I was listening to my favourite morning show today, Kevin & Bean. They were interviewing Jimmy Fallon of SNL fame. He played his acoustic guitar and did some amusing impressions of famous singers. Then all of the sudden, he went in to Robin Williams.

No, you don’t understand me. He didn’t do an impression of Robin Williams. He went in to Robin Williams. He became the man. He did am impression of Robin Williams doing impressions, going off on tangents and coming back. There wasn’t a fucking ounce of Jimmy Fallon left in that kid’s body.

Some might be amused by such a display of talent. Frankly, it scared the shit out of me. I’ve heard Robin Williams impressions before. But this was just too uncanny. In fact, I don’t think it was an impression at all.

I think, somewhere out in San Francisco, milliseconds before the impression began, Robin Williams grabbed his head and screamed out in agony. Everyone laughed because they thought he was just going off on one of his bits again. Then he dropped to his knees and collapsed on the floor, his eyes open, but nobody home. Meanwhile, in a studio in downtown Burbank, the evil Fallon performs what seems like an impressive act of character study. Kevin & Bean laugh. Mrs. Williams cradles her husband’s head, screaming for an ambulance. Then, just as quickly as Fallon took over the comedian’s soul, he spits it back out and Robin Williams sits up and looks around, wondering where the hell he’s been.

I’m onto you, Fallon. I don’t know what kind of voodoo hexy shit you’re into. But you’re not foolin’ me, buddy. You’re a fucking evil man, and you should be burned at the stake! Who knows whose other souls you plan on borrowing. Michael Jackson. Osama Bin Laden. George W. Bu–OWWW! Fuck! My head! Can’t. Type. Must. Send. Blog….

Has anyone told you to do something because it would bring you good karma? I do that kind of shit all the time. I open doors for people. I hold the elevator. Want to borrow ten dollars? I’ll give you twenty. Can’t pay me back? Fuggedaboudit. See, I don’t do this kind of stuff for the good karma. I do it because I’m a nice person. In other words: I’ve got good karma coming out of my ass.

Yesterday, I felt something stuck between my toes. You know what it was? Good karma. I sneeze, and out flies a good fifteen day’s worth. I don’t know what to do with all this stuff. I thought about selling it, but from what I understand, it’s non-transferable.

So what has all this good karma got me? Well, I’m pretty healthy (if you don’t count those chronic intestinal problems). I’ve never broken a bone in my body (then again, I don’t really participate in any outdoor activities). I’ve never been hospitalized (but I’ve seen my share of emergency rooms). I have a roof over my head (granted, it’s a roof with only one bedroom). And I make a good living (yeah, “good” is the operative word). That’s right. I’ve got good karma coming out of my ass.

When I’m on my lunch break, I’m in a hurry. And I don’t have time to fuck around. I want to get my food. Eat it. And get the fuck out of there. But that doesn’t mean I can’t empathize with those poor stranded motorists trying to merge into traffic from the driveway. Occasionally, if there’s a stoplight up ahead, I’ll slow down to let them in. All I ask in return is a simple wave. Yeah, I know it’s dorky. But it says one thing to me: “I know you didn’t have to stop, but I really appreciate that you did.”

Just give me my wave and I’ll be happy. You know how it works. You wave, I wave back, and we go about our day with smiles on our faces. Well, as you might suspect, I slowed down to let someone in today and I didn’t get the wave. She didn’t even acknowledge that I was there. It’s as if she was some kind of modern-day Moses and the traffic parted for her magically. Stupid ungrateful bitch.

Anyhow, after I parked my car, I had to use the crosswalk to get to the mall. Of course, the motorists stopped to let me pass. And you know what I did? That’s right. I waved. Just a subtle lift of the hand to acknowledge their gesture. It says “Thank you for stopping. I realize that you could have easily run me down and I appreciate that you refrained from doing so.” You better fucking believe I waved.

If you are just about to start eating, I suggest you read this later. You think I’m kidding? Okay, you’ve been warned.

This afternoon, I was walking down the hallway when something stopped me dead in my tracks. There was a faint scent in the air. Something I couldn’t quite place. Was it fresh baked muffins? No. The armpit of a wild orangutan? Closer.

I was right in front of the men’s restroom.

No. It couldn’t be. Could someone have such bad intestinal problems that the funk tore its way through the metal walls of the bathroom stall and seeped its way into the hallway?

The thought of it repulsed me. I wanted to turn away. But something wouldn’t let me. I found myself being pulled closer and closer. I just had to know. My hand reached out and I pushed the door open, bracing myself for whatever I might encounter.

