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.

So there I was, having breakfast at the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills, just as I do every Thursday morning. . .

Okay, that’s a lie. Until last Thursday, I’d never been to the Four Seasons — in any city. I was just there attending an Ad Club event, which actually turned out to be pretty interesting. It was all about the future of Interactive Advertising. Where is it headed? And what can we do to make it better? My boss was one of the panelists.

At this point, you’re probably wondering what any of this has to do with Isabella Rosellini’s head. Well, hold your goddamn horses. I’m getting to it.

Anyhow, I saw some pretty cool stuff during the Ad Club event. We’re not talking about those annoying pop-up or pop-behind windows you encounter at every free website you visit. No, this it stuff you’d actually send your friends to go check out. Fucking amazing shit: Ads with cars jumping from one ad banner to another. Mountain climbers climbing the Web page. Shit like that.

And, frankly, I was lucky I even got to see it. You know that whole Murphy’s Law thing? Well, it’s fucking true. I don’t live far from Beverly Hills. So, for a change, I wasn’t in a rush to get out the door that morning. Normally, the trip would take about fifteen minutes. I gave myself a generous 20 minutes.

So at about ten past the hour, I go down to my car and guess what I find? Yeah, a flat tire. And, of course, I had no time to change it. But I wasn’t dumb enough to drive fifteen miles on a flat. However, I was just stupid enough to coast down to the corner to fill up my tire with air. Fortunately, the tire didn’t explode in my face as I was filling it up, and soon I was off to Beverly Hills.

I arrived at the Ad Club breakfast in plenty of time. I got to watch my boss kick ass with her presentation. I congratulated her and then I made my way towards the exit.

And you’ll never guess who I saw in the lobby as I was leaving. Yeah, it was Isabella Rosselini. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I’ve seen her in films before. But until you encounter her in person, you have no idea how incredibly, amazingly, estonishingly short she is. Yeah, short. I mean, I’m average height (six feet) and she probably came up to my chest. Granted, she’s got that whole ageless beauty thing going for her. But I had to look down to see it. Which is just wrong. I mean, Who am I to look down at Isabella Rosselini? I should’ve dropped to my knees and kissed the ground she walked on. But instead, I just stared at the top of her head. And that’s when I discovered something I never knew about Isabella Rosselini: Even her scalp is beautiful.

Oh jagged gelato spoon, how I hate you. At first, you seemed so harmless, just a plastic utensil fabricated for my favourite Italian dessert. But as I’ve learned, looks can be deceiving.

I placed that wicked spoon, stacked with gelato, into my eager mouth. But as I slid it out, my upper lip got a sudden wake-up call. Could it be? Surely, I must be imagining it. Nobody would design a plastic spoon with edges so sharp.

I took another bite. The spoon bit back. My lemon vanilla dessert now had a swirl of red flowing through it: blood red. I should’ve stopped right there. But the gelato was just too good. I attempted to improvise. I turned the spoon upside down. This only achieved one thing: a laceration of my bottom lip. Hm, this must be how people become masochists.

Pleasure, then pain. Pleasure, then pain. What have I done to deserve such torture? Have I angered the frozen-food god? I’ve only indulged in the finest premium ice creams. My freezer is always full. Wait a minute, I did recently purchase a pint of non-dairy frozen dessert. It was made with almonds, but it tasted like cow piss. I eventually threw it out. This is about the frozen cow piss thing, isn’t it? I learned my lesson, I swear. There must be some way I can make it up to you. I could drive a Good Humour truck for a month. Or maybe build you a shrine out of used popsicle sticks. Just give me a sign!

The automatic ice maker just released another load into my freezer. Is that a sign? What does that mean? Am I forgiven? Or have I angered you? Is this your idea of some kind of a sick joke, making me fear one of life’s few pleasures?

And so I sit here, confused, running my tongue over the wounds in my mouth, knowing there’s only one thing that can soothe my shredded flesh. Yeah, you guessed it, more gelato.

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.

I was driving down the road, exceeding the speed limit, when my progress was suddenly retarded. The car in front of me was travelling at an excruciatingly slow pace. And when I say slow, I mean slowwwwww. I wasn’t even sure this vehicle was actually moving. But by using the parked cars on the side of the road as a measure of speed, I was able to determine the velocity of the vehicle at somewhere between .18 and 2 MPH.

As a concerned citizen, I immediately wanted to know what might be troubling this driver, and I expressed this by exclaiming, “What the fuck’s your problem?” That’s when I noticed a familar permanently-seated stick figure hanging from her rearview mirror: the handicapped parking pass.

Well, that explained it. Or did it? I mean, let’s say this person actually was handicapped. Does that give her the right to drive like a moron? Don’t handicapped people have to take a driving test like everybody else?

Come to think of it, what does the handicapped parking pass really mean? Is it just for people who can’t walk very well? This one seemed to be for someone who couldn’t drive. Either that or she was mentally handicapped.

Then I started to wonder about how she became handicapped. Was she born that way? Was it a tragic rollerblading incident? Did she defer on her loan payments to Louie “Meat Cleaver” Vinzini? Or pehaps her life was changed in a more obvious way: by driving like an idiot.

They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Those people are idiots. Being in love is one of the most amazing things in the world. Losing a love sucks donkey turds. That’s why I’ve decided to avoid the whole love thing altogether and just stick to good old fashioned lust.

