Well, I know how you’ve all been waiting patiently for another post. But since I can’t seem to get my latest concept working, I thought I’d try to write something on the fly. I apologize if I’ve offended anyone. I’m a very disturbed individual.

Once upon a time, there was a little boy by the name of Marcus. Marcus was a very nice kid. He did all of his chores and never talked back to his parents. When it was time for bed, Marcus would obediently brush his teeth, wash his face and then slip into bed without touching himself. Yes, Marcus was a very good boy.

Since Marcus was so well-behaved, on December 15th, his mom and dad took him to the mall to see Santa Claus. Marcus climbed up on top of Ol’ Saint Nick’s lap and looked up at the bearded jolly man.

“What would you like for Christmas, little boy?” Santa said in an obviously fake, deep voice.

“Marcus,” the child replied.

“A Marcus? What’s a Marcus?”

“No, my name is Marcus. Shouldn’t you know that?”

“Uh, well, I have a lot of little boys and girls to keep tabs on. I guess it just slipped Santa’s mind.”

“Huh. Yeah, I guess I can see that. But really, what else do you have to do? It’s kind of your job to make the list, check it twice, know who’s naughty and nice, isn’t it? I mean, you see me when I’m sleeping. You know when I’m awake. You know if I’ve been bad or good –”

“Uh, what is it you’d like for Christmas? There’s a line. Mustn’t keep the other children waiting.”

“That’s the other thing. Wouldn’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“Know what I want for Christmas. I’ve been good all year. I wrote you a letter, even.”

“You did?”

“Sure, my parents told me to just address it to the North Pole, but I really thought it needed a street address.”

“Santa’s leg is falling asleep. Do you want a train?”

“A what?”

“A train.”

“My grandfather was killed by a train. Honestly Santa, I don’t know what’s happened to you. You’re really disappointing me.”

“Oh dear. I’m so sorry. I. . . I forgot. Santa hasn’t been getting much sleep lately.”

“That’s OK. I’m just kidding about my grandpa dying. He’s fine. The train only made him lose a leg. And an arm.”

“Oh. Uh, have you told me what you want yet?”

“Guess.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to guess.”

“Oh, fuck me!”

“What?”

“Listen, you little bastard, tell me what the fuck you want for Christmas before I take you in the back and let the elves eat you for lunch.”

Marcus looked at Santa.

“Santa, you really need to seek some professional help.”

“You’re telling me, kid. You’re telling me. Now, for the love of Pete, would you please tell me what the hell it is your want for Christmas? It’s been a long day.”

Marcus looked up at Santa’s pleading eyes, and as he did, Santa’s eyebrows came down to meet at a point. Santa was pissed, but this didn’t seem to phase Marcus at all. Finally, after five minutes of silence, Marcus slid off of Santa’s lap, then came around and whispered in his ear. Santa smiled at first and chuckled, then suddenly his face went pale and his jaw dropped. Marcus walked away with a big smile on his face. Shortly thereafter, Marcus’s father went up to Santa.

“Hi, I’m Bob, Marcus’s dad.”

“Oh. I see. You, uh, must be proud.”

“So, Marcus won’t tell us what he wants for Christmas. Did he tell you?”

Santa, still somewhat bewildered, nodded.

“So, what is it? A new bike? It’s a new bike, isn’t it?”

Santa turned his head from side to side slowly.

“Hm. It’s not another stupid robot kit, is it? I really wish that boy would show some interest in sports.”

Again, Santa turned his head from side to side, his eyes seeming to glaze over.

“Well, you gonna tell me?”

“I. . . I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“I. . . I really shouldn’t.”

“Just tell me, damn it.”

Santa looked at Bob, then nodded.

“OK, OK. This is what your son said to me. He said, ‘You wanna know what I want for Christmas, old man? Santa’s balls in a Mason jar. Yeah, that’s right. That way, I could take them to school for Show and Tell, let the kids pass them around. Then later, I might put them up for auction on eBay, where you can bid on them like everyone else. So enjoy ‘em while you can, fat boy. ‘Cause come Christmas, they’re gonna be mine.’”

