im sorry but if ur one of these people who writes emails without using any capitalization or any punctuation ur an idiot i mean do you expect people to spend the time to decipher your messages or are you just so fucking busy that you cant take the time to use a damn comma or an apostrophe or a fucking period you might think it is cute but it really is not it is annoying and frankly it makes you look pretty foolish so just stop it OK got it good

It seemed like it was months since they last made love. True, passionate love. The kind of love that would cause a person to walk funny for the next few days. But tonight was the night. All those bottled up emotions were released in every powerful thrust. The box springs squeaked with unbridled fury. The headboard pounded against the wall. They were no longer civilized human beings. They were animals, wild animals. They had lost the ability to speak. All they could do was express their love through various grunts and moans. And I, I was there beneath them, lying in my own bed, a book in my hands and my eyes on the words before me. But I found my mind wandering, fantasizing, dreaming of being in that room above me, with only one objective on my mind: I would run up to that bed, raise my trusty bullhorn to my lips and shout, “Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to read! Jeeze, have some fucking goddamn courtesy!” And then, of course, I would run like hell.

Day 1:

Holy fucking shit! I’m fucking invisible! I can’t believe it really worked! Look at me! Oh wait, that’s right. You can’t! Hahahahahaha! Fuck you! Fuck you all! I’m fucking invisible! YEAH!

Day 2:

Woke up this morning in the lab: still invisible. That must have been some potent shit I cooked up. Better work on the formula some more. On a side note, it’s kind of cool how when I’m typing, the keys on the keyboard seem to move themselves. Hollywood can’t pull off special effects like this.

Anyhow, I’m not sure if any of my colleagues are ready to know about what happened to me just yet. So I’ve decided to pretend like I’m not here, a kind of sociology experiment, if you will.

Ladies locker room, here I come!

Day 3:

Fuck. I’ve never had so many doors slammed in my face. Elbows in my ribs. Shoulders in my chest. And high heels dug into my feet. I am aching.

The ladies locker room idea? Sucked. First of all, in order to be completely invisible, I had to walk around naked. What’s worse, it seemed like all the hot girls decided to take the day off—but the grandmas were out in full force. Ugh. I tried to close my eyes, but I forgot my eyelids were invisible, too. I hope this shit wears off soon. I need some sleep.

Day 4:

I can’t believe this. I had a hard time sleeping with no eyelids, so I ended up injecting myself with some experimental drug I found in the lab. Let me tell you, it’s not a good idea to be tripping when you’re invisible. I was freaking out because all of these objects were moving around by themselves. My head is aching. I need some breakfast.

Day 5:

I had a really shocking discovery this morning. Apparently, while my body is invisible, the food I consume isn’t. Sorry, but I do not need an anatomy lesson at 7:30 in the morning. Disgusting.

Oh, and get this: Since I’ve been absent for so long, they’ve decided to start looking for someone new to take over my job. That’s when I made a huge mistake: I tried to speak to one of my coworkers. Freaked the shit out of Janice. She ran screaming out of the lab. Of course, I ran after her, but . . . yeah, I got a door in the face again. Thank god my blood is invisible too. Ouch.

Day 6:

Well, they called in the paranormal investigators today. Those nut jobs claim they can sense an energy in the room. Yeah, right. I just wanna go over there and slap them around a bit. But to be honest, those contraptions they have scare the shit out of me.

Day 7:

Four priests showed up today to perform an exorcism. So I figured it was time to come clean. I just spoke up and told everyone exactly what had happened. And you know what? Those fuckers did the exorcism anyway! The ceremony went on for hours. Every time they’d stop, I’d try to explain my situation and they’d start right up again. Finally, I gave up and left to get a taco. That’s when I realized I had no way to buy a taco. And I had left my security pass in the lab. Let me tell you, it was a cold night.

Day 8:

I have feet now, about up to the ankle. That’s it. When I look down, I can see into the marrow of my bones. Pretty disgusting, even for a scientist. Which means, if anyone finds where I’m hiding, they’ll discover these severed walking feet. Probably try to chase them around the room with a broom or something. I should’ve become a lawyer like my father.

Day 9:

Okay, I now have legs. Just up to the knees, though. And no hair. I guess hair takes longer to show up, or maybe it never will. I’m starting to appreciate the benefits of animal testing. PETA can eat my invisible ass.

