Being the really cool person that I am, I’m always watching MTV. And one of my favourite programmes is Pimp My Ride. This is where rap artist Xzibit takes cars that aren’t good enough for the junk yard and turns them into something special. At the end of the show, the owner of the car comes to the shop and screams in excitement the moment the vehicle is revealed. Well, that’s usually how it works. Occasionally, things don’t go according to plan. Here’s a transcript from the end of one such episode:

Martin Young enters the garage, a big smile on his face. Xzibit approaches him.

XZIBIT: Yo, when you came to us, Marty, you were riding in some messed up *expletive*. Your 1980 Caddy had a primer paint job and a mother *expletive*ing interior that looked like it was attacked by a gorilla. I think we even found an old banana peel in there.

Martin smiles sheepishly.

XZIBIT: Well, now that’s all about change. Cuz, Marty, we just pimped your ride! Mad Mike, show ‘em what’s it’s about!

The car is revealed. Martin has a shocked look on his face. The car has new burnt-orange paint and custom tear graphics, gold-plated headlight frames and a gold-plated custom grille.

Martin still looks stunned. Xzibit smiles and pulls him towards the front of the car where Mad Mike is waiting.

MAD MIKE: Yo, when we got your car, it didn’t even have a front bumper. But now it’s got a one-of-a-kind, gold-plated personalized grill!

Martin’s jaw drops open.

MAD MIKE: And that’s not all. Check this out.

The name “Marty” appears in chasing lights on the grill.

MAD MIKE: Now all the ladies will be screaming your name.

MARTIN: I really prefer to go by Martin.

MAD MIKE: Yeah, well, check out what Luis did with your paint job. When we first started working on your car, you had nothing but dull primer on it. But Luis gave you a paint job that will make sure everyone notices you. Not only did he give you this custom burnt-orange metallic paint, he gave you his signature tear graphics, making it look like there’s yellow snakeskin underneath.

MARTIN: Hm. Yellow, huh?

Mad Mike looks at Xzibit and Xzibit motions for him to keep going with the tour.

MAD MIKE: But wait until you see the interior. You remember that ripped up leather you had going on in there?

MARTIN: Yeah.

MAD MIKE: Well, check this out!

Mad Mike opens the car door. The seats, the floor, the headliner are all covered in a green faux fur.

MARTIN: Holy *expletive*!

MAD MIKE: Yeah, you like that?

MARTIN: Like it? Are you *expletive* crazy? Who the *expletive* would like this? What the *expletive* were you thinking? Do I look like the kind of guy that would want to drive around in this kind of car?

MAD MIKE: Well, we thought it might help you be more outgoing.

MARTIN: Be more outgoing? Are you *expletive*ing me? With a car like this, I’d be embarrassed to park it in my *expletive*ing driveway!

MAD MIKE: Dude, chill out.

MARTIN: Chill out? Chill out?? Do you have any idea how long it took me to save up for this car? Sure, it looked like hell, but it got me to school and that was all that was important. But now. . . now. . . it’s a *expletive*ing eyesore!

Luis suddenly lunges for Martin. Xzibit and the crew hold him back.

LUIS: You *expletive*ing ungrateful mother *expletive*! I worked for hours on that paint job! I’ll *expletive*ing kick your ass!

Xzibit and the crew manage to calm Luis down. In the meantime, Martin continues to look at the vehicle, slowly moving his head back and forth in disbelief.

MAD MIKE: Should I even go over the sound system with him?

XZIBIT: Yeah, why not.

Mad Mike walks over to the back of the Cadillac.

MAD MIKE: Uh, of course, if you’re gonna be riding in style, you gotta have the sounds to match. So we hooked you up with the best.

He opens the the trunk to reveal it’s packed with the latest sound equipment, not to mention a desktop computer.

MAD MIKE: That’s four 180-watt B4 Helix amps and a PowerMac G5 computer!

MARTIN: What’s the computer for?

MAD MIKE: Well, we understand you’re going to school and need a way to get your work done, so we installed a 20-inch flat-screen monitor in the back seat and a wireless keyboard and mouse.

MARTIN: Hm.

MAD MIKE: What?

MARTIN: Oh, nothing.

MAD MIKE: No, just say it.

MARTIN: Well, the G5 is nice and all. But it’s pretty impractical. I mean, when I want to work, I need to do what, open up the trunk and turn on the computer, then get in the back seat and sit in my car all night while I work?

