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A Holiday Wish

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

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

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Getting Help

Monday, December 4, 2006

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.

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The Joke That Is My Life

Sunday, November 5, 2006

I was watching TV the other day when a commercial for a weight-loss program came on. The woman in the ad said, “I’m a chocoholic and any diet that lets me eat chocolate, is the diet for me.” Yeah, right. That woman is a fucking liar. She doesn’t even act like a chocoholic. How would I know? Yeah, that’s right. My name is Smivey, and I’m a chocoholic.

OK, I hear you snickering out there. When I say I’m a chocoholic, I really mean it. Some people can eat one piece of chocolate a day and be satisfied. Others have to devour an entire box. That’s not chocoholism. That’s just a sweet tooth. No, being a chocoholic is a much more serious problem, one that requires years of therapy. And months of dental work.

So how does one become a chocoholic? Well, I can’t speak for everyone, but for me, I think it all started when I was eight years old. I was riding the swing in the playground when the town bully threw a rock at my head. Naturally, I attempted to retaliate. But my small arsenal of pebbles was no match for his boulder and catapult. After regaining consciousness, I ran home crying:

“M-m-m-momma,” I whimpered. “th-th-th-the cataplult-t-t-t-t. . .”

“Oh, shut up,” she replied in her soothing voice. “Don’t be such a fucking baby.”

“B-b-b-b-but-t-t-t-t-t it hurt-t-t-t-t-ted” (She was right. I was a fucking baby.)

Frustrated with my childishness, my mother left the room and returned with a mini chocolate bar and a tall glass of milk. Within minutes, I was feeling better. Not just better, euphoric. Perhaps it was the sugar in the chocolate. Or maybe it had something to do with the caffeine. I didn’t know and, frankly, I didn’t care. Whatever it was, one thing was for certain: I had to have more of it.

Well, it turns out that my mother had slipped a quarter of a tab of LSD into my milk that day, but by the time I found out about it (15 years later), it was too late. I was already addicted to chocolate. How addicted? Let’s just say I wasn’t too picky about what kind of chocolate I ate. I started by devouring entire bags of those Halloween fun-size chocolate bars, but before too long, I was doing shots of Hershey’s syrup and popping M&M’S® like they were. . . well, candy. Hm. You know what I mean.

Of course, a chocolate habit like mine didn’t come cheap, but my parents did everything they could to keep me well-supplied. That is, until I reached adulthood at age 13. That day, right after I blew out the candles on my birthday cake (chocolate, of course), my mother handed me a slice and pushed me out the door. The bitch didn’t even give me a fork.

After that, I lived on the streets, begging for chocolate Kisses®. Most of the time, this would result in either getting kicked in the face or some horny man nearly molesting me. But every once in a while, someone would know exactly what I wanted. They’d smile at me, hand me a delicious foil-sheathed morsel of chocolate, and then they’d kick me in the face. One time, someone didn’t have any Kisses®, so they gave me a handful of those chocolate liqueur bottles. Since I was only a minor, I carefully bit off the top of each confection and poured out the icky alcoholic contents before devouring the waxy, tasteless chocolate.

That kind of thing went on for what seemed like months (It was actually five years). Then, one night, I just snapped. No, not literally. That would hurt. I needed chocolate and I needed it bad. The few Hershey’s Kisses® and occasional M&M’S® I was acquiring were barely doing anything for me. If I didn’t find a better chocolate source soon, I would probably die. Or have a really, really bad headache.

I set my sights on a small chocolatier located just a few blocks away: Los Chocolette. Fortunately, their chocolate was much better than their French. I sat across from the shop and took mental notes of their entire security system. After a few days, I had the whole thing figured out: There was no security system. All I had to do was pick the lock and before I knew it, I’d be swimming in chocolate—figuratively, of course, but I hear it’s very good for the skin.

That night, as soon as the owner locked up and left, I pulled out my lock-picking kit and got to work. Picking the lock was a lot harder than I thought it would be. For one thing, my lock-picking kit consisted of an unbent paper clip and some old gum. For another thing, it was too dark to see what I was doing. Fortunately, the lighting problem was only temporary. A streetlight turned on and lit the area just perfectly. Well, at least I thought it was a streetlight. Turns out, it was a flashlight—a police officer’s flashlight. Oops.