Day 10:

Fuck. Remember what I said about my invisible ass? Well, it ain’t invisible anymore. I just wish the rest of me would show up so I could quit hiding in the equipment supply room. Incidentally, that guy they got to replace me is really doing well. They keep talking about how much nicer he is than me. Little did I know that the equipment supply room was the main place to go to share the latest gossip.

Day 11:

Well, I’m delighted to report that I have a torso. Now all I need is a head. And hair. What the fuck is up with the hair?

Day 12:

I’m back! My beautiful body is back! Yeah! I never thought it would happen, but the hell is finally over! I can’t wait to see everyone’s faces when I show up for work on Monday.

Day 13:

OK, that didn’t go so well. I walked in and everyone looked at me like I had just drop kicked their favorite pet. Nobody wanted to hear about my great discovery. And those that heard any of my story, didn’t believe it. Oh sure, they have no problem believing that the fucking lab was haunted, but they wouldn’t believe that I discovered a way to turn invisible? Anyhow, within minutes, security was on the scene and quickly escorted me out the door.

That’s where the diary ends. Oh, and as for that secret formula, I have no idea what happened to it. But shortly after the lab’s janitor mysteriously disappeared, the ladies locker room started being haunted by what the papers called “The Groping Ghost.” Coincidence?

When we last left our hero, he was riding a man-beast towards the entrance of a swanky hotel/resort. And if you have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about, stop what you’re doing and scroll down and read Part One first.

And so, without further delay, I bring you Part Two:

So there I was, riding this gentle giant towards the gold-plated doors of the Montagery Resort, wondering what might be waiting for me on the other side:

A gold-plated wonderland with gold-plated walkways and gold-plated walls and gold-plated elevators and gold-plated elevator attendants with gold-plated teeth and . . .

Just then, two non-gold-plated attendants opened the doors for me, ushering me into what could only be uncreatively described as nirvana: The floors were adorned with the finest Italian marble and exotic plants seemed to be growing from everywhere, making the place seem like some kind of fantastical jungle paradise. In Italy. OK, so maybe their interior decorator could have used a few tips, but his (or her) heart was in the right place.

“Good morning, Mr. Googlethorp,” came a soft, feminine voice. “I’m glad to see you’ve arrived safely,”

I glanced down from the height of my man-beast to find an adorable woman smiling up at me. “Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there.”

She was dressed all in white and her hair was the purest blonde.

“I’m Angela,” her vocal chords chimed. “We spoke on the phone this morning.”

“Oh, right. Thank you again for your help with the traffic.”

“It was my nothing, Mr. Googlethorp. Here at the Montagery, your pleasure is our pleasure.”

Your pleasure is our pleasure. Your pleasure is our pleasure: I knew it was a line they fed all their guests. But I liked the way it sounded pouring from her lips, like fresh-spun honey, thick and sweet. I imagined that phrase stamped in gold at the employee entrance. Or maybe stitched on a baseball cap. Printed on a bumper sticker. Or tattooed just above one particular hostess’s angelic derrière.

As I continued to have impure thoughts about Angela, she led the way to the bar and my man-beast followed. Within minutes, we arrived at my reserved table and to my surprise, my favorite drink was already waiting for me: Lemon-lime Gatorade and Bourbon. They even trimmed the glass with a plastic monkey, just the way I like it. I mean, some people prefer those stupid fucking little mermaids that hang on the rim of the glass. But really, when it comes to drink decoration, nothing beats a good monkey.

So I downed a couple or six G & Bs, and before I knew it, I was in my room, sleeping soundly. No, seriously. I have no idea how I got there. But once I managed to open my eyes and crawl out of my 500-thread-count cocoon, I discovered just how much the staff had done for me:

A pair of heated slippers was waiting on either side of the bed, to ensure my feet would remain warm and comfortable. And a fluffy robe was left out for me to slip into. Which was a good thing, since I was only in my boxer shorts . . . Wait a minute, how the fuck did I get in my boxer shorts? Was I really that drunk?

As I slipped into my robe, I glanced over and noticed some additional gifts that were left for me on the night stand: a small box of chocolates and a flute of chilled champagne with a strawberry resting at the bottom of the glass.

I chugged the champagne and devoured the strawberry, then stuck my fingernail in all the chocolates. They were all the same: Dark chocolate Pepsodent creams. My favorite. It’s like eating candy and brushing your teeth at the same time.

