Welcome to another episode of . . . Ultra-Suspense . . . Theater!

Today’s story starts innocently enough with a small girl running through a forest. She’s wearing a backpack and seems to be afraid of something. But what? Why does she keep looking back? What is she running from? Is someone chasing her? Or is it something?

“Mommy!” the child screams. She must be lost. Poor little girl, all alone, running from who knows what. Then again, maybe she’s running towards something. Did you ever think of that? Maybe there’s a cotton-candy stand just a half mile ahead and she’s dying for some sugar. Why do you always have to assume that it’s something bad? Maybe she’s racing towards the cotton-candy stand and she’s yelling back at her mother to get a move on. After all, Mom’s the one with the cash: no Mommy, no cotton candy.

On the other hand, what the fuck would a cotton-candy stand be doing out in the middle of nowhere? That’s absurd. Why did you even let me go on with such an inane theory? Do you take pleasure in watching people fail? Is that your thing? Just how long were you going to let me continue with that stupid idea? Three paragraphs? Four? Five? You make me sick.

Anyhow, it turns out, the child is actually running away from something: a herd (or pack or whatever it is) of wild boars. Why? That backpack she’s wearing is filled with about a pound and a half of truffles. Yeah, those boars sure do love them truffles.

And where is Mom during all this excitement? Hanging out in the air conditioned Range Rover, of course. You think she’s going to scuff up her new hiking boots to dig up some disgusting fungi out of the ground? Besides, kids love that kind of shit. Just give them a plastic pail and a shovel and they’re good to go.

Mom glances at her diamond-encrusted watch: It’s almost 2:30. Where the fuck is that stupid kid? If she doesn’t get a move on, they’re going to be late. There are people waiting for those damn truffles! Mom decides the best thing to do is just drive off and teach her daughter a lesson. She starts the car and revs the engine. But just as she’s about to leave, something catches her eye: a cotton-candy stand out in the middle of nowhere! And they have both the pink and blue kind!

Mom turns the car off and makes a beeline for the cotton-candy stand. The man making the cotton candy can’t believe his luck. Two customers! That’s more than he gets all week. Heck, all month! His entire family thought he was insane for opening a cotton-candy stand out in the middle of nowhere. But he ignored their warnings and spent his entire life savings on a power generator and all the other cotton-candy making supplies. And now look who’s laughing now! Well, his family is still laughing, of course. I mean, it’s just one woman and her daughter. How much cotton candy could they possibly eat? Yes, he was basically fucked. Which brings us to the moral of our story: Never open a cotton-candy stand out in the middle of nowhere. You’re much better off selling something like churros.

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No doubt, you’ve heard of a play called The Vagina Monologues, where women of various ages express how they feel about their womanhood. But you’re probably not familiar with its male-casted equivalent, an off-broadway production that never quite caught on: The Penis Monologues:

The curtain rises. Four men sit on metal folding chairs on a dimly lit stage. The oldest is MAURICE, an African American, 65. He wears a three-piece suit and a beret. The youngest is WILLIAM, a muscular caucasian, 29. He wears a white T-shirt, one size too small for him, and baggy sweat pants. There is also TOMMY, 35, an hispanic man. He’s wearing a dirty jumpsuit with the word “Janitor” stenciled on it. And, finally, there is RICHARD, a timid looking man whose race is hard to pinpoint, but he’s probably white. He wears some pleated slacks, a short-sleeved dress shirt, a tie and unattractive eyeglass frames that really don’t compliment the shape of his face.

William stands.

WILLAM: My penis is like a mighty fist, rising in the crowd.

MAURICE: Bullllll SHIT!

WILLAM: Huh?

MAURICE: Your penis ain’t like no goddamn fist rising in the crowd. Man, your penis probably no bigger than my thumb!

WILLIAM: Yeah? Well, I guess you’ve probably seen a lot of penises.

MAURICE: What’s that supposed to mean? You calling me some kind of homo?

WILLIAM: Hey, if the penis fits.

MAURICE: I’ll shove my fucking mighty fist up your ass, you honky motherfucker!

Maurice moves to attack William, but Tommy steps in, separating them.

TOMMY: Hey, hey! Dudes! Dudes! Be cool! Be cool!

