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A Fairy Tale (kinda sorta)

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.

Drug Plug

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!

Just Stop It

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

Point Blank

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.

A Letter From West Los Angeles College

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

Another Love Story

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.

Thirtysomething

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.

A Guide For Potential L.A. Jurors

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.

Some British Stereotypes Engage In An Orgy

The scene begins in the library of a large English manor. Three men and two ladies sip tea and nibble on scones. NIGEL, a man in his late 40s, dons a tweed sport coat, sweater vest and monocle. PIP is in his early 20s. He wears an all-white tennis outfit. REGINALD is a man in his mid 40s. He has a big, bushy mustache and is dressed in a safari outfit, complete with pith helmet.

NIGEL: “I do say, old chap, Esther is looking quite fetching this evening.”

PIP: “Poppycock, Nigel, it is your wife, Elenore, who is the vision of loveliness.”

ELENORE, a blond woman with pale white skin and rosy cheeks, smiles with her crooked yellow teeth, then lowers her head and sips her tea.

REGINALD: “I would agree with Pip’s opinion. Elenore is, indeed, a delight to behold, and it is a well-known fact that she has never turned down a proposition.”

ELENORE: “Awww g’onnn! Amma a good gulll, ah am!”

NIGEL: “Yes, yes, she can be quite a handful in the boudoir. But, honestly, I would not mind spending a few randy hours with the lovely Esther.”

ESTHER, a blond woman with pale white skin and rosey cheeks nibbles on her scone while she speaks.

ESTHER: “I would not be against such an arrangement, Nigel. But why must we retire to the bedroom chambers to have our fun?”

REGINALD: “You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

ESTHER: “That I am.”

NIGEL: “Sexual relations right here in the library? My god, woman, have you gone mad?!”

ESTHER: “Perhaps. . . Will there be any takers?”

Nigel looks at Reginald, who looks at Pip, who looks at Elenore.

ELENORE: “Amma a good gulll, ah am!”

All the men lunge for Elenore. Pantaloons are are removed. Buttons are released. And soon the copulation begins. Esther, randy as she is, removes her undergarments, and before you know it, the beast with four backs quickly becomes the beast with five backs. Skin smashing against skin, lips on lips, hips and nips.

REGINALD: “Brilliant!”

NIGEL: “Superb!”

PIP: “Smashing!”

ELENORE: “Amma a good gulll, ah am!”

ESTHER: “Oh, this is quite lovely!”

Suddenly, BUSBY, the chimney sweep, enters the room, broom in hand.

BUSBY: “All finished, gov’nor. . . Wellllll, what ‘ave we ‘ere? Looks loik ya got yerself one of them orgies goin’ on.

REGINALD: “Indeed.”

PIP: “Rightfully so.”

ESTHER: “Good heavens!”

NIGEL: “Care to join us, Busby?”

BUSBY: “Well, ya don’ ‘ave ta ask may twoice!”

Busby does a little twirly dance over to the mound of heaving flesh, removes his clothing and finds his way inside something.

BUSBY: “Ahhh now thet’s whut a call me an orgie.”

REGINALD: “Brilliant.”

NIGEL: “Magificent.”

PIP: “Smashing!”

NIGEL: “Indeed it is smashing, Pip.”

PIP: “No, somebody is smashing my hand with their foot!”

ESTHER: “Oh my! I do apologize. Where are my manners?”

PIP: “That’s all right. No harm done.”

The skin slapping continues for some time. Finally, they all collapse and Busby removes his broom.

ESTHER: “Well, that was quite a romp, was it not?”

NIGEL: “Indeed.”

PIP: “Without a doubt.”

REGINALD: “Indubitably.”

ELENORE: “Amma a good gulll, ah am!”

Everyone looks at Elenore.

ESTHER, NIGEL, PIP, REGINALD, BUSBY: “Ah, blow it out yer arse!”

Elenore lowers her head and reaches out for a scone. And . . . SCENE!

Sorry About The Delays

Hey there. Sorry about making you wait so long for another entry, but, well, I don’t have any ideas that are worth posting right now. Honestly, my mind has been elsewhere lately. In the meantime, I thought I’d share with you something that I witnessed recently.

Last weekend, while exiting my building, a good friend of mine was attacked by a group of rabid squirrels. They just came out of nowhere. It was pretty strange.

I mean, he didn’t do anything to provoke the attack. He just walked outside and, bam, there they were. One jumped on his head and started scratching at his face, another one attacked his feet, and a three or four of them seemed to hop on just to enjoy the ride.

When it was all over, my friend’s face was badly scratched up and he had over 15 bites on his body. I took him to the emergency room where they bandaged up his face and injected him with all kinds of shit.

I can only imagine what a horrible experience that was for my friend. I’m told that after the bandages are removed, his face will never look quite the same. But all that aside, I’d have to say it was one of the most adorable animal attacks I’ve seen in my life. And that includes the time I saw a pack of lion cubs pouncing on an unsuspecting zoo keeper. Too cute for words. Really.