I invented Pepsodent creams when I was ten years old. First, I sucked out the liquid filling of a cherry cordial with a cocktail straw, then injected the Pepsodent into the resulting cavity using a standard everyday toothpaste syringe. Needless to say, it’s an acquired taste. And thanks to the Montagery Resort, I was lucky enough to have acquired an entire box of them. How did they find out about Pepsodent creams? Did they interview my friends and family? I sure as fuck didn’t tell them. What else did they know about me?

Just then, the phone rang. It was Angela again. I knew her voice the moment I heard her breath hit the receiver.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Googlethorp.”

“Hey, Angela.”

“I didn’t want to call until you woke up.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You’ll see that we took care of everything for you. Please let me know if there is anything else you need.”

“OK, sure. Thanks.”

“Enjoy your afternoon, Mr. Googlethorp.”

“Uh huh . . . Hey, wait. How did you know I just woke up? . . . Hello?? Hello???”

Fuck. As nice as the place was, it was really starting to give me the creeps. What I needed was a relaxing hot shower. I went to my suitcase to get some fresh clothes, only to discover that someone had unpacked for me and placed my clothes in various drawers. It was a nice gesture. But exactly who was folding up my underwear while I was passed out in the bed? And come to think of it, who undressed me for bed? What kind of fucking hotel was this anyway? Rather than go into panic-attack mode, I headed for the shower.

The bathroom was breathtaking. The same Italian marble that was in the lobby, covered the walls and floors. I guess they got a great deal on Italian marble, or maybe they knew a guy. The shower itself was so advanced it took me over twenty minutes to figure out how to turn it on. Jets of water were shooting at me from every angle. It wasn’t as much invigorating as it was frightening. By the time I figured out how to turn the shower off, I was exhausted.

I stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel.

“Enjoy your shower?”

I quickly covered myself up and spun around, expecting to see someone standing in the bathroom, but no one was there.

“Angela?”

“Yes, sorry to startle you like that.” Her voice was coming from a speaker in the ceiling.

“Are you watching me, right now?”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“Is that even legal?”

“Well, I think it is. After all, you’re aware that we’re watching you. And you signed the agreement before you were even accepted to be a Montagery guest.”

“I did?”

“Yes. Please, finish drying off. I’ll send Edgar up to take you to lunch.”

“No, no. Thanks. Uh, can you not watch me for a few minutes, please?”

“I’m sorry. That’s against the Montagery Doctrine.”

“Well, it would really please me if you stopped watching me for thirty minutes.”

“As you wish, Sir. Your pleasure is our –”

“pleasure. Yeah, yeah. I know, I know.”

I quickly dried off and got dressed. I could’ve spent an hour trying to find all the concealed cameras, but I decided it was best just to get the hell out there. I packed up my things, pulled on my shoes and went for the door.

It wouldn’t open. It was as if it was locked. From the outside.

“Is there something you need, Mr. Googlethorp?” the demonic Angela said.

“Yeah, how the fuck do you open this door?”

“Do you need to go somewhere? I’ll send Edgar.”

“NO! NO! NO! I just want to get the fuck out of here!”

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Googlethorp. Everything you need is right here.”

I started to wonder if that tattoo I imagined on Angela’s back might actually be a branding.

“I don’t give a fuck! I just want to go get some fresh air!”

“Edgar is on his way.”

“Fuck Edgar! I’ll walk!” I yanked on the door handle.

“Mr. Googlethorp, please, show some restraint.”

“Restraint? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

I ran for the porch and jumped over the railing. (Fortunately, I was too cheap to get a room above the first floor.) The moment I landed on the unnaturally green grass, sirens blared. I looked up and saw three businessmen in their three-piece suits, riding their man-beasts to their next conference. Everybody who wasn’t working for the resort was riding on someone’s back. I knew there was some kind of stupid metaphor in there somewhere, but I didn’t have the time to figure it out.

I stood up just in time to see a swarm of those fucking Montagerites running towards me. Rather than wait and discuss things in a civilized manner, I chose to run like hell. I ran through the golf course, where I was chased by several electric carts. I ran through the parking lot, dodging most of the parking attendants. And then I ran right into Edgar, man-beast extraordinaire. Fuck.

Edgar grabbed me by the back of the neck and squeezed just enough to keep me in check until a winded Angela caught up with us.