Mad Mike walks away.

MAD MIKE: I’m going to *expletive*ing kill him!

MARTIN: And what’s with getting me a PowerMac G5? It’s outdated technology. All the new Macs have Intel chips now. Besides, there’s no room in the trunk for anything. I mean, look at all these wires. Who the *expletive* is going to pay to have my car put back the way it was? I want to talk to the manager.

Mad Mike comes running back in with a crow bar. He screams and smashes in the windshield of the pimped-out Caddy.

MAD MIKE: How’s that? Is that better? You like that?

He smashes in the left taillight, then jumps on the hood of the car and stomps on it until it’s destroyed. Someone throws a carburetor at Martin, knocking him to the ground, then Xzibit picks him up by his hair

XZIBIT: You ungrateful mother*expletive*! You want practical? I’ll give you practical. I’m gonna practically kill you!

Xzibit pulls Martin’s arm behind his back, then closes the trunk on Martin’s head. He sits on the trunk while each crew member takes turns literally kicking Martin’s ass. Mad Mike notices the cameraman is still filming and starts approaching him with the crowbar.

MAD MIKE: Turn off the *expletive* camera! Turn it off!

And that’s where the tape apparently ends. Of course, I never actually saw this tape. I just happened upon the transcript. I’m sure the actual video is floating around the Web somewhere. If you find it, please do us all a favor and post it to YouTube. Thanks.

OK, I bet you’ve all been wondering what I’ve been doing for the past week and a half. Well, nothing. I just can’t seem to write anything good to save my life (not that it stopped me before). In any case, here’s a little piece of crap to read while I work on something much better. Again, I apologize for the crappiness. This entry really does suck.

Sometimes, when I have nothing better to do, I like to venture into the 99 Cent Only store. It’s not that I’m looking for any bargains. No, it’s just a really great way to see the marketing ideas that failed. That said, I saw some interesting stuff during my last visit. Here’s a sample:

Sour Cream and Onion Skittles
The white ones are sour cream. “Tastes like a chip. Eats like a candy.”

Fruit of the Loom Bean Dip
Cleverly packaged with a pair of tighty-whities, this dip was absofuckinglutely delicioius. I have no idea why it failed. People are idiots. OK, I will have to admit, the underwear tends to chafe a bit. But what do you expect from free underwear?

Super Ultra-Sour Crest Toothpaste
Wake up your mouth with the tongue-twisting flavour of Atomic Apple or Wacky Watermelon.

Giant Turd Candy Bar
This delicious chocolate confection is manufactured to look exactly like human feces. Your mind is thinking it’s crap, but you know it’s food. Well, at least I’m pretty sure it was food.

Evian Shrimp Flavoured Water
Bottled in the French Alps, with just a hint of shrimp flavour. They were taking down a display of this stuff when I arrived. Apparently, too many people were vomiting after seeing the little particles of shrimp foating around in the bottles.

Dannon Backyard BBQ Yoghurt
That great smokehouse flavour, now in a delicious nonfat yoghurt.

OK, I’m done. Thanks for reading. Be patient. I’m working on something better. I swear.

For years, I’ve heard people talk about a “recipe for disaster,” but I always assumed it was a figure of speech. Then, one day, while searching for the secret to my mom’s rattlesnake jerky, I happened upon this old recipe card. Prepare at your own risk.

Recipe For Disaster

Ingredients:

4 farm-fresh eggs
2 cups of high-quality bathtub gin
1 entire bar of Baker’s chocolate
2 cups C & H sugar
3 cups pastry flour
1 cup baking powder
4 cups gun powder
8 firecrackers
1 large bottle of Wesson oil

Preparation:

Preheat the oven to 550 degrees. This must be a gas oven.

Separate the egg whites and throw them away. That’s the shitty part. Drop the remaining egg yolks and shells in a large mixing bowl, along with 1 cup of the bathtub gin. Drink the other cup of gin as you continue to prepare your disaster.

In a separate bowl, mix the pastry flour, baking powder and gun powder. Set aside.

In a double boiler, melt the Baker’s chocolate, then add the 2 cups of sugar. Stir gently until smooth, or until your arm gets tired.