So yeah, I spent that night locked in a cell with a man who only went by the name of Steve. You could try calling him David or Mikey, but he wouldn’t respond. He’d just look at you like you ate a small rodent. I know this because when I did eat a small rodent, he gave me the exact same look. Hey, a guy’s gotta eat.

Anyhow, that’s not important. What’s important is I did my time and now I live a happy, healthy life. I went back to school and graduated from Junior High with a degree in Marching Band. I even have a real job, working in an ad agency. Yeah, everything is cool, just as long as I stay away from chocolate. Seriously, if I even so much as see something that resembles chocolate, you better get out of the room. I will fucking kill you for chocolate. Well, not white chocolate. That stuff tastes like shit.

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Dining At ???

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Plenty of restaurants in L.A. claim to be exclusive: no sign on the door, no address, an unlisted number. But the fact is, if you know someone who’s been there, you really won’t have any trouble finding the place. That’s not the case with ???. Not only do I not know where it is, I have no idea how I got there.

Seriously, all I can remember is answering the door and some guy spraying a melon-scented mist in my face. The next thing I knew, I was dining on what I have to assume was the most delicious seafood I’ve ever tasted. I’m really not sure. That’s because at ???, you eat in complete darkness—while wearing a blindfold. I guess they don’t like to take any chances.

OK, I know what you’re thinking: If you’re blindfolded, how do you manage to feed yourself? Good question. You don’t. Each diner is assigned a personal feeder. How do the feeders see the food? Uh, I guess they use a pair of night-vision goggles or something.

In any case, very few words are allowed to be exchanged between you and your feeder. For instance, you might hear the words “Item 1” before you experience an incredibly fresh mango salsa. If you want more of something, you have to refer to it by its number, followed by the word “please,” e.g., “More item 5, please.” Just don’t get too chatty. If you break the rules, they might suddenly pinch your nose or flick your earlobe. Or worse.

Judging from the acoustics, I believe I was in some kind of private room. Not huge, mind you. Possibly a closet. Maybe even my closet. Who knows. The fact is, I couldn’t hear any other people blurting out item numbers or yelping in pain from having their noses pinched or earlobes flicked.

Yes, the rules take some getting used to. But trust me, the cuisine at ??? is well worth it. Which brings us to the price. I don’t really recall paying for anything. But when I went online to check my bank records the next day, I had a new charge on my account for $2,523 from “Uncle Jeb’s Good Ol’ Fashioned Dildo Emporium. Now that’s either a buttload of new dildos (pardon my choice of words) or one incredibly delicious meal.

UPDATE: Turns out that charge was for a lot of dildos. I guess while I was still groggy from whatever drug they put in my dessert (an Asian Pear Tart?), I got online and made some purchases that I would later regret. What’s worse, this package required a signature. And since I wasn’t at home, my neighbor signed for it. Right there on the mailing label were the words “Uncle Jeb’s Good Ol’ Fashioned Dildo Emporium. We’ll fix ya up real good.” Oh, and one more thing: a couple of days later, a charge for $583 appeared on my statement. The description simply read, “A Restaurant.” Yeah.

So in conclusion, the ??? restaurant: Good food, bad drugs.

Oh, and if you happen to be shopping for a new dildo (and who isn’t?), you’ll find over one hundred of them on eBay right now, still sealed in their original packages. Cheap.

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The Making Of A Blog Entry

Tuesday, October 3, 2006

Well, needless to say, it’s been a while since my last blog entry. Which is why I felt it was time I dropped this whole charade.

Unlike many other “personal” blogs, Everything Sucks has a staff of over twenty people. Every week, the President/CEO/Creative Director, Scott, holds a brainstorming session where new ideas are pitched. Some ideas, such as My Favorite Cheese, are immediately shot down and never heard about again. Others, such as the now famous The Unforgettable Kissâ„¢, are given the green light and assigned a team of writers.

Yes, that’s right. A team of writers. Truth be told, there is no actual person named Smivey. It’s an acronym made up from the first initials of the company founders: Scott, Michael, Ian, Valerie, Edgar and Jan. OK, Jan obviously starts with a “J,” but he’s Polish and he pronounces it “Yawn,” so we always think of it as a “Y.” Also, Smivep doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

Anyhow, once the team of writers is assigned to a project, they go to their individual offices and start playing video games and surfing for porn. This goes on for about a week. A day before the first draft is due, each writer takes a stab at writing a first draft. Those drafts are then sent to Scott.

