It’s time, once again, to make your New Year’s resolutions. This year, I chose something, I feel, I really need to work on, a problem I’ve had for many years, and that problem is, too many commas.

That’s right, I’m a comma hog. People always tell me, “use them sparingly.” Well, that’s easy for them to say. I like my commas. I’ve grown attached to their sexy little tails, like tiny spermatozoa fertilizing an otherwise barren sentence. Periods seem so permanent. And semicolons are just, well, fucking confusing. Is it a colon, or a comma? Make up your fucking mind!

For this entire paragraph I vow not to use one single comma. So far so good. My fingers are starting to shake a bit. Must. Resist. Urges. Try to think of something else. Shit. I can’t think of anything else. Damn it. Arms shaking now. Body shaking. Head shaking. Oh no. No! Noooooo! ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
Crap. This is gonna be harder than I thought.

Hope you have more success with your own resolutions in 2004. Have a happy, new, year.

Smivey 2003

Walking into someone’s backyard, sitting down next to the chain-link fence. Petunia, a four-year-old Doberman Pincher, slowly approaches from the other side. She’s grinning from ear to ear.

SMIVEY: I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just gonna put it out there… I…Okay, I like fruity soap. There, I said it.

PETUNIA: grrrrrrrrrrrr GRRRRRRRR

SMIVEY: Hey, don’t be passing judgment on me. A guy can maintain his masculinity and still enjoy a nice cucumber/melon shower gel.

PETUNIA: ROFE! ROFE GRRRRRRR ROFE ROFE [RUFF!] ROFE! ROFE!

SMIVEY: Oh, I see. Just because I’m a man, I’m supposed to torture myself with regular soap? Fuck that.

PETUNIA: GRRRRR ROFE GRRRR ROFE-ROFE ROFE!

SMIVEY: Yeah, what do you know? You lick your own balls, for godsakes!

PETUNIA: ROFE! ROFE-ROFE! ROFE!

SMIVEY: Yeah? No wonder you’re such a bitch. Bite me.

Petunia does her best to fulfill my wishes. She forces her snout through the chain-link fence and gets within centimeters of digging one of her fangs into my hand. I stand up and stare her down. She jumps at the fence, trying to scale it, barking away.

PETUNIA: ROFE! ROFE! ROFE-ROFE ROFE! ROFE-ROFE! ROFE-ROFE-ROFE-ROFE! ROFE-ROFE-ROFE-ROFE-ROFE-ROFE!

SMIVEY: I AMMMM A HETEROSEXUAL MALE, AND I SMELLLL LIKE CUCUMBER AND MELONNNNNNNN!

This is around when the police arrived. They drew their guns and told me to keep my hands in the air. In hindsight, 3:30 am was probably not the best time for this particular confessional.

I’ve been a nerd all my life. I even performed in the high school marching band. My instrument of choice: the trumpet. It was such a beautiful horn, silver with pearl inlays. And from what I understand, it also sounded amazing—when somebody else played it.

Me, I tended to just go through the motions. I’d move my fingers to the melody and expand my cheeks like I was actually playing. But I hardly ever blew. Mostly because I sucked. They say “practice makes perfect.” Well, not practicing apparently has the exact opposite effect. Still, I stuck with it. Not because I was planning on getting any better, but because it got me out of taking Physical Education.

Anyhow, one evening, during my senior year, we were quickly making our way towards the football field to play our half-time show. As we marched up the cement pathway and across the blacktop, I heard some freshmen behind me chattering away. I let out a “Shhhhhh!” to quiet them down. But they continued their talking, so I did what any senior band geek would do: I turned around and told them to shut up.

You should’ve seen their stupid little freshman faces, all full of fear. I turned back around with a big smirk on my face, just in time to see the pole. A large pole, permanently embedded into the blacktop, a fucking volleyball-net pole. I walked straight into it. Fortunately, I was holding my horn in front of me, so it absorbed most of the impact. But the DING the collision made caused everyone in the band to turn around to investigate. Yeah, I was drowning in a pool of laughter all the way to the football field.