Whoa! There was nothing that could have prepared me for that stench. My nostrils immediately protested and my entire face scrunched up. It took all of my willpower not to vomit right there on the spot. As quickly as I stuck my head in the door, I had removed it and retreated down the hallway.

Look, people, if you need to read a magazine while you’re on the can, you need to change your diet. Shouldn’t take more than five minutes, tops. And it sure as hell shouldn’t smell like you’re crapping out a dead skunk.

Hey, I’m not saying my shit don’t stink. But it sure don’t stink like that.

Though I masquerade as a professional writer, the truth is, I have a shockingly poor grasp of the English language. It’s not that I use incomplete sentences. Or that I start them with conjunctions. No, the embarrassing fact is, I have a pathetic vocabulary.

There’s really no excuse for it. I have a college degree. I’ve listened to those vocabulary tapes. I even read a lot of books. But for some reason, it’s almost impossible for me to add any new words to my repertoire.

It usually goes something like this: I’ll be having a conversation with someone and suddenly she’ll use a word I’ve never heard before. Rather than admit that I have no clue what vermiculate means, I’ll just nod and smile and say something meaningless (“Huh.” “Yeah.” “I know what you mean.” “Tell me about it.”). Works every time.

Well, almost every time.

It’s easy to cover up my ignorance when I’m the listener, but when I’m the speaker, that’s a whole different story. Take this recent conversation I had with a very good friend of mine:

ME: “Yeah, normally I like MadTV, but it wasn’t that good last night. They have a lot of reoccuring characters. I’m kind of tired of that whole –”

VGF: “Recurring.”

ME: “Huh?”

VGF: “It’s recurring characters.”

ME: “What’d I say?”

VGF: “ReOccuring.”

ME: “I did? Huh.”

The fact is, I had no clue reoccuring wasn’t a word. It seemed like a word to me. And it wasn’t the first time I had used it in a conversation. How did I go so long without anyone pointing out this mistake? Did they think reoccuring was a word, too? Or did they just not want to embarrass me in front of everyone?

Please, if I ever use a word incorrectly, for godsakes, take me aside and tell me.

Anyhow, I’m sorry today’s entry sucks so bad. I’ve had so much work to do this weekend and my stomach has really been bothering me. I know exactly why, too: When I get stressed out, I eat to fast. And I don’t properly masturbate my food.

I drink about three times a month.
Most others, twice a day.
Last night I drank to celebrate
the Xmas holiday.

My drink of choice? A G & T.
And, yes, I had a few.
By end of night, I was so lit,
I thought that I might spew.

Each drink made me a braver man.
The shyness went away.
I found myself on the dance floor,
looking very gay.

And so, this morning, the only thing
that I can bring to you
is a stupid poem I thought up
‘tween visits to the loo.

The point I’m making should be clear.
But in case that it’s still sought:
I may be a fun party guest,
but a drinker, I am not.

I could be a great DJ. I mean, a really kick-ass one. Not one of these pussy weddings-and-bar mitzvahs motherfuckers. No, I mean a serious turntable talent. I’d spin at all the big clubs, playing my own shit. And when someone invaded my space to request the new Puff Daddy track, I’d reach into my collection of hard-to-find vinyl and pull out my extended middle finger. “Slag off!” I’d say (cause I wanted to sound mean and British), and then I’d go back to spinning. Yeah, I’d be a fuckin’ amazing DJ.

That’s what I used to say to myself. Then one night, a DJ friend of mine asked me to take over the decks. It was my big break. The party was slammin’. And now I was gonna be the one maintaining the grooves. I listened through the headphones and matched the beats dead on. I was a fuckin’ natural. The other track was ending soon, so I had to move fast. I faded up the new track, then faded out the old track. No one was the wiser. I had no idea how fucking easy being a DJ was. I started thinking about starting a new career. What could I call myself? Something cool. Something that would let people know what a fucking killer DJ I am.

Then the vocals came in. I had no idea the track had any vocals, and they weren’t sounding quite right. Probably because it was a 33 RPM track and I was playing it at 78. Yeah, I was fucked. Everyone turned to look at me. But I stayed cool. I just quickly flipped the switch to 33 RPM and pretended like it was all part of the show. Yeah, I’d been a fucking sick DJ. If it wasn’t for the talent part.

Dinner at your place? Sounds great. I just have a few dietary restrictions you should know about first:

I call myself a “recovering vegetarian.” Which means, I was a real vegetarian for over ten years. But now I eat fish. No chicken. No pork. And no red meat. Oh, and no gelatin. That stuff is disgusting.