Bob looked at his son. Then he looked at Santa.

“That’s what my son told you?”

Santa nodded.

“I’m very sorry,” Bob said.

“That’s OK. He’s just a boy.”

“Yeah, I guess. I guess.”

Weeks passed. And finally, Christmas came. Marcus received all sorts of presents: a new bike, a football, a pair of roller skates, a stupid robot kit, but he was sad because the only gift he truly wanted was nowhere to be found. Marcus was starting to wonder if this whole Santa thing was a load of crap. That’s when his father took him aside.

“Son,” he said, “you seem to be upset about something.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, dad. It’s just that I was hoping for something special and I guess I asked for too much.”

“Well, son, Santa can’t give us everything we want.”

“He can’t?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Hm. I’m starting to wonder about this whole Santa thing.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, it’s fun and all, but it doesn’t make any sense to me. I get all this crap that I didn’t ask for, but the one thing I wanted, the one thing I really wished for is nowhere to be found.”

“Hmmmm that reminds me.”

Bob opened up the cupboard and pulled out a beautifully wrapped box and handed it to his son.

“Santa wanted me to give this to you personally.”

Marcus looked at his dad.

“Go on,” his dad said, “open it.”

Marcus eagerly tore off the gift wrap, revealing a white box. He opened up the box, smiled, and pulled out a Mason jar with pair of testicles floating inside. Of course, these weren’t just any testicles. These were Santa’s testicles, more specifically, the testicles of the man who threatened Marcus only a few weeks ago at the mall. Bob purchased them for an ungodly amount and made sure his son had them in time for Christmas. Why? Because Bob was filthy rich and could buy the entire mall, if he wanted to. And more importantly, Marcus was a spoiled brat. But at least he never touched himself.

Have a happy new year.

Fa la-la-la-la la-la la blehhh

It’s no secret. I’ve had some difficulties when it comes to the fairer sex (that means girls). But last week, rather than run away from my problems, I decided to face them head on like a man—a man with enormous testicles.

Of course, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. I mean, I’ve always been pretty shy. And more importantly, my testicles are only average in size. Nevertheless, I was determined to do whatever needed to be done. Even if it meant going under the knife for testicular augmentation surgery.

So there I was, flipping through the back pages of the L.A. Weekly, when I ran across an ad for one of those alternative doctors. Here name was Dr. Double D, and according to her ad, she had all the right equipment to make me feel “all better.” From the moment I saw her picture, I knew that she was special. Underneath her very short lab coat, she wore a black string bikini and a pair of red stiletto pumps. Yeah, this was my kind of doctor: the kind who likes to swim. So I gave Dr. DD a call, and moments later, a soft sultry voice answered the phone:

“You a cop?” she purred.

“Uh, no,” I replied. “Should I be? Would that help?”

“Huh?”

“I’m calling about your ad in the L.A. Weekly.”

“Which one?”

“Uh, I don’t know. It says you can solve my, uh, issues.”

“Ohhhhh right. Yeah, I can do that. You sure you ain’t a cop?”

“Ain’t? Ha. How quaint. Yes, I’m quite sure.”

“OK, pick me up on the corner of Highland and Santa Monica at eight.”

“Pick you up? Ohhhhhh I get it. This is going to be like a real date.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just pick me up.”

“OK, I will be there, my dear, at eight o’clock sharp.”

She hung up. A moment later, a man called me to ask for my name and credit-card number. I guess he was her assistant or something. He said there would be a $100 deposit for the doctor’s time, but that I could do anything I wanted with her as long as she would be back in one hour and I didn’t scar her face (a joke that was in poor taste, if you ask me). I agreed to the terms of the contract and thanked him for providing such a wonderful service.