As you might’ve guessed, for the remainder of my senior year, I was known as the guy who walked into the pole. Every time we’d make our way across that blacktop, someone would blurt out, “Hey, Smivey, pole!” And then they’d laugh and laugh and laugh. Ha. Those crazy high school kids. I sure as hell don’t miss them.

Today, I’ d like to address you, the humble lurker. Judging from my blog stats, there are a lot of you out there (over 50 per day). So I just want to let you know that I really appreciate you dropping by.

No, I’m not gonna tear into you for hiding in the shadows and not contributing. The truth is, I’m a lurker myself. When I have some free time, I’ll check out my favorite blogs and see what’s going on in everyone’s life. But does that mean that every time I visit, I leave a note? Hell, no. I only leave a comment if I have something funny to contribute or similar story to share.

Sure, I enjoy receiving messages now and then, providing they aren’t in ALL CAPS and laced with derogatory terms. But how can I expect you to leave a comment when i won’t even leave one myself?

So feel free to browse through the archives. And just ignore that stupid link below. No doubt, you have your own reasons for remaining silent. Perhaps it has nothing to do with not knowing what to write, but more to do with that old adage my father used to tell me: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.”

Ah, the holidays. So many fond memories, it’s hard to write about just one.

Should I pick the time I went to three different stores on Christmas eve to find the special edition DVD of A Christmas Story? It was supposed to be a surprise gift for my sister’s family. But it turns out, my niece would rather watch her Pirates of the Caribbean DVD for the 8th time in a row. In fact, she actually threw a little tantrum when her father suggested she watch A Christmas Story. Needless to say, when I left this evening, A Christmas Story was still in its original shrink wrap with the bow on it. Surprise.

Or should I choose my step mother’s interesting sense of fashion? I remember driving home from work one day and seeing a man standing on the median, selling roses and wearing this light-up Santa hat. He looked so ridiculous. And, of course, when my step mother arrived at my sister’s home, one of those light-up Santa hats was adorning her head. What I didn’t realize before (but was reminded of every fifteen minutes) was that the hat also played an annoying cellphone-style rendition of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town. Fun.

Or maybe I should write about the interesting topics of conversation we had over dessert? Leave it to my bro in-law to say the most inappropriate things. He went from explaining to his elderly mother what a lap dance was to joking about cheating on my sister to discussing the Kobe Bryant case and being sure to emphasize words like “semen.” Nice.

No, I think I’ll just mention one thing: My father and step mother both have Jewish backgrounds. I’m not really religious, but I’m more a Jew than anything. The family from across the street was also joining us. All four of them are Jewish to the core. So, we all sit down to eat. But my bro in-law decides we need to say grace before we start chowing down. Okay, fine. I can respect another family’s traditions. But during his little prayer he has to include the phrase “Thank you, Jesus Christ, our Lord and saviour.” Yeah, nice going. Real sensitive. Might as well have included the phrase, “and please forgive our guests for killing you.”

Can’t wait to see what happens at the New Years party.

It was Christmas afternoon and Smivey was at his sister’s home passing out presents. He handed a large package to his 8-year-old niece and she quickly tore into it, revealing to her delight, the doll she always wanted. She gave Uncle Smivey a big hug and they posed for a picture together.

Then it was Smivey’s turn to open his gift. When he unwrapped it, all he could see was a big white box. But inside were some CDs he wanted and a couple of books. He was delighted. How could they know? Maybe it had something to do with his Amazon Wish List. Hmm.

Smivey had a few more presents to hand out. He gave his niece a long, flat, rectangular package. She opened it to discover the Snow White Special Edition DVD! Wow! She smiled and said, “But we don’t have a DVD player.”

Smivey looked a little concerned. “Sure you do. It’s in the playroom.”

“That’s a VCR,” Smivey’s brother in-law explained.

Smivey thought for a moment. “But what about in the family room?”

“That’s also a VCR.”

Smivey looked crushed. “Well, there’s no reason for you to open the other gifts.”

Indeed, the gift for his sister and his brother in-law were shaped exactly the same way. Smivey’s brother in-law unwrapped his gift to find the Gladiator DVD. Smivey’s sister opened hers to discover the Bridget Jones’ Diary DVD.