Add one tablespoon of oil to the flour/powder mixture and pour the remaining oil onto the kitchen floor. Quickly, dump the flour/powder into the bowl with the eggs and gin. This should cause a cloud of flour and powder to fly up in your face, temporarily blinding you. Do not stop. Use a cocktail fork to mix the egg yolks, gin, flour and powder together until it is a lumpy batter.

Carefully fold the melted chocolate into the resulting batter, then pour the mixture into whatever you can find that’s large enough. Stick the firecrackers into the batter like birthday candles and open the oven.

Quickly carry the disaster to the oven, place it inside and run like hell, being careful not to slip on the freshly-oiled kitchen floor. Continue running until you can no longer breathe or your legs give out. The disaster should be ready in about an hour, maybe sooner. You’ll hear it. Listen for a loud popping sound. Or the sirens.

Serves about 50

I’m surprised nobody has commented on the fact that my recipe seems to be lacking something. Well, I had to modify it a bit to avoid having my home raided by the FBI. I’m sure you understand.

OK, I’m about to give up on this whole Match.com bullshit. They claim they can help you find that special someone. But since I’ve joined, not one woman has shown any interest. My friends tell me it takes time for people to notice you on the site. I guess they’re right. After all, it has only been about ten months. In any case, in lieu of an actual blog entry this week, I’ve decided to post part of my profile to see if anyone has any suggestions. Thanks for your help.

About me and what I’m looking for:

I believe a woman should stay at home and be barefoot. Not barefoot and pregnant. Just barefoot. I don’t like shoes and I don’t like kids. I also think that a sense of humour is important. Therefore, my ideal match should have a good idea of what is funny, without actually laughing. I find the sight of a woman laughing to be physically repulsive. Besides, there is too much potential for snorting, which is an instant deal-breaker.

When it comes to fashion, you can pretty much wear whatever you want. All I ask is that you avoid any cotton or cotton blends. Also, I will not be seen with anyone who shops at The Gap or Old Navy. Keep in mind, you do not actually have to be wearing clothing from these stores to turn me off. Just the mere thought of bargain attire littering your closet makes me cringe.

As far as perfume goes, anything with a floral scent will immediately cause me to break out in hives. Citrus smells can be refreshing, provided they are not derived from orange, lemon, lime or grapefruit. Tangerine is OK.

Also, you must love dogs. You should believe that of all the domesticated animals, dogs have the most to offer. Of course, of all the wild animals, monkeys have the most to offer. I mean, it’s a fucking monkey, right? You should be one of these people who babies her dog to the point where people question your sanity. All I ask is that you keep your fucking mutt away from me. I’m very allergic.

In any case, I’m just a simple man who doesn’t require much. So if you hate cotton and don’t own any shoes, we may have a future together, assuming you fit the rest of my criterea. For a free copy of my five-page document entitled The Woman I Seek, all you have to do is deciper this simple code: 6hy23s9H87GT. Hint: the capital H is actually a lowercase h. Thank you for your time. And good luck.

Hey, what day is it? Sorry, I guess I”m kinda out of it. My head is aching. I suppose that’s what I get for throwing a party on a Thursday night. Why a Thursday night? Because Friday-night parties are for pussies.

So anyhow, like I was saying, I decided to have me a little get-together. Just me, some folks I met off the street and a bottle of Jack. Sure, I could’ve invited people I actually know. But it’s a lot more fun when you’re partying with strangers, am I right? Yeah, you know what I mean.

So anyhow, there we all were, sitting in my living room, passing ’round the ol’ bottle, trying to guess everyone’s names, when someone—I think his name was Mike—said, “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s play Truth or Dare.” And I was like, “Fuck that shit.” But then the girls said (did I mention the girls?) Truth or Dare sounded like fun. So, naturually, we ended up playing the stupid game.

Of course, we didn’t know each other’s names, so if we wanted to dare someone, we’d just point to that person and say, “You.” The game began when the girl with the curly hair—we’ll call her Curly—pointed to the chick wearing the polka dots (Dotty) and asked her, “Truth or Dare?” Dotty thought for a moment and then she said, “Dare!” So Curly looked around the room for a while and then she said, “I dare you to. . .eat a tomato!” And I was like, “What kind of fuckin’ dare is that?” And she said, “Tomatoes are gross.” And I was like, “No they aren’t. I eat tomatoes all the time.” Anyhow, the stupid bitch ate a tomato, and then it was her turn to pick someone.

