We always hear about these scary mafia hitmen who kill a bunch of people and make us all scared and shit. Well, I just wanted to bring it to your attention that they aren’t all that scary. Here is a list of some lesser-known mafia hitmen that I found on the Web:

Hal “Pretty Hands” Santilli: A former hand model, Santilli was known for beating up his victims with his feet. When Frankie Forearms grabbed one of Santilli’s hands and crushed it, Santilli screamed and promptly jumped out the window, falling 18 stories to his death.

Bob The Bleeder: A vicious looking man, Bob could snap a man’s neck with one hand. Unfortunately, he was also extremely hypoglycaemic and died shortly after cutting his finger on a fresh, new counterfeit $100 bill.

Mikey “Soft Head” Sloan: Feared by everyone, Mikey would wear a football helmet everywhere he went because of a crack in his skull that didn’t heal properly. Many tried to take him out by bashing him in the head, but none succeeded, until someone finally just shot him in the face.

Ned The Squealer: Ned was a really nice guy, but nobody trusted him because of his nickname. So they killed him.

Izzy The Incontinent: Izzy was famous for being able to kill a man with one punch to the chest. When someone was really hated, the mob boss would call Izzy to do the job. It was perhaps the worst way to die, because it could take hours after being punched. Of course, if Izzy punched someone twice, they would have died instantly. But then, that wouldn’t have been as cool. Anyhow, none of that mattered because Izzy suffered from a severe case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. When Izzy would arrive at the victims home, he’d often say, “Where’s the can?” And while Izzy was seated uncomfortably on the commode, the guy he was supposed to kill would pack his belongings and grab a taxi. Well, every guy did that except for Mikey Yolendi. He showed Izzy to the toilet, made sure there was enough paper and then shot him full of lead as soon as Izzy had his pants around his ankles.

Randal “Brittle Bones” Banaldi: Randal was one scary looking motherfucker. He had scars on pretty much every part of his body. Yes, even that part. Anyhow, Randal was the go-to guy for poisons and chemicals. If you wanted to burn a guy’s face off with acid, you came to Randal. If you needed something discreet to drop into a squealer’s cappuccino, you came to Randal. Then one day, Randal was walking around his apartment and accidentally stubbed his toe. This caused a chain reaction, breaking every bone in his body. Fortunately for Randal, after many months of intensive care, he was eventually back on his feet. Sadly, he died a few months later when he put his head down too fast and shattered his skull on a pillow.

Chad “Odd Looking, Probably Cancerous Growth On His Face” Gionelli: No one’s sure what happened to him. But he’s dead now.

Hey, what day is it? Sorry, I guess I”m kinda out of it. My head is aching. I suppose that’s what I get for throwing a party on a Thursday night. Why a Thursday night? Because Friday-night parties are for pussies.

So anyhow, like I was saying, I decided to have me a little get-together. Just me, some folks I met off the street and a bottle of Jack. Sure, I could’ve invited people I actually know. But it’s a lot more fun when you’re partying with strangers, am I right? Yeah, you know what I mean.

So anyhow, there we all were, sitting in my living room, passing ’round the ol’ bottle, trying to guess everyone’s names, when someone—I think his name was Mike—said, “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s play Truth or Dare.” And I was like, “Fuck that shit.” But then the girls said (did I mention the girls?) Truth or Dare sounded like fun. So, naturually, we ended up playing the stupid game.

Of course, we didn’t know each other’s names, so if we wanted to dare someone, we’d just point to that person and say, “You.” The game began when the girl with the curly hair—we’ll call her Curly—pointed to the chick wearing the polka dots (Dotty) and asked her, “Truth or Dare?” Dotty thought for a moment and then she said, “Dare!” So Curly looked around the room for a while and then she said, “I dare you to. . .eat a tomato!” And I was like, “What kind of fuckin’ dare is that?” And she said, “Tomatoes are gross.” And I was like, “No they aren’t. I eat tomatoes all the time.” Anyhow, the stupid bitch ate a tomato, and then it was her turn to pick someone.

So Dotty started to look around the room and she ended up picking that guy who I think is named Mike, and she said, “You! Truth or Dare?” And Mike, he thought for a while and then he finally said, “Dare.” So Dotty sat there thinking and finally she said, “I dare you to make out with . . . her!” And she pointed to one of the hottest cheerleaders in the room. (Did I mention all the girls were cheerleaders?) So I was like, “Hey, what the fuck? That’s no dare!” And Dotty said, “Sure it is. He’s gay.” And I was like, “Oh.” So Mike went up to the hot girl (Hotty) and he didn’t waste any time. He just put his lips against hers and started doing the tongue tango. But it wasn’t like they were only locking lips. He was all rubbing up against her and grabbing stuff. And all this time, I was thinking to myself, Man, I hope I get a dare like that.

