Well, I held my annual yard sale for the second time this year, and let me tell you, it was not the success I imagined it would be. While people literally fought over my 15″ widescreen TV (actually just a regular TV with a “letterbox” frame glued to the face of it), a lot of other items remained unsold. Some of these items are one-of-kind objects that I created myself. Others are just rare finds that I no longer have room for. If you’re interested in any of the following, please leave a comment and an e-mail address where you can be contacted. Thanks.

1. Beautiful tampon caddy made with the finest popsicle sticks and felt. TAMPAX spelled out with rhinestones on the top. $95.99
2. Origami paperweight. $150
3. Portrait of Wink Martindale eating a bialy, created with dried pasta and the cremated remains of various roadkill. $2,000
4. Striped headband made from a pair of recycled Fruit of the Loom briefs. $80
5. Candle designed to look exactly like a chocolate candy bar. It looks like chocolate. It smells like chocolate. It even tastes like chocolate. But if you eat it, it will kill you. $75
6. Set of five one-of-a-kind macrame cereal bowls (broke the sixth one) $175
7. Pair of magnetic chopsticks $25
8. Exercise device for strengthening fingernails. Instructions not included. $400
9. Various drawings created by my 5-year-old niece. $20-1,000 each, depending on how difficult it is to tell what the object is actually supposed to be.
10. 2006 U.S. Nickel, featured on a famous blog. $15

That’s about it. Let me know if you’re interested in anything. Oh, and In case you’re wondering why the headband is so cheap, it’s been previously worn. But not as a headband.

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.

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.

I can’t believe how many ignorant people live in this county. Of course, I watch Fox News, so I know exactly what to think about the latest issues. But what does the average, less-informed person have to say? I set out to Santa Monica, California to find out.

Of course, Santa Monica is a pretty large city. There are people, like, everywhere. Seriously. Fortunately, there’s one place where everyone seems to congregate: The 3rd Street Promenade. This is a closed off street about four blocks long, where the latest stores share the sidewalk with decrepit bookshops and pushcart vendors. Street performers entertain the crowds with their creative begging. And propagandists sit behind portable tables, handing out pro-marijuana literature. There is nothing quite like it in the world. And even if there is, I don’t give a fuck.

In any case, I wasn’t visiting 3rd Street to purchase a new pair of shoes or even watch the latest movie. No, I was there to locate the average person and find out what he or she thinks about the current issues facing this country. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to find that person. In all honestly, she found me. As I was walking on the sidewalk getting ready to cross Wilshire Boulevard, a woman came running up and quickly introduced herself:

“I AM THE ANGEL AND THE DEVIL, THE BLACK AND THE WHITE!” she screamed. This was one of those eccentric-artist types. Her hair was grey and frizzy and she was wearing at least 15 different layers of clothing, accented with a rainbow colored ski vest.

“Hello,” I replied. “My name is Smivey. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“BLEAAHHHHHHHH!!!!” she shrieked, pushing me back, almost knocking me on my ass. She hobbled over to the other side of the street, but her scent lingered. It was a smell I was quite familiar with, possibly one of those foreign perfumes, the kind that reminds one of exotic flowers and goat manure. Needless to say, I was intrigued.

When I caught up with the woman, she was frantically digging through a trash can. This explained why she was so angry. She had obviously lost something important to her. I didn’t waste any time. I just jumped right into the questions:

“At last count, George W. Bush’s approval rating was at 36%. What do you feel the President needs to do in order to make the public understand what a great leader he is?”

“GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU MOTHER FUCKER!!” she croaked, throwing a half-eaten burger at me before hobbling away. Of course, I went after her. Apparently, she was one of those walk-and-talk types, never stopping for a moment, even ignoring the traffic lights.

“Ma’am,” I shouted at her, ” I only ask for a moment of your time. How do you feel about the government tapping our phone lines?”

No reply.

“The war in Iraq?”

Again, nothing.

“Dick Cheney’s hunting incident? Hurricane Katrina? Our overflowing landfills?”

Suddenly, she spun around and opened her mouth. I was expecting wasps to come flying out of there. Instead, there were only words:

“Actually,” she said, “the problems isn’t with our landfills. It’s with the people. They throw things in the trash without thinking about the consequences of their actions. I mean, it’s not like there isn’t a solution to all this extra trash. We just have to get into the habit of recycling. Used aluminum cans can be made into new aluminum cans. Plastic bottles can be melted down and made into a number of useful things . . .”

She went on with her speech for what seemed like hours. And as she spoke, I suddenly came to a realization: This woman was fucking insane. She was living in some kind of fantasy world where sticky soda cans could miraculously be turned into new soda cans. And what was all that nonsense about plastic bottles? It sounded like something from a bad Science Fiction novel, like the crap L. Ron Hubbard used to write.

Anyhow, I couldn’t deal with that kook any longer, so I just walked away. And you know what? The bitch started following me! And she wouldn’t shut up. When I began walking faster, she started walking faster. When I ducked into a store, so did she. After twenty minutes of this, I was at the end of my rope. Finally, I just grabbed her, pushed her over a nearby bench and made a mad dash for it. The last thing I heard her shouting was something about “greenhouse gasses.” No, I swear, that’s what she said. Greenhouse gasses. Ha. Where does she come up with this shit? No doubt, she’d been smoking too many of those marijuana cigarettes. People can be so stupid.

Yes, it’s true. I was one of those guys who advertised in the back of Vegetarian Times magazine. In my ads, I claimed to be able to solve all of your problems through a series of cassette tapes. Each tape sold for $25, but you could buy the entire series of 500 for only twelve easy payments of $1,500 (It’s a little known fact that vegetarians aren’t very good at math). Anyhow, the tapes were a big hit. But after buying my fifth home, I started feeling guilty about what I was doing. Not because I was robbing vegetarians of their hard-earned tofu money. Actually, that was kind of fun. No, the real reason I was feeling guilty was because my tapes weren’t everything they claimed to be. To give you an idea of the horrible things I did, here’s the transcript from my Be A Better Person tape:

Close your eyes, relax your body and imagine yourself in a large, white room. At the end of the room, is a soft, white couch. As I count down from ten to zero, I want you to slowly step towards the couch. With each step, you’ll feel lighter and more relaxed. And by the time I reach zero, your body will feel very heavy and very relaxed. Ready? Let’s begin.

10 . . . you are walking towards the couch. . . 9. . . closer, feeling more relaxed. . . 8. . . there’s something on the floor. . . 9. . . What is that, peanut butter? Why is there peanut butter on the floor? . . 10. . . I thought we were counting down. . . 11 . . . What are you doing? We should be on 5! . . 12. . . Come to think of it, why is there peanut butter on the floor and no jelly? . . .13. . . No jelly! No jelly! . . 14. . . I’d settle for some marshmallow fluff. . . 15 . . . You know, make one of those fluffernutter sandwiches. . . . 16 . . . I mean, I’ve never had one before, but I hear they’re good. . . 17 . . . Fuck, that couch is not getting any closer, is it? . . . 18 . . . Are you even trying to relax? . . 19 . . . Well, I can’t exactly relax for you. . . And 20. . .

You are now in a completely relaxed state, your mind is clear, your muscles are soft, and your arms and legs feel very, very heavy, as if they were bound with thick leather straps. . . No? Too creepy? OK, let’s just say that you’re very relaxed and leave it at that.

OK, so, to begin with, enough with the fucking smoking already. What are you, insane? Duh, gee, I wonder if there’s something I could do to improve my chances of getting lung cancer. You know what, fuck you. Smoke all you want. Besides, you really do look sexy with that cigarette in your mouth. Anyhow, what other problems do you have? Confidence? You want confidence? OK, here’s an idea, why don’t you grow a fucking pair? Confidence. Bleh. You disgust me.

It’s time to return to your regular state. Normally, I would count up to 20, but since I fucked that up, we’ll count backwards to 1. The closer I get to 1, you will feel more awake, more comfortable, and very sleepy. Ha, no, I was kidding about the sleepy part. You’ll just be awake. Not sleepy. So, scratch the sleepy. Actually, let me just speed this up, because I want to get back to watching my movie. When I snap my fingers, you’ll feel completely awake, incredibly refreshed, and have an overwhelming craving for capers. Seriously, you’ll just want to devour them by the spoonful. Mmmm capers. Ready? Here we go. Three, two, one, *SNAP*. Wide awake, feeling refreshed, ready to take on the day. Now, why don’t you go get yourself a snack, hm?

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.

As many of you already know, I became independently wealthy in my early twenties when I developed a line of skin-care products for dogs called Pampered Poochâ„¢. But that’s old news. I have more interesting things to write about . . .

Hm. I know there’s something.

Give me a minute.

Maybe I should’ve thought about this before I started typing.

Oh, my friend just suggested that I tell you about my “unusual” eating habits. He must think it’s funny that I butter my bread on both sides before I ingest it. Either that or he’s talking about Mumford, the guy who chews my food for me.

Oh, don’t give me that look.

It’s not like I employ someone to masticate my meals because I’m lazy. I have a very serious stomach condition which requires every morsel of my food to be properly chewed.

Why not use a blender, you ask? You are obviously not holding a medical degree. That act of chewing does more than just make sure your food can fit down your throat. Your saliva has important enzymes in it that aid the digestion process.

No, really. Look it up. Even if I ran all my food through one of those overpriced Vita-Mix blenders, I’d still have to swish it around in my mouth for a while to break it down properly.

So, yes, I employ a full-time masticator. But it’s a win-win situation. Mumford gets to enjoy all the flavors of a gourmet meal without gaining an ounce. And me? Well, I get the nourishment my body requires, minus all that bothersome chewing.

There. Was that really so interesting? Yeah, I didn’t think so. I promise my next entry will provide a much more intriguing read. And with any luck, it will be slightly less nauseating.