“That’s okay,” his bro in-law said. “Now I have an excuse to get a DVD player.”

Smivey smirked, but he didn’t seem any less sad. He told them that he still had the receipt, and that he would mail it to them. He told them that he couldn’t believe they didn’t have a DVD player. They were such Yuppies. They had their own damn workout room, a Sub Zero refrigerator and every kitchen appliance known to man. Why the hell didn’t they have a DVD player?

Well, folks, Smivey didn’t feel like being in that house at that particular time. So he packed up all the great gifts he was given into his fancy shopping bag and headed for the door. He assured everyone that he was just going to go to his car to put his gifts in the trunk and that he would return shortly.

After Smivey left, his niece scolded her parents for being so insensitive to Smivey’s feelings. Everyone in the house was feeling bad. It was not a nice Christmas memory to have. They agreed that they would apologize to Smivey when he returned and assure him that it was a mistake anyone could make.

Just about that time, Smivey walked back into the house with something in his arms. He said he found one more package in his trunk. And, yes, it was a pretty big box. Everyone smiled when they saw it. Smivey’s niece tore into the wrapping paper to reveal…That’s right, a DVD player. Smivey can be such a trickster. But a generous one.

Smivey’s sister went back to preparing dinner while Smivey went upstairs to install the DVD player. And a happy Christmas was had by all.

The End

Yes, it’s that time again, folks. And you know what that means: You gotta wrap some gifts. Of course, some of you Martha-Stewart types won’t need any help. You actually make your own wrapping paper and can create a bow that looks exactly like the ones we humans purchase to to stick on our packages (I’m talking about gifts, here, you perverts. It’s Xmas, for godsakes!). The rest of you, however, need some help. Never fear. Follow these simple tips to ensure your gift wrapping experience is a pleasant one. Or at least a lot less irritating.

GET MORE PAPER THAN YOU NEED
A lot of you probably think you’ve got enough leftover paper from last year to make do. Trust me, you don’t. Those rolls may look fucking huge. But read the label. There’s probably three feet left on the entire roll. Get more paper.

HAVE A GIFT
You could be the greatest gift wrapper in the world, but if you don’t have a fucking gift to wrap, what good does it do you? Don’t wait until the last minute to go shopping. Nobody likes to unwrap a pack of chewing gum and a case of Pepsi on Xmas morning.

MEASURE BEFORE YOU CUT
Place the case of Pepsi on the paper and make sure you have enough to wrap around the gift with a slight overlap. You fuck this up and you’re out a shitload of paper. Once you’ve cut that part correctly. You need to make sure you have enough paper to cover at least half the side of gift. Any less, and someone’s going to see the Pepsi cans exposed and know that they probably shouldn’t shake their gift so hard before opening it. Any more, and you’re going to be dealing with a lot of extra paper and requiring a lot of extra tape. Which brings us to our next point:

DON’T USE SO MUCH GODDAMN TAPE
You’re trying to wrap a gift, not make it waterproof. Take it easy on the sticky stuff. Unless, of course, you’re some kind of sadistic prick who likes to watch people claw at their gifts until their fingers are raw.

SAVE YOUR SCRAPS
After you trim off the excess wrapping paper, save those leftover scraps. You never know when you’re going to hit the Lotto and have to wrap a lot of tiny jewelry boxes. Scraps are great for that kind of stuff. Also good for wrapping packs of chewing gum.

DON’T FUCK AROUND WITH FANCY BOWS
People don’t give a shit how much time your spent tying a fancy bow. They’re just going to tear into it with their greedy little hands anyway. Go to Costco and get yourself a trash bag full of stick-on bows. If you want to get fancy, buy some ribbon the same color as the stick on bow and wrap it around the gift first, tie it in a knot, then plop the bow over the knot. It gives the illusion that you spent more time than you actually did. A rather weak illusion, but an illusion just the same.

