11:38 PM: I pull into the parking lot of the Taco Bell/KFC on Lincoln and Manchester, turn on my tape recorder and approach the drive-thru intercom:

INTERCOM: Good evening. Welcome to Taco Bell KFC. May I take your order?

ME: Yes, I’d like a Cheesy Bean and Rice Burrito, a Crunchwrap Supreme, some Homestyle Biscuits and a small Mashed Potatoes & Gravy.

INTERCOM: OK, that’s a Cheesy Bean and Rice Burrito, a Crunchwrap Supreme, some Homestyle Biscuits and a small Mashed Potatoes & Gravy. Will that be all?

ME: Actually, there is one more thing. . . I watch QVC.

INTERCOM: I’m sorry, was that a quesadilla?

ME: No, I said I watch QVC.

INTERCOM: Uh huh. Please pull forward.

ME: No, you don’t get it. I’m not the kind of guy you’d normally think would watch a shopping channel. I have a full-time job and a pretty decent sense of style. Of course, I’m not saying that all people who watch QVC are unemployed and lack taste, although it’s certainly true for most.

INTERCOM: Sir, please pull forward.

ME: You know what’s even worse? I’ve actually purchased things that I’ve seen on TV.

INTERCOM: *sigh* Hey, do you want this food or not?

ME: I even have those Space Bags. You know the ones that you stick stuff in and suck out the air with a vacuum cleaner? They’re sitting in my closet. I’ve actually used them. I also have one of those mops that vacuums up the water for you. Doesn’t work that well.

A horn honks behind me.

INTERCOM: Dude, just get out of here!

ME: Anyhow, my latest purchase was this thing called a Toss ‘N’ Chop. Basically, it’s a pair of scissors with two sets of blades. To make chopped salad, you simply stick the device into a bowl of lettuce and whatnot and squeeze away. The handle is spring-loaded, so little effort is required.

The horn continues to honk, followed by several other horns.

INTERCOM: Look, I’m not allowed to leave the restaurant after 11. But if I could, I would come out there and shove your Chalupa so far up your nose, your brain would have sour cream on it.

ME: I didn’t order a Chalupa.

INTERCOM: PULL THE FUCK FORWARD!

ME: In a minute. See, the problem is. I’ve had this Toss ‘N’ Chop since Christmas and I’ve never used it once. Not even once. I mean, you’d think that in that much time, I might have taken it out to see how it works. But no, it just sits in my drawer untouched. Honestly, I don’t even like chopped salad.

I glance in my rearview mirror and see three guys wearing baseball caps approaching my vehicle.

INTERCOM: I don’t get paid enough for this.

ME: You know what else is strange? I don’t even know what QVC stands for. I mean, HSN is easy: Home Shopping Network. But QVC? Not a clue.

A guy wearing a baseball cap leans into my window.

GUY: Hey, man, do we have a problem here?

ME: Several. But I’m working them out.

GUY: Dude, I’m fucking famished. Why don’t you go work it out at Mickey D’s or somethin’?

ME: Mickey D’s?

GUY: McDonald’s, man!

ME: You call McDonald’s Mickey D’s?

GUY: Everyone does!

ME: I don’t.

The guy reaches in and grabs me by the throat.

GUY: Look, I’m trying to be nice about this. Me and my buddies here want some fucking tacos.

ME: Ack.

GUY: Now, let’s try this again. When I let go, all you gotta do is drive the fuck away. You got that?

I nod as best as I can with a hand squeezing my voicebox.

GUY: Good. OK, I’m gonna let go now.

Face turning blue, I nod again. His hand finally releases my throat and I gasp for air.

ME (panting): OK. . . Can I at least get my food?

GUY: That’s not part of the deal, man.

ME: C’mon, not even a bean burrito?

GUY: Dude, you’re pushing it.

ME: Hm. . .

I look at him and his ears are totally red.

GUY: Just get the fuck out of here, dude!

ME: OK, OK, I’m going. But before I do, can I just ask you one quick question?

GUY: *sigh* What?!

ME: Have you ever watched QVC?

The next thing I know, I’m waking up in my car with beans, rice and cheese smeared all over the dashboard, mashed potatoes and gravy in my hair and a Chalupa shoved halfway up my left nostril. As you can imagine, I wasn’t happy. How many times do I have to tell that asshole I didn’t order a fucking Chalupa?

Get this: I’m sitting here on the couch with my 22 cats, just sneezing away (on the account of my allergies), when all of the sudden, one of the feistier felines, Brown Kitty, starts batting a ball of yarn around the room. Now, to the average observer, this might be considered adorable, possibly even precious. Personally, I find it horrifying. Why? That ball of yarn isn’t just your average bundle of crochet-caliber crap. It’s from my private collection of fine and rare knittables.