So Dotty started to look around the room and she ended up picking that guy who I think is named Mike, and she said, “You! Truth or Dare?” And Mike, he thought for a while and then he finally said, “Dare.” So Dotty sat there thinking and finally she said, “I dare you to make out with . . . her!” And she pointed to one of the hottest cheerleaders in the room. (Did I mention all the girls were cheerleaders?) So I was like, “Hey, what the fuck? That’s no dare!” And Dotty said, “Sure it is. He’s gay.” And I was like, “Oh.” So Mike went up to the hot girl (Hotty) and he didn’t waste any time. He just put his lips against hers and started doing the tongue tango. But it wasn’t like they were only locking lips. He was all rubbing up against her and grabbing stuff. And all this time, I was thinking to myself, Man, I hope I get a dare like that.

So, yeah, that kind of shit went on for a few hours. Someone would pick someone, they’d take the dare and then they’d have to do something really easy, like say, drink a glass of water while reciting “I slit the sheet, the sheet I slit, and on the slitted sheet I sit.” Oddly enough, nobody was picking me. It was like I was watching a movie or something—a really fucked up movie.

But then, all of the sudden, after Mike had finished making out with another cheerleader, his eyes locked right on mine and he said, “You! Truth or Dare?” Fuck, so much for being a spectator. But then I thought, What did care if these people found out my deepest, darkest secrets? They didn’t know me. After the night was through, they’d leave and I’d probably never see them again. So I looked right at Mike and I smirked and I said, “Dare.” Shit. Why’d I say that?

And then, for what seemed like an hour (it was actually only 58 minutes), Mike’s eyes stayed locked on mine. Finally, he grinned and said, “What kind of stove you got?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I said,” he said, “What kind of stove you got?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s a General Electric.”

“No, you fuckin’ moron! I mean is it electric or gas?”

“Electric. Why?”

“I dare you to turn on the burner to the highest setting and then leave your hand on it for 30 seconds.”

“While it’s heating up?”

“No, after it’s heated all the way up. When it’s glowing.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not doing that!”

“You have to. That’s the game.”

“Can’t I just eat a tomato or choke on water?”

“No. You have to do what I say.”

“Fuck.”

So, not wanting to be a sore loser, I walked over and turned on the burner to my stove. As I waited for the coils to start glowing, everyone began crowding around me. The girls watched, giggling nervously. And all that time, all I could think about was how I was going to get myself out of this one. There I was, surrounded by strangers, waiting for the moment when i would scar my hand forever. Fortunately, before I even placed my hand over the burner, I came to my senses. I turned the burner off and walked away.

Mike grabbed my arm. “Hey, what the fuck?”

“I’m not doing that shit, man. It’s not fair.”

“Dude, those are the rules.”

“I know. But it’s not right.”

“Hey, did you see that chick complain when she had to eat a fuckin’ tomato?”

“No.”

“And what about me when I had to make out with all of these chicks?”

“No, but I wouldn’t either.”

“That’s because you’re not fuckin’ gay, man. I’m a total fag.”

“I don’t think gay people use that term like that.”

“How the fuck do you know? You’re not fuckin’ gay.”

“Look, I’m not going to burn my hand for a bunch of strangers.”

“Fine, I’ll give you another dare.”

So then Mike looked around the kitchen. He pulled open the drawers, he searched through the cupboards, and he finally pulled out a large skillet pan.

“What am I supposed to do with that,” I asked, “make you breakfast?”

“No. You have to take this and bash yourself in the face with it until you pass out.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Dude, that’s the dare.”

“You gotta be kidding me. This game sucks. I’m not doing that. Besides, it’s impossible. After I hit myself with the pan a few times, I’ll be too weak to give myself the final blow.”

“Yeah, you’re right. . . OK, I’ll do the bashing then.”

“No way. You’ll kill me.”

“Alright,” Mike said, “then . . . you’ll have to make out with me.”

So I handed Mike the pan and closed my eyes real tight. “OK, just hit me and get it over with. All I ask is that you give me some kind of warning before you—

CRACK!

That’s all I remember. That sound: CRACK! Only I didn’t hear it with my ears. It was inside my head. Something broke in there. Something important.

