It’s not like I expected it to happen this way. There I was, hanging out at my friend’s place. I was 15 and he was 14. His parents were still at work, so we had the whole place to ourselves.

Anyhow, I guess we got bored, because we started playing with stuff that we found sitting around. One of our favorite objects of distraction: a hook with a suction cup on the end of it. Being the adventurous boys that we were, we stuck that hook to everything we could find: the wall, the TV screen, the table. Then my friend did something really funny: he stuck it to his forehead. Of course, I had to give it a try. I discovered that if I lifted my eyebrows, the suction would be lost and the hook would fall off, but if I didn’t move my brow, the cup would remain in place. I actually got pretty good at keeping it on.

Anyhow, we were watching TV for a while and I turned to my friend to tell him something and he laughed. The suction cup was still on my forehead. Well, you can imagine my embarrassment. I quickly popped it off and tossed it onto the coffee table. But my friend kept laughing. When I turned to tell him to shut up, he laughed even harder. I asked him what was so funny and he told me to go look in the mirror.

Well, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I had a pretty big hickey right in the middle of my forehead. Yes, my first hickey, and it was self-inflicted. And it was on my goddamn forehead! Fortunately, it was the early 80s and my hair was pretty long back then. I just brushed my hair forward and used a little acne cream to cover it up while it healed.

I don’t regret anything I did that day. Sure, it was stupid. But it led to me writing a pretty amusing Seinfeld spec script years later. Wanna see? You can download it by clicking here. It’s in PDF format. Okay, I gotta go to work. Who knows, maybe you’ll get more that two entries this week (don’t count on it).

The latest trend seems to be having your own photoblog. Well, I now have one, too. It’s not so much an account of the day’s events as it is a bunch of odd looking pics. But since I’ve been slacking on the old fashioned blogging lately (due to a tough assignment I’m working on), I thought you could at least check this out. I know, I know. I’ve let you down. Bleh.

Everyone has at least one thing they do well. For me, it’s procrastination. Yes, show me something that needs to get done, and I’ll show you one hundred things that can be done before it. But procrastination doesn’t come so naturally to everyone. That’s where this guide comes in. I’ll teach you some of the most advanced stalling methods ever invented, so that you can use them to make the least of your time.

But before we get started, let me tell you about how I became such a renowned procrastinator. Like any good procrastinator, I started talking at very late age: Seven, to be exact. It’s not that I had a hard time grasping the English language. I just had other things I’d rather be doing. Of course, this became quite a problem in school, where I was considered to be a mute.

At age 14, after a successful potty training, I was ready to take on the world. It would be four more years until I learned how to drive and five years after that before I saved up enough money to purchase my first car. At age 25, I decided it was time to move out of my parents’ home and go to college. At age 30, I actually followed through with that plan. And seven years later, here I am: making a decent wage, and teaching people about procrastination.

Anyhow, that’s all I have for this book so far. I was gonna write a lot more, but then I remembered that I had the Ben Stiller Show on DVD and that show is so funny, ya know? Speaking of Ben Stiller, doesn’t he have a new movie coming out? That should be a good one. I should check IMDB and see what they’re saying about it. Oh, and Rotten Tomatoes, too. . . Shit, I forgot to check my horoscope today. . . my nails could really use some trimming.

Hello, Barbara. It seems like it’s been forever. You, uh, look good. I mean, not as good as you looked back in the ’80s. You were so beautiful back then, in a tall, awkward sort of way. Okay, maybe “beautiful” is a bit of an overstatement. Let’s just say “not ugly.” Anyhow, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. Just wanted to thank you. For dumping me.

No, really. Thank you. I was a desperate man back then. You were my first girlfriend. And I thought you would be my last. Before you, no woman would even give me the time of day. Of course, they still won’t. But I’ve learned to wear a watch.

Yes, you were so sweet and easy to get along with back then. And by “easy to get along with,” I of course mean, “willing to have sex with me.” And what marvelous sex it was. For me, at least. You always seemed to have something to complain about: “Don’t put it there.” “Not like that.” “You did? Already?” Yeah, those were some magical times.

Sure, you were a narcissistic bitch. But like they say, lust is blind. So when you suggested we drive to Sea World over the weekend, I didn’t complain. I didn’t tell you that the thought of driving over two hours to see a bunch of trained seals didn’t appeal to me at all. I just smiled and said, “Okay.”