Finally, Maurice and William sit down, leaving Tommy standing.

TOMMY: My penis is like a slippery snake, wrapped around a tree.

All the guys laugh.

TOMMY: What!

MAURICE: Man, sit your snake-wrapped-tree ass down.

Tommy sits down, reluctanty. Richard stands up.

RICHARD: Uh, I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Some guy told me this was supposed to be an open discussion. I’m here to talk about molecular biology.

TOMMY: You mean like what’s in your pants?

The other guys laugh. William high-fives Tommy.

RICHARD: What’s that supposed to mean?

TOMMY: What do you think it means?

RICHARD: It sounded like a quip about my manhood. I don’t take kindly to disparaging comments about my penis.

MAURICE: Quip? Disparaging? Man, where the fuck you learn to talk?

RICHARD: From the dictionary.

TOMMY: (mocking) From the dictionary.

TOMMY and WILLAM chuckle.

RICHARD: Oh, real mature.

MAURICE: Hey, if you ain’t gonna talk about your dick, sit your quippy ass down . . . Wait a minute. What the fuck is “quippy ass” supposed to mean? Who wrote this shit?

TOMMY: Yeah, and while we’re at it, how come the Mexican guy is wearing the janitor costume? I’m gonna kick that motherfucker’s ass. Turn on the fucking house lights.

The house lights go up. Maurice pulls off his beret.

MAURICE: Yeah, and fuck this Samuel L. Jackson bullshit. Why does the black guy have to wear the beret? I never wear a fucking beret. And I never say “ain’t” either. Show yourself, motherfucker. Stand up!

Nobody stands. William gets up.

WILLIAM: Hey, at least you have something nice to wear. Look at what they’ve got me wearing. I can hardly breathe in this fucking T-shirt. I think it’s cutting off my circulation. Am I supposed to be the gay one or what?

TOMMY: (points to Richard) I think he’s the gay one.

RICHARD: Hey, I don’t appreciate that. I am not gay.

TOMMY: Yeah, sure you’re not.

RICHARD: And if I was, what would be wrong with that? Why are you such a homophobe?

TOMMY: Because I ain’t gay.

Richard lunges for Tommy. Maurice moves in to hold them apart.

RICHARD: I’ll fucking kill you!

TOMMY: Yeah, c’mon and try it!

MAURICE: Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please! Let’s try to get along.

Eventually, they calm down. Maurice lets go of them and they just look at each other in silence for two minutes. Finally, William stands up.

WILLIAM: My penis is like a majestic oak –

MAURICE, TOMMY, RICHARD: Shut up!

The curtain drops. The audience sits there stunned, then starts booing and begins throwing their shoes at the stage. Then, realizing the stupidity of discarding their shoes, they rush the stage to collect them back.

Yesterday, I turned on my TV and discovered that Tivo had recorded The Tonight Show with Jay Leno for me. This was a bit unusual, since I’m more of a Letterman fan. But Tivo doesn’t record things on a whim. There must’ve been a reason. And there was: I clicked through to find that Jay’s guest that night had been the lovely and talented Nicole Kidman. Thank you, Tivo.

Of course, I could’ve fast forwarded past the opening monologue and gone straight to the ravishing Nicole. But I didn’t. I decided it was time to give ol’ Jay a chance. I simply pressed the Play button and prepared to be entertained.

Within minutes I discovered something amazing about Jay. He has a certain quality about him. A certain pathetic quality. What’s pathetic? Take your pick. It could be how overly excited the audience is when Jay comes out. They stand near the stage, reaching out to him, desperate to have their hand slapped by the God of Late Night. Or maybe it’s the jerky way the camera zooms in and out like a bad home movie. But, personally, I think it’s the monologue.

The monologue? But isn’t Jay a stand-up comedian? Well, that depends on your definition of stand-up comedian. Is he standing up? Yes. Is he a comedian? Well, that would imply humor and joy. And all I felt while watching this pathetic monologue was pity.

Despite how worked up the audience was when the show started, they couldn’t even feign laughter after Jay delivered his watered-down brand of comedy. What’s worse, Jay doesn’t know how to handle it when he’s bombing. Letterman or Conan can just give you that look and you start laughing. Leno? There’s no look. What’s worse, Leno’s monologue is twice as long.

