It was a dark and stormy night. A young boy stood at his bedroom window, his ear pressed against the cold, smooth glass. He liked to listen to the spattering sound the rain made. But mostly, he liked to look at the mark his ear left on the glass after he pulled away. He’d run his index finger around the edges of the mark, and as he’d do this, his mind would begin to wander, wander to a place far away, where green valleys seemed to go on forever and sheep gently grazed. This place was called Hollister, and actually, it was only about thirty minutes away. Why this boy thought of such a boring place is beyond anyone’s knowledge. Perhaps he was just a fucking idiot, an idiot named Earnest.

At school, Earnest wasn’t very popular. The kids would always tease him and call him “Ear.” This was because while other children were out doing fun things during recess, such as playing kickball or selling drugs to the teachers, Earnest would spend his entire break with his ear pressed up against the classroom window—even if it wasn’t raining. Seriously. This was one weird-ass kid.

When the children weren’t occupying their time kicking balls or selling smack, they would often torment young Earnest. They’d bang on the glass, yell, even pull his hair, but Earnest never budged. After a while, the kids got bored and just chose to ignore the child, which suited Earnest just fine. And that’s pretty much how it went. Until one day, when a new student arrived.

Her name was Maybee and she was from “the lend dan unda.” She was a somewhat attractive girl, with a freckly face and long, blond hair. But since she spoke with a funny accent and used weird words and phrases like “mate” and “cool beans,” the children at school weren’t very nice to her. They often called her names, like “Crocodile Maybee,” which made no sense, since they were all too young to even know who Paul Hogan was. Still, it was a pretty funny name and even the teachers would snicker a bit when they heard the kids use it.

As you might imagine, Maybee (pronounced just the way it looks, but for some reason, she pronounced it “MYbee”) did her best to fit in with the other kids. At lunch, she tried to share her Dunkeroos with her classmates, but none of the children were interested in dipping cookies into frosting. One of the kids did accept a bite of her Violet Crumble candy bar, however, but soon regretted it. Honeycomb and chocolate? Bleh.

Eventually, Maybee gave up trying to befriend any of the cool kids and turned her attention to Earnest. Oh yes, she was well aware of Earnest. After all, it was kind of hard to ignore a child standing with his ear pressed against the window. She became fascinated with the young boy. What was he listening to? Why wouldn’t he talk to the other children? Maybee was determined to find out the answers to these questions, as well as “Why is the sky blue?” That one always perplexed her. She started by just trying to strike up a conversation:

“G’day, mite.” Maybee said.

Earnest did not reply.

“Why do ya ‘ave ya ear prissed up’n the gless?” Maybee asked.

Again, there was no reply.

“Ya wanna bite of me Dunkeroos?”

Earnest just continued to stare off into space, his ear pressed up on the gless, I mean glass. And Maybee, she just stood there next to him and watched. Eventually, the other kids started to notice this attempt at interaction and they began to gather around the two weirdos. Maybee wasn’t sure what to do. The kids began to sing a song about Earnest and Maybee sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Why it was more humiliating to be in a tree while kissing wasn’t clear. Perhaps it implied that they had the brains of birds. Anyhow, the singing seemed to get louder and louder. Maybee looked at Earnest and suddenly she knew what to do. She turned to face him and pressed her ear against the glass. For a while, she just stood there and chewed on her Dunkeroos. But then she stopped and smiled. And that’s when it happened. Their eyes met and for the first time that day, Earnest smiled, too. Not a huge smile, mind you, but it was there. His eyes crinkled ever so slightly and his lips turned up at the corners. And then Maybee spat her Dunkeroos in his face and punched him in the stomach. The children cheered, high five-ing Maybee. Earnest couldn’t believe what just happened. He lied there on the floor, doubled over in pain, and watched as Maybee walked off with her new-found friends who suddenly really liked Dunkeroos. Earnest closed his eyes to escape.