Yes, lust. Unbridled passion without all the emotional baggage. Letting your animal urges take over while leaving your heart behind. It’s fun. It’s good exercise. And it can’t hurt you.

Oh what I wouldn’t do to be in lust again. I’m talking true lust. Like when you feel that certain ping in your stomach the moment you lay eyes upon them. Okay, the ping actually occurs a little lower than the stomach, and it’s not really a ping per se, but I don’t want to get too graphic here.

The important thing to remember is lust is all around us. But it won’t find you. You have to go find it, in swinger clubs, and at state-regulated brothels. Pornograghy may also seem like a good option. But don’t fool yourself. That’s only unrequited lust. And it’s only fun for about fifteen minutes — thirty, if you’re talented.

Keep in mind, lust is not so easy to see. It requires a lot of work to uncover. And a good amount of distilled spirits. But be patient, my friends. Before you know it, you’ll be looking into the eyes of someone special again, bouncing so furiously upon them that you’re in danger of cracking their pelvic bones. And the funny thing is, you won’t care. Because you’re not in love. You’re in lust.

This is something I’ve never told anyone, not even the transvestite prostitute I visit each week. Okay, that sounded bad, didn’t it? It’s not like we’re having sex or anything. It’s sort of a Big Brother outreach program. We just talk about stuff and go see a movie. No, really. Fuck, I don’t know why I’m even bothering to explain this to you. What Stevie Dicks and I do together is our business.

Anyhow, back to that thing I’ve never told anyone. God, this is so embarrassing. Okay, I’m just going to put it out there. Here it goes. . . I used to do work for prop comics.

Wait, wait! Don’t go! It was a tough time in my life. I had a lot of debt from all the 900 numbers I called when I was in college. Anyhow, it wasn’t like I was hanging out with the prop comics. I just made their props.

You know, say a guy had this idea for a joke: Chicken of The Sea. There are lot of ways you can do that. I mean, you could take a rubber chicken and slap some gills on it, maybe make a little SCUBA outfit for it. But that’s too obvious. What I did was I started with a fake fish, then I slapped a chicken beak on it, and finally, I added some feathers. Chicken of The Sea, get it? Yeah, well, fuck you. It wasn’t my joke. I just made the goddamn prop.

A lot of people think that those prop comics make their own props. I mean, that’s why we laugh. The joke isn’t funny, but we laugh because we can’t believe that someone would take the time to sew individual feathers onto a fish for a five-second gag.

Speaking of which, do you have any idea how long it takes to sew 35 feathers on a stupid fish? Fifteen goddamn days. Sure, I got paid a lot of money for it, but I don’t think it was enough. I mean, it would’ve been worth it, if it was a decent gag. But, come on, Chicken of the Sea? Chicken of the fucking Sea? That fucking redheaded hack.

Anyhow, that was pretty much the last straw (this is where the comic would hold up a box of straws and take out the last one). I slave away for days and they can get all the glory? No thanks. I decided it was time to leave the biz.

See, the problem with prop comics today is they just don’t give a shit. They glue a plastic nose on a bottle of wine and hold it up and say “I’ve got a nose for wine.” What the fuck does that mean? A nose for wine? Who says that? Have you ever heard anyone utter that phrase? I certainly haven’t. Stupid motherfuckers. Well, when all else fails, you can always smash a watermelon with an oversized sledgehammer. Gets ‘em every time.

Have you heard about all this unprotected sex stuff? Frankly, I’m a little disturbed by it. I mean, your sex is made up of some pretty delicate material. You should really take better care of it.

That’s why I always protect my sex. I wear a cup. All the time. And I stuff it with cotton. Gotta protect the boys. I mean, what if someone walked up to me and punched me in the nuts? I’d be ready. Would you? Not if your sex was unprotected, you wouldn’t.

The cup I used to wear was plastic. But then I started to think: What if a rabid dog attacked me and chewed off my manhood? Exactly. So now I wear a steel cup. Sure, it’s a little less comfortable. But it’s a small price to pay for a well-protected sex.

I admit, back when I didn’t know any better, I had an unprotected sex. Nothing but a couple of layers of material protecting me from sudden castration. Fortunately, I managed to avoid any real danger. But I can’t believe how naive I was.

All it takes is one kid running with scissors. One fastball thrown a little too low. A runaway power saw. A miscalculated hurdle jump. A run in with an angry midget. Yeah, I think I’ve made my point. Keep that sex protected, people. You’ve only got one. Well, okay, most of us only have one.

Have you ever done something so incredibly stupid that you question your own intelligence? I certainly have. Many times.

The first time I can remember doing something really stupid was back when I was maybe ten years old. It was bedtime and I was still pretty wound up. I raced downstairs to kiss my parents good night, but when my sock-clad feet hit the linoleum floor, I went flying. I slid all the way into the kitchen and ended up slamming my forehead onto the kitchen counter. Of course, my father raced over to see if I was okay. Since I wasn’t drooling and had no facial tics, there didn’t seem to be any brain damage. I went to bed a little dazed, but otherwise fine.

The next morning, I went downstairs to have some breakfast. My dad was beating some eggs. Suddenly, he stopped. He reached down to the kitchen counter and lifted up a big chunk of tile. “I thought I heard something crack last night.” Apparently, I survived the accident, but the kitchen counter wasn’t so lucky.