PEOPLE GET PAID TO DO THIS
You know what? It’s the holidays. You’ve got a lot of shit to deal with. Why fuck around with the wrapping part? There are places in every mall that will wrap your gifts while you wait. Just drop off your case of Pepsi and pack of chewing gum and grab your claim check. It only costs about three bucks a pop. Better yet, shop at the fancy stores and they’ll wrap your gift for free (all while a pianist plays renditions of your favorite holiday classics). Yet another reason to despise the rich.

Well, that’s all I’ve got for you. I hope it helps. Remember don’t run with scissors. But if you must, run with the sharp end pointing away from you. Have yourself a merry little Hanukamas. Feliz Navidad. And mechaleka-hi, mecha-hiney-ho.

People always ask me “What would you do if you weren’t a copywriter?” I always tell them the same thing: I’d be a janitor. No, I’m fucking dead serious. I would be an amazing janitor. Granted, I’d have to get past my aversion to dirt and scum. But once I did, look out. I’d be the best damn janitor in the world.

I wouldn’t let success go to my head, though. Despite thousands of job offers from huge corporations requesting me to head their janitorial staff, I’d keep a humble job at the local middle school. Every morning, people would walk down the freshly mopped hallway and inhale this wonderful aroma. It wouldn’t smell overly lemony or too piney. It would just have this fresh scent, you know? A scent that was somehow familiar, but impossible to put a finger on.

At the International Janitorial Awards, I would receive the Golden Mop-N-Bucket in every category. Of course, right now, the IJAs don’t even exist, but someone would create them just to honor my achievements.

Envious janitors from all over would try to discover my secret. Procter and Gamble would offer me ten million dollars in exchange for my formula. I would refuse. Several times a year, someone would break into my storage room and steal all my cleaning supplies to have them analyzed. But the lab results would always be the same: nothing unusual.

And it would go on like that for over forty years. Then, on my deathbed, I would ask my son to come closer, closer, closer. And once his ear was almost crushing my mouth, I’d weakly whisper the secret of my success: “S-s-smooth Mint Ssscope. *cough* Just a capful into the cleaning *wheeze* solution. And don’t use the fucking store brand. It ain’t the same stuff.” And then I’d say something about seeing a bright light and my dog Spotty waiting for me there, even though I never had a dog named Spotty. And my son would be like, “Yeah, dad, whatever,” since he was only 13 and a rebellious little prick. But that’s what I get for having a baby at 73. Who the fuck did I think I was, Tony Randall?

Anyhow, that’s what I’d do. If I wasn’t a copywriter.

Sung to Deck The Halls

Deck the halls with boughs of holly!
Fa la-la-la-la, la-la, la la!
Tis the season to be…what the? Get the fuck out of my way, you goddamn stupid bitch! Why the hell does everyone have to go to the fucking mall at the same goddamn time? Goddamnit! Oh no you don’t. You better not be taking that space. That’s mine, buddy. Look. I’m signaling. You better not. You better not. I swear to God, if you do, I’m gonna crack your fucking head open with my goddamn tire iron! No…no…you son of a…FUCKING BITCH!
Fa la-la-la-la, la-la, la la!
Don we now our gay apparel!
Fa la-al, la-la-la, la la la!
Troll the ancient yuletide…hellooooo! Yes, it’s a fucking escalator, but that doesn’t mean you should just stand there! How bout lifting your feet and trying to walk a little bit? Or at least step aside and get the fuck out of my goddamn way, YOU FUCKING LAZY BASTARDS!!!
Fa la-la-la-la, l-a, la laaaaaaa!

1. I did not obtain my doctorate from Johns Hopkins University.

2. I do not have four novels published under three different pseudonyms, nor was I associated with the writing of a non-fiction book titled The Sex Lives Of Tax Accountants.

3. I am not a 39-year-old woman living in Oklahoma.

4. I am not a famous celebrity, nor am I someone who avoids redundant phrases.

5. I am not the guy who was lost in the desert for thirty days and had to eat his own severed arm to stay alive.

6. I do not eat 100% Bran Flakes.

7. I do not have a secret underground lair or a team of dimwitted henchmen.

8. I do not have a balloon fetish.

9. I do not have the amazing ability to bend my body backwards and walk with my head hanging between my legs.

10. I have never used a power drill to bore a small hole into my skull so that I could experience total enlightenment.