Later that night, a terrible storm hit the town. The rain came down in endless sheets. As Earnest stood at his bedroom window with his ear pressed against the cold, smooth glass, a tear trickled down his cheek. But this was not a tear of sorrow. It was a tear of joy. For outside of Earnest’s window were all his classmates, hogtied and crying, getting drenched by the endless downpour. The bedroom door opened and Maybee entered, all bundled up in a yellow rain slicker dripping with water. She pulled back her hood and leaned against the glass, running her finger gently down the bridge of Earnest’s nose. Earnest smiled.

“Thank you,” Earnest said.

“My pleazya” Maybee replied.

Earnest moved his head away from the glass and together he and Maybee traced the edges of his ear mark. And as they did this, they held hands and watched the children outside crying, crying and shivering, during that dark and stormy night.

I hate how some people lie about what they do for a living. My job isn’t that impressive, but I have no problem telling others about it. I’m the head cashier at a Thrifty Drugstore.

“But, Smivey,” you say, “Thrifty doesn’t exist anymore.” Yeah, that’s what they want you to believe. But the truth is, there’s still one in Arizona, hundreds of feet below the Earth’s surface. It’s all part of a giant underground city designed to protect one person. Yeah, that’s right. I work at the President’s Thrifty.

“But why does the President need a drugstore?”

Jeeze, imaginary reader, you are so fucking inquisitive today. I’l tell you why. What if he cuts his finger? Where the hell is he gonna get a bandage? He’d bleed to death, and then where would we be? Uh huh. And what if he gets a craving for some honey-roasted almonds? That would be bothering him all day and he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on saving the world and shit. More importantly, what if he wanted a cylindrical scoop of Thrifty chocolate chip ice cream? There’s nowhere else in the world that he could possibly get that. OK, except for Rite-Aid. Those motherfuckers. But where do you think Rite-Aid gets their Thrifty ice cream?

Yeah, that’s right. We make the Thrifty ice cream down here. Otherwise, it would be pretty boring. Occasionally, a diplomat will stop by for an Abazaba or a Coke. But otherwise, we just hang out here, making ice cream and taking turns singing over the PA system. Oh, and we also process the President’s film. Man, you would not believe the kind of shit that guy and the First Lady are into. Creepy.

One time, we selected a particularly raunchy photo of Dubbya and Laura and created this enourmous banner to surprise the Commander In Chief when he arrived. Of course, we never thought that he might show up with his mom and dad. Boy, that was an awkward moment. It took us over an hour to find the ladder and pull the banner down. Barbara Bush immediately covered her eyes, while the former President couldn’t help but stare at the image. I was pretty busy yelling at people, but I swear I saw Bush Senior give his son a thumbs-up for a job well done. We all almost got fired over that. But then I offered everyone free triple scoops. By the time everyone had devoured their ice cream, all was forgiven.

But, yeah, that’s the way it is down here at the President’s Thrifty. So why do I bother staying? Well, it’s kind of a top-secret place, ya know? I mean, people have quit their jobs here. But after that, we never hear from them again. I’m not saying that they got killed by the CIA or anything like that, but I wouldn’t put it past them. Anyhow, it just kind of makes me think twice about looking for a new place of employment. Besides, we’re all looking forward to the next roll of film Bush Jr. sends over here for processing. I just hope nobody tells him about the advantages of digital photography. That would really suck. Which reminds me of the next photo we’re making a banner out of. Wow, Laura Bush. Who woulda thought.

One upon a time, atop a giant hill, there sat an enourmous castle. And in this castle, lived the most hideously ugly princess in all the land. I mean, seriously, this chick was hard to look at. All her sevants had to be nearsighted or legally blind. Otherwise, they’d end up involunatarily coughing up their lunch the moment they caught a glimpse of her.

Of course, nobody was going to tell the princess that she looked like the wrong end of a Shar-Pei. Instead, they would lower their eyes—not out of respect, but out of fear—and comment on how ravishing the princess looked.