Scott reads through each draft and applies a gold star to the one that he likes best. That draft is then placed on the kitchen refrigerator for all to see and the author is given ten dollars to spend on candy and comic books.

After the writer of the chosen draft is given significant praise and all of his or her candy has been consumed, only then will the draft be taken to the head writers. The head writers read the draft once, spit on it, then set it ablaze and toss it out the window.

As soon as the first draft exits the building in a ball of fire, the two head writers must fight one another to see who will write the final draft. This can go on for hours. The first rule of a final-draft fight is that there are no rules in a final-draft fight. You can kick your opponent wherever you want and break a chair over his or her back, if you so desire. Since the chairs we provide are solid white oak, we lose a lot of good writers during the final-draft fight. And a few good chairs.

As soon as one of the writers in the fight has lost consciousness, the other writer is declared the winner. Unless, of course, they both have lost consciousness. Should this happen—and it often does—the two head writers must be demoted and then publicly ridiculed by having to wear their underwear backwards for a week.

Eventually, a final draft is written, which is then handed off to the head of research, Valerie. She then tries to persuade Scott to mention someone like Britney Spears in the blog entry, since mentioning Britney Spears would help improve the blog’s ratings during Google searches, especially if you use the phrase “Britney Spears naked.” Scott usually refuses to do this, since mentioning Britney Spears naked might weaken the integrity of the original piece. Britney Spears. Britney Spears. Britney Spears. K-Fed.

Finally, after all is said and done, and all cliches are typed out and put into place, the blog entry is ready for the public. Why do we go through so much trouble for a stupid blog with no advertising and no other means of revenue? Hm. Good question. Fuck this. You’re all fired. Oh, and one more thing: Britney Spears. Britney Spears. Britney Spears.

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Elmer’s Big Escape

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Considering how much everyone enjoyed the last Bedtime Story I shared with you, I thought you might like this. It’s a shorter tale that my mom used to tell me during those days when she would rather be watching Quincy than tucking me into bed. It’s been a while, but I think it went something like this:

Once upon a time, inside a small aquarium, there lived a tiny fish by the name of Elmer. Unlike the other fish, Elmer didn’t like to hang out by the fake coral or play peek-a-boo in the plastic cave. No, she would rather stare at herself in the aquarium glass and daydream.

You see, Elmer was what we grownups call an “outcast.” None of the other fish liked her. She had an odd looking brown spot on her left side, and since her owners were too stupid to realize she was a female fish, she was christened with the name Elmer.

Elmer did have one friend, though: Pierre. Pierre was a snail who came from France, as all snails do, and he spoke with a funny French accent (as if there was any other kind of French accent). Whenever Elmer was feeling down, Pierre would be there to pick her back up.

One day, when the other fish were taunting Elmer, Pierre happened to be passing by.

“Don’ le’ zem upse’ you,” Pierre said in a barely coherent way.

“Ha ha ha,” Elmer laughed. “You talk funny.”

“Peez off,” Pierre replied. “Ween ah yew going to ge’ over id?”

“Ween ah yew?” Elmer mockingly replied. “What are you trying to say?”

Pierre gave Elmer a dirty look and then went about writing his message in the aquarium gravel. This took about three days, since Pierre couldn’t move too fast and he had no limbs in which to write with. The first message read: You Need To Get Ou.

“I need to get ou?” Elmer asked.

Pierre meant to write “Out,” but he failed to consider the size of the tank, and by the time he got to the end of his sentence, he had run out of room.

“Oh, fug me,” Pierre said.

“Ha ha ha,” Elmer laughed. “You talk funny.”

Three days later, Pierre had erased what he wrote in the gravel, and after three more days, he had managed to rewrite the “You Need To Get Out” message.

“Get out?” Elmer asked.

Pierre nodded, but it was difficult to notice, since he was a snail.

Six more days went by and Pierre managed to write in the gravel about a world outside of the aquarium. A magical world where fish could live free. Well, in not so many words. It was, after all, a small aquarium and Pierre was just a snail. Elmer asked Pierre how he could get to this magical place, and Pierre explained in his annoying accent that when the time was right, he would tell her.

Well, about two weeks later, Elmer was in a particularly down mood and was crying in the corner of the tank. Of course, since this was under water, you couldn’t really see the tears, but you could tell she was crying because of the way her little fish body was convulsing. At least I’m pretty sure she was crying. She may have been having a minor seizure. In any case, Pierre happend to be inching his way by on the side of tank.