Soup? If it’s made with anything but vegetable or fish stock, you can shove it up your ass.

Indian food? Pass. That’s exactly what that curry will do when it hits my stomach: pass right through me. Same goes for Thai food. Not a good thing for me.

Mexican? It’s a possibility. Just don’t use any lard. And leave those fucking jalapeños out. Unless of course, you’re trying to kill me.

Greek? Bad idea. I don’t like feta cheese. Or Kalamata olives. Bleh.

Italian? Maybe. Just don’t try to sneak any of that fuckin’ meat sauce in my food. I can smell it a mile away. I prefer angel hair with fresh, diced tomatoes, basil, garlic and a touch of olive oil. Marinara sucks.

What’s that? Oh, I understand. Maybe it’s better if we just go out. I know this great organic vegan restaurant not too far from here. They make the best tofu pot pie on the West coa… Oh. Okay. No, no. It’s cool. Maybe some other time.

One of the hardest parts about writing advertising copy is getting what you’ve written through the different legal departments. Even if you get it past the ad agency’s crew of nitpickers, you still have to deal with the client’s team of attorneys.

Which is why I can never say this:

The cabin of the BMW is built with reinforced steel, to keep you safe in the event of a collision.

That would never get through legal. But never fear, help is here: the word “help.” Four simple letters that could help save the client millions. Yes, with one simple application, the formerly offending sentence is changed into a shiny, litigation-safe statement:

The cabin of the BMW is built with reinforced steel, to help keep you safe in the event of a collision.

See? No longer are we claiming that the vehicle will undeniably keep you safe when you get in an accident. We’re just saying, it ain’t gonna hoit. And who can argue with that? No one. Another potential lawsuit skillfully averted. Thanks to my favorite four-letter word: help.

Well, I just got finished watching the film My Dinner With André, and let me tell you, it has completely changed my life. They say it’s supposed to be one of those experimental films. I think the experiment was to see how excruciating 110 minutes could be.

Here’s the plot: a playwright, Wally, agrees to meet an old friend, André, for dinner. Then, for the next 100 minutes, André goes on and on about his past adventures. But here’s the catch: While the stories André tells are completely fascinating, the way he delivers them makes them incredibly tedious. In fact, it’s so tiresome, that after only about fifteen minutes, I found myself slipping into an alternate state of consciousness.

My eyes glazed over and I felt my soul leaving my body. Drifting higher and higher, I looked down and saw myself slouching on the couch, mouth agape, with this steady trickle of saliva flowing over my bottom lip to collect onto my shirt in a dark wet pool. I focused on that pool and began to see the individual fibers that made up the fabric of my shirt, and then I saw the water molecules clinging to those fibers. Tiny mites were living on those fibers. And as each drop of saliva crashed down onto my shirt, the mites were washed away in a tidal wave of bodily fluid.

André must have momentarily changed the tone of his voice or something, because I suddenly found myself snapping back to reality. I squinted to read the clock on the cable box. Ten minutes had passed. About seventy-five more minutes to go.

How could anyone endure such torture for so long? Was I so cerebrally challenged that I could not appreciate such a delightful conversation over supper? What was I missing that everyone else found so charming? I figured the good part was yet to come. Perhaps Wally would eventually go insane and drive his steak knife into André’s chest over and over, laughing maniacally in the process. Or better yet, he’d turn the knife on himself, ending his misery with a bloody suicide that would make even Quentin Tarantino pass out.

Forty minutes into the film, I decided to pick up my laptop and surf the Web over my WiFi network. I trekked my way through the Amazon jungle, searching for treasures to present to my loved ones. Occasionally, I’d glance up at the screen to find André nibbling on a quail bone while he droned on about a levitating monk or something equally preposterous. Then it was back to the Web: Oh, free shipping! Guaranteed Xmas delivery! Yes, I’m a returning customer. Standard delivery, please. No gift wrap. No message. Thank you very much, Amazon. I appreciate your business, too!

Don’t get me wrong. My Dinner With André was not completely devoid of entertainment value. In fact, there’s a little plot twist at the end that may surprise you. Spoiler coming up here, folks. So stop reading if you don’t want everything ruined for you. You ready? At the end, André orders an espresso. Wally also orders one. But then, just when you think it’s all over, Wally suddenly decides to one-up André and requests an amaretto. Ho-ho! Bet you never saw that one coming. You can’t write shit like that. It had to be improvised. Am I right? Hm. I wonder what’s on CSPAN.