The morning of the trip, I woke up and felt a little sick to my stomach. ‘Just nerves,’ I thought to myself. ‘It’ll go away.’ And it kind of did. Until we got on the road. The wind was pretty strong on the coast and it started testing my driving skills. Before I knew it, the contents of my digestive tract was requesting evacuation–a request I could not deny. I had to pull over and get some Pepto Bismol. Fast.

Ah, good ol’ Pepto. It coats the stomach, you know? Well, it did for about ten seconds. After that, it was coating the pavement and the tops of my shoes. Did you even feign concern and ask me if I was okay? No. You actually made me feel bad for getting ill. I’ll never forget that look on your face when I told you that I couldn’t make it the rest of the way to San Diego. It was a look of total resentment. Unfortunately, your relatives at the shark exhibit would have to wait.

Yes, Barbara, I got pretty sick that day. Sicker than I’ve ever been in my life. So sick, I couldn’t lift my head, let alone drive back home. So I turned the wheel over to you, and you angrily drove my car all the way home, almost two hours in total silence.

When we got back to my place, I discovered something rather amusing: You failed to release the parking brake before we got on the freeway. Was I angry? No. I was too busy trying not to vomit again.

Anyhow, I somehow made it to the stairs of my apartment building and started to pull myself up them. That’s when you hit me with another blow: You actually asked me to drive you home. I could barely walk and you wanted me to drive you home. What the fuck where you thinking? I told you to come upstairs and I’d call your parents to come pick you up. But you just stormed off in a huff.

I climbed those stairs and slid myself into bed, only to find that I couldn’t keep anything down. Every time my head hit the pillow, my stomach flipped and I had to race to the bathroom. It was not a happy time. Suddenly, the phone rang. Yes, it was you, Barbara. You were halfway home and you wanted to know if I could come pick you up. Apparently, you were not only a selfish bitch, you were also an idiot. I told you to call your parents. I couldn’t even walk.

Well, Barbara, I ended up going to the Emergency Room that night. I got hooked up to an IV drip for about an hour or two. Then I went to my father’s place to rest. Not that you cared. You never even called to see how I was doing. Once I felt strong enough to pick up a phone, I called you to let you know how I was. You told me you were having a hard time, too. Fortunately, a guy we worked with (who recently broke up with his girlfriend) was nice enough to comfort you for me. In fact, you comforted each other. With your tongues. How sweet.

Anyhow, that’s when you told me it was over. After almost an entire year together. What’s sad is, I would’ve stuck around for another twelve months of abuse, had you not decided to call the whole thing off yourself. Yes, I was that pathetic, that desperate. So, I want to thank you, Barbara. Thank you so much. For dumping me. I’m a better man for it. Because I am no longer with you.

Like I said, no time this week. I dug this gem up from the past.

Microsoft Copy-Z. It’s Like Your Favorite Copywriter,
Without The Ego.

In the past, whenever you needed copy, you called on a
copywriter. They did great work. But in exchange, you had to
deal with their quirky personalities and day rates that grew in
proportion with their hat size.

Not anymore.

Now there’s Microsoft Copy-Z. It’s more reliable than a real
copywriter. And a lot easier to handle.

Just enter your concept, headline, and character count. Copy-Z does the rest. Everything from outlines to opening and closing paragraphs. In a matter of minutes.

And once your copy is ready, our customizable toolbars make
editing as easy as pushing a button. Don’t like a word? Just
highlight the offending matter with your mouse. Click on the
tombstone icon. And it’s gone. No arguments. No hurt
feelings.

Moving things around is just as simple. Thanks to Copy-Z’s
Drag-Drop function, all you do is select what needs to be
moved. Drag it to its new destination. And drop it.

Don’t you wish real copywriters where this easy going?

Copy-Z can also edit your old files from Word, WordPerfect,
and Wordstar. Just load them in and choose your options.
Select “Finesse” and Copy-Z will keep most of your original
work, changing a few things here and there. The “Revise”
function is more critical, rewording sentences and eliminating
entire paragraphs. And “Overhaul,” well, that speaks for itself.

We think Copy-Z is the best thing to happen to advertising
since computers. But we’re not the only ones. Here’s what one
copywriter had to say about it:

“Ever since I started using Copy-Z, my career has
really taken off. If word got out that I was a fraud,
it would shock the entire advertising community.”