“Princess Farta,” they’d say, “you looks so ravishing.”

And Princess Farta would smile, exposing her one purple tooth and her brown gums.

Urp. Sorry, I just threw up a little. Where was I? Oh, right, Farta.

So, yeah, people would lie whenever they they “saw” the princess. And when an unfortunate outsider happened to look straight at the princess and spewed forth the entire contents of his or her stomach, it would always be blamed on a 24-hour bug that was going around. In any case, pretty much everyone lied. Well, everyone but the magic mirror.

The princess would walk up to the magic mirrror and say, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the prettiest girl in the world?” (she couldn’t rhyme worth a shit.)

“Oh, well, isn’t it obvious?” the mirrror would reply. “I mean, yeah, you’re so beautiful. Maybe you should model or something.”

“Really?” the princess would ask.

“Oh, sure, yeah, like you could totallllyyyy be a model.”

“Wow. I never thought of myself as the model type.”

“Yeah, well, I wonder why that is.”

“I don’t know.”

“Honey, take a look in the mirror.”

And princess Farta would look into the mirror and she would smile at what she saw, exposing her purp—

Oh boy. I don’t know if I can finish this story. I mean, it was going to be pretty funny, since it had this kind of clever ending where the magic mirror tells the truth, but it’s always being sarcastic. But Princess Farta is too stupid to realize the change in tone of the mirror’s voice. Anyhow, every time I start writing about Farta’s smile, I get a little queasy. Well, a lot queasy. I need to get my mind off of that mouth. Hm.

Maybe if I think of puppy dogs and fluffy bunnies frolicking in the meadow. Awww so cute. Look at them wrestling with each other. The puppies really like the bunnies. So adorable. Wait a minute. They’re not playing! Hey, puppies! No! Stop! Oh the humanity! UGH! What a masacre. You’d think the bunnies would be able to fend for themselves. That’s just wrong. I blame myself for putting the bunnies in the same meadow as the puppies. That was stupid. Well, at least I’m not thinking of that mouth anym— ACK!

Fuck this. I give up. I’m calling my shrink.

First of all, I want to make something clear. I don’t believe that someone should use their blog to plug products or services. That said, sometimes you just have to break the rules. Especially when it’s for something you really believe in.

About a week ago, my left thumb started to hurt. Every hour or so, the pain would transfer to my right thumb. This went on throughout the day until the pain became so unbearable, I had to see someone about it.

So I went to my doctor and described what I had been experiencing. He took some x-rays, around a gallon of blood and then ran through the test results with me. It turns out, I have a rare affliction called vinger pijn. But I was told not worry. There’s a drug available for it and it should clear up in a matter of days.

Well, I’m happy to report that my doctor was right. This is the most amazing drug ever. Not only has my thumb pain gone away completely, my skin looks younger and my eyesight seems to have improved. All with one amazing drug called Placebo.

I simply take one tablet in the morning and another before bedtime. It doesn’t upset my stomach and I can feel it working almost immediately. Oh, and you know how most drugs have all those warnings on their labels? This one doesn’t say shit. I can drive, operate heavy machinery, even juggle knives. It doesn’t matter when you’re taking Placebo.

In fact, one time, I couldn’t find anything to take my tablet with, so I just put the pill in my mouth and swallowed it down. It almost tasted like candy! Seriously. I wish I hadn’t done that though, because now I want to pour the entire bottle in my mouth, which could be very dangerous.

Hang on a sec. I just noticed something. The label says, “Take one tablet at breakfast and one before bed, or as needed.” Sweet. Now I know what it’s like to be a drug addict. Thank you, Placebo!

Baby, I know our relationship couldn’t be better right now, but it’s not like I haven’t been trying. A little less communication would help. I mean, when I write to you, you don’t have to write back straight away. I can wait a few hours. Or even days. Hell, you don’t have to write back at all. Work with me here. I’m doing all I can to make things worse.

