So get this: My computer decided to take a crap this weekend, after I spent half a day working on a new blog entry. Ha ha ha ha ha.

No, wait, it gets better: I lost a lot of my files, so I drove to CompUSA to pick up Disk Warrior as a last resort. Ah, but today is Easter Sunday and, apparently, the folks at CompUSA were too busy hunting for Easter eggs to open up their fucking store. Funny, huh?

Which meant it was off to the Apple Store in Santa Monica. For folks who have no idea where I live (all of you), that’s about twenty-five minutes away. Of course, I decided to call first. I wasn’t about to head over there unless I was certain the store was open and the fucking software I needed was there. I’m no idiot. (or so I thought)

So I called directory assistance on my mobile phone, as I raced down the highway to the Apple Store (yes, it’s still legal to do that here in SoCal). Directory assistance patched me through to the Apple Store, which dumped me into their automated phone center. I was supposed to press “5″ for all other questions. I accidentally pushed “2,” which kicked me into Tech Support. FUCK!

So I redialled directory assistance. They credited my account for the previous call and patched me through again. Finally, I got in touch with an Apple Store rep. They were open and they had Disk Warrior! Thank goodness for pagans.

So I got home and ran Disk Warrior on my computer, only to find out it was too late. My disk was done for. Fortunately, I backed up my hard disk not that long ago. So I decide to reinstall the system software and start over.

The reinstallation of the software went OK. But as I was waiting for the back-up process to complete, I pushed back in my desk chair and glided gracefully across my polished cement floor. Then I heard an unsettling thunk. I turned around, to discover one of the casters on my desk chair caught the power cord to my laptop, pulling it off my desk, resulting in an impromptu suicidal swan dive onto the cold cement floor.

Now my computer’s really dead. Yeah, I’m an idiot. And I’m fucked. With stories like this, why do I need to make anything up?

I thought I’d take a break from my usual true-to-life accounts to share with you a little fable my mother used to tell me after she tucked me into bed. This is exactly how I remember it:

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, a great adventure took place . . .

No, wait. That’s not right. Sorry, it’s been so long. The last time my mom told me this story, I was just a wide-eyed child of 15. OK, let’s try this again . . .

Once upon a time, there was a tiny little house that sat in a tiny little town, just north of Devonshire. And inside this tiny little house, lived a tiny little woman whose only companions were two tiny little dogs. Occasionally, those tiny little dogs would need to go outside to leave tiny little poops on the tiny little lawn. And those tiny little poops would sit there for weeks, because the tiny little woman preferred to watch her tiny little TV than clean up tiny little poops.

Over time, the tiny little poops grew into one enormous mound of shit. It wasn’t cute anymore. It was fucking disgusting. The tiny little woman’s tiny little neighbors banged on her tiny little door with all their might. But the tiny little bitch wouldn’t answer her tiny little door.

A massive swarm of tiny little flies descended on the tiny little town, blocking out the tiny little sun. The tiny little mayor called in the tiny little police to break down the tiny little woman’s tiny little door. To their surprise, the tiny little woman had reinforced her tiny little door with a thick (but tiny) layer of impenetrable steel.

Property values quickly plummeted. People abandoned their tiny little homes to escape the overwhelming stench of tiny little feces. You’d think it would be like living on a farm: eventually, you’d get used to the smell. But, no, the odor kept getting worse and worse.

The tiny little dogs couldn’t even go outside anymore to do their business. The door was blocked with their own waste. Instead, the pooches would sit there at the window, yipping away at the swarm of flies outside, as the tiny little woman sat in her tiny little hazmat suit, watching her tiny little TV, inhaling oxygen from her abundant supply of tiny little tanks.

She was quite happy, this tiny little woman. She had the whole town to herself. Occasionally, she’d take her tiny little dogs out for a walk (wearing one of her many hazmat suits) and let them leave tiny little poops all over the tiny little sidewalk. Before too long, there was absolutely no place left for this tiny little woman to walk without stepping on tiny little poops. Still, it was better than going through the trouble of cleaning up after her dogs.

Then, one day, a carpenter ant scurried its way through the tiny little village, crushing the tiny little woman and her tiny little house and her fucking tiny little yippy dogs. The moral of this story: Don’t be such a lazy ass and pick up after your dog. Now shut up and go to sleep.

Before I knew it, I was crying my way to slumberland. Ah, memories.

I was driving home from work the other day, when I suddenly felt my stomach take a turn for the worse. Within moments, it became clear: whatever was inside me no longer wished to be there.

I quickly scanned the road ahead for anywhere that might offer relief to a distressed motorist. Alas, the only place that seemed to have any promise was an establishment by the name of “Mickey’s Meat Bar.”

The interior of Mickey’s was rather quaint — from what I could see, anyway. I had to stand in the doorway for a few minutes to let my eyes adjust to the lighting (or lack thereof).

As my pupils did what they could, I started to become aware of the distinct aromas of sizzling meat and cheap beer: meat-bar smells. I would have loved to investigate these scents a bit more, but I found my digestive tract pulling me past the meat bar and towards the lavatory.

The men’s room accommodations left a lot to be desired. There wasn’t even an attendant to offer me a choice of reading material. But then again, I wasn’t planning on staying very long. I chose the stall with the least amount of graffiti, lowered my Dockers and planted my rear on the unexpectedly warm seat. (Apparently, sanitary items such as seat protectors were a luxury item Mickey’s customers could do without.)