“Wuzz wrong, Almare?” Pierre said with his funny accent.

“Oh, nothing, Pierre,” Elmer said. “I just got into a big fight with the other fish and they told me I wasn’t allowed on their side of the tank anymore.”

This was a particularly bad situation, since Elmer lived in a very small aquarium.

“Dohn wary, Almare,” Pierre said (duh, who else would it be?). “Averything whale be alrigh’.”

But Almare, I mean Elmer, continued to cry:

“Oh, Pierre. I want to go to that magical place. I want to be free.”

“Ane time, Almare. Ane time.”

“What?”

“Ade wheel ‘appen ane time.”

“Huh?”

“Naver mine.”

“What?”

“Fug! Yew won to go to zat ‘appy place?”

“Oh, yes, Pierre! Oh, yes!”

“Zen go! Now!”

“Now?”

“Oui!”

“How?”

“Go do zee dop of zee watare an jump as ‘igh as you can.”

It took Elmer a few minutes to figure out what Pierrre was trying to say. Then she quickly swam up to the top of the tank and attempted to leap out. Pierre inched his way up the tank, shouting words of barely-understandable encouragement:

“Eye-er! Eye-er!” he shouted.

Elmer tried with all her might to leap out of the water. As she was doing this, she drew the attention of the other fish, who swam up to have a laugh.

“Ha ha!” laughed one fish. “You can’t leap an inch, let alone an entire three inches to get out of the tank! Give it up, loser!”

Elmer looked back and saw all the fish laughing at her. She furrowed her brow and dove down to the bottom of the tank. She swam around the tank as fast as she could, then made a mad dash towards the surface of the water. Before she knew it, she was out of the water and arcing her way out of the tank. Elmer turned and smiled at the other fish who couldn’t believe what they were seeing. She was so high in the air, she seemed to be flying. After what felt like minutes, Elmer landed on the soft cushion of her owner’s couch and let out a tiny gasp.

As Elmer attempted to catch her breath, she smiled and looked around at her surroundings. The feeling of the air on her scales felt so strange. Still panting, Elmer decided she should get up and see what she could find. She moved her little fins and flapped around, but she couldn’t make herself upright. That’s when she realized that she couldn’t breathe. As Elmer gasped for air and flailed around in agony, she glanced up at the little fish aquarium and saw all the fish and Pierre laughing hysterically. Elmer’s vision became cloudy and then a bright light appeared before her. And then she died. The end.

The moral of this story: Never trust a snail. They’re from France.

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Natural Home Remedies: Sore Throat

Monday, September 4, 2006

How do you cure a headache? What’s the best way to treat a hangnail? Hm. I don’t know. But in this new series of Natural Home Remedies, I will attempt to find out. Keep in mind, these treatments have not been tested on humans, only poodles. Your outcome may vary—a lot. I am not a medical doctor nor do I claim to be one, unless you’re into that sort of thing. In which case, you may be interested to know that I own a stethoscope.

What You’ll Need:

1 Lemon
1 Tbsp. Honey
1 Cup Distilled Water
1 Drinking Straw
An 8 oz. Glass

What You Won’t Need:

4 Meters of Fishing Line
1 Catcher’s Mitt
3 Live Tarantulas and 1 Dead One

Instructions:

Put the kettle on the stove on high heat. Cut the lemon in half and squeeze all of its juice into an 8-ounce glass. Place one end of the drinking straw into the glass and the other end into your right nostril (not the left one!). Closing your mouth and placing your right index finger on your left nostril, snort all of the lemon juice up your nose. Pour the honey onto your palm and then vigorously rub it into your throat. If you can still smell anything besides honey and lemon, it will probably be the kettle burning. Now would be a good time to add the water to the kettle. As you do this, steam should rise up. Put your face over the kettle and let the scalding-hot steam enter your pores. To make sure your soul is cleansed, it’s imperative to keep your eyes open. Repeat every fifteen minutes until your throat feels better. Once your throat feels better, repeat every other hour until it hurts again.

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The Pimp My Ride Episode You Didn’t See

Monday, August 28, 2006

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.

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A Trip To the 99 Cent Store

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

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.

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A Recipe For Disaster

Wednesday, August 9, 2006

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.

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