That night, I drove to pick up my therapist at her office. Oddly enough, I didn’t see any office buildings in the area, just a rundown mini mall and one of those we-serve-everything fast-food stands. Obviously, I made a wrong turn somewhere. I locked the doors and feverishly began flipping through my Thomas Guide. Suddenly, there was a knock on my passenger window. It was one of the freaks from the fast-food stand, probably needing milkshake money. I tried to ignore her, but she continued to knock on the glass.

“Smivey?” she said with a question mark at the end.

I turned and looked. Well, damn if it wasn’t Dr. DD. I didn’t recognize her at first. She was no longer dressed for the beach. She was dressed for the disco. She had on a glittery tube top and a thick leather belt that sort of looked like a skirt. I lowered the window.

“Hey, baby,” she said. “You gonna let momma in?”

“Momma?”

“You gonna unlock the door or what?”

“Oh, sure.”

I unlocked the door and her perfume jumped into my passenger seat, followed shortly by the doctor herself.

“OK, where do you wanna do this?” she asked.

I lowered my window to let some air in and some perfume out.

“Uh, I don’t know. I’m just here to learn.”

“Yeah, that’s what momma was afraid of.”

“You spoke to your mother about me?”

“Shit, you’re not one of those freaks, are you? You better not be planning on cutting me up, ’cause if you try anything, I will slice you first and ask questions later, you understand me?”

“Uh, yes, ma’am.”

“OK, now. Where you wanna do this?”

I suggested that we begin our date at the Hollywood Canteen, an L.A. landmark. They provide a nice, romantic atmosphere in the back where couples can enjoy a quiet meal under the stars. Unfortunately, she had a more casual dining experience in mind.

Ten minutes later, I was sitting on a plastic seat at the Del Taco across the street, staring at a woman who didn’t look anything like a doctor. She was scarfing down her hamburger and inhaling her fries as if she hadn’t eaten all day.

“So. . .” I attempted to draw her attention from her meal.

She glanced up at me. “Hm?”

“I’m sorry, I was just expecting a bit more for my money.”

“Be patient, baby. Let momma eat first, then I’ll see to it that you learn everything you need to know.”

“OK.”

I looked down at my half eaten seven-layer burrito. I had three and a half layers to go and I just wasn’t feeling it anymore.

“So what do you do?” she spoke between mouthfuls of fries.

“I’m a copywriter.”

“Oh, so that’s got to do with lawyering or something, right?”

“Uh, no, I work in Advertising. You’re thinking of copyrighting.”

“Yeah, that’s what you just said.”

“No, but I spelled it differently the last time I said it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind. You’ll see when you read the transcript.”

“What transcript?”

“Forget it.”

“Fuck, you are one of those freaks, aren’t you?”

“That all depends on who you ask.”

She leaned forward, her eyes locked on mine.

“Now, listen to me,” she said. “I got my own car and my own apartment. I work hard for my money, mister. So don’t think I won’t disenvowel you if I have to.”

She leaned back and disengaged her jaw to shovel in more fries. I just sat there and watched her in silence. Finally, I had to say something:

“Disembowel.”

“What?”

“I believe you meant to say ‘disembowel,’ to remove one’s internal organs, usually in a violent manner.”

“What did I say?”

“Disenvowel, I think. No such word.”

“Huh. I really have a problem remembering words like that.”

“That’s OK. We all do. Sometimes I forget words, too.”

“Nah, you’re just saying that.”

“No, really. It’s true. It happens all the time.”

She smiled at me, then slurped the last remaining liquid out of the bottom of her cup. It was just the ice-breaker that we needed. For the rest of the evening, we just sat and talked about various aspects of grammar and how fucked up the English language is. It was a good time and I think I carried myself off pretty well.

So was the therapy a success? I’m not exactly sure. The doctor did offer to give me a “freebie” at the end of the night, but I declined, since I believe people should pay for services rendered. What’s strange is, she pushed me away when I attempted to give her a smooch. It seems my new lady friend has a rule against kissing on the mouth. Bleh. Whatever. Where the hell else am I supposed to kiss her, hm? Women can be so strange.