I woke up the next morning with the feeling of cold linoleum pressing against my cheek. And then I felt an incredible, pulsating pain in the back of my head. Normally, I’d want to reach back there to feel what was wrong. But I was too afraid my hand would come back with blood on it—or brain. I slid my way across the floor and carefully pulled myself to my feet. My head was in such a fog that it seemed like I was in someone else’s home. I mean, it sort of looked like my place, only my bookcase wasn’t there. Or my table. Or my couch. Or my TV. Yeah, Mike and the cheerleaders had robbed me blind and left me for dead. Needless to say, I learned my lesson. You won’t catch me inviting strangers into my home anymore. No, from now on, I’m asking for names.

11:38 PM: I pull into the parking lot of the Taco Bell/KFC on Lincoln and Manchester, turn on my tape recorder and approach the drive-thru intercom:

INTERCOM: Good evening. Welcome to Taco Bell KFC. May I take your order?

ME: Yes, I’d like a Cheesy Bean and Rice Burrito, a Crunchwrap Supreme, some Homestyle Biscuits and a small Mashed Potatoes & Gravy.

INTERCOM: OK, that’s a Cheesy Bean and Rice Burrito, a Crunchwrap Supreme, some Homestyle Biscuits and a small Mashed Potatoes & Gravy. Will that be all?

ME: Actually, there is one more thing. . . I watch QVC.

INTERCOM: I’m sorry, was that a quesadilla?

ME: No, I said I watch QVC.

INTERCOM: Uh huh. Please pull forward.

ME: No, you don’t get it. I’m not the kind of guy you’d normally think would watch a shopping channel. I have a full-time job and a pretty decent sense of style. Of course, I’m not saying that all people who watch QVC are unemployed and lack taste, although it’s certainly true for most.

INTERCOM: Sir, please pull forward.

ME: You know what’s even worse? I’ve actually purchased things that I’ve seen on TV.

INTERCOM: *sigh* Hey, do you want this food or not?

ME: I even have those Space Bags. You know the ones that you stick stuff in and suck out the air with a vacuum cleaner? They’re sitting in my closet. I’ve actually used them. I also have one of those mops that vacuums up the water for you. Doesn’t work that well.

A horn honks behind me.

INTERCOM: Dude, just get out of here!

ME: Anyhow, my latest purchase was this thing called a Toss ‘N’ Chop. Basically, it’s a pair of scissors with two sets of blades. To make chopped salad, you simply stick the device into a bowl of lettuce and whatnot and squeeze away. The handle is spring-loaded, so little effort is required.

The horn continues to honk, followed by several other horns.

INTERCOM: Look, I’m not allowed to leave the restaurant after 11. But if I could, I would come out there and shove your Chalupa so far up your nose, your brain would have sour cream on it.

ME: I didn’t order a Chalupa.

INTERCOM: PULL THE FUCK FORWARD!

ME: In a minute. See, the problem is. I’ve had this Toss ‘N’ Chop since Christmas and I’ve never used it once. Not even once. I mean, you’d think that in that much time, I might have taken it out to see how it works. But no, it just sits in my drawer untouched. Honestly, I don’t even like chopped salad.

I glance in my rearview mirror and see three guys wearing baseball caps approaching my vehicle.

INTERCOM: I don’t get paid enough for this.

ME: You know what else is strange? I don’t even know what QVC stands for. I mean, HSN is easy: Home Shopping Network. But QVC? Not a clue.

A guy wearing a baseball cap leans into my window.

GUY: Hey, man, do we have a problem here?

ME: Several. But I’m working them out.

GUY: Dude, I’m fucking famished. Why don’t you go work it out at Mickey D’s or somethin’?

ME: Mickey D’s?

GUY: McDonald’s, man!

ME: You call McDonald’s Mickey D’s?

GUY: Everyone does!

ME: I don’t.

The guy reaches in and grabs me by the throat.

GUY: Look, I’m trying to be nice about this. Me and my buddies here want some fucking tacos.

ME: Ack.

GUY: Now, let’s try this again. When I let go, all you gotta do is drive the fuck away. You got that?

I nod as best as I can with a hand squeezing my voicebox.

GUY: Good. OK, I’m gonna let go now.

Face turning blue, I nod again. His hand finally releases my throat and I gasp for air.

ME (panting): OK. . . Can I at least get my food?

GUY: That’s not part of the deal, man.