Yes, as many of you already know, I have a rather extensive yarn collection. It began with just a few small strands and grew into thousands upon thousands of cherished skeins. For a long time, people thought I was crazy. “What’s with the yarn collecting, Smivey?” they’d say. And I’d respond, “If you have to ask, your vacuous mind would never be able to comprehend it.” Nine times out of ten, this would result in me getting my ass kicked. But I didn’t care. It was all about the yarn.

Later on, as an adult, I discovered an entire Web community devoted to yarn collecting. After joining the online forums, I learned where the best yarn conventions were and even got some pointers on dealing with the ridicule associated with being a yarnny (that’s what we call ourselves). Before too long, I became a highly-respected yarn trader and was even asked to be a guest yarn appraiser for the Antiques Road Show (the British version, not that crappy American one). To date, I have over 1,000 varieties of yarn, most of which are hermetically sealed and stored in an undisclosed location.

Why hide what I’ve spent so many years to acquire? Well, I wasn’t always so protective of my collection. But one day, when I was about 12, I came home to find several skeins of laceweight baby alpaca missing from my stash. My mother told me not to worry. “I’m sure they’ll turn up somewhere,” she said. And she was right. About a month later, my grandmother came over to celebrate my birthday. Her present to me? A beautiful alpaca scarf. “NOOOO!” I screamed. “My alpaca! My prized alpaca! You stupid bitch!” I grabbed the scarf and ran up to my room. After locking the door, I got out my loupe and examined the fibers. The damage was worse than I thought. Honestly, she might as well have knitted me a fucking toaster cozy. Still, after hours and hours of meticulous unraveling, I was able to salvage a few precious yards.

But that’s all ancient history now. Oh sure, I still despise my grandmother. But since that time, I’ve acquired not one, but three beautiful skeins of exquisite alpaca (on sale at the Yarn Barn). Vicuña, on the other hand, is a completely different story. I have only one tightly bound ball of it. Unfortunately for me, it’s the same ball that Brown Kitty is currently batting around the room. Every time that ignorant animal’s claws tear into those precious fibers, I envision a frail, naked vicuña shivering in the cold.

Oh course, now that Brown Kitty has discovered my vicuña, all my other cats want to get into the act (Phallus, Mega, Apeshit, Minty Fresh, Snoopy, Pickle Feet, Cat, Walking Goiter, Herbert Bennington III, Yttik, Tool Shed, Fat Angry Dog, ODK, Foamy, Rancid Tuna, Third Base, Rice Pudding With Cinnamon, Sickly Wretch, Blow Pop, Pet Sematary and Dr. Pinebetty — Cognitive Therapist). They’re each taking turns attacking my vicuña, completely ignoring the alarm system I installed to deter them.

Granted, it’s a rather primitive alarm system, but ingenious just the same. Rather than rely on fancy electronics, I carefully attached a series of tiny jingle bells to the surface of the yarn. The idea was that if a cat ever touched my vicuña, the tiny bells would ring, thus scaring away the stupid animal. At least that’s how it was supposed to work. In reality, the cats seem to love the bells, attempting to ring them over and over and over again.

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t such a good idea to leave my prized vicuña out on display like that. But I was so proud of it. I discovered the delicate ball of beauty just two weeks ago on eBay. Of course, I ended up paying a small fortune for it. But I’ll never regret transferring that $25.75 from my PayPal account. Never.

Mind you, I didn’t just stick my ball on the mantel and leave it at that. I did what any intelligent person would do with a delicate work of art: I displayed it high above the ground on a pedestal covered with carpet. Where does one find a carpeted pedestal? Well, oddly enough, I obtained mine from a neighbor’s yard sale. That soft, fluffy surface seemed perfect for my yarn. But then the oddest thing happened: The cats went fucking nuts over the pedestal. I swear, they started scratching at it like there was no tomorrow. Fortunately, using an average spray bottle, I was able to quickly teach the cats to stay off my post. All but one, that is: Brown Kitty.

I found Brown Kitty in the alleyway just days ago and immediately knew he would be the ideal addition to my cat clan. I named him Brown Kitty because when I looked at him, he reminded me of a teacher I once had whose name was Professor Brown Kitty.

Anyhow, none of that’s important. The only thing that really matters is my lovely vicuña. And at this very moment, I’m watching it being torn to shreds by those fucking cats. I suppose instead of typing this story, I could have reached for my spray bottle and blasted those motherfuckers away. But what if i were to accidentally dampen the vicuña? What then? I couldn’t risk using my hairdryer on the delicate fibers. I suppose I could hang it outside, but then that leaves the chance of mildew forming.