So, yeah, that kind of shit went on for a few hours. Someone would pick someone, they’d take the dare and then they’d have to do something really easy, like say, drink a glass of water while reciting “I slit the sheet, the sheet I slit, and on the slitted sheet I sit.” Oddly enough, nobody was picking me. It was like I was watching a movie or something—a really fucked up movie.

But then, all of the sudden, after Mike had finished making out with another cheerleader, his eyes locked right on mine and he said, “You! Truth or Dare?” Fuck, so much for being a spectator. But then I thought, What did care if these people found out my deepest, darkest secrets? They didn’t know me. After the night was through, they’d leave and I’d probably never see them again. So I looked right at Mike and I smirked and I said, “Dare.” Shit. Why’d I say that?

And then, for what seemed like an hour (it was actually only 58 minutes), Mike’s eyes stayed locked on mine. Finally, he grinned and said, “What kind of stove you got?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I said,” he said, “What kind of stove you got?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s a General Electric.”

“No, you fuckin’ moron! I mean is it electric or gas?”

“Electric. Why?”

“I dare you to turn on the burner to the highest setting and then leave your hand on it for 30 seconds.”

“While it’s heating up?”

“No, after it’s heated all the way up. When it’s glowing.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not doing that!”

“You have to. That’s the game.”

“Can’t I just eat a tomato or choke on water?”

“No. You have to do what I say.”

“Fuck.”

So, not wanting to be a sore loser, I walked over and turned on the burner to my stove. As I waited for the coils to start glowing, everyone began crowding around me. The girls watched, giggling nervously. And all that time, all I could think about was how I was going to get myself out of this one. There I was, surrounded by strangers, waiting for the moment when i would scar my hand forever. Fortunately, before I even placed my hand over the burner, I came to my senses. I turned the burner off and walked away.

Mike grabbed my arm. “Hey, what the fuck?”

“I’m not doing that shit, man. It’s not fair.”

“Dude, those are the rules.”

“I know. But it’s not right.”

“Hey, did you see that chick complain when she had to eat a fuckin’ tomato?”

“No.”

“And what about me when I had to make out with all of these chicks?”

“No, but I wouldn’t either.”

“That’s because you’re not fuckin’ gay, man. I’m a total fag.”

“I don’t think gay people use that term like that.”

“How the fuck do you know? You’re not fuckin’ gay.”

“Look, I’m not going to burn my hand for a bunch of strangers.”

“Fine, I’ll give you another dare.”

So then Mike looked around the kitchen. He pulled open the drawers, he searched through the cupboards, and he finally pulled out a large skillet pan.

“What am I supposed to do with that,” I asked, “make you breakfast?”

“No. You have to take this and bash yourself in the face with it until you pass out.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Dude, that’s the dare.”

“You gotta be kidding me. This game sucks. I’m not doing that. Besides, it’s impossible. After I hit myself with the pan a few times, I’ll be too weak to give myself the final blow.”

“Yeah, you’re right. . . OK, I’ll do the bashing then.”

“No way. You’ll kill me.”

“Alright,” Mike said, “then . . . you’ll have to make out with me.”

So I handed Mike the pan and closed my eyes real tight. “OK, just hit me and get it over with. All I ask is that you give me some kind of warning before you—

CRACK!

That’s all I remember. That sound: CRACK! Only I didn’t hear it with my ears. It was inside my head. Something broke in there. Something important.

I woke up the next morning with the feeling of cold linoleum pressing against my cheek. And then I felt an incredible, pulsating pain in the back of my head. Normally, I’d want to reach back there to feel what was wrong. But I was too afraid my hand would come back with blood on it—or brain. I slid my way across the floor and carefully pulled myself to my feet. My head was in such a fog that it seemed like I was in someone else’s home. I mean, it sort of looked like my place, only my bookcase wasn’t there. Or my table. Or my couch. Or my TV. Yeah, Mike and the cheerleaders had robbed me blind and left me for dead. Needless to say, I learned my lesson. You won’t catch me inviting strangers into my home anymore. No, from now on, I’m asking for names.