I was thinking, maybe you could hang up on me the next time I call you. No warning. Just slam down the receiver and don’t pick it up again. Do people still slam down the receiver? I guess you just push a button now. Anyhow, you know what I mean. That might make me wonder where we stand. Anything would be better than this constant state of fucking joy. Fuck that.

Also, the warm hugs are kind of messing with my mind. It’s like you like me or something. Yeah, right. If possible, could you maybe give me the cold shoulder the next time we see each other? It would make me feel like shit, and you know how much I love feeling like shit.

Look, all I’m trying to say is, things are great, but they don’t have to be. Maybe if you played some mind games with me every once in a while, or had an affair with my best friend, we wouldn’t be where we are today: on a one-way trip to Happy Land. Bleh.

Anyhow, I’m not expecting you to do everything I’ve suggested. Just take my thoughts into consideration. Or don’t. That would really piss me off.

Sincerely,

Smivey

He pressed the gun barrel against my head and pulled the trigger. There was no hesitation, no long-winded speech. One minute I was alive and pleading for my life. The next minute, I had no life to plead for.

Don’t shed a tear for me. There is no reason to mourn. I am not a ghost, nor am I the undead. You see, I never existed. I was never walking the earth. I was just a weak thought in his head, an insignificant character that had little purpose. I added to the suspense. I was page 31 in a collection of over 200.

On page 30, I was in a department store, asking to see a tie. On page 31, I was lying face down on the floor in a pool of my own tears and sweat, shaking and praying to a god I did not know. I served my purpose and now I am no more. By page 43, you will have forgotten about me. You won’t even remember my name. Because I never had one. That’s how insignificant I was. My eyes were colourless. My nationality, vague. I had no quirky speech patterns or colourful language. In fact, during my life, I only spoke one word: please. Which was quickly interrupted with a loud popping sound.

That’s how he described it: “a loud popping sound.” Not only was I an insignificant character, I was part of an insignificant book, written by an insignificant writer. Come to think of it, perhaps he did me a favour.

Dear Student:

Thank you for enrolling in my class. Unfortunately, due to lack of interest, I have been forced to cancel it. Apparently, a lot of people thought that the course listing was nothing more than a prank. I suppose I can understand this. But I was really looking forward to sharing with you all of my knowledge and expertise.

OK, I’ll admit it, Underwater Basket Weaving is an amusing idea. But when you think about it—I mean really think about it—you realize just how fascinating a concept it really is.

Contrary to popular belief, we do not sit on the ocean floor with scuba gear on. That’s just foolish. The weaving is done in small, specially designed tanks. The weaver remains dry, for the most part, except for his or her hands. The challenge is doing the actual weaving with your hands submerged in water. You see, the straw floats, so you have to keep a really good grip on your project. Once you have a decent amount done, you can use a weight to keep your project submerged. Why not just let your basket float up to the top? Well, then that would be called Floating Basket Weaving or something like that, wouldn’t it? And, really, where’s the challenge in that?

But it really makes no difference. The class will never be and the art of underwater basket weaving will slowly die away. I was hoping I could pass along the secrets and continue the tradition. But, alas, it seems that dream will never come true.

Thank you again for your interest in Underwater Basket Weaving. If you are truly serious about learning the craft, I am available for private lessons. Or if you’d like to give it a go on your own, let me know. I have 15 of these fucking customized weaving tanks in my garage right now and nobody on Craigslist wants anything to do with them.

Happy weaving to you.