“Phew,” she panted in an unfortunately non-sexy manner. “you gave us quite a scare there.”

“Sorry. I just want to go home.”

“Nonsense. There is so much more to experience.”

“I don’t want to experience anything. I just want to go home.”

“I think what you need is pill #3.”

Angela reached into her bag of tricks and pulled out a bottle of pills.

“You’re going to drug me?” I stated the obvious.

“Drug you? We like to think of it as more like help you enjoy things more. Now open your mouth.”

Angela brought the bright yellow pill up to my tightly pursed lips.

“Oh, c’mon, Mr. Googlethorp. You’re going to make us do this the hard way? You’ll like it. It tastes like lemon. Yummy-nummy lemon!”

I shook my head. Angela looked at Edgar and gave him a nod. Before I knew what was happening, Edgar used his free hand to pinch the sides of my mouth and open my jaw.

“eh oo ee ee, eh I oo ee!” I screamed incoherently.

Angela lowered her hand and snapped her fingers. Immediately, Edgar let go of my face.

“What did you say, Mr. Googlethorp?”

“I said . . . ” I paused not so much for dramatic effect, but to stretch my sore jaw. “It would please me, if I could leave.”

Angela stood there like a brainwashed freak caught in headlights.

“This is highly unorthodox, Mr. Googlethorp.”

“But that is what would please me.”

“Well . . . ” The program clicked in. “Your pleasure is our pleasure.”

And so, they allowed me to leave the Montagery Resort, under one condition: that I ride Edgar to the valet station. So I hopped on old Edgar one last time and let him take me to my car. And as I drove off and saw the attendants waving to me in my rearview mirror, I breathed a sigh of relief. I vowed from that point on to stick to the understated elegance of five-star resorts, and leave the extra two stars for those who can appreciate them . . . Then again, they did have Pepsodent creams.

I watched the latest episode of The Apprentice last night, after TiVo faithfully recorded it for me. Sure, I was around to see it live. But I cannot stand watching all the bullshit they use to extend the show to an hour — the stupid montages of the city, the moronic rewards the winners receive. No thanks. In fact, this is the first season I’ve even cared to check out at all. So why watch it now? The theme: College Grads against High School Grads. Hey, that sounded like fun.

But it really hasn’t been all that good. The High School Grads have proven themselves to be worthy adversaries. And the College Grads aren’t doing so bad either. Donald Trump, on the other hand, is not so great on camera. And the challenges they receive for each episode are inane.

What could they possibly do to make me want to watch this show again? I found the answer in the latest issue of Variety magazine. Apparently, they’ve already selected the cast for next season. The concept: Infants Against Monkeys. OK, Donald, I’m all yours.

When I heard the hotel I’d be staying at was given a seven-star rating by the AAA Travel Guide, I knew I was in for quite an experience. After all, the AAA star-rating system only goes up to five stars. Which led me to the question, just what was it about this hotel that made it so special? Two-stars special. Fortunately, it wouldn’t take me long to find out.

There I was, speeding down Pacific Coast Highway, ignoring all the rules of the road, when my mobile phone started to ring. I turned down the volume of my Best of Quarterflash CD and answered the call:

“Hello?”

“Mr. Googlethorp?” *

“Yes . . .”

“This is Angela from the Montagery hotel and resort. How are you this morning?”

“Fine, thank you. Is there something wrong with my reservation?”

“No, not at all. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t having any trouble getting here.”

“Oh, no, I’m good. Right on schedule.”

” . . . ”

“Hello?”

“Well, not necessarily. I’ve pinpointed your location and it looks like you’re headed straight for a traffic jam.

“You pinpointed my location?”

“Yes. May I suggest an alternate route?”

“How did you pinpoint my location?”

“I’m sorry, sir. That’s a Montagery Resort secret. Now, if you’d please, make a left at the next street light.”

And so, against my better judgment, I followed Angela’s directions. And before I knew it, I was back on PCH and headed towards the resort. I thanked Angela, then hung up and turned my attention to the road.

As I sped past another cursing motorist, my mind began to race: Was Angela still watching me? And if so, how was she doing it? Did she track me through my cell phone? Was a helicopter tailing me from the sky? But more importantly, what was Angela wearing? And even more importantly, did she look as hot in person as she sounded on the phone?