Hi. Sorry to cut off my story like that, but I just got my weekly e-mail from YarnBarn.com. Guess what’s on sale? Uh huh. Vicuña. Two skeins for seven dollars. I’d say that’s a tad bit cheaper than the twenty-six bucks I paid for one ratty ball of the shit. You know what, fuck eBay. Hell, fuck the damn vicuña! . . . Oh shit. Looks like one of my cats had exactly the same idea. Ugh. That’s just wrong. Where’s my spray bottle? Bad kitty! Bad Phallus! Or is that Snoopy? I can’t tell these fucking beasts apart.

As a writer, I’m usually very protective of my ideas. But then I got to thinking, who am I to deprive others of my genius? Besides, I can’t possibly write a screenplay for every plot line I come up with. That said, I submit to you these movie ideas. Feel free to make them your own. All I ask is that you give me props in the movie credits using these exact words: “Genius by Smivey.” I thank you.

The Pig, The Boat and a Man Named Mestipapulious
OK, so there’s this pig, right? And it’s in a boat, OK? It’s just a tiny boat, though, like a dinghy or something like that. Keep in mind, this isn’t one of those fucking cartoon pigs that talks. It’s just a regular pig, but it’s wearing one of those tiny leprechaun hats that’s attached to his big head with an elastic band. Anyhow, for almost the entire film, you just see the pig hanging out in the boat, making those pig noises and wallowing in its own filth (note: make sure there’s mud in the boat.). At the end of the film, the pig reaches land. A man is waiting there. His name is Michael Radcliff. Not Mestipapulious. See, you’d be expecting it to be Mestipapulious. But it’s not. it’s Michael Radcliff. That’s the twist.

The Lesbian Princess
Princess Lolly is 25 and still single. She is totally hot and spends most of her days hanging out with the handmaidens in the garden. She also likes to take baths. Perfumed baths. With the handmaidens. Anyhow, she finds out that her father, who is also the king, has arranged for her to be married to Prince Jack. Oddly, Princess Lolly protests. Why? It can’t be because of the way Prince Jack looks. He’s totally hot. No, it turns out that Prince Jack’s sister, Princess Mildred, is a full-on lesbian. And Princess Lolly? She’s nothing but a close-minded homophobic bitch.

The Placebo Effect
George Herman works at the local Rite Aid as a pharmacist. Bored with his job, he decides one day to substitute everyone’s prescriptions with harmless sugar pills. All the patients take their medication as directed on the bottle, and faster than they can say “I’ve never felt better,” their health quickly deteriorates. Some die within days. Others suffer for months. As the patients’ symptoms worsen, the doctors prescribe different medications for them, only to have them substituted with another placebo by George Herman. Many years later, the authorities finally trace the cause of all the deaths to Herman. They come to the Rite Aid to make the arrest, but Herman quickly downs a handful of pills before they can stop him. As you might expect, the pills were only placebos. Nevertheless, he dies instantly. That’s the placebo effect.

Stuffed
Steve is a Certified Public Accountant who longs to become the world’s greatest competitive eater. Of course, he has to overcome a lot of obstacles before he can reach his goal: For one thing, he’s six feet tall and only weighs 130 pounds. He’s also a vegetarian and suffers from Irritable Bowel Syndrome. But Steve is determined to succeed. After suing the Nathan’s Hot Dog company, he wins the right to compete in their hot-dog eating competition — without having to eat any actual hot dogs. Wolfing down 400 lard-free buns in just 30 minutes, Steve beats the skinny Japanese guy’s record by just seconds. He goes on to compete in other competitions, but never even places in the events. At the end of the film, Steve enters himself in a habanero-chile eating contest and dies from internal bleeding after swallowing just one chile.

OK, that should be enough to get your started. Enjoy your fame and fortune, courtesy of me.

Dear (Name Omitted),

I’m sorry that our date turned out to be a complete disaster. But you were warned. Yes, I realize that I seem like such a suave, funny, sexy, genius of a man online. But the truth is, I’m not all that suave. Believe it or not, I spend most of my evenings at home, chatting online and eating dry cereal from the box. And as for dating, well, I don’t have a lot of experience.

Honestly, I thought it would be really romantic to send a taxi cab to pick you up. I even requested that the driver be a nonsmoker. But since there is no such thing, I insisted that he only smoke cigarettes. No cigars. That was thoughtful, wasn’t it?

