After writing this blog for over a year, I feel it’s time I came clean. I know I claim to be just an advertising copywriter. But the truth is, I’m one of the greatest writers who ever lived, in my head.

Yes, in my head, I have three novels currently on the best seller list, with two more on the way. Writing comes so naturally to me. I just put my fingers on the keyboard and let them do their thing. It’s almost embarrassing how effortless it is. Sometimes, I’ll watch CSPAN while I’m typing, just to give myself a challenge.

Also, In my head, four movies have been made that are based on my books. And two others are currently being optioned by HBO. They say Benicio Del Toro is interested in playing Solomon. But I wrote that part with Gabriel Byrne in mind. So as far as I’m concerned, Del Toro can take a hike.

I think it’s also important to note that I am not the social misfit that I make myself out to be. No, in my head, I’m outgoing and adored by all. Men want to be me, and women want to be with me. I work out with my personal trainer three times a week. And I sustain myself on a strict, low-carb diet.

Okay, if you haven’t figure it out yet, I have no ending for this particular entry. But the truth is, I wrote it just a few hours ago, in the shower, nowhere near a computer, and without pen and paper. In other words, it was all. . . in my head. Bleh.

Sometimes, I get to a point in my life where nothing seems to be going right. That’s when I close my eyes and think about Richard Legman, the man who could not walk.

Once you get past the irony of Mr. Legman’s problem, there’s really nothing funny about it. But, man, that is pretty funny, with the Legman and the not walking thing.

Anyhow, the worst part was, Richard didn’t always have this problem. He used to be able to walk just fine. That was before The Incident: an event so horrifying, so disturbing, it needed to be capitalized and displayed in italics.

Here’s how it all went down:

It was just a typical day for Richard. There he was, walking down the middle of the highway, eating a corn dog and reading the latest Danielle Steele novel. Cars whizzed by on both sides of him. Horns honked. People shouted. But Richard kept his eyes on the page and savored his sweet battered meat. . . Damn, that didn’t come out right at all. I was referring to the corn dog, of course.

Anyhow, you can probably guess what happened next, but I’m going to tell you anyway. A couple miles away, a semi truck was charging down the highway. The driver, Mike Hamburg, had been on the road for 34 hours straight and was beginning to hallucinate. The vehicles ahead now looked like pink polar bears and the asphalt below was resembling a frozen lake. Suddenly, the surface began to crack and Hamburg swerved to avoid plunging into the icy depths. In doing so, he blind sided a few polar bears, then found his truck jackknifing and skidding towards what looked like a lone eskimo.

Richard looked up just in time to see the big rig barreling towards him. He took another bite of his corn dog, then lowered his eyes back to his book. That must have been a real page-turner. Hamburg leaned on the horn and turned the wheel as hard as he could. Richard turned the page. And then suddenly, the truck crashed into the center divider, missing Richard by just, well, a mile. But one of the big rig’s nude-woman mudflaps flew off the truck and bounced off Richard’s right knee.

Richard dropped his corn dog and grabbed his leg. He felt a burning sensation in his calf that made him want to fall to the ground and cry in pain. But then he remembered the words of his high school drama coach: “Just walk it off.” So, that’s exactly what Richard did. He stepped forward with his good leg. And then he took another step with his right. But as he put some weight down on his right foot, Richard came to the horrible realization: He could no longer walk. He could only run.

Richard ran all the way down the highway at Kenyan speed, leaving his novel and his corn dog behind him. At first, it was kind of a thrill, until Richard realized that he could not slow down. Soon, his spasming leg was moving so fast, it was hard for the other one to catch up. He was passing cars, as if they were parked. Which in this case, they were. But he was still really fast.

Finally, Richard couldn’t take it anymore and he dove off the highway and tumbled down a grassy hill, where he passed out from exhaustion.

When Richard came to, he was in a hospital bed, surrounded by people he didn’t know. Turns out, they thought he was someone else. The nurse shooed them all away and the doctor came in to check on his patient.

“How are we feeling?” The doctor asked.

“Okay,” Richard weakly replied.

“You’re a lucky man to be alive, Mr. Legman.”

“I am?”

“Yes, that sexy mudflap may have caused a little nerve damage, but we performed an operation that we think will remedy the situation.”

“Oh, wonderful!”

The doctor explained that the operation was a rather difficult one, on the account of all the blood and the tiny nerves and shit. But he thought they did a pretty good job in making the necessary repairs.