ME: C’mon, not even a bean burrito?

GUY: Dude, you’re pushing it.

ME: Hm. . .

I look at him and his ears are totally red.

GUY: Just get the fuck out of here, dude!

ME: OK, OK, I’m going. But before I do, can I just ask you one quick question?

GUY: *sigh* What?!

ME: Have you ever watched QVC?

The next thing I know, I’m waking up in my car with beans, rice and cheese smeared all over the dashboard, mashed potatoes and gravy in my hair and a Chalupa shoved halfway up my left nostril. As you can imagine, I wasn’t happy. How many times do I have to tell that asshole I didn’t order a fucking Chalupa?

CHAPTER 1: The Beginning

John was born on a hot winter’s day in the middle of a Wal-Mart parking lot. His mother, Anne, was so busy loading her bargains into her car that she didn’t even notice when she gave birth. In fact, had a passing motorist not yelled “Hey, you stupid bitch, you just gave birth!” the umbilical cord probably would’ve been severed with a car door. Ouch. Fortunately, this was not the case. As soon as Anne looked down and discovered a baby crying on the blacktop, she put out her cigarette, finished placing her bags in her car, then picked up John and sped off to the doctor’s office.

As Anne patiently sat in the doctor’s waiting room, she started to think about everything that led up to this moment: how she drank a little too much wine and slept with a few too many men. Not that Anne was in any way a slut. No, she just liked to have sex with anyone who would look at her. Or anything. But who really gives a shit about Anne? This is the story of John.

OK, let’s face it, Anne was an idiot. For the entire duration of her pregnancy, she had no idea she was with child. She just thought she was eating a few too many Oreos. And who in their right mind goes to the doctor’s office after giving birth? You go to the fucking Emergency Room, am I right? Yeah. But really, that’s enough about Anne. This is the story of John.

Oh, there’s one more thing you need to know about Anne: Not only was she the town whore, she advertised it proudly. She even had one of those magnetic signs stuck to her car. “I’m The Town Whore,” it read. Which you’d think would be pretty effective. But business was limited, since she forgot to include her phone number on the sign and stupidly stuck the thing to the roof of her car.

Yeah, you might say that when they were handing out brains, Anne probably screamed at hers, dropped it on the ground and stomped on it until someone could sedate her. That would explain why from the moment John had teeth, Anne fed him nothing but Oreo cookies. Regular Oreos were for snacks and the Oreos with Double Stuff were for dinner. For a side dish, Anne would painstakingly scrape out the filling of about 100 Oreos and serve it all in a bowl as sort of a mashed-potato-like thing. Only it tasted nothing like mashed potatoes. It tasted like sugar. And Crisco. Which is not good.

Needless to say, after a while, John’s teeth started to hurt. Anne explained that it was just because his jaw was growing and that the pain would eventually subside. And she was right. The pain did eventually subside, after John’s last tooth fell out. That’s when Anne realized John couldn’t survive on Oreo cookies alone. After all, since John no longer had any teeth, he was unable to get the nourishment that the dark chocolate Oreo wafer provided. Instead, Anne put him on a strict diet of whipped cream and pudding.

Now, when I say “pudding,” I’m not talking about dessert in general, as you Brits tend to do. No, I mean good old-fashioned American pudding. Chocolate Vanilla Swirl with calcium for growing bones. Anything but butterscotch. That shit is disgusting.

So where was I? Oh, right, John. The story of John. Do you really want to read about this? He’s just your average toothless pudding-eating guy who has a very popular mother. Are you sure? OK, fine. Fuck. I was hoping you’d say you didn’t, because I really have no fucking clue what to say about the kid. You know, when a guy asks you if you really want to hear about something, it usually means he doesn’t feel like talking about it. He also might say that if the person he’s telling the story to has fallen asleep or has shoved the barrel of a shot gun into his mouth.

I mean, if this was the story Anne, I could have told you about how she turned tricks for cookies and cake. Or how John wasn’t the first child she gave birth to in a parking lot. But like I said, this isn’t the story of Anne. It’s the story of John. Damn it. Why didn’t I make this the story of Anne? It would’ve been so much more interesting to read. Well, I guess this is the end of Chapter One. Fuck. I am so screwed. Which reminds me of another story about Anne.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived in a constant state of panic. Worrywort McGee is what they call me, which I always thought was a stupid nickname. Anyhow, the other day, during one of my many anxiety attacks, Sean, a coworker of mine, peeled me off of the ceiling and said to me, “Dude, there’s no time for worry. Life is too short. Live each day as if it was your last.” Of course, normally, I would ignore such inane advice, but since nothing else I was doing seemed to be working, I figured it was time I tried something new.