And what about that gift I had waiting for you when you got in the cab, the case of Butterfinger candy bars? Didn’t you think that was nice? I mean, who the fuck doesn’t like a Butterfinger? Are you allergic to artificial peanut butter or something? I waited in line for 30 minutes at Costco to get you those damn candy bars. The least you could have done was eaten one. OK, I’m sorry. This is supposed to be an apology letter. Maybe those Butterfinger candy bars were a bad idea. But you have to admit, they are delicious.

In any case, let me explain why I was eating my dinner when you arrived. You were almost 20 minutes late. How long is a guy supposed to sit around eating appetizers and drinking wine? Granted, I probably should have left my phone on when I got to the restaurant, but I find it rude for people to take calls while others are eating. Of course, you later explained to me—okay, yelled at me—that you didn’t have enough money for cab fare and that the driver actually backed up his car and made you walk six blocks to the restaurant. How is that my fault?

Anyhow, after I polished off my seared scallops (delectable!), I was kind enough to offer you the green beans and mashed potatoes that were left on my plate. As you might recall, you declined. But did that stop you from whining about how hungry you were for the rest of the night? Nooo. I bet you’re sorry now for not eating one of those candy bars.

Alright, I know this is supposed to be an apology letter. But you really made me uncomfortable, what with the way you stared at me all night with your brow furrowed so unattractively. What did you expect me to do? I eventually paid you back for the cab fare, didn’t I? And I didn’t even complain when you threw only $4.50 in change back at me. I mean, any moron knows that $25.17 from $30 is $4.83.

But back to the apology. I really am sorry. I’m sorry that you didn’t think it was funny when I suddenly threw water in your face. I’m sorry that you had to go to jail for assaulting me with a steak knife. I’m sorry that I couldn’t stop laughing as I watched the police officers tackle you to the ground (you really should have seen your face). And I’m sorry for pressing charges. I suppose the least I could have done was bail you out.

That said, I’d like another chance. Maybe we could have dinner at one of those fancy European cafes? You know, something cozy, but not too intimate. Just some wine, good food and a little conversation. Oh, and don’t worry. This time, I’ll take care of the cab fare.

For over five years, I’ve been telling my shrink, Dr. Steinway, my deepest, darkest secrets, all with the understanding that what was said in his office would remain in his office. That said, I was a little shocked when I found a blog entitled “Shrinking Heads” a few days ago. The blogger goes by the pseudonym “Dr. S,” but I know exactly what that S stands for (aside for Shithead), and believe me, that motherfucker is going to be hearing from my lawyer very soon.

But since his blog has been up and running for over a year, what point is there in me trying to pretend I’m someone I’m not? As a record of my shrink’s fucked-up ways, I’ve copied and pasted one of the transcripts from his site. It’s titled Confessions of a Man/Boy.

The subject walks into my office, wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and what he must assume is a clever t-shirt (it’s not). He approaches my desk and doesn’t say a word for about ten minutes, just stares down at me. I do my best to remain calm.

DR. S: So, tell me, what it is you’re thinking about.

MAN/BOY: I don’t know, man. I had a shitty day. I don’t feel much like talking.

DR. S: OK, would you like to play a board game then? I think I have Clue.

MAN/BOY: Very funny. OK, fine, you wanna help me? Help me.

DR. S: I can’t help you. You can only help yourself.

MAN/BOY: You have got to be kidding me. Did you really just say that?

DR.S: It’s true.

MAN/BOY: It’s a tired cliché.

DR. S: Is that how you feel?

MAN/BOY: So is that.

DR. S.: So is what?

MAN/BOY: That whole is-that-how-you-feel thing. Is that the first thing they teach you in shrink school or what?

DR. S: Let’s keep the discussion on you. Unless, of course, you’d rather play that board game. I get to be Colonel Mustard.

MAN/BOY: Ah, fuck it. Let’s just get this over with.

The subject stops staring at me and has a seat on the couch. He crosses his legs like a girl.

DR. S: OK, let’s continue where we left off yesterday. I believe you were starting to talk about your latest obsession.

At this moment, the subject reaches into his bag and pulls out a bottle of Evian. There is a pitcher of iced water on the table and a clean glass, but he refuses to use it.

MAN/BOY: OK, I guess it all started back when I was in between jobs.

DR. S: Uh huh.

MAN/BOY: Sometimes, I’d spend the entire afternoon doing nothing but watching TV.

DR. S: It can be addictive.

MAN/BOY: Yeah, would you just shut up and let me tell my story?

DR. S: OK . . .

MAN/BOY: Anyhow, after a while, most of the shows on TV just got too boring. And then . . . and then I discovered . . . Nickelodeon.

DR. S: Really, now?

At this point, the subject stands up and stares at me in a threatening manner. After a few moments, he sits back down and continues:

MAN/BOY: As I was sayingggggg, I started watching Nickelodeon, and it was great. Suddenly, there were all of these new shows for me to watch. Of course, they were kind of juvenile in nature, but I started to appreciate that.