I’m in the process of working on another one of my epic short stories, so here’s something else to keep you entertained in the meantime. If you’ve ever been awake late at night, you might be familiar with Cutlery Corner. This is a home-shopping show dedicated to everything that cuts: scissors, knives, swords, nail clippers, etc. What’s funny is the absurdity of some of the products they sell, especially the giant swords. You’d think I was kidding, but this really exists. Check out that handle shaped like a skull and crossbones. Somewhere in middle America, a man has one of these displayed proudly on his wall.

http://www.cutlerycorner.net/ I kid you not.

Welcome to my new/old blog. Of course, this is just a temporary design. The new one is going to blow you away. No, really. Just take my word for it. OK, I don’t really have any idea of what the new one is going to look like. But trust me on this one. In the meantime, you’ll just have to settle for what you see here.

That said, I’d like to thank a couple of people for making the transition possible. Thank you to the incredible Pip and the brilliant Justin for all their help. It is truly appreciated— especially since I didn’t have to pay for it. Heh. Well, I guess I have to actually start writing something entertaining now. Thanks for your patience.

On occasion, when I’m not sure what I should write about, I just sit down at the keyboard and start typing. Sometimes, the end result is pure magic. Most of the time, it’s unintelligible drivel. What follows, is the result of one of these writing exercises. Before you start reading, please allow me to apologize in advance. Sorry . . . OK, might as well get on with it.

Melody lived, worked and played in a small village called Los Angeles. Her occupation? Professional dancer.

Now don’t get the wrong impression. Melody wasn’t some kind of two-bit floozy who humped a pole for a living. On the contrary, she was a classically trained artist who specialized in the art of giving men chubbies. When she was up on that stage, she’d grind her pelvis into that pole. Slither her way up it, hang upside down from it, and then slowly slide back down to Earth, all without using her hands or arms. Yeah, she was a true natural.

Of course, by “natural,” I’m not referring to her breasts. They were far from natural. As cold and as round as basketballs, some might say, which was not an exaggeration. Using a very unsafe technique, Melody’s surgeon used actual basketballs in place of the usual, somewhat-safer silicone implants. They didn’t look as good as real fake breasts. But unlike those fancy boob bags, she could inflate or deflate them by simply slipping an everyday air hose over her nipple.

So in any case, that’s Melody, the classically trained stripper who had actual basketball breasts . . .

I’m not exactly sure where this story is supposed to go. I mean, there are a lot of places it could go, but then this wouldn’t remain a PG-13 blog. It would be PG-14. And that would suck. Because then all these kids who just turned 13 would be pissed off at me because they thought that once they turned 13, they’d be able to check out my blog without any parental supervision.

So next thing I’d know, the kids would unite in some kind of kid cult and they’d elect the creepiest looking kid to be their leader, and they’d plaster this huge picture of me on the wall. But then one of the kids would say something about how it’s not just Smivey, but all adults who are mean. And then the leader would declare that the earth must be cleansed of all adults. And then all the kids would look at their leader like he was fucking insane. And then he’d tell them that if they didn’t want to be part of the solution that they should leave now.

So then the kids would all start getting up and walking out, all while the creepy kid was shouting at them. And they’d all give him the finger, until that creepy kid was left alone with a giant picture of me plastered against his wall. And then he’d look at that picture and he’d vow revenge. And the next thing I’d know, I’d have some creepy kid waiting outside my building, with a bag of rocks and a six pack of Mountain Dew.

I’m sorry, but I just can’t let that happen. I mean, I can handle a good pummeling with a sack of rocks, but I just can’t bear to see a child — even a creepy one — drown himself in a six pack of Mountain Dew. For this reason, I must end this story, hoping that all of you will understand and not get too pissed off that you took the time to read it all the way through.

And just in case you do find yourself a little steamed after reading this story, and it makes you want to pelt me with rocks or other heavy objects, by all means, take your best shot. Just please, for godsakes, stay away from the fucking Mountain Dew. It’s just not worth it. Nothing is. I thank you.

Needless to say, the case of the Long-Distance Jumper didn’t go so well. About twenty minutes into my investigation that night, a real detective showed up and confiscated all of the cool things I had managed to put into little plastic bags. He then proceeded to lecture me on the consequences of destroying evidence and blah blah blah. Whatever. I decided to walk back to my office to have a scotch and soda.

After finishing my scotch, I cracked open a soda and took a swig. Bleh. It was root beer—not a good combination. I took a seat in my bitchin’ retro office chair and propped my feet up on the desk. The neon light from the strip joint across the street bathed the room in a soft pink hue. I kind of liked the effect, and for a moment, this made me wonder if I was gay.

That’s when she walked into the room. She was wearing a short, black raincoat and black heels that required a lot of balance to walk in.

“Mr. Keen?” she inquired.

“Who’s asking?” I grumbled.

“I’m Lorena Michaels. I require your services.”

“Have a seat, doll face.”

Lorena looked around the room. There were no seats to be found. Fuck. I blew that one. I quickly got up and offered her my seat. Lorena sashayed over and parked her caboose on my bitchin’ chair.

I started to pace around the room, because that’s what I figured I should be doing. “So what brings you here, Mrs. Michaels?”

“Ms.,” she replied, but she pronounced it as if it had nineteen Zs attached to the end of it.

“I see. So what brings you here, Mizzzzzzzzz Michaels?”

“I require your services.”

“Ah, that’s right. We’ve already established that. Well, let me explain my rates. I get $200 per hour. I play my own stuff. No Top 40 shit. If you want to hear Top 40, you need to find yourself another DJ.”

“DJ? I thought you were a private investigator.”

“Oh, well, that’s just a hobby.”

“I see,” She took out a cigarette and slid it into her perfect lips, letting it dangle just slightly from the corner of her mouth.

“I’m sorry. There’s no smoking in this building.”

“Uh huh.” She pulled out a silver lighter from her coat pocket and brought it to life with one sexy flick of her thumb.

“No, seriously, you can’t smoke in here.”

“Who’s gonna stop me?”

I looked at her and she looked at me and I knew I was powerless to stop her. Not because she had weakened me with her seductive stare. No, she just looked like she could kick my ass.

The flame licked at the tip of her cigarette until the end began to smolder. She took a long drag and blew the smoke up, creating an ironic halo effect over her head.

EEEE EEEE EEEE EEEE EEEE! The smoke alarm shrieked, echoing off the walls.

“CAN’T YOU TURN THAT THING OFF?” she screamed.

“NO. IT’S HARD WIRED TO THE BUILDING!”

“FUCK! WELL, I NEED YOU TO FIND SOMETHING FOR ME!”

“WHAT??”

“I SAID, I NEED YOU TO FIND SOMETHING FOR ME!”

“YEAH, I HEARD THAT. WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO FIND?”

“MY BLACK LEATHER HANDBAG!”

“YOUR BLACK WHAT-Y WHAT-WHAT?”

“MY BLACK LEATHER HANDBAG!”

“WHAT ABOUT SINBAD?”

“NO!!”

“I’M SORRY, I CAN’T HEAR YOU VERY WELL.” Actually, I could hear her just fine. I was only fucking with her head.

“NEVER MIND!” She stormed out of the room and slammed the door, leaving only me to listen to the wailing siren.

I reached into my drawer and pulled out my trusty sledgehammer (Not that the drawer was that deep. It had no bottom. See, I thought it would look funny if I opened this tiny drawer and pulled out a giant sledgehammer. Unfortunately, nobody was ever around when I wanted to do it. So, in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have cut the bottom of the drawer out, since I had no place to put my pens and paper clips) and then I proceeded to beat the living shit out of the smoke alarm, taking out a good chunk of the wall in the process.

By the time I was done, I could see into the office next door. Those fuckers had G5s! And flatscreen monitors! Bastards. I decided to torch the entire building and go out for a Cherry Slurpee. Of course, in the process, I destroyed all of the evidence I had gathered as well as that really cool retro office chair I found at the flea market. But it didn’t matter. After all, I’m a fucking DJ. The private investigator thing? It’s just a hobby.

Sorry about the delay, but I’ve been slammed with work lately. And when it comes to writing, the people who pay get first priority. Everything Sucks will not be shown this week. Next week? I’m not sure. I suggest you get yourself an RSS reader, if you haven’t already. Then you won’t have to keep coming back here only to get pissed off at me. Yeah. Uh huh.

I watched the latest episode of The Apprentice last night, after TiVo faithfully recorded it for me. Sure, I was around to see it live. But I cannot stand watching all the bullshit they use to extend the show to an hour — the stupid montages of the city, the moronic rewards the winners receive. No thanks. In fact, this is the first season I’ve even cared to check out at all. So why watch it now? The theme: College Grads against High School Grads. Hey, that sounded like fun.

But it really hasn’t been all that good. The High School Grads have proven themselves to be worthy adversaries. And the College Grads aren’t doing so bad either. Donald Trump, on the other hand, is not so great on camera. And the challenges they receive for each episode are inane.

What could they possibly do to make me want to watch this show again? I found the answer in the latest issue of Variety magazine. Apparently, they’ve already selected the cast for next season. The concept: Infants Against Monkeys. OK, Donald, I’m all yours.

Have you ever noticed how most stand-up comics aren’t really that funny? There’s a reason: their jokes have to be written to appeal to a diverse audience. Fuck that. I’ve decided that when I become a stand-up comedian, I’m going to write my routine for a much more select group, a market yet untapped: the filthy rich.

So, I walk out on stage and immediately get a laugh because the clothing I’m wearing is obviously from the Gap. I’m not even wearing designer underwear. Crazy. Then, while they’re still chuckling, I go into my routine:

Hey there. Hope you’re having a good evening. So last week I had to take the Lamborghini into the shop. Again. (pause for laugh) Yeah, I know. Those darn things are so unreliable, aren’t they? I’m thinking about hiring a guy to follow me around in one of my Porsches, just in case the Lambi breaks down. (pause for laugh) Yeah.

Hey, is it just me, or has caviar really been sucking lately? I don’t know where they’re getting this crap, but I think it’s coming out of a different hole, if you know what I mean. (pause for laugh) Yeah.

So, last night I got in this argument with my chef. The fucker refused to make me some waffles. I mean, sure it was 2 a.m., but what the fuck do I pay him for? I’ll tell you what I pay him for: to make me some goddamn waffles when I want them! (pause for applause) Yeah!

Hey, you know how you always drive in the carpool lane, even if you don’t have a passenger? I mean, if you get caught, it’ll only cost you what, $451? Fuck it. (pause for applause) (point to someone in front row). This guy knows what I mean.

But, really, it’s important to occasionally remember those less fortunate than us. Then we can go right back to forgetting about them. (point to same guy) Yeah, he knows what I mean. OK, that’s it for me. I gotta get home and wake up my chef. I’m really in the mood for some eggs benedict. Not really. I’m just in the mood to watch him prepare it for me. (pause for laughter) Thank you! Have a good night!

I don’t have a lot of time here, so I’m gonna make this quick. Almost a month ago, I was abducted by the Swiss mafia. Why they wanted me, I’m not quite sure. But for the past few weeks, I’ve been forced into slave labor at a well-known watch factory, sustaining myself on nothing but chocolate.

Aside from the strict diet, they’ve been pretty good to me here. Sure, I’ve received a couple beatings, but I can’t say they weren’t deserved.

The first pummeling I received was when I requested a plate of those delicious meatballs like they serve at Ikea. Apparently, those aren’t Swiss. They’re Swedish. How the fuck was I supposed to know?

But I received the biggest bruises last week. There I was, carefully jamming tiny springs into another overpriced watch, when I turned to my supervisor and casually asked why a neutral country advertises their army so much. I mean, you’ve got your Swiss Army watches, the nail files, the wallets. What the fuck? Anyhow, he apparently didn’t appreciate my query and proceeded to beat me within an inch (or 2.54 centimeters) of my life. Not too coincidentally, it was with a Swiss Army backpack stuffed with 20 pounds (or 9.0718474 kilograms) of chocolate.

Since then, I’ve learned to keep my questions and comments to myself, and they’ve been treating me a lot better. In fact, I had a slight cough a couple days ago, but they gave me a couple of those Riccola lozenges and I was better in no time.

Some of you may be wondering how I could be held captive and still manage to post a new blog entry every week. Well, let me tell you, it’s total bullshit. I wrote that stuff months ago. They found my archive of stories and post them regularly to make it look like I’m still living in California. Pretty clever.

In reality, I’m far away from home, nowhere near a computer. . . Well, I have managed to slip into the office to send this message to you while one of the guards is out using the can. Oh, don’t worry. He’ll be in there for hours. This all-chocolate diet they’ve got us on wreaks havoc on the colon. Apparently, you really can have too much of a good thing. Believe me, I know. Man, I know.

In any case, I better get back to work. If you could, please send help. I’m not expecting some kind of elaborate rescue or anything. I’d be happy if you could just mail me a care package with some Rye Vita crackers in it. Hell, anything with some fiber would be great.

What’s that? My address? Fuck. I guess I should have thought of that before I started writing this. I mean, the only reason I know I’m in Switzerland is because I can look out this window and see the majestic Matterhorn off in the distance: the tiny track running around it, carrying packs of screaming tourists down to its base where . . . Wait a minute. This isn’t Switzerland! MotherFUCKER! I’ve been punked!