious virus, capable of killing someone if not properly controlled. But I still refuse to get a flu shot every year. It’s not just because I have an overwhelming fear of needles (even though that’s the biggest reason), or that the influenza virus mutates every year, making the flu “vaccine” nothing more than an educated guess. No, there’s another reason, a very stupid reason. A reason that is pretty obvious by now, but I’m going to wait to tell you, just so I can add more rhythm to this paragraph and end it dramatically. That reason, of course, is The Sexy Voice.

*By “last week,” I mean more like last year. When I started writing this blog entry, I really did have the flu the week before. But it took me months to finally get around to finishing it. Yeah. Talk about procrastination.

Yesterday, I noticed another one of these vending machines selling ice-cold beverages. Thanks, but I’ll pass. I prefer my beverages to be in a liquid form, far above freezing temperature. Incidentally, if you’re selling an ice-cold beverage, it’s not really a beverage—it’s a popsicle, or an “ice lolly,” as people like me who are pretending to be British would say, and I don’t want anything to do with that.

Every Easter morning, my parents would wake us up,  hand us our baskets filled with jelly beans and marshmallows of various shapes and colours, then push us out the door and tell us to behave ourselves and wait for Jesus. Yes, that’s right, Jesus. It may seem strange, but that was the tradition, and neither my sister nor I ever questioned it. We just did as we were told and took our positions out on the front lawn.

I kept my eyes on the west. My sister, on the east. We dare not blink for fear of missing him. Still, after a few hours, either my sister or I would get tired and knock on the door to ask our parents when they were coming out to join us. Their answer was always the same: “He only wants the children. It’s too late for the adults to be saved. But we’re in here praying for you.”

Well, they said they were praying. But I wasn’t so sure. I mean do people usually pray while wearing bathrobes, drinking Screwdrivers and listening to the Cal Tjader Quintet? It didn’t seem likely. But everyone has their own way of being spiritual, I guess.

Anyhow, my sister and I would  sit out there for most of the day — me with my binoculars, my sister with the telescope — and we’d wait. And wait. And wait. But you know what? He never came. Jesus never came. Maybe it was because we never actually attended a church service. Or possibly it was because my father was technically Jewish. I may never know. But every year, I still find myself looking outside, hoping to see him floating down from the clouds or maybe beaming himself in like they do on Star Trek. But it’s never happened, which is kind of sad. Not that it matters, really. It’s too late for us adults anyway.