DR. S: Ahhhhh

The Man/Boy stops what he’s doing, takes out a ballpoint pen from his pocket and throws it at me, hitting me on the head. He then continues:

MAN/BOY: As I was sayingggggg . . . I started to appreciate these new shows. I guess you could say they made me feel more youthful. And that’s when the idea came to me: If these shows could make me feel youthful, what would happen if I upped the ante? So I made a trip to the local Toys backwards-R Us, and all I can say is, wow. It was amazing in there. . . . Hello? Are you even fucking listening to me?!

I nod, trying to avoid having anything else thrown at me.

MAN/BOY: Anyhow, so I grabbed a cart and just started going nuts in there, ya know? I bought all the stuff my parents wouldn’t let me have when I was younger: the Battling Tops game, the Tyco slot racing set, the Barbie’s Dream House. . . Yeah, that’s right. I said the Barbie Dreamhouse. You wanna make somethin’ of it? ’cause if you do, I will fucking cut you!

At this moment, the subject takes out a very small pocket knife and reveals the tiny blade. I shake my head to assure this psycho that I have no intentions of ridiculing him (at least not to his face, ha ha ha).

MAN/BOY: Yeah. You better not be makin’ fun of my fuckin’ Barbie’s Dream House. Anyhow, I totally filled up my cart up with all this shit and then I brought it home and pretended it was Christmas morning, which was totally weird, since I’m Jewish. After a while, I couldn’t get enough of these toys. It was like an addiction. I started going online and ordering everything I could see. I even got one of those See & Says with the different animal sounds. It’s so fuckin’ cool. You turn the dial and pull the cord to hear that creepy voice: (He tries to mimic the voice and does a very poor job of it) “The cow says, mooooo” hahahahahha . . .

The freak continues to laugh at his mildly amusing anecdote, until finally—thank the Lord—the bell on my timer rings. I tell him our 50 minutes is up, but actually, I only set it for 40 minutes. That’s about all I can stand of this guy in one day.

OK, I think you get the idea. First of all, in my defense, he made a lot of that shit up. For one thing, I was not wearing one of my clever t-shirts that day. And I never threw a ballpoint pen at his head. It barely hit his left shoulder. And finally, I don’t know where he got that bullshit about me buying a Barbie’s Dream House. It was the Barbie Totally Real House. It’s just a place for Barbie and Malibu Ken to kick it, ya know? And if you think that I’m just playing around with dolls, let me tell you, nothing childish goes on in that house, if you know what I mean. Awwww yeahhhh. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

For the past several months, I’ve had the exact same dream. What’s worse is, I have no idea what it means or how to make it stop. Here’s as much of it as I can remember:

There I am, sitting at a secluded table, with Scarlett Johansson as my date. She’s wearing a black strapless dress and her hair’s up in some sophisticated way. And for some reason, in her left ear, there’s a single pearl earring. I mean, she’s Scarlett Johansson. Can’t she afford the other one? In any case, she looks amazing. And that’s when it hits me: I’m having dinner with Scarlett Johansson!

“Holy shit,” I say. “Scarlett Johansson. The Scarlett Johansson. I can’t believe I’m having dinner with Scarlett Johansson.”

“Oh, Smivey,” she says. “It’s no big deal. Just try to relax and eat your salad.”

And so I do. I try to eat my salad. But every time I look up, Scarlett Johansson is sitting across from me.

“Fuck. Scarlett Johansson. This is fucking amazing. The Scarlett Johansson. Why would Scarlett Johansson ever want to have dinner with me? I’m so much older than she is.”

“Would you stop talking about me as if I’m not here? You know why I agreed to go out with you. It was that letter you sent me almost a year ago.”

“Yeah, I still can’t believe you actually read that.”

“Oh, I read all of my fan mail. Usually, they’re just requests for my undergarments, but yours was so different, so special.”

“Oh, stop.”

“No, really. I still carry it with me wherever I go.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I do!”

“Uh huh.”

Scarlett digs through her Prada bag and pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper. She unfolds the paper, because it’s much easier to read that way, and then proceeds to, duh, read it:

“Sweet Scarlett,

I realize you probably get hundreds of letters every year, but this one is very special and you will, undoubtedly, hold it dear to your heart. After you read it, you will become my girlfriend and then we will stay at home and watch DVDs on my home theater system with 5.1 surround sound.

Holy shit. Scarlett Johansson. I can’t believe I’m writing to the Scarlett Johansson. This is fucking amazing. The Scarlett Johansson. Why would Scarlett Johansson ever read my letter?