My thumb inched its way towards the fast-forward button.

But wait. What’s this? A “surprise” walk-on appearance by a celebrity, right in the middle of the monologue! And its . . . who the fuck is that? Yes, it’s one of those “celebrities” that needs to be announced so you know who it is: “Why it’s . . .” Yeah, I don’t even remember who it was. Some old musician, I think. Pathetic. You see, Jay has this black-and-white Harley on the stage and he’s having all these “celebrities” sign it for him, so he can auction it off for the tsunami survivors. Well, isn’t that big of him? Uh, no. Sounds like a blatant act of self-promotion to me. Fucker. Speaking of which, Nicole Kidman was going to be on. I just had to be patient and wait.

After the commercials I was expecting to see Jay sitting at his desk, preparing to introduce the lovely Nicole. But, no. It was time for some sketch comedy: Celebrity Jeopardy. I have to admit, I really enjoyed this idea — four years ago when Saturday Night Live did it. This version was, well, uncomfortably bad. How bad? See for yourself. It’s actually featured in the highlights section of their Web site. But in case you don’t feel like downloading the clip, let me give you the gist of it: Bad impressionist in creepy makeup plays George W. Bush. Overweight actor plays Clay Aiken. And the obnoxious Gilbert Gottfried plays Sponge Bob Square Pants. Needless to say, this was excruciatingly unfunny.

Finally, after that weasel Dennis MIller does a “surprise” walk-on to promote his show on CNBC and sign the motorcycle, Jay introduces Nicole Kidman. She was as lovely as ever. But guess what. She was also fucking boring.

Jay, do us all a favor. Don’t wait until 2009 to retire. Do it now. Please.

<insert applause>

Every year we do it: We come up with these promises to make our life better, and so often we fail. Why? I don’t think it has anything to with our resolve. I just think we’re not being very realistic with our goals. So if you’d like to be more successful with your resolutions, consider one of these:

I RESOLVE TO SPEND MORE MONEY THAN I MAKE: Everyone attempts to budget or get a better job. Fuck that. It’s too hard. Just bite the bullet and rack up that debt. You’re never going to pay off that credit card anyway and you know it.

I RESOLVE TO EAT CHOCOLATE EVERY DAY: Now here’s one that shouldn’t be too difficult to keep up. Of course, if you happen to be diabetic, or allergic to chocolate (perish the thought), this could be a problem. Otherwise, dig in.

I RESOLVE TO START A BAD HABIT: Hey, instead of trying to break that habit of biting your toenails, come up something new. Picking your nose at the table is an easy one. Or what about making that clicking sound with your tongue? Be creative!

I RESOLVE TO GAIN TWENTY POUNDS: See “I RESOLVE TO EAT CHOCOLATE EVERY DAY”

I RESOLVE TO STAY AT HOME AND WATCH MOVIES ALL DAY: This one’s my favorite. But since I’ve already mastered it, I’ll have to come up with a new one this year. So if you happen to be in my neighborhood and hear a guy clicking his tongue against his teeth, be sure to wish me a happy new year. And I’ll do the same for you.

(NOTE TO SELF: I RESOLVE TO WRITE BLOG ENTRIES BETTER THAN THIS DREK)

They left the sheathed carcasses out on the sidewalk, limbs pressing against the clouded plastic, suggesting that death had not completely set in. Nobody seemed to mind. They walked around the bags as if nothing was amiss. How they got there, nobody knew for sure. But this was not an isolated incident. One nearly had to glance down the street to find other former loved ones baking in the sun. And they remained there for weeks. Like everyone, I cringed with disgust as I observed the various stages of decomposition. And each time I passed by these bags of death, the same thought came to mind: “Doesn’t anyone know how to recycle their damn Christmas trees?” Happy New Year, you lazy, selfish pukes.

Sorry, Smivey is not available at the moment. Actually, he’s available physically, but not emotionally. But that’s another story. To be honest, he’s just way too damn busy to bother with his blog right now. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s in the process of moving. And since the organization he’s donating to is arriving in less than two days, he’s now in panic mode. Okay, he’s always in panic mode. This is more like super turbo-charged panic mode. Full throttle. The movers are coming on Saturday to take his stuff away, whether he’s ready for them or not. He is so fucked. Leave a message. [BEEEEEEEEEEP]

As you know, there are a lot of benefits that come with home ownership. And I just discovered a new one today: upscale junk mail.