Richard asked the doctor when he could plan on walking again. When the doctor replied “Right now,” Richard should’ve question his authority, not to mention the fact that this so-called doctor was wearing a grey jumpsuit that had the word “Janitor” stenciled on the back.

But Richard wasn’t a very bright man. He slid his legs out from under the covers and lowered his feet to the floor. Oddly enough, he felt okay. He took a step with his good leg, then took a deep breath and took another step with his right. Unfortunately, he still could not walk. He could only skip.

Richard skipped his way out the door and down the hall. Children giggled and tried to follow his lead. Soon, Richard had a train of children skipping behind him. Their parents yelled at Richard to stop. “I can’t!” Richard screamed. Eventually, the orderlies tackled Richard to the ground, then a doctor — a real one, this time — shot Richard up with some kind of major sedative.

Anyhow, to this day, Richard still cannot walk. But that hasn’t broken his spirit. Every morning, you can find him skipping down the highway, reading his novel and devouring his corn dog. And when I think about what a fucking idiot that guy is, it makes me feel so much better about myself.

The End

I’m so excited. There’s a movie coming out next week that I just can’t wait to see. Why? They say it has an ending that will keep me guessing till the very end! A surprise ending, no less. I kid you not. It’s like a game or something.

Apparently, the writer is so brilliant that there is no way in hell I could possibly predict the final outcome of this movie. In fact, the producers are so sure of themselves, they’re willing to challenge me to guess.

Now, that’s got to be a fucking amazing ending.

I’m so tired of all these predictable films. It’s a fucking waste of celluloid, or gelatin, or whatever the fuck they make film out of these days. Think about it: What if you took some mindless trash like Memento and edited it so there was no fucking way you could figure out what was going on until the very end? Or imagine if The Crying Game didn’t make it so bloody obvious that that chick had a dick.

I know this is crazy talk. I’m just saying, this whole keep-you-guessing thing could really start to catch on. Before you know it, boring and obvious films like The Usual Suspects and Fight Club could be a thing of the past.

Well, we can only hope, right?

One of the things I did during my vacation was take an IQ test online. I scored a whopping 124. I didn’t know what the fuck that meant, so I coughed up the fifteen bucks to get a full report (possibly a sign of my lower intelligence).

Turns out, I scored in the top 90th percentile in Mathematical Intelligence. How the fuck that happened, I have no idea. Math was always my worst subject. I flunked Accounting 101 three times before I finally decided to bag it and change my major to Journalism. So how did I score so high in Mathematics? Well, I may not be good with numbers. But I like to look at pictures.

Yeah, when it comes to Visual-Spatial Intelligence, I scored in the 100th percentile. You know those tests where they show you a few pictures and you have to predict the pattern? I’m apparently a fucking genius when it comes to that. Even more shocking, I did pretty well in Logical Intelligence (80th percentile). So, if I did so well with the math stuff, why wasn’t my overall score any higher?

In Linguistics Intelligence, I was in the disgraceful 60th percentile. Yes, it turns out that the area of the brain I rely on most is actually my weakest. I’m barely better than average when it comes to reading and, uh, ya know, doing that thing where you put words down and make sentences and stuff. You know, that thing? Where you hit the keys and make words and it comes out and people read it? Oh, come on! What the fuck is that called?

Anyway, to be quite honest, I didn’t really take the test too seriously. I did the first half (the Linguistics part) while listening to punk rock, and the second half while chatting online. Sure, I probably could’ve taken the time to figure out if Jenny had more dimes than Suzie. But to tell you the truth, I just didn’t give a fuck. Yeah, in the area of Laziness, I’m also in the 100th percentile.

At first, my plan was just to take a week off from blogging so that I could have some time to concentrate on more important things. You know, like taxes and work. But when I showed up at the ad agency on Tuesday, I was told they wouldn’t be needing my services for a couple weeks. That’s freelance, for ya. Suddenly, I really was on vacation. An unpaid vacation, mind you. But a vacation, nonetheless.

So, what did I do with my free time? Well, I sure as fuck didn’t do my taxes. I wanted to do something more interesting with my week off. So I considered my options:

At first, I thought about going to Manila. I’d never been there before and I thought it would be kind of cool to see where all those envelopes come from. But then I couldn’t figure out where Manila was. And wherever it was, it would probably be too hot and the food would most likely give me the runs. So I nixed that idea.