Oh, I have to go. My Pillsbury Toaster Strudel is ready. It’s important to frost them while they’re hot. Otherwise, the frosting won’t be all gooey and runny the way I like it. Do you like toaster strudel? I need a woman who likes toaster strudel.

Anyway, please give me a call. Better yet, IM me. I’m always online. Always.

Yours, very soon,

Smivey”

“OK,” I say to Scarlett, “will you put the fucking letter down and eat your salad? You’re embarrassing me.”

“Sorry. It’s very dear to my heart.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Honestly, I think you should know, I sort of knew about you before you even wrote to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, I kind of heard about you from a friend of mine and I decided to check out your blog.”

“You used to read my blog?”

“I still do. It fucking rocks.”

“My blog?”

“Sure.”

“My blog??”

“Smivey, you really need to do something about your self esteem.”

“Maybe.”

“Isn’t it cool that I was a fan of yours before we even met?”

“Not really. Actually, it kind of freaks me out.”

“Freaks you out?”

“Yeah, I feel a little violated here.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you? I don’t like the idea of some woman obsessing over me. It’s like you were cyberstalking me or something.”

“Oh, suck it! I wasn’t cyberstalking you. I just read your blog occasionally to see what you were up to.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s fucked up.”

“Are you insane?”

“No, I believe you’re the one who’s insane.”

“Look, can’t we just finish our dinner and talk about this later? I don’t want to cause a scene.”

“Here’s a better idea. Why don’t you get the fuck out of here?”

“Ha. Yeah, right. Very funny.”

“You think I’m kidding? If you’re not gonna leave, I will.”

“Smivey, are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

She stares at me for a moment. “Fine!”

She throws her napkin at me, gets up, then pours what’s left of her wine onto my head. I watch her as she storms out of the room, her long, slender middle finger extended out just for me. I casually pat my face dry with Scarlett’s discarded napkin and then go back to eating my salad. That’s when it hits me: Fuck. Scarlett Johansson. I can’t believe I just got into a fight with Scarlett Johansson. The Scarlett Johansson!

But wait, here’s the strange part: The salad has honey-mustard dressing on it. I hate honey-mustard dressing. But in the dream, it tastes pretty damn good and I end up devouring it. How fucked up is that?

She seemed to appear out of nowhere, a mysterious figure in the night. A moment ago, I didn’t know she existed. But now, there she was before me. I had to get her attention. My mind began to race:

Should I flash her? Might she acknowledge me then? Would she appreciate what she sees? Would she thank me forever?

Perhaps. But there was a better solution, one that would leave no doubt in her mind of what I longed for. I approached her cautiously, and once I was near, I turned towards her, took a deep breath and shouted my wants and desires:

“Turn on your headlights, you fucking idiot!”

And with that, I sped off, leaving her in the dark. But only for a moment. Within seconds, her headlamps came to life and her car horn blared. I glanced in my rearview mirror to find her waving at me. Ah, a gesture of good will. She had recognized her absent-mindedness and wanted to thank me. . . No, upon further inspection I realized the hand she was waving had only one finger extended—and it was not her thumb. Alas, my assistance was not met with the gratitude it deserved. What a bitch.

hello. notice anything different about my writing? well, you should because im not actually typing it. cheryl is. :-) who is cheryl? only the hottest girl i know. hey, what are you typing? i haven’t said anything. stop typing! let me see. i didn’t say that. delete it. im not kidding! apostrofy M. that’s not how you spell apostrofie damn it!

My apologies. I never should have let Cheryl type for me. She’s a good nurse, but that’s about all I can say for her. Fortunately, my friend Steve was kind enough to take over the keyboard. He knows how to type. And more importantly, he knows how to spell.

So why do I need anyone to help me type my latest blog entry? Well, it’s a long story. But I’ll try to condense it into easy-to-swallow paragraphs.

I guess it all started last month when I was on the toilet having a pee. As I was sitting there, reading the latest issue of Soldier of Fortune, I began to feel a familiar sensation in my legs: they were falling asleep. Why? It might’ve had something to do with sitting on the toilet for over an hour. But, no, there was something else. It was my posture. It was awful. I was all slumped over and my legs weren’t bent at a comfortable 90-degree angle. It seems, today’s toilets don’t provide the best support for people with longer legs. My solution: build a better toilet.

So how does one go about building a better toilet? I started with the basics. Obviously, it would have to have a hole in it, yet at the same time, it would also have to be able to hold water. A receptacle that holds water, but has a hole in it. How the fuck did anyone figure that out? It seemed impossible to me. And it was, to me. I decided that instead of building a better toilet, I would simply modify my existing one. But unlike most toilets that are one-size-fits-all, mine would be . . . adjustable.