–Anonymous

Sorry, Mr. Anonymous, word is out. And if what this next
Creative Director has to say is true, you might want to start
reconsidering your career goals:

“I used Copy-Z once. That’s all it took. Tomorrow,
I’m handing out pink slips.”

–A. Kaufman
Creative Director
B&S Advertising

That sounds a little drastic. But then again, Copy-Z not only
does all the work of a real copywriter in a fraction of the
time. It does it at a fraction of the cost.

That’s right. If you order Copy-Z now, we’ll knock 45% off
the original price. Imagine, for just $275 you can replace
every writer in your shop. Want more details? Call us at (310)
555-1212, and ask for Department 210. Once we show your
staff how simple Copy-Z is to use, everyone will love it. Well,
almost everyone.

I was really hurting for something to write about tonight, until my latest muse suggested I craft a story about a dog. That’s all she said: a dog. “A dog?” I asked. “Yes, I think I said, a dog,” she replied.

Okay, fine. This entry will be entirely about a dog. A dog name uhh Larry. Larry the dog. Okay, what the fuck am I supposed to write about a goddamn dog? And Larry? Who names their dog Larry? That’s just insane. Fuck that.

Alright, so this dog’s name is Peter. No, it’s Joshua. No, wait. . . fuck. I don’t know. What the hell do you name a fucking dog anyway? We had two Miniature Schnauzers when I was growing up. They were named Mini and Smidgen. Yeah, I didn’t name them. They were my mom’s dogs. I just tortured them.

Now, don’t go calling the fucking A.S.P.C.A on me. It’s not like I hung them from their legs off the balcony. I just blew in their faces. Unlike people, dogs don’t like to have air blown in their faces. In fact, they really hate it. And if I didn’t have my hands covering my mouth when I did it, I might have been the first boy with prosthetic lips.

I don’t know if you could call this torture, but another thing I liked to do was engage my dog in a game of tug-of-war using a knotted up nylon stocking. I’d tease her with the stocking first. Then she’d bite it and get a good grip. It was so funny watching her shake her head and growl as I started moving around in a circle. Then i’d start to spin. And finally, she’d take flight, holding onto the stocking as her legs scrambled to find solid ground. Of course, I didn’t have her flying too high. Maybe a few inches above my head. No, I kid. She was safe. Really. There were never any injuries. Except for those incurred by me when my mom caught me torturing the dogs.

But little did mom know that her son would grow up to work in a science lab, where he gets paid big money to torture dogs and make monkeys smoke cigarettes and force rodents to wear mascara. MUHAHAHAHHA. . . No, I’m kidding again. I just thought that would be a cool ending to this.

You know what’s sad? I go back to work tomorrow, kids. And that means I won’t have so much free time to dedicate to this stuff. My last free night, and I spent it writing this drek. That’s just sad. Can’t wait to see what Jason has to say about this one. And somehow I doubt I’ll have to wait long to find out. Bleh.

The problem with car chase scenes in movies is they’re so unrealistic. All those narrow escapes and cars jumping over other cars, it just doesn’t happen that way. How do I know? I’ve actually been in one. No, really. Here’s how it all went down:

I was a Senior in high school and it was Senior Ditch Day. That should be pretty self-explanatory, but for my slower readers, here’s the gist: At lunchtime, we drove off campus and we didn’t come back.

Most of the cool kids took the day off to go drink wine coolers or play video games. My friends and I decided to go to the music store to get me a new trumpet stand. Yeah, I’ve been a dork since birth.

Oh, one more tidbit of information: I got into an accident in my MG earlier in the week. So for this trip, I was actually driving my dad’s car: a ’73 Toyota Corolla hatchback. Uh huh. I was stylin’.

Anyhow, I picked up the trumpet stand and I made my way home on the 405. The drive on the freeway went fine. But as soon as I turned off onto the Bolsa Chica offramp, things started getting a little hairy.

I noticed a large pick-up truck was following me a little too closely. So naturally, I tapped the brake pedal to flash my red lights at him. That probably wasn’t a good idea. Once we made our way around the curve and onto the four-lane street, we got into the far left lane. And Mr. Pick-up, he drove up right along side of us. Then he rolled down his window and pulled out. . . a crow bar. I kid you not. He reached his hand out and started swinging at my dad’s car.