See, instead of your usual you-may-have-won bullshit, you get these plain white envelopes with scary words on them that say stuff like “Important Mortgage Information Enclosed” and “Financial Information Inside” from places like the “Mortgage Fulfillment Department.” What’s worse, the paper inside is pink. And we all know that when it comes to business-oriented mail, pink ain’t good. It’s bad. Very bad.

Which means, I have no choice but to open it. So I do. Every time. I mean, what if it was really something important? How would I know?

Mortgage insurance? Shit, do I need that? I don’t know. Maybe I should look into it. After all, they promise to pay off my mortgage in the event of my death. Plus, if none of the benefits are used by the end of the mortgage term, I get all my premiums back, tax-free guaranteed.

Of course, additional premiums may apply. But isn’t it worth it to not burden my family with my horrific mortgage payments? These people are so nice to do this for me. I don’t know how they even make money. I better fax this form over tonight.

There. I just signed my name on the dotted line. Now, I’ll just feed the paper into the fax machine, and. . . Oh shit! I did it again. I mixed up the fax machine with the paper shredder. Why do I keep doing that? Damn! Damn! Damn! I am such a dolt. I don’t deserve to own a home.

You know what I love are those really good reality shows. I’m not talking Survivor or Joe Millionaire. I mean the really good ones. Like Queer Eye For The Straight Guy, where they drive up and surprise someone at their home. I’m always amazed how the person in the house never notices all the commotion going on outside their front door. All the lights. The craft services. The big trailers. The makeup person. The director. You’d think maybe one of the neighbors would call to make sure everything is okay, or to find out what the fuck is going on. Apparently not.

But what’s truly amazing isn’t how surprised the people are to find this crew outside their door. It’s how they just so happen to have a crew of their own inside their house to shoot them answering the door for the “very first time.” I mean, what are the chances? Does everyone have a crew in their house waiting for such a moment? Talk about lucky. I guess it pays to have your own televison crew, just in case such a moment arises. But what about all those times when it doesn’t?

That seems like a lot of mouths to feed. I guess you could just serve them pasta. But they’d probably want a green salad with it and some crusty bread. Come to think of it, a lot of those Hollywood types are into that low-carb bullshit. So the pasta would have to be made from rice or something like that, which isn’t cheap. And where would they all sleep? I guess they could camp in the backyard. Maybe take over the den. It just seems like it would be a pain in the ass to have your own crew around just in case someone tries to surprise you at the door. Then again, they do serve a double duty: Someone has to film you driving off in the SUV with those crazy homosexuals.

As many of you know, our beloved domestic goddess, Martha Stewart, has fallen upon hard times. She’s been found guilty of the ulitmate white-collar crime: insider trading. Bad girl. But rather than just have her hand slapped like every other celebrity in this great country of ours, Ms. Stewart will be spending some time in the big house, and I’m not referring to her estate.

Yes, for approximately five months, Martha will have to find someone else to tend to her garden and select the material for her K-mart sheets. But what you might not know is, she still plans on broadcasting her television program from within the confines of her cell.

Titled “Martha Stewart: Living (Behind Bars),” this new show will offer decorator tips and culinary creations for people who’ve had run-ins with the law and lost. While the actual content of the show is a highly guarded secret, I did manage to get my hands on some episode ideas Ms. Stewart may use:

Episode 1: Martha shows us how to make a lovely stained-glass shiv using dyes made from berries, grass and the blood of her enemies.

Episode 17: Decorating your space. Being locked up doesn’t mean you have to suffer. Projects include a beautifully knitted toilet-seat cozy, to keep your steel commode warm between visits; and leftover potpourri, created using mostly table scraps.

Episode 24: Proper Prison Etiquette. Viewers will discover the best method for picking up the soap in the shower and the most polite way to make someone your bitch.

Those are the only episodes I could get my hands on. In any case, it’s good to know that Martha will continue doing that voodoo that she does so well.