That’s right. The first adjustable toilet. Why hadn’t anyone thought of this before? It was brilliant: a toilet that could be raised or lowered to accommodate the person who used it. Of course, making the toilet raise and lower was a little harder than it sounded.

The first problem was that the toilet was actually bolted to the floor. This made it very difficult to raise and lower it. My solution: Have the entire floor raise and lower with the toilet. Fortunately, somebody explained how stupid that idea was before I started to tear up the floor. Instead, I went with Plan F (plans B through E were too embarrassing to mention. In fact, after mentioning them just now, I am embarrassed.).

So what was Plan F? I’m glad that I pretended you asked. It was quite simple, really. The toilet would be built on a platform and that platform would then be raised and lowered using a pneumatic lift, similar to those used in automotive-repair shops, mainly because I bought the lift from an automotive-repair shop that was going out of business.

Although I don’t consider myself a handyman, it didn’t take long for me to figure out how to pick up the Yellow Pages and find someone to build my invention for me. In a matter of no time (Actually, it took a lot of time. That’s just a figure of speech), the project was complete and the toilet was ready to test out. Unfortunately, it was bad timing, since I had no desire to pee. One-and-a-half hours and 32-ounces later, I was ready to give it a go.

Upon sitting down, I quickly realized a flaw in my design: Since the entire platform lifted up with the toilet, the user’s legs would not extend as the lift was engaged. What a fucking waste of time. In anger, I slammed my hand across the lever that activated the lift, which somehow caused a short in the wiring. Before I could react, the toilet platform was hopping up and down like a lowrider show car, slamming me into the ceiling over and over. What’s worse, I couldn’t reach the lever to stop it. The toilet probably would have continued to abuse me, if it wasn’t for my upstairs neighbor who sensed something might be wrong after my head came crashing through the tiles of her bathroom floor.

By the time the fire department broke the door down and recovered from laughing, the damage was done. Fortunately, my spine was miraculously OK. Every other bone below my neck, however, was not so lucky. And so I sit here in a full body cast, dictating my story while I listen to the contractors working away at removing that fucking evil contraption in my bathroom. Of course, being incapacitated, I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I realized that I was going about this whole toilet thing the wrong way. Rather than lift the toilet up with a pneumatic device, there was a much simpler solution: suspension cables. Yeah, with a good pulley system and some heavy gauge cables, I can be certain my legs will never fall asleep again—after all the bones heal, I mean.

Late Saturday night, I came to a sudden realization: I need to be an actor. Not just any actor. I need to be the most amazing actor who ever lived.

I’m serious about this. I’ll have to go to one of those top-notch acting schools and learn how to method act. When my teacher tells me to be a chair, I will become a chair. People will walk by and admire my exquisite craftsmanship. And when someone tries to sit on me, I won’t collapse from his weight. I’ll remain sturdy, yet surprisingly comfortable. And why? Because all that time, the only thing I will be thinking is I’m a chair. I’m a chair. I’m a goddamn chair.

After a while, when someone told me to be a chair, I wouldn’t just crouch down and look like some moron with his arms sticking out, I’d become a fucking chair. Not just any chair, a really nice chair. Maybe something from the Herman Miller collection. Oh, I know, an Eames lounge chair. Yeah, if I’m gonna become a chair, I might as well become the king of all chairs: the Eames lounge chair. Charles and Ray really knew what they were doing when they came up with that one: stylish, versatile and oh so comfortable. Of course, the ottoman would be a pain in the ass to pull off. But I think I could do it.

Once I really had it down — I mean, really had it down — you know what I’d do? I’d walk into one of those modern-furniture shops on La Brea avenue and just turn myself into an Eames lounge chair. Eventually, one of the sales people would notice me and go ask the manager why they had an extra Eames lounge chair in the showroom. She’d say she didn’t know anything about it and the sales person would say that she didn’t order it and then they’d call their supplier and ask if he accidentally sent it. But the supplier would say that it wasn’t on his books. Eventually, someone would get fired over it and it would all be because of me.

Weeks would go by. Thousands of asses would sit on me every day, each one testing my acting ability and my endurance. Until finally, one woman would just walk up and say that I would be the perfect addition to her sunken living room. She wouldn’t even sit on me. She would pay top dollar for me and then some underpaid workers would pick me up and wrap me in padding for shipment.

And even when I was in that padding, I would not break character. I would remain a chair. A really cool chair. They would load me on a big padded truck and drive me to the top of the Hollywood Hills. There, I would find my new home, on the top floor of a five-story house, positioned comfortably on a white, shag carpet. Oddly enough, no one would ever sit on me. I’d just be there as a showpiece, to look at and admire.