Michael Gorgonzola

He was a man and she was a woman. Good start. They were also heterosexual. Again, that was working in their favor. He looked pretty good for his age and she was incredibly hot. It was just a matter of time before they would find each other. Unfortunately, that matter of time turned out to be 25 years. By then, he was on dialysis and she was suffering from dementia. Also, their looks weren’t quite what they used to be. In fact, they looked pretty disgusting. Ugly, even. And they smelled bad, like old people smell. Fortunately, his sense of smell was one of the first things to go, and her nose was still taped up from when she got into a fight with herself. Their eyes met. Thanks to extremely poor vision, he saw a woman of 25. And she, thanks to her dementia, saw a young man with a snake growing out of his forehead. He thought she was beautiful. She thought he was disgusting, but she immediately fell in love with his snake (it flicked out its tongue so seductively). Suddenly, she ran towards him. He stretched out his arms and their torsos met. Bones cracked. Bodily fluids leaked out onto the hospital floor. He opened his mouth to accept her lips and she tackled him to the ground and tongued his forehead until the orderlies sedated her. Neither the man nor the woman would remember this encounter. But the snake would never be the same.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

This  holiday sucks.

Hey, thanks. I appreciate the thought, but it seems like you’ve made a horrible mistake. You see, it’s not my birthday. No, really. If anyone would know, it would be me. And what’s with all of these Over The Hill jokes? Aren’t those for people over 40? C’mon, give me some credit. Do I look like I’m over 40? Well, that’s my point. So do me a favor and take all of these fucking cards and balloons away. I don’t want to see them right now. Huh? What’s that? Well, technically, yes. It’s Thursday, but… Well, yes, I suppose I might be turning 40, but… OK, fine, fuck it. Just give me the damn balloons. Bleh. I might as well start looking at retirement homes in Florida.

I had to perform my civic duty last week and I thought I’d share with you what I learned. Keep in mind, this is just based on what I encountered through the L.A. County court system. If you live in a different area, don’t bother reading any further.

OK, are all those other losers gone now? Cool. Let’s get to the review:

ATTIRE: You have two ways to go here: One, you can try to look like a slob, figuring nobody will pick you for the jury. Or, two, you can go for the business-casual look. I, of course, tried the slob route, but it didn’t help. I made it past the first round of jury interviews, even when I was wearing my whimsical grey hoodie. Whatever you end up deciding on, WEAR COMFORTABLE SHOES.

Ladies, I know how important it is for your shoes to match your outfit. Screw that. You are going to be doing a LOT of walking. Leave the heels at home. You will thank me later for the comfortable shoes tip. Trust me.

DRIVE TIME: No matter where you live, be sure to give yourself plenty of time to get to the courthouse. There could be a traffic jam. You could get lost trying to find the courthouse. Or all of the above, as it was in my case.

PARKING: Most likely, the court will tell you to park at 1st and Olive. It’s closer to the courthouse, but it’s a pain in the ass to get out of there sometimes. You also have the option of parking at the Disney Concert Hall parking lot. This is a nicer lot, but you’ll have some hiking to do at the end of the day (more on that later). If you do park in the Disney Concert Hall lot, REMEMBER TO HAVE YOUR TICKET VALIDATED at the end of the day. Otherwise, Mickey and Donald will kick your ass.

THE HIKE: Do you like exercise? Well, you’re certainly going to get some when you do jury duty. The courthouse you’re assigned to will most likely be at least three blocks away. Nevertheless, the walk from the parking lot will be pretty easy. It’s all downhill. Which means, yeah, it’s all uphill on the way back. Of course, these streets aren’t San Francisco steep, but they do require some effort, which is why you need COMFORTABLE SHOES.

THE CHECK-IN: When you get into the courthouse, you’re going to need to go through a security check. So have all of your metal stuff in one pocket ready to take out. And leave your gat at home.

THE ELEVATORS: The elevators near the front only go to the higher floors. Depending on where you need to report, you may have to fight everyone to get on one of the other elevators. Good luck. You’re going to need it.

OUTSIDE THE JURY WAITING ROOM: I don’t remember the official name of this room. I like to refer to it as “Hell On Earth.” If you get here early, you’ll just be waiting with everyone else in the hallway. There’s not much point in it. Still, don’t arrive late. Even though you’re just going to be sitting there and waiting for hours, if you show up late, they’re going to turn you away and tell you to come back tomorrow (as they did with me).