Then I considered just getting a room at the Chateau Marmont so I could work on my novel. But there was no fucking way I was going to pay that kind of cash for a room there. Especially since I didn’t actually have a novel to work on. So that was out.

San Francisco? Too fucking cold. Palm Springs? Boring. Las Vegas? Too crowded. Santa Barbara? Too romantic for a single guy.

I briefly considered hopping on a jet and taking an impromptu flight to Europe (Maybe that’s where Manila is). But then I remembered an important fact: I have a slight fear of flying. And by “slight,” I mean that sometime during the flight I might feel a little nauseated, then I might get a little sweaty, then I might fill up a few air sickness bags, then I might start balling my head off. That sorta thing.

So where did I end up spending my vacation? Hollywood, California. That’s right. I stayed right here in front of my computer. I hardly went outside. And let me tell you something: I’ve been bored out of my fucking skull. I’d like to say that it’s good to be back. But the truth is, I never actually left. How fucking pathetic is that? That was a rhetorical question. But I have a feeling I’m about to read a lot of answers.

This week, I’ve decided to take a little vacation from my blogging so I can finish preparing my taxes and maybe, if time permits, actually experience something that resembles a social life. I realize that many of you come here every weekday looking for some entertainment, but I guess you’ll have to go someplace else. Where? Good question. Try some of those links I’ve listed on the left there. I’d recommend a site specifically, but the last time I did that, I chose a bad week. Seems like everyone is in a funk these days, so I can’t guarantee hilarity. But you can always read their archives. Anyhow, I should be back next week. Unless, of course, I don’t finish my taxes or I suddenly discover a life outside of these four walls. . . Yeah, I’ll probably be back.

1. Give her a dozen long stems. That’s it. Just the stems. But make sure you have the thorns removed first. Don’t want to seem like an insensitive prick.

2. Side-by-side burial plots with matching grave markers. Till death do us part? Who says it has to end there? Show her you’re in this for the long haul. Once she gets over the creepiness of the whole thing, she’ll really appreciate the sentiment.

3. A simple heart with a homemade bow. Sure, you could give her something shaped like a heart, but the only thing that’s really going to impress her is the genuine article. Call up your local butcher shop and see if they have a spare one lying around. Then wrap it in plastic wrap and secure it with a lace ribbon.

4. Share a bottle of wine and a romantic book. I highly recommend the Encyclopedia of Unusual Sex Practices. Start by reading the definition of apotemnophelia: “People who are aroused by the idea of losing a limb or having a body part surgically removed.” Don’t forget the wine.

5. Don’t pee on the toilet seat. Just this one day, take the extra effort to lift the seat up before you urinate. This ensures it will be left sparkling clean for your sweetheart’s dainty bottom. But if you must pee on the toilet seat, at least wait until she’s no longer sitting on it.

6. Compliment her on something besides her buttocks and breasts. Sure, she has a nice ass and a killer rack. But women like to be noticed for their other qualities. So be sure to tell her how tight her vagina is, too.

7. Order Some Take-Out. It may seem like a romantic gesture to take over the kitchen and whip something up for her. But chances are, you’re gong to fuck it up. The pasta will be overcooked and the salmon will be black on the outside and raw on the inside. And just what the fuck were you thinking when you decided to serve salmon with pasta in the first place? Trust me, you’re better off ordering a goddamn pizza.

8. Make Some Coupons. She does so much for you, give her a gift that will last the entire year: twelve coupons redeemable for various gestures of love. My favorite: One Free Non-Mumbled “I Love You,” While At Work. Pet Names Not Included.

9. Play her something nice on the guitar. Don’t know how to play? Don’t worry. You can cover up that fact by using a lot of effect pedals. Get yourself a distortion pedal, a delay and a flanger, then turn them all the way up. Before you know it, you’ll sound like a pro. Well, maybe not like a pro, but you’ll sound pretty damn cool. I just hope you can fucking sing.

10. Try a new position. You’ve been together for a while. She may be tired of the same old sexual routine. So rather than just doing the typical Wheelbarrow or Pile Driver, consider trying something a little out of the ordinary, like the Missionary Position or Doggy Style. Just be sure to consult your physician first.

There you have it, ten special ways to say “I love you.” I hope you found them helpful. I’d write ten more, but I need to log back into Orkut to find myself a new girlfriend. The last one didn’t seem to appreciate Way #4. Then again, I forgot the wine.