What the fuck was I going to do? I was ten minutes away from home and I had a crazy guy trying to put a hole in my dad’s car. Fortunately for us, it seemed he was only trying to scare us. He yelled some obscenities and then moved into the center lane. We pulled into the left turn lane and I glanced at him. He was still yelling at me. So, of course, I gave him the finger — another bad idea.

I turned left and I glanced in my rearview mirror to see something I’ve never seen before: a pick-up truck making a left turn from the center lane. The motherfucker was after us. I hit the gas, and ten minutes later, the engine responded. Fucking piece of shit Toyota. Where the fuck was I going to go?

Our first thought: make him follow us to the police station. He’s not going to beat us to a pulp in front of a bunch of cops. But there was a problem with that: The police station was a good fifteen minutes or so away. And as soon as we hit the first red light, we realized we really couldn’t stop. That meant only one thing: make a right turn.

So we did just that. I turned right down this small street and then quickly turned left to cut through the McDonnell Douglas parking lot. This would’ve been a great getaway route, had I been driving my MG. But I was in the Corolla, and every time I took a sharp turn (and there were a lot of them), the car would literally hop its way around them. Needless to say, I wasn’t building up any distance between me and that truck. He was right on my tail.

Funny thing about being in a car chase: You don’t think too clearly. My entire body was shaking, especially my left leg, which was bouncing uncontrollably while I desperately tried to steer the rickety vehicle around the turns.

Anyhow, somehow we made it through that parking lot and we were soon turning right onto a major street. I’m not exactly sure how we made it over to the next major street. Maybe we saw a left turn light at just the right time. Maybe we cut through a residential street. I can’t remember. Like I said, you don’t think too clearly.

But eventually, we had to run into some traffic. And we did. That’s when Mr. PIckup got out of his truck and started making his way over to our car. My friend noticed the left turn light just turned green, so he yelled at me to pull into that lane. And I did, my body still full of adrenaline, I put the car in first and accelerated my way through the light.

As we turned into this residential street. There was only one thing on my mind: get to the other side. Don’t dilly daly. He could still come looking for us. That’s when I saw this sedan up ahead. It was just sitting there in street, not doing anything, like the driver was asleep or something.

“Go around it!” my friend shouted.

I turned the wheel and hit the accelerator. And before I could react, that previously motionless vehicle made a sudden left turn into their driveway. CRUNCH! I slammed right into the side the car. I couldn’t believe it. The chase was over.

Of course, this was my second accident in less than a week. So I was a little upset. Okay, I was banging on the roof of my car and maybe a few tears spilled out. I think there was just something in my eye.

The lady whose car I managed to sideswipe went into her house and called the cops to take down a report. Ten minutes later, the fuzz pulled up. We told them the entire story. And as we were telling it, we started to realize how incredibly preposterous it sounded.

Then he asked us one question that we’ll never be able to forget: Did you get a license plate number? And you know something, it never even crossed our minds. You’d think that’d be the first thing you’d think of. Guy’s chasing you with a crow bar, get a license plate number. But not one of us — and there were three of us in the car — even considered taking down the plate. Like I said, you don’t think too clearly when you’re in the middle of a car chase.

Okay, this all happened about ten years ago: So I’m hanging out with my friend one evening and he says he could really go for a cup of coffee. I think about it, and I suggest this quirky looking place I’ve passed by a few dozen times called “Les Beans.”

Anyhow, we park on the street and make our way up the pathway to the entrance. It’s pretty dark outside. Some couple is making out in the shadows. I grab for the door. And when I open it, we find this woman standing at a microphone in front of all these people. Everyone turns to look at us. It’s obvious we’ve interrupted something: Poetry night. Figures.

We quickly turn around and get out of there. As we’re walking back to the car, we pass by that couple that’s been making out. My friend quietly informs me that those two people doing the tongue tango are actually both women. I glance over and sure enough, he’s right.

So we drive off. And being the insensitive men that we are, we start joking around:

“Ha. Lezz Beans.”

“Yeah. Lezz Bians.”

“Wait a minute. Les Beans. Lesbians?”

That’s when it hit us: Every person in that place was female. It was a lesbian coffee house. Les Beans. How could we be so fucking naive?