After imagining a rather detailed fantasy involving Angela, myself and 500 pounds of partially melted sweet-cream butter (unsalted), I found myself pulling into the driveway of the Montagery Resort & Spa. To my surprise, not one attendant was waiting for me when I arrived.

There were five.

“Good morning, Mr. Googlethorp.” One valet opened my door and helped me out of the car, while another opened the trunk of my vehicle and removed my bags.

“Hi. Where do I check in?”

“Oh, no need, Mr. Googlethorp. Everything will be taken care of.”

I shrugged my shoulders and started to walk to the lobby. Another valet stopped me.

“Please, Mr. Googlethorp. What are you doing?”

“Uh, I thought I’d go to the lobby.”

“No, no, Mr. Googlethorp. There will be none of that here. This is a full-service resort. Our guests do not walk.”

“They don’t?”

“Of course not. Edgar will take you to where you need to go.”

“Edgar?”

“Edgar!” The valet yelled. And two seconds later, a large man, with a silk pad strapped to his back approached me, then turned around and crouched like a trained camel.”

“Uh, no thanks. I’ll walk.”

“Is Edgar not to your liking? He is a fine specimen, I assure you. You will be cradled in comfort wherever you go.”

“Yeah, I’m sure . . . I don’t know. It’s just a little creepy to me.”

“Creepy? Ha ha ha! It is clear that you are not accustomed to the luxury of The Montagery.”

“Yeah, I guess not.” I started to walk away again.

The valet grabbed my arm. “Please, sir, I beg of you, let Edgar take you. If the masters were to see you walking, they would no doubt take the lash to me.”

“The lash?”

“Lash? Did I say lash? Heh-heh, I meant cash. They would take the cash from me. You know, dock my pay.”

“You said lash.”

“Shhh,” he hushed me. The fucker hushed me! “Please, let Edgar take you.” His eyes pleaded with me.

“OK, OK. Fine. I’ll ride your man-beast into the lobby. But that’s as far as he’s taking me. I cannot believe I’m doing this.”

And so I hopped on Edgar, slipping my feet into the stirrups and grabbing onto the silk-lined handle attached to his back.
“Excellent. You won’t be disappointed. Take him to the bar, Edgar.”

“I’d really like to go up to my room, if you don’t mind.”

“Your room will be ready shortly. If you’ll just have a drink at the bar, we’ll come and get you after it’s been properly prepared. A table has been reserved just for you.”

“You reserved a table at the bar just for me? Why am I not surprised?”

“Ha ha. There a many other surprises in store for you during your stay, Mr. Googlethorp. Many surprises.” He said this with almost a sinister tone to his voice. I wasn’t sure if it was for foreshadowing or if he was just a stuck-up asshole.

Moments later, I was on my way. Amazingly, the ride wasn’t bumpy at all. Edgar knew how to to walk so that his body absorbed all the shock. It was like I was drifting on a cloud, only it was warmer and much easier to breathe. Within seconds, I got over the embarrassment of piggy-back riding my way around and found myself thinking about never walking again. If this was just a sample of what staying at the Montagery Resort was going to be like, there was no doubt in my mind, I was going to be a very happy customer.

To Be Continued. That’s what the “Part One” in the title means. Duh.

*My name has been changed because this one sounds funnier.

As many of you know, I haven’t been doing much with my life lately. For a long time, my anxiety problems have stopped me from attending social events. Then I wouldn’t go to family get-togethers. And lately, I haven’t even been going into work. Oh, I’ve been working still. But I’ve never left my desk here at home. And when you spend as much time at home as I do, you tend to look for other forms of social interaction.

Anyhow, let me get to the point. I got myself into some trouble online recently. Some pretty bad trouble. Nothing I want to share with you right now. It’s embarassing. But let’s just say, after everything is over, I probably won’t be allowed online anymore. Yeah, I fucked up. Sometimes, when you’re online, you feel like you’re invinsible. Like nobody can touch you. But let me warn you, people are watching you. They’ve apparently been watching me for over six months. And now they’ve got me. I am such a fucking moron. I have no idea how I got myself into this shit. I’m a good person. Really. No matter what you hear about me in the coming months, please understand, I never meant to hurt anyone.

I had fun writing this blog every week, taking you to new places, exploring my creative side, and it won’t be be easy giving it up. I’ll miss you all very much. Thanks for all the great comments throughout the years. I wish you all well. Also, April Fools! Did I get ya?

Sincerely,

Marty Smiven