This Valentine’s Day, give your lady something she’ll never forget: a piece-of-shit, heart-shaped diamond pendant cleverly concealed in an equally crappy box of chocolates. Yes, as if the luster of the pinhead-sized gemstone wasn’t enough, the lousy box of candy will confirm just how much you love her. You might expect to pay $150 for a gift like this. But right now, you can get everything, the low-grade diamond and the box of repulsive chocolates, for only $99. That’s a savings of over $50. Just enough money to buy her some trashy lingerie and a five-ounce bottle of AstroGlide. Ah, true love.

Once upon a time, there was a little bear named Fubu. Fubu was only ten years old, but he was a very special bear. For instance, he could walk upright and speak English, while other bears his age could only growl, attack tourists and shit in the woods.

Yes, Fubu was special, all right. And not special like Owly the Owl, who despite wearing spectacles and a graduation cap, was just a fucking moron. No, Fubu was special in a different way. Whenever the teachers called on him, he always knew the answers to their questions. And, oh, one more thing: He was also extremely well-endowed.

That’s right, for a little ten-year-old bear, Fubu was hung like a horse. Which could’ve been a little distracting, so his mama sewed him some extra baggy jeans to wear to school. The first day Fubu wore his new pants, he expected all the kids to make fun of him. After all, the jeans hung so low on his waist, they could barely stay on his ass. But to Fubu’s surprise, all the kids wanted to know where they could get a pair of their own.

When Fubu got home that day, he told his mama how the kids reacted to his new jeans and dollar signs flashed in her eyes. Why the kids wanted to look like they were wearing their father’s pants was beyond her. But if there was a demand for extra baggy jeans, she could certainly supply them. She set to work creating the jeans, then expanded her line to include droopy socks and gloves with too many fingers.

The socks and gloves never quite caught on. But the jeans became extremely popular. So popular, in fact, that Fubu’s mama started sewing her son’s name on the pants to let people know they were wearing the original Fubu baggy jean.

That’s right around when Fubu’s mama found a cease-and-desist letter in her e-mail box. Turns out, humans had already cornered the market on the baggy clothing craze and that the name Fubu was a registered trademark of the FUBU corporation of America, all rights reserved. Fubu’s mama not only had to stop making the oversized clothing at once, she had to turn over all the profits she made by selling her clothing. Basically, she got royally fucked. And despite how smart little Fubu thought he was, there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about it.

The End

Just got back from having dinner with my best friend. Since he works in downtown L.A. and I don’t live too far away from there, we thought we’d dine in Little Tokyo.

Little Tokyo is this area of the city where you can find pretty much every type of authentic Japanese food you can think of: pastries, sushi, shabu shabu, etc. So you can probably guess what kind of food we ended up eating: That’s right. Italian.

I know what you’re thinking: Why would anyone choose to have Italian food when they’re right in the middle of Little Tokyo? That’s a very good question. Let me get back to you on that one. Let’s just say, it seemed like a nice place and we were hungry.

So we walk into Capperi Ristorante on 2nd street, and it’s all done up Italian style, with the tile floor, white tablecloths and the big oil paintings on the walls. There’s even a couple sitting next to us, sharing a bottle of wine. Yeah, I know, pretty romantic. But once again, it seemed like a nice place and we were hungry.

Anyhow, the waiter comes up and asks us if we’d like something to drink while we’re deciding on what we’d like to order. My friend tells me I should get a beer or something. The waiter explains that they don’t have their beer & wine license yet, but that in the future we could bring our own wine, which is apparently what that couple next to us did. Strike One. We order a bottle of Pellegrino.

Finally, it’s time to order. I decide to have the grilled sea bass. My friend chooses to have the filet mignon. The waiter apologizes: they no longer have any filet mignon. Strike Two. My friend decides to have the veal.

So our meals arrive and suddenly we could understand why so many people were glad to bring in their own wine for their meals: The food was excellent. Nothing was overdone. Nice presentation. Perfectly seasoned.

Anyhow, we finish devouring our food and the check comes. My friend says the meal is on him. He takes out his American Express card and slips it into the bill holder. The waiter comes by to explain that they don’t accept American Express cards right now. They used to, but they changed companies. Strike Three. He pays with his Visa card.

So, that was that. Three strikes and you’re out. Well, normally that would be the case. But you have to look at the facts: Sure, they don’t have their beer and wine license yet. No, they don’t always have everything that’s on the menu. But there’s one thing that overrides all of those negative things. That’s right: the sea bass was excellent.