INSIDE HELL ON EARTH: There are some things you can do to make this more bearable. For one thing, find a good seat. They’ll tell you to sit in the front, but don’t listen to them. Take a look around. If you need an outlet for your laptop, find a seat near one. The rows of seats in front may look uncomfortable, but they have flexible backs, so you can sort of recline. This is great for relaxing. But it sucks if you happen to have a large woman with frizzy hair sitting in front of you who likes to recline. Bleh.

GETTING ONLINE: Looking for some free WiFi? Good luck. The only Web access for the lowly jurors can be found in the center of Hell On Earth. You’ll find some computer kiosks there. It’s $5 for one hour of access or $15 for the entire day. Once you sign up, you can check out the latest Yelp Talk threads, sign on to AIM, etc. I tried plugging my flash drive into the computer, but it wouldn’t show up anywhere. Oh well.

THE WAIT: Bring some work to do. If you have no work, bring a book or a magazine to read. Otherwise, you may have to talk to the people around you. About two hours into the wait, you’re going to wish you sat in front of one of those computers and sprung for the $15 to get online. Trust me, you will.

LUNCH TIME: You get an hour and a half for lunch, but I think you spend twenty minutes of that waiting for the elevator to take you down to the first floor. Do what I do. When you’re in the waiting area, you’re allowed to walk out into the hallway to make a phone call. Take that break about fifteen minutes before noon. Then just wait out in the hallway until you see the stampede of jurors coming out the door. When you do, make a mad rush for the elevator. You beat the system!

Remember, you have an hour and a half for lunch. Use it. Don’t spend it choking down food in the cafeteria. Get some exercise (you did wear your comfortable shoes, didn’t you?) and hike up to Grand, just past MOCA. That’s where the good food is, such as Mendocino Farms (they make a killer sandwich).

THE CALL: If they do call your name, you’re screwed. No, I kid. If they call you’re name, it means you’re going to another version of hell, one with less comfortable seats. If they ask you to drop by the window before you go to the courtroom, you’re not in trouble. They just picked you to give the clerk (or whatever they’re called) the list of jurors for roll call. They also might give you a piece of paper to write down the actual time you entered the courtroom after they sent you down. (It was about 30 minutes later, by the way.)

IN THE COURTROOM: This is the grueling part. When they pass out the numbers, hope you don’t get one of the lower ones. Numbers 1 through 12 are OK, because at least you get interviewed first. Plus, you get to sit in the cushier juror seats. The higher numbers have a less likely chance of getting picked, but you have to sit on the hard, spectators’ bench for hours while all the other potential jurors are interviewed. Of course, you have no choice in the matter. So good luck.

DURING YOUR INTERVIEW: Just stick to what you’re supposed to say. We’re all waiting. If you were on a jury before, tell them if you reached a verdict. DON’T TELL THEM WHAT THE VERDICT WAS! It says on the board not to tell what the verdict was, but there’s always some dolt who can’t read. Usually, more than one.

If you want to get out of being on the jury, be an asshole. I found that the assholes were the first ones to be let go. Just say that you don’t care what the law is. If someone is in a gang, they’re automatically guilty of whatever they were charged with. Or you can use my tactic: hesitate when they ask if you can put your feelings aside and look at the facts. And when you say “yes,” don’t look them in the eye. Look off to the side. They’ll think you’re lying.

WANT TO BE ON A JURY? I can’t help you there. I got sent home after the second round of interviews. Just keep in mind that once you’re on a jury, they’re not going to let you park any closer to the courthouse. In other words, if you’re trying to lose weight or want to build up your leg muscles, this might be a great way to do it. However, if you’re like me, a lazy ass, you’re just going to be hating life. Jury duty sucks.