But this would not be the home of just any rich woman. It would be the home of a big-time Hollywood producer. And one day, while they were all sitting on their white leather couch, admiring my beauty, I would slowly break character and become myself again. Of course, this would scare the bejeezus out of them. But eventually, they would start to calm down.

After everyone changed out of their soiled underwear, they’d come upstairs and have a chat with me. “That was amazing,” they’d say. “I had no idea you were just a man. I was convinced for these past four months that you were a finely crafted Eames lounge chair.”

Of course, this would lead to many starring roles in blockbuster films. And after a while, Lorne Michaels would call me up and ask me to host Saturday Night Live. And I’d be like, “Saturday Night Live? Are you fucking kidding me?” And he’d be like, “No, I’m not fucking kidding you. Do you want the gig or not?”

So, yeah, I’d take the gig, and I’d have a blast rehearsing with the cast. Mia Rudolph would continue to hit on me (despite the fact that I didn’t know how to spell her name), but I’d turn down her advances. I mean, she’s pregnant, for godsakes. And then the moment I was waiting for all my life would come: the photo shoot.

They’d hire some amazing photographer to take these incredible pictures of me, super stylized with a little humor thrown in. They’d use them for the commercial breaks. But of course, they’d give them to me after they were done. Seriously, you can’t get photos like that from just any photographer. You need a real pro. And if that means I have to study acting for years and take the form of an Eames lounge chair for over four months, damn it, all I have to say is, “What color upholstery would you like?”

OK, OK, before you start tearing into me, hear me out. It’s not like I just decided one day that every woman on the face of the planet is a complete moron. I assure you, this is based on years and years of field research. Let me elaborate:

First there was Candice.

Candice, honey, how can you be so stupid? Remember what a great time we had at the club that night? You were in that hot little mini skirt and I walked up to you and fed you the most awesome pick-up line ever:

“I’d really love to get into your panties, but I’m afraid they’d be too small.”

Man, that was a good one. The moment you heard it, you melted. I mean, sure, you had this look of disgust on your face, but I could sense that inside, your heart was all a flutter. Anyhow, after I wiped your drink off of my face, I sat there and chatted with you for what seemed like hours. It was cute how you played hard-to-get, turning to talk to that other guy who was sitting next to you.

Yeah, we had this little game going: I’d tap you on the shoulder. You’d tell me to get lost. I’d tap you on the shoulder again. You’d tell me to fuck off. I’d tap you on the shoulder again and you’d get up and leave.

That went on for a while. Then, finally, after you found me waiting for you outside of the ladies’ restroom, you were so happy to see me, you were almost in tears. You said, “Please leave me alone,” but your eyes said, “don’t go.” So I didn’t. Unfortunately, it was getting late, so I thought I’d end the charade and ask for your phone number.

It was so cute how you yelled at me while you wrote down your digits: “You want my fucking phone number? Fine! Have a fucking field day!” Heh. That still makes me chuckle.

Anyhow, long story short, I tried calling you and I ended up talking to some guy at Dominos pizza. Do you work at Dominos pizza? They said they don’t know anyone named Candice. There’s a Connie there, but no Candice. In any case, I hung out at that Dominos all day, hoping to see you. No such luck. Maybe it was your day off. Or maybe you’re just a fucking idiot who doesn’t know her own phone number! I can’t believe I wasted that awesome pick-up line on you. But don’t worry. You’re not alone. It seems that every woman I meet has no clue who they are or where they live.

One idiot, April, couldn’t even remember her own e-mail address. I spent all this time writing a poem about how we met at Victoria’s Secret and how she thought it would be funny to call the mall security on me. Do you have any fucking idea how hard it is to find something that rhymes with “secret”? It’s damn near impossible, let me tell you. I ended up resorting to using a Pakistani word that I think refers to the texture of a camel’s hump.

But April will never know, because she gave me the wrong fucking e-mail address! Guess what, April, I did some research. There isn’t even a fuckoffanddie.com domain in existence. I mean, some guy is squatting on it, but it doesn’t point to anywhere. And while we’re at it, there’s no fuckoffanddie.net. No fuckoffanddie.org, either. Believe me, I tried them all. What the hell were you thinking? Who am I supposed to send this goddamn poem to now? Huh?

Anyhow, that’s just a couple examples of how stupid women are. Of course, I have an entire notebook filled with these sad cases. But I won’t bore you with them all. Oddly enough, they’re very much alike. At first, these women seem pretty intelligent. But for some reason, none of them have any idea who they are, where they live or how to reach them. Honestly, I’m surprised they’re even able to feed themselves. Really. Is it just me or what?