[After numerous threatening emails, I decided to remove this paragraph. Suffice it to say, a lot of crude things were mentioned and in very graphic detail. Consider yourself lucky. The content that follows should be much easier on your stomach.]

In any case, thirty minutes later, I was ready for a proper clean-up. That’s when I made a shocking discovery: there was no toilet tissue to be had. Fortunately, around that same time, another meat-bar patron entered the restroom and took his place on the throne next to mine.

Now, I’m not one to bother another man while he’s in the process of answering nature’s call, but I really had no choice. Besides, I spotted a hole in the divider that seemed to be placed there for just such emergencies. Scrawled above the hole (with what I could only assume was some kind of hunter’s knife) were the words Tell Me What You Want, Baby. And so I did:

“Excuse me.” my words echoed off the musty walls.

“Huh?” His voice sounded harsh, like a man who just ate ten pounds of overcooked meat.

“Uh, yes, I was wondering if you might offer me a little relief here.”

There was silence. Then he grumbled, “It’s a two-way street, buddy.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know, you do me, I’ll do you.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not following you.”

“OK, fine. I’ll follow you. But no funny business.”

“Uh, you’re losing me here.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that. Just stick it in the hole.”

I looked around the stall. Stick it in the hole? What was he talking about? That’s when it dawned on me. I quickly removed the empty cardboard tube from its rusty spindle, then slipped it through the opening in the divider. To my surprise, it was a perfect fit. Things were starting to make sense.

He rudely yanked the roll out of my hand. “Are you fucking retarded?”

“Sir, I beg of you, please, if you could just spare a few sheets of toilet tissue, I would be forever grateful.”

“Why? You already finished?”

“Well, I should say so. I’ve been finished for almost 30 minutes.”

The next thing I knew, about twenty sheets of toilet tissue were being shoved through the hole, followed by some crude comment like “Here, have a fucking field day.” And then he left. He didn’t even bother to flush. Or wash his hands. Honestly, I’m not sure what he was doing there in the first place.

A few days later, a friend of mine told me that this small window I discovered in the men’s room actually has a name. They call it the “glory hole.” When asked what its intended purpose was, my colleague merely gave me a strange look and said, “You know . . .” And then his voice trailed off.

Oh, I know, all right. And honestly, I don’t understand why people get so embarrassed when they’re discussing normal bodily functions. Everyone eats. Everyone must dispose of their waste material. And should those people find themselves sitting on an unusually warm seat with nothing but an empty cardboard tube to provide them with relief, I certainly hope they’ll be as lucky as I to find an orifice in the men’s room where it’s needed most. The glory hole: Oh, what a glorious hole it is.

I’ve been told by many that I think too negatively. Well, that may be the case now, but I’m determined to change all that. And there could be now better place to start than with my forehead. Why? Well, it’s huge. And I’m not the only one who thinks that. But the important thing to understand here is that there are a lot of advantages to having a enormous cranium. For instance . . .

THE BENEFITS OF HAVING A GIGANTIC FOREHEAD
(In no particular order)

1. Never have to worry about getting shampoo in my eyes.

2. Gives shy people something to stare at while talking to me.

3. Can be used as a quick, make-shift screen for spontaneous vacation slideshows.

4. More skin to love.

5. Halloween: A little green makeup, I’m Frankenstein.

6. Hair won’t have as far to recede.

7. Draws attention away from my Spock-like eyebrows.

8. Makes me appear smarter (Spock-like eyebrows also help).

9. Draws attention away from my Spock-like ears.

10. I look damn good in a top hat.

11. If I was stranded on a deserted island, and I spent a good amount of time out of the shade, my sunburnt head could be used as a distress beacon, easily visible from an altitude of over 30,000 feet — day or night.

OK, that last one was deplorable. I obviously have a lot of work to do . . . eh, screw it. Being positive sucks.

Yeah, I listen to NPR. But I’m not telling you that to impress you. It’s just a way to lead into today’s topic. And what is that topic? Jeeze, would ya give me a fucking break? I’m barely into one paragraph. Have some patience, will ya?

Sorry. Where was I? Oh right. NPR. Yeah, I listen to it a lot. They have some great programs, and I enjoy almost all of them. Almost all of them. There is one feature I just cannot stand. Oddly enough, it has to do with writers.

Basically, here’s how it works: Someone sends in some clever essay they wrote, and if it’s chosen, they’re invited into the studio to read it on the air. The essays are on different topics, and yet I always hear them exactly the same way. It goes something like this:

I can’t believe how clever I am. The way I craft a sentence should be studied by all who yearn to write. I am a literary virtuoso. Not only that, I’m funny.

Listen to the way I read my words, enunciating every fucking syllable, emphasizing certain words. It’s all in the inflection, you see.

God, I love to hear my own voice. The only thing I love to hear more than my own voice is my own voice reading my own words. Yes, my words. Words I spent hours agonizing over, and finally, finally, someone has recognized my genius.

You all want to be me. You wish you could enunciate and inflect the way i do. You wish you were as witty as I am. But you are all fools. You aren’t worthy of my time. Do you have any idea how funny and clever I am?

I hate pretentious writers. Especially when they recite their own words. And don’t even get me started with poets.