So that’s exactly what I did.The next morning, instead of waking up in a mopey mood, I stayed in bed and thought about what a waste I’d made of my life: thirty-nine years of total bullshit. I cried in my pillow for two hours and then finally dragged myself out of bed. About halfway to the kitchen, I suddenly collapsed on the floor and started crying again: “Why me??!! What did I do??!! What the fuck did I do??!” After lying there in a heap for about ten minutes, I crawled back to bed.

Three hours later, I got up and put on a pair of sweat pants and my Fucked Company t-shirt that I never had the courage to wear in public. I didn’t see any point in trimming my beard or showering. Instead, I just called my voicemail to check my messages. Apparently, my boss was pretty pissed off. I suppose I should’ve called in sick, but I didn’t really give a shit. There was so much to do, so many places to see. I wanted to taste cotton candy again. I wanted to witness the miracle of child birth. I wanted to punch somebody in the face.

Yeah, hard to believe, but in my 39 years of existence, I’d never had the pleasure of punching somebody in the face. As a pacifist, it kind of goes against my nature. As soon as I throw a punch, my fist seems to stop just before impact. It’s embarrassing, to say the least. Humiliating to the point of nausea, to say the most. So while experiencing freshly spun sugar melting in my mouth would be great, and watching a baby’s head emerging from between a woman’s thighs would be fascinating, I decided that if I had to do anything on my last day on Earth, it would have to be punching somebody in the face. Now, the only question that remained was who. It certainly couldn’t be any of my friends, or anyone that I see day to day, for that matter. No, it would have to be a complete stranger (as opposed to a partial stranger), someone who really deserved it. And so, at three in the afternoon, I headed over to the local bar.

When I arrived at The Rusty Blade, I wasn’t sure what to expect. The grey paint on the outside was peeling, revealing a slightly greyer paint underneath. And its steel door had a series of protrusions on its surface, no doubt from the bouncer slamming an unruly patron’s head into it numerous times. I took a deep breath, placed my hand on the grimy door handle and made my way inside. Oddly enough, the interior of the bar wasn’t as dark as I had imagine it would be. It was brighter than day, lit by a series of twelve industrial-strength fluorescent fixtures. I closed my left eye and squinted the right, then approached the bar.

“Give me a whiskey in a dirty glass,” I said.

“Fuck off,” The bartender replied.

“I’m sorry?”

“We don’t want your kind in here.”

“My kind?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind would that be?”

He grabbed me by the front of my shirt and pulled me across the bar. “I said, get your hairy face out of my bar.”

I looked around the room and to my surprise, every person in the bar was cleanly shaven. Most of them even had their heads shaved. Those who didn’t were sporting crew cuts. Resisting the urge to cry and run away, I looked the bartender in the eye and said something I would later regret:

“And what if I refuse to leave?”

Almost immediately, all the patrons of the bar stood up and started to crowd around me.

“If I was you,” said the bartender, “I wouldn’t push it.”

“Yeah?” I paused and looked around, not so much for dramatic effect, but to stop myself from vomiting out of fear. “Well, you’re not me.”

With that, the bartender threw me back, causing me to fall into a crowd of beardless drunks who smelled like a combination of Marlboro cigarettes and Aqua Velva. They grabbed me by the arms and held me in place while the bartender made his way out from behind the bar.

“Well, boys,” he said, “looks like we’ve got ourselves another one.”

Suddenly, all the men started laughing, including me, though I have no idea why. But my jovial mood quickly changed the moment a fist found its way into my gut. As I collapsed, the bar patrons kindly held me up so I could receieve yet another blow—this time, in the ribcage. Again, the hairless freaks started to laugh. I lifted my head to see what was so funny, just in time to witness the bartender’s fist flying towards my face. I remember thinking “fuck that hurt,” just before I lost consciousness.

When I woke up, my head was throbbing and my stomach and sides were competing for attention. I wasn’t sure where I was, but there was a strange antiseptic scent in the air. I opened my swollen eyes to discover I was in an alleyway, resting uncomfortably on a pile of trash. And that scent, I suddenly figured out what it was: Aqua Velva. I quickly brought my hands to my face, and too my horror, my skin was as smooth as a freshly shaved baby’s rear end. Those bastards had pilfered my facial hair. Not only that, they’d shaved my head, which might have been cool, but I just don’t have the right head shape for that look. Anyhow, I eventually managed to get up and limp my way back towards home.

About six miles into my trip, I was waiting at the corner for the light to turn green, when you’ll never guess who I saw jogging across the street towards me. It was my coworker Sean.

“Hey,” he said. “What happened to you?”

“I musth uth ath ag awg,” I replied, not even sure what I was trying to say.

“Well, you look like you got into a fight with a gang of barbers and lost. Heh heh heh heh.”

“Futh ew,” I replied. That time, I knew exactly what I was trying to say.

“Hey, don’t be so down. It’s a good look for you. Besides, it’ll grow out eventually. Like I always say, life is too short. You’ve gotta live each day as if it was your last.”

And you know what? Sean was right. Sure, I had gotten into a bar fight and lost all of my hair in the process. But I also had an amazing adventure that I could tell people about for the rest of my life. And so I thanked Sean for his sage advice, and we shared a heterosexual hug and a hearty handshake. And then, without any hesitation, I punched that motherfucker in the face.

I’m in the process of working on another one of my epic short stories, so here’s something else to keep you entertained in the meantime. If you’ve ever been awake late at night, you might be familiar with Cutlery Corner. This is a home-shopping show dedicated to everything that cuts: scissors, knives, swords, nail clippers, etc. What’s funny is the absurdity of some of the products they sell, especially the giant swords. You’d think I was kidding, but this really exists. Check out that handle shaped like a skull and crossbones. Somewhere in middle America, a man has one of these displayed proudly on his wall.

http://www.cutlerycorner.net/ I kid you not.

In my lifetime, I have encountered many so-called “illusionists.” The first one I can remember is a hippy magician named Doug Henning. With his famous “nothing is impossible” catch phrase and his trademark overbite, he mystified audiences and challenged the laws of fashion.

Then there was David Copperfield. After assaulting his stepfather, the evil Mr. Murdstone, David was sent to a boarding school where I guess he learned about magic. Next thing you know, he’s making the Statue of Liberty disappear and performing some death-defying choreography. Not only a master of illusion, Copperfield is also an expert hypnotist, which explains his seven-year relationship with supermodel Claudia Schiffer.

Years later, Penn & Teller burst onto the scene. This team of rebel magicians, comprised of an overweight blowhard and a loveable mute, took delight in making fun of other magicians and performing illusions that caused their audiences to shriek in horror and sometimes projectile vomit.

Blah blah blah David Blaine blah blah blah blah blah.

And now we have Criss Angel, a magician for the goth set. With his TV show Mindfreak, this lisping illusionist takes magic to a whole new level. I’ve watched Criss swallow a shot glass filled with needles and I’ve seen him spontaneously bleed from the chest. But what really sets this man apart from the others is when he walks on water. Not since Rick Ocasek has anyone attempted to perform such a feat. He just steps onto the pool and walks across it. All the while, there are people swimming underneath him with shocked looks on their faces. Of course, there’s a simple explanation for a miraculous stunt like this: Criss Angel has to be some kind of god.

Look at the facts. Here is a man who can disappear at a moment’s notice. He’s been sawed in half. He’s walked down the side of a building and levitated from one roof to the next. Yes, all the signs are there. Hell, his last name is Angel, isn’t it? OK, it’s actually Sarantakos, but that’s beside the point. How else do you explain the way he can walk through glass and swallow razor blades? Uh huh. I rest my case.

That said, we have no choice but to follow him. His powers are too strong. Of course, Criss Angel doesn’t just have a fan club. He has “The Loyal.” These are people who are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice: purchase official Criss Angel merchandise and display it proudly. And I will join them. I will wear my Criss Angel Handcuff Belt Buckle without shame. For we are the outcasts among the outcasts. We are The Loyal. A magician has been sent down from the heavens and he shall lead us!

Oh, I forgot to mention Lance Burton. He does some nice card tricks. Sorry about that, Lance